Son of Fletch

“You heard the sheriff last night. For some reason, these escapees went well out of their way to come here, to this farm, this house, specifically. This kid, Jack, led them here. Why?”

Carrie said, simply: “To kill you.”

“Why?”

“You’re his father. You popped his mother and left her. You ignored him all his life.”

“No,” Fletch said. “He knows I never knew of his existence. The only thing is, well, I never called Crystal, an old friend, and said, How’re ya doin’? That’s not a capital crime.”

“This is a crazy, mixed-up kid. He shot a cop.”

“Shot at a cop. Supposedly.”

She looked down at him. “What do you mean, ‘supposedly’?”

“He said he fired a .32 at her. I just gave him my .32 to load. I watched him. It seemed to me he had to figure out how to load it. I don’t think he knew how to chamber a bullet. He seemed to have a revulsion toward the gun.”

“He should have,” Carrie snapped. “What would you expect? And he shot at a woman cop?”

“Blue is blue,” Fletch said. “I guess.”

“You’re making up excuses,” she said. “You think he’s your son, and you’re trying to like him.” She was reading Fletch’s face. “You think this boy has anything but green water between his ears?”

Fletch thought of the conversation he and Jack had had about Pinto. “Enough to be a pest.”

Forearms folded over her breasts, Carrie said, “These bastards. In this house!”

“There are still two outside. I guess I ought to go get them. Bring them in.”

“Into this house?”

“This old house has been occupied by worse, I expect,” Fletch said. “Yankees, probably.”

Carrie was listening. “What’s that? Someone playing the radio?”

“Someone playing the guitar.”

“Who?”

“Jack.”

“Jack!” she expostulated. “You call his name just as if he’s someone you know.”

“I’m getting to know him,” Fletch said. “A little bit.”

They listened to the acoustic guitar being played downstairs.

Carrie said, “He plays beautifully.”

“So he does.”

“Still,” Carrie said, uncertainly. “I think you ought to call the sheriff and have them all picked up. Including your Jack. If he shot at a cop, he needs nothin’ more than bein’ put in a pit with fire ants.” She was looking across the bed at the telephone.

“By the way,” Fletch said. “The phones are dead. They cut the wires.”

“I didn’t think they came here to cook, clean, and paint fences. Does your cellular phone work?”

“Yes. But I don’t want them to know I have it. I want to get these guys out of here before the telephone company discovers the wires have been cut. I told Will and Michael last night I’m driving Jack to the University of North Alabama this morning.”

“They saw him? They met him?”

“They even talked with him. He was as smooth as a Mississippi River stone. Michael even invited him fishing.”

“You passed him off as your son?”

“I sweet-talked ‘em. A little.”

“So you’re stuck, aren’t you. You’re as stuck as the smile on a beauty queen’s face.”

“Except I gave Jack the .32. So he can hold us captive. If the cops come back.”

“Say what?” Wide-eyed, she was looking down at him sitting cross-legged on the bed. “You done real good,

Fletch. You’ve brought fugitive felons, murderers and suchlike, into this house, and armed them! Against ourselves! Against the cops! When you came into this room, didn’t I ask you if everything was all right?”

“And I said, All things being relative.”

“That was a joke?” In fact, Carrie did smile.

“Carrie, this kid wants something from me. How do I know what to believe? How do you know what to believe?”

“He wants you to save his ass.”

“Maybe. I think it’s worth stringing him along a little, extending myself, to find out what, why.”

Picking her fingers, listening to the guitar, Carrie said, “You’re always playing, Fletch. You still think you can handle anything. Everything.”

“No. In fact, I don’t. There are just things here that don’t add up. I want to know why.”

Looking through the window again, Carrie said, “If we’re gonna give these felons breakfast, we’ll need the eggs from the henhouse.”

“I’ll get them!” Fletch sprang off the bed. “I allus obeys Ms. Carrie.”

6

Aha! Now I see!” Shiny clean, even unto his eyeglasses, his soft body encased in a guest bathrobe, Kriegel exclaimed when Fletch entered the study. The man had a saddle- shaped birthmark on the bridge of his nose. “Come here!” he said to Fletch grandly.

Fletch stayed where he was.

Behind Kriegel, Jack was standing stiffly.

Kriegel came to Fletch. With both hands, he fingered Fletch’s head. He stood on tiptoes to do so. He walked around Fletch, looking him up and down. “You are Jack’s father!”

“You’re a phrenologist?” Fletch asked. He frowned at Jack.

“You have the same bones! The same blood!”

“You’re a nut?” Fletch asked.

Turning, Kriegel went to Jack and clasped him by the shoulders. “This man is your father! Why didn’t you tell me? He is one of us! We are saved!”

“Praise the Lord,” Fletch said.

“Introduce me,” Kriegel ordered Jack.

“Father,” Jack said, standing at attention. “This is The Reverend Doctor Kris Kriegel!” For an instant, Jack put his hand to his mouth. “Doctor Kriegel, this is my father, Irwin Maurice Fletcher!”

Kriegel said, “I’m so pleased.”

Fletch said, “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Fletch saw that Kriegel, for all his role-playing as an emperor, or whatever, was fighting hard to stay awake. He was intoxicated with exhaustion. His arms and legs moved as if they were in water. Blinking, his eyelids spent longer closed than open. When not speaking, he breathed through his nose more in the rhythm of sleep than wakefulness.

Like a drunk pretending to be sober, Kriegel was only pretending to be awake, alert.

At the moment, he was no threat to anyone.

“Ah …” Kriegel was looking toward a curtain of one of the French doors. He staggered to it. “Poor butterfly!”

Fletch said, “That’s a moth.”

Gently, Kriegel cupped both hands over the moth on the curtain, capturing it. He brought it to the open French window.

With a grand gesture, he released the moth into the morning sky. “You’re free! Fly away home, little butterfly.”

“I suspect its ‘home’ is in my wardrobe,” Fletch said.

“There is someone else in this house,” Jack said sternly to Fletch. “I heard the bed jumping.” He pointed to