Son of Fletch

While punching in Alston Chambers’s home telephone number, Fletch had felt a twinge of guilt. He was sure he would be waking Alston and his whole family. He assuaged his guilt by telling himself that matters had gotten to such a point at the farm, his inferences had been so unsettling, especially regarding a son, Crystal’s son—to say nothing of his having a murderer, a rapist-kidnapper, an attempted murderer, and a corpse underfoot; that he was apparently aiding these fugitives from justice; that he was going somewhere, being taken somewhere of which he was distinctly unsure; that now Carrie was involved, however gladly, whimsically in his reaching out to his son, Crystal’s son, his trying to discover the truth about him, perhaps irrationally risking too much for someone essentially a stranger with a poor resume, desperately he needed factual information. From the telephone company’s recorded message, Fletch now assumed Alston and his family were up. Or down. Or in or out.

Now punching in Andy Cyst’s home telephone number in Virginia, California passed before Fletch’s eyes: some of his life, experiences there; some of his friends, people he loved, others.

What was happening to them?

Andy answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Andy, what’s happening in California?”

“Aftershocks?” Andy answered. “Foreshocks? Another of the big ones? Geologists, as you know, Mister Fletcher, are slow to commit to their jargon.”

“Any real damage reported?”

“Many communication lines aren’t working. So we don’t know. This series started just an hour ago. Where are you?”

“At the farm. I’m not really calling about California.”

“Good.” Andy’s voice was always eager. Not this morning. “Ask me something I know.”

“Andy, you don’t sound like your old self.”

“I’m fine.”

“A little irascible?”

“Just fine.”

Having been a print journalist, and someone who had written a book, Fletch persisted in believing there was not much future in electronics, generally. Therefore, in an effort to dispose of some money he never was sure he deserved, many years previously he had invested in a start-up business called Global Cable News.

On his last visit to their offices three years previous, he discovered that since Global Cable’s move from Washington, D.C., to deep in the Virginia countryside, their headquarters had grown to airport-hangar size. Besides the studios, there were rows and rows of young people frowning at computer workstations. There were whole sections of medical doctors working as journalists, lawyers working as journalists, people with doctors of philosophy in the various disciplines working as journalists, athletes working as journalists. They did not seem to talk to each other, NO SMOKING signs were everywhere. There were neither wads of chewing tobacco nor chewing gum on the floors. The windows were clean. The facility had a health spa, including trainers, handball courts, and an Olympic- sized swimming pool, and a day-care center. Just the parking lot was acres big.

As a journalist, Fletch had worked (as seldom as possible) in a city room in a building he thought big in the busiest section of the city, surrounded by bars and theaters and bars and police stations and bars and slums. Few journalists had academic degrees. They had strong legs, loud voices, no regard for theories, predictions, speculation, trends, or statistics. They believed only in discovering and printing the facts of present history. They lived in the city, rode the buses, the subways, hung around the bars, police stations, hospitals, ballparks, political enclaves. They had charm and temper and the gift of gab that would draw admissions from a judge. They loved and hated each other with passion.

News, in those days, was ninety-five percent fact, three percent fancy, and two percent speculation.

As extrapolation had not yet entered the business, news, in those days, was far less confusing.

When Fletch would call Global Cable News with a bit of information, news, suggestion, comment, a question, he was answered with Yes, Mister Fletcher. Yes, Mister Fletcher. Yes, Mister Fletcher, instant response, thorough follow-through. It made him as uncomfortable as their headquarters. He did not like being listened to as a journalist because he was a major investor.

So he asked that when he called, only one person answer and say, Yes, Mister Fletcher.

That person was Andy Cyst.

“Yes, Mister Fletcher?”

“Andy, I need some information. First, I need to find a woman named Crystal Faoni.” He spelled the name out. “She used to be a working journalist. I believe she never married. I believe she has one son, named John, which she has raised herself. I’m told she now owns five radio stations in Indiana. Possibly with a residence in Bloomington. Presently, she may be at a health spa, I’m told incommunicado, somewhere.”

“F-A-O-N-I?”

“Yes.”

“An unusual name.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“An old flame, eh?” Andy asked.

“An old spark, more like.”

“Why do you need me? You have enough information here—”

“Because I am limited in what I can do at this moment.” He hoped Andy was saying to himself, The old boy’s gettin’ lazy. “Also, I think I would like to see, or at least talk to, Faoni within the next few days. Where exactly is she? What’s her schedule? How serious is this incommunicado situation? When you find her.”

“Okay.”

“Next, some convicts escaped from the federal penitentiary in Tomaston, Kentucky, yesterday.”

“Yes. Two.”

“Two?”

“I’m trying to recall what I saw regarding this story on Global Cable News. We’ve carried the full story, needless to say.”

“Andy, you know I don’t get cable here on the farm.”

“I know.”

“Cable was originally intended for rural areas. Then your business chiefs discovered dwellings in the cities and towns are closer together, and therefore much more profitable to wire. So we still don’t get cable out here.”

“You’ve mentioned this to me before.”

“About a thousand times.”

“Thirteen hundred and five times. You’re the one who makes the profits, Mister Fletcher.”

“Go ahead. Rub it in. I just want you all to know why I am not a devoted viewer. Why I do not memorize your every shifting probability. Furthermore, I understand there are four escapees.” To himself, Fletch said, Now there are three. “I need to know everything about every one of them.”

“Are you working on something, Mister Fletcher? I mean, for GCN?”

“Just maybe.”

“You want a crew?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Was anyone hurt during the escape?”

“Ummm. I think not. You want me to boot up my personal computer to read the office files?”

“No. I haven’t the time right now. I have another call to make.”

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t pay that much attention to this story. Last night we, uh—”

Fletch waited. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Went to a concert, in old D.C.”

“So you had a late night.”

“You know what was weird?”

“Tell me.” In the smokehouse, Fletch glanced at his watch.