“Are you alone?”
The intelligence of the question impressed him. “Except for Za-Za and Fifi.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m alone,” Fletch said.
‘Prove it.”
“All escaped convicts are chickens.”
“Okay.”
In the bedroom, staying nearer to the door to the house than to the bathroom door, so he could hear over the sound of the shower, Fletch pulled off his boots and his wet clothes. He put on his bathrobe.
“All done.” Carrie came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.
“Are you going to use the hair dryer?”
“I have to.”
“I’ll wait.”
When she was done, he left her in the bedroom with the handgun and took a quick, warm shower himself.
“Okay.” He put the shotgun on the floor next to Carrie’s side of the bed, away from the bedroom door. “Is this good for you?”
“Fine.”
He changed into fresh jeans, shirt, and running shoes. “I’ll be downstairs.”
“Are you going to sit up all night?”
“Maybe.”
In the kitchen, he picked up the phone and listened. He tried a few numbers.
The phone was dead.
He mixed the tuna fish with chopped onion, celery, and mayonnaise. He lightly toasted two pieces of bread. He put the light toast on a plate, heaped the tuna mix on the toast, and spread Swiss cheese on the tuna. He put the plate into the oven. He did not turn on the oven.
Then he went into the study.
He opened the French door behind his desk.
With his back to the door, he sat at his desk, apparently relaxed.
He slid the handgun under some loose papers on his desk.
Outside, the storm raged. The rain was deafening. The wind moved a paper on his desk. After the warm day, the breeze cooled off the study quickly.
Fletch did not have long to wait.
It was only a few minutes when he felt the small, round object pressed just below his left ear.
A voice behind him said, “Don’t move.”
Fletch said, “Hydy, son. How’s your ma?”
2
C
Behind him, a young man’s voice asked, “What’s a PVC?”
“In this instance,” Fletch answered, “I mean that piece of white, plastic pipe, six inches long, one inch in diameter you’re holding in your left hand.”
Fletch continued to feel the pressure against his head, behind, below his left ear. The voice said, “It’s a gun barrel.”
“Couldn’t shoot a dried pea two meters with that barrel if your name were Louis Armstrong.”
The young man was breathing somewhat heavily. “You don’t know it’s not a gun. How do you know it’s not a gun?”
“‘Cause I didn’t leave a gun for you to find on the path. I left you a piece of pipe to find.”
“You left it for me to find?”
“Oh, yes. And then made the light from the study window shine on it. Anything to instill confidence in the younger generation. Encourage family visitations.”
The young man behind Fletch took three more fairly deep breaths. “You know I’m your son?”
“Not yet.”
After a few seconds the pressure against Fletch’s head stopped.
Fletch asked, “Seeing I’m sitting and you’re standing behind me, and therefore have the advantage, I ask you, may I move, please?”
“To do what?”
“To look at you. I’m mildly curious.”
“About what?”
“To see what Crystal hath wrought.”
“Crystal,” the young man’s voice said.
“Your mother. Crystal. Crystal Faoni is your mother, isn’t she?”
After a deep breath, the voice said, “Okay.”
Fletch swiveled slowly around in his desk chair.
Simultaneously, the young man turned around to face the far wall.
At first Fletch saw only the back of a soaking wet, lean male in his early twenties. The back of his denim shirt had stitched on it FEDERAL PENITENTIARY/TOMASTON.
Fletch tisked. “You kids. You can’t wear anything without some sort of an advertisement or a slogan on it. Wouldn’t the usual beer logo or ‘YALE’ do just as well?”
The young man stuck the piece of pipe into the back pocket of his wet jeans.
With his foot, Fletch slid the metal wastebasket from under his desk.
Apparently identifying the noise accurately, the young man turned. With a quick grin and a glance at Fletch, he dropped the pipe into the basket.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” Fletch said.
“She says the rest of me is pure you.”
“Poor you. Your boots are messing up the floor.” Up to their high-top laces they were covered with mud, manure, bits of hay.
“I always heard that father types say things like that.”
“Take ‘em off. Right where you are.” Fletch tapped his foot against the side of the wastebasket. “You’re not in a jailhouse now. No free labor here.”
Standing on one foot, then the other, the young man removed one boot, filthy, wet white sock, dropped them in the wastebasket, then the other boot and sock. He asked, “Couldn’t you say ‘Hello’ first? ‘How are you? How’s your life been?’”
“You like tuna puffs?”
“What’s a tuna puff?”
“I liked them, your age. Still do. Warm food.”
“I like warm food.”
Passing between the young man and the desk, Fletch went into the study bathroom. He returned with two towels. One he handed to the young man. The other he dropped on the mess the young man’s boots had made on the wood floor. He stirred the towel around with his foot.
“What’s your name?” Fletch asked.
“John.”
“Faoni.”
“John Fletcher Faoni.”
“True?”
“Too true.”
“What do people call you?”
