“All in one little plastic shopping bag.”
“How? Who is this Faoni?”
“Just a kid I’ve been working with the last few days.”
“The woman you went to see at Blythe Spirit yesterday is named Faoni.”
“Yeah. I had to establish this kid’s credibility. He appeared out of nowhere, you see. A complete unknown to me.”
“And he’s good stuff?”
“Oh, yeah,” Fletch said. “I think there’s good stuff in him. He’ll need your help, though. Is Sally free? This tape he took in the fog will need the best editing. Obviously, it should be the lead and on the air as soon as you can manage it. Unless California falls into the sea, or something else of greater interest to more people happens.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would think you’d all want to work on a longer documentary format for later, but not much later.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher!”
“Faoni will have to hold some of the stuff back. That’s got to be understood from the beginning. The Attorney General of the United States has had much personal input into this story.”
“I understand.”
“Book rights and film rights to Faoni, if he wants them. He’ll be on the Air T flight from Huntsville arriving at Washington’s National Airport at ten thirty-six EDT.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Andy?”
“Yes, Mister Fletcher?”
“Please don’t call me later. Okay? I need to get some sleep.”
“Gee, Mister Fletcher. I’d never think of disturbing your sleep. Never. Not ever.”
After clicking off the phone connection, Fletch handed Jack his airplane ticket. “I got this for you at two o’clock this morning in Atlanta. You even have an assigned seat.”
While Jack studied his ticket, Fletch said to Jack, “A woman named Slavenka Drakulic, a victim of the most recent Balkan ethnic-cleansing wars, wrote in
“Got a pen and piece of paper?” Jack asked.
“In the glove compartment. Just thought that quote might add something to your story, if it fits in anywhere.”
“How do you spell her name?”
“By golly. The kid can even work pen and paper!”
FLETCH STOPPED THE station wagon outside Air T’s departure gate at Huntsville Airport. “I won’t be going in with you, if you don’t mind. Home and bed for me. Thanks for the interesting weekend.”
Before getting out of the car, Jack said, “You went to Wisconsin yesterday to see my mother.”
“She sent her best.”
“How did she seem to you?”
“She kept herself concealed behind a curtain, Jack. I couldn’t really see her.”
“Oh.”
“As astute as ever.”
Jack got out of the car.
“Wait a minute,” Fletch said.
On the sidewalk, Fletch unbuttoned his shirt. “You’ve been wearing that shirt since Friday night. Mine isn’t exactly fresh, either, but at least, for the most part, I’ve been in air-conditioning since I put it on yesterday morning. I don’t want you put off the plane because you stink even higher to heaven.”
“Switch shirts?”
“Why not?”
“Here?”
“We have a choice? You don’t have time to buy a new shirt.”
“No. I don’t.”
On the sidewalk, Fletch and Jack switched shirts.
Jack’s shirt smelled really bad. It felt grimy.
Jack asked, “How did you know I didn’t shoot at that cop? Because I didn’t know how to load the gun you handed me?”
“More than that.”
“What?”
“I doubt you’d attempt anything without accomplishing it. Even murder.”
FLETCH WAS WITHIN ten miles of the farm.
As soon as he could after leaving Huntsville Airport he had stopped at a truck stop for coffee. Before even ordering his coffee, he had bought a new shirt and thrown Jack’s into a rubbish barrel.
His new T-shirt had a logo on it which read: WHY HUG THE ROAD WHEN YOU’VE GOT ME?
He had a choice of either that logo or a beer advertisement.
Fletch felt strangely lonely.
The sight of Jack heading into the airport terminal in Fletch’s own shirt, carrying his plastic shopping bag full of a Big Story on disks and audio and videotapes, that silly small tattoo of a blue eye staring behind him from the top of the calf muscle of his left leg, almost winking as he walked … the way Jack turned before going through the circular door, grinned and waved at Fletch, knowing full well his father was watching him …
He was missing the kid.
Fletch found the phone on the car seat beside him and pressed the number of the farm.
Carrie answered. “Hello?”
“Hello.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“That’s good. Hey, Fletch! Guess what?”
“What?”
“I made a firecracker cake!”
Fletch said, “Oh, boy.”
