“Please, Alston, just make the calls I asked you to make. Cops are here, too. Sort of. This just happens to be a rather big band I’m trying to conduct at this moment. Too much bass, maybe.”
“Yeah. Rather heavy in the rhythm section, too. I can feel it in my ears from here. Shit, my blood pleasure. I mean, pressure. Look what you’re doin’ to me! You’re on that godforsaken farm, a million miles from who cares, in a raging storm, crawlin’ with escapees from a federal penitentiary, real hard-timers, Carrie snoring in her bed—”
“Carrie doesn’t snore. She wouldn’t. She’s the quietest damned sleeper—”
“Your phones are off. Did these guys cut the lines?”
“Yes.”
“Next time I ask you why you’re calling me from the smokehouse in the pouring rain, will you give me a straight answer?”
“I did. You just needed a little background.” Fletch did see Jack moving, head down, along this side of the home pasture fence toward the front of the house. “I believe one of these guys is my son, Alston. I believe he led these other guys out of their way to come here. I want to know why. Okay? So please just do as I ask. And don’t try to call me. You’ll just add timpani to the bass. I’ll call you back when I can. Enjoy your duck.”
“Yeah,” Alston said. “Duck you.”
“HEY, MISTER FLETCHER.” Deputy Sheriff Will Sanborne leaned his wet head and shoulders through the back doorway of the house. His feet were still in the mud outside.
“Hey, Will.” In the kitchen, Fletch was filling two mugs with coffee. “You look wetter’n the minute you were born.”
“Who’s that guy movin’ around in your library?”
“There’s no guy in my library.”
“A kid.”
“Oh, you mean Jack? You want cream or sugar?”
“Black, please.”
“That’s my son, Jack.”
Leaning from outside into the back hallway, Will wrinkled his face. “Your son, Jack?”
“You never met Jack?”
“Never knew you had a son.”
“You didn’t? Well, I’ll be a hoppy toad. I thought everybody knew my son, Jack. Who’s with you?”
“Michael.”
“Come on in, Michael.”
“Where’s Carrie?”
“Upstairs in bed.”
“Anyone else here?”
Fletch handed Will the hot coffee at the back door. “So you guys cased the place before entering. Pretty smart. I appreciate it. Come in.”
“We’ll mess up your floor.”
“It’s brick. Cleans easy.”
In the small, dark back hall the two deputies looked very large in their slickers and hats. Leaving their slickers on, they put their wet hats on the wall pegs. Removing their boots together in that small space, they looked like two bears having their first dancing lesson.
“Oops.” Will spilled some of his coffee on the floor.
In gray hunting socks they stepped into the kitchen.
Fletch handed Michael a mug of coffee.
“Thanks.”
“You’re here for the Jeep,” Fletch said.
“Yeah.” Will blew on his hot coffee before sipping it. “Sheriff said to run it over your place first.”
“These guys are here somewhere,” Michael said. “For sure.”
“The wet grass will be right slippery,” Fletch said. “Don’t try too tight a turn in that Jeep, especially in four- wheel drive, especially if you’ve got any speed up. Don’t get yourselves in too great an angle on the hillsides.”
Michael said. “You sound like my father.” At twenty-one, Michael had just been released from the Army. He had hoped for a twenty-year career, as his father had had.
“Is that bad?” Fletch asked.
Michael said, “No.” Then he laughed into his coffee cup. “Give me a break.”
“You might check the barns,” Fletch said.
Will said. “We’ll check the barns.”
Both had six-battery, head-cracking flashlights sticking out of their slickers’ pockets.
Will stared at the .38 in the waistband of Fletch’s jeans.
“There are four of these guys?” Fletch asked.
“Three,” Michael said.
“Three? The sheriff said four.”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe.”
“When did they escape?”
“Sometime during the night,” Will answered. “Probably early last night.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How did they get out?”
“Don’t know,” Will answered. “It’s a maximum-security prison, isn’t it?” he asked Michael.
“I thought so. These guys are murderers.”
“Yeah.” Frowning, Will looked into his coffee cup. “We’ve been told to shoot on sight.”
“Sorry,” Fletch said. “Protect yourselves.”
Will said, “Sheriff told us to check every room in your house, Mister Fletcher. I guess even the room where Ms. Carrie’s asleep.” He looked at Fletch’s handgun again. “Idea is, they could have Ms. Carrie hostage in one room while you’re sweet-talkin’ us.”
“Me? Sweet-talk anybody?” Fletch grinned. “I understand.”
“One of us will stay downstairs while the other goes upstairs with you.” Will rinsed his empty coffee mug in the sink.
“Sure.”
“Last time I was here”—Will looked around—“we were all watchin’ Atlanta play San Francisco on your big screen.”
“I’ve never been here,” Michael said. “You got any of those Tharp paintings, Mister Fletcher?”
“No. I guess I ran the price of them up too high for me to afford ‘em.”
“Sheriff ate two full-sized pizzas while watchin’ the game,” Will said. “Supremes. Never thought anybody could do that.”
“He was nervous,” Fletch said. “He bet on San Francisco.”
Michael put mock horror on his face. “You guys were gamblin’?”
“It’s all right, Michael,” Fletch said. “It was rigged. Carrie was working the odds. You know how diplomatic she is. The sheriff was the only one who lost.”
“He made up for it in the pizza he ate,” Will said.
Turning on and off lights again, Fletch led them from room to room on the ground floor. The deputies checked closets, bathrooms.
Fletch heard the sounds of a guitar being tuned.
They came to the study.
Under the bright lights of the study’s chandelier, on the big, blue, leather divan, sat John Fletcher Faoni.
His hair was dry and combed. He was clean shaven.
He was as clean as a fresh bar of soap.
Barefoot, he wore shorts and a T-shirt.
