“You just
“I tried.”
“And what was your doubtlessly magnificent reason for this criminal behavior?”
“She was bothering a friend of mine.”
“Where was this?”
“Louisville, Kentucky.”
“What were you doing in Louisville, Kentucky?”
“Heading south.”
“Where south? Here?”
“Maybe. Nashville, anyway.”
Fletch looked at the guitar Jack had found in the guest bedroom. It had been a house present from a country music star who had needed to stay at the farm awhile. It had the star’s name on it. Since it had been left, no one had played it. The guitar had become an ornament, a prized, dusted ornament. “Are you musical?”
Jack shrugged. “We wanted to find that out.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“My friend and I. He plays keyboard.”
“Where is he now?”
“Kentucky state pen.”
“And how and why was this woman cop bothering your friend?”
“It had to do with the car he was driving.”
“What about it?”
“It was stolen.” Jack smiled. “A pink Cadillac convertible. Vintage.”
“Wonderful.” Fletch shook his head. “You wanted your pink Cadillac convertible before you even got to Nashville.”
“Something like that. Arriving in style.”
“Some style. So what happened?”
“I shot at her. Just to discourage her from making the arrest. Arresting my friend. I didn’t need to do anything. I wasn’t even in the car at the moment. I could have disappeared, gotten away, saved my own ass. I didn’t realize other cops had snuck up behind me. They hit me over the head. Bastards. I was convicted of the attempted murder of a police officer. Would you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“People don’t appreciate loyalty.”
“Police officers have every reason to discourage such behavior.”
“Sure. Still, it just happened. In the heat of the moment. You had to have been there.”
“No, thanks. You shot at her with what?”
“A pistol. A .32.”
“Why would you even have such a thing?”
“We had it. You know, traveling. We intended to sleep out at night.”
“You weren’t in the car, but you had the gun on you.”
“I had put it under my shirt. I was going into a store.”
“Did you intend to rob the store?”
“No. Who’d try to rob a supermarket?”
“Then why were you carrying the gun?”
“It felt good against my skin.”
“You have trouble getting it up, son?”
Jack’s eyebrows raised. “No.”
“I don’t see why you were carrying the gun.”
Jack said, “You’ve got a gun stuck into your jeans. Right now.”
“By order of the sheriff.” Fletch got up and went to the open French doors. “I’m surrounded by fugitives from justice. A least one of them, of you all, is a murderer.” He had his back to Jack. “You’re all murderers, come to think of it. Kidnapping, drugs: you’ve all taken big holes out of people’s lives. In this life, who are the bastards?”
Jack muttered, “The fathers, or the sons?”
From the window, through the rain, Fletch saw the headlights of the Jeep high on the hill, well above the gully. One of the big flashlights was piercing the dark from the passenger side of the vehicle.
“Aren’t you afraid to stand in the lit window?” Jack asked. “Under the circumstances?”
“No.” Fletch turned his back to the window.
Knees apart, arms at his sides, Jack was slouched on the divan.
Fletch said, “You have your mother’s skin.”
“Not all of it.” Jack stretched his arms. “By a dam’s site.”
“How come you’re tanned?” Fletch asked. “How long have you been in prison?”
“Five weeks. Before that I was out on bail. Just hanging around. Can’t get much of a day job when you’re out on bail on charges of attempted murder.”
“Why didn’t you come here?”
“Didn’t want to bother you. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to leave Kentucky, State of.”
“You escaped from a maximum-security federal penitentiary after only five weeks?”
“I didn’t like it there,” Jack said. “Noisy. Food could have been better. I’d read all the books in the library.”
“You know karate?”
“A type of.” Again, Jack looked at Fletch in surprise. “Ah! You were outside, weren’t you? You watched me lead my ‘traveling companions’ to the gully.”
“What’s the name of the big one you disciplined with your foot and the side of your hand?”
“Leary. He’s crazy.”
“And which is Kriegel?”
“The short, bald guy, with eyeglasses. His name is Kris Kriegel, with a K Would you believe that? How did you follow me?” Jack looked at Fletch’s sneakers, the cuffs of his jeans. “You’re not wet.”
In a more conversational tone, Fletch asked, “Where is Crystal?”
“Generally, or at the moment?”
“Generally. And at the moment.”
“Indiana.”
“Is she working as a journalist?”
“Sort of. No.” Jack sat forward. “She owns five radio stations.”
“Good for her.”
“She calls them her money machines. We live, lived outside Bloomington.” He poured himself more milk. “At the moment, she’s on her semiannual sojourn on a fat farm. She locks herself up for two weeks twice a year.
Jack had eaten every bit of food from the tray.
“You want more food?” Fletch asked.
Quickly, Jack sat back. “No. No, thanks. Maybe later.”
Fletch sat at the desk. “How did you know where I live?”
“We see your name in the newspapers once in a while. Ever since you wrote the book
Fletch asked. “Did you read it?”
“Yeah.”
Fletch waited for Jack to say more. After a moment of silence, Fletch said, “I guess it’s been praised enough.”
“Big book,” Jack said.
Fletch said, “It took a while.”
