“I mean, you could have called Andy Cyst. Even Alex Blair.”
“Oh, no,” Jack said.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t let GCN in on the story early enough. What I learned from Mister Blair is that I should have called the television crew in as soon as I knew I was investigating this matter. You know, have them around to film Doctor Radliegh discovering the rigged coffeepot, the cabin exploding, the horse falling over dead on him at dawn, me and Alixis in bed, maybe even me and Shana in bed a few years ago in Stowe, Vermont…. Mrs. Radliegh hanging by the neck from a bedsheet tied to the balcony railing … all that good stuff… you know, getting as much of the story on film as possible. Do you think all that might have affected the story in any way? Anyway, Mister Blair explained to me that’s the professional way to do a story, the way I’d have to do things to work for GCN.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“People who ride in cars wearing suitcases on their heads might just be more polite to whoever is driving. One pothole, and you’ll want an aspirin.”
“So what are you going to do with this story? Just throw it away? The public have a right to—”
“No.”
“That’s what I was going to say.”
“I just faxed a complete report to Jack Saunders.” Both his father, I. M. Fletcher, and his mother, Crystal Faoni, had worked with Jack Saunders on the
“Print journalism?” Fletch smiled.
“Mister Blair can read all about it with the rest of the world in the morning newspapers,” Jack said. “I shall refuse all interviews.”
“I’ll be …” Fletch said.
“I hope so.” Jack stopped the car at the edge of the airstrip. “Now what? Do you wait for a plane to pick you up?”
“That yellow two-seater,” Fletch said. “What about it?”
“Will you drive me to it, please?”
“Why?”
“That’s where I’m going.”
“Oh, no. That airplane hasn’t anything to do with you, has it?”
“Certainly.”
“What?”
“I own it,” Fletch said. “Bought and paid for.”
“You don’t fly it, do you?”
“That’s the way it works,” Fletch said. “I go up one place, down in another.”
“Not possible.”
“It got me here, didn’t it? I wanted to see that Bierstadt. By the way, it’s a wonderful painting. Flying in, I even watched you pedaling your bicycle along the road. Earthling.”
“Where did you get an airplane like that?” Slowly, Jack drove Fletch toward the airplane. “The Smithsonian? Don’t they miss it?”
“I bought it from a friend. He needed the money.”
“And you learned to fly it?”
“Not really. I use a road map and stay out of traffic.”
“I didn’t see it on the farm.”
“I keep it in a shed.”
“Who takes care of it for you?”
“Emory.”
“Your farmhand? What does he know about airplanes? He can’t even plug the muffler on his truck!”
“True, he’s never been up in an airplane. Doesn’t trust them. But he’s very good with old engines. And regarding his truck muffler, I don’t encourage him to fix it. I like to know when he leaves for lunch.”
“Dad!” Jack stopped the car a few meters from the airplane. “That’s a piece of junk!”
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s very old. Very, very old.”
“Yes,” Fletch said. “It’s a very old classic.”
Fletch opened the car door and struggled to stand up with his suitcase. “Hasn’t crashed yet. Well, yes it has. Not fatally, though. I mean, not fatally for the airplane.”
He stepped up onto the wing, slid back the cockpit cover, and slipped his suitcase behind the two seats. “And my suitcase fits in it!”
Jack stood on the runway. “I’m just getting to know you. I can’t let you go up in that… classic.”
“Sure you can.” Fletch stepped into the cockpit and fastened his safety belt. “Old dog leash.” Fletch showed Jack one end of it, the end that usually attaches to a dog’s collar. “Works perfectly well.”
He cranked the engine twice.
“Damned thing doesn’t even start,” Jack said.
“Sure it does. Just needs a bit of encouragement.” He cranked the engine again. “Sometimes it’s a bit slow.” Twice again. “Give it a push, will you?”
“Push the airplane?” Jack asked. “How?”
“Get behind and push.” Fletch made a pushing motion with his hands.
Jack leaned his shoulders against the rudders and almost fell over. “This thing doesn’t weigh twenty pounds!” he shouted. “Even with you in it!”
“Ah, yes,” Fletch said. “She defies gravity, all right. Just watch her take off.”
“If you can get the damned thing started,” Jack muttered. With arms extended he pushed the airplane another ten meters.
With a great exhalation of exhaust smoke, the engine roared.
Fletch braked.
He yelled at Jack, “Will I see you back at the farm?”
Standing near the airplane he had pushed to get started, listening to it, studying it, seeing it shuddering and flapping, Jack yelled, “I sincerely doubt it!”
Fletch chopped the air with his left hand. “Bye.”
