Fletch, Too

Rain-soaked, muddy from head to foot, a cut bleeding on his forearm, Carr entered Fletch’s tent.

Carr shook his head, No.

Fletch was sitting on the edge of his cot. Mud ran down his face, the front of his body, his chest, his stomach, into the sodden towel around his waist; down his legs into the mud at his feet.

How many words did my father speak to me? He’s a pretty poor-lookin’ specimen, isn’t he? No. These were not words spoken to me, but about me. He said, What do you mean? He said, Well. Five words. My father spoke five words to me. In my life. In his life. In our lives.

I had no decision to make.

The basic decision ordering how people behave, for survival, the social contract, was made a long, long time ago.

“Carr, he was trying to get away. Wasn’t he?”

“Who knows?” Carr said. “Who cares?”

“My mother said he was apt to evade moments of emotional intensity …”

“How do you feel?”

“… like being hung from the neck.”

In the dim kerosene light Carr watched Fletch from across the tent.

“He finally died in an air crash. In a storm. Not in Montana, but in Africa. Presumed dead. The courts made a presumption, which was almost right.”

“All this noise apparently hasn’t awakened anybody.”

“The sound of the rain …”

“Yes. The sound of the rain.”

“How did he get to be here? I never heard.”

“You’ve been pretty sick.”

“Were the charges against him dropped?”

“All that was a joke already. Another funny story. The askari had no official standing. He was just an unlicensed guard from a jewelry store across the street. So Walter was released from custody after paying a fine, damages to the Thorn Tree Café, the askari’s hospital expenses, plus a few shillingi to make up for the weight the askari gained in hospital.”

“I came halfway around the world to put my father out into a storm; to see him killed in an air crash. Poetry.”

“Irwin …”

“Yes, Carr.”

“I know you can’t be feeling like a calisthenics director on a spring morning …”

“How I Spent My Honeymoon.”

“This is Tuesday. A plane leaves for London tonight. I think you and Barbara should be on it.”

“Yes?”

“As soon as the weather clears, I’ll fly you up to Nairobi, book your seats.”

“Okay.” Fletch fingered mud from his eyes. “Anything you say. You’ve been a real friend, Carr. Thank you.”

“Enough of that. I thank you. If it weren’t for the intelligence of you and Barbara and Juma, we never would have found the world’s latest ruin.”

“Having found it will make a big name for you, Peter Carr.”

“Yes. I want to go to Nairobi today and report the find. Show the evidence. Turn the whole dig over to the scientific wallahs. After discovering the place, I don’t want to be accused of messing it up.”

“Right. Discover, but do not meddle. Be committed, but not involved.”

“Also, of course, I have to report the death of Walter Fletcher to the authorities, get them down here.”

“Yes.”

“In the meantime, we still have the problem of the police accusing someone innocent of murder.”

Fletch looked up at Carr’s solidity. “We’re not going to report Walter Fletcher was the murderer?”

“Not unless we have to. Why should we? Why totally wreck the name Walter Fletcher? It’s a small world.”

“You’re thinking of me.”

“If it looks like they’re going to hang the wrong bag, you’ll come forward?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’d be a reason for coming forward.”

“Maybe it will be an unsolved crime. But Dan Dawes—”

“This morning you might write out an eyewitness account, beginning in the men’s room at the airport, including the events of this morning. Maybe I’ll show it to Dan Dawes.”

“Okay.”

“If the authorities come even close to indicting someone else for the murder, I’ll hand your account in officially. See if they want to bring you back to testify.”

“Sounds like the best thing to do. I guess.”

“I’ll get you some paper and a pen. A spot of tea might go well about now, too.”

“Carr? Why are Barbara and I leaving so soon? Why are we leaving tonight?” Across the tent, still standing, ignoring the cut on his arm, Carr looked at Fletch without expression. “I’m thinking about a funeral. My father … The excitement of the discovery …”

“The air crash will be investigated,” Carr said. “The authorities will be here. University people will come to see the ruins. The press. They’ll all be here by tonight.”

“So what?”

Carr took a step closer to Fletch. Even in that dawn’s light, Carr’s eyes were clear, blue. Quietly, he said, “Don’t you suspect your passports are phonies?”

At Los Angeles airport, looking into her passport, Barbara had said, Where did this picture of me come from? Fletch had never seen his passport picture before either.

“Well. I know we didn’t apply for them ourselves.”

Carr nodded.

“I’ve heard all the news.” Wet, bedraggled, Barbara stood inside Fletch’s tent.

Propped up on the cot, the kerosene lamp pulled close to him, Fletch was writing out his account of the murder of Louis Ramon and the death of Walter Fletcher in an air crash during a storm.

Before starting, he had showered most of the mud off him in the rain.

My father did not die in childbirth.

Barbara said, “I don’t know how I feel about it.”

“How you feel?”

“No.” She continued to stand a meter away from him.

Sweat, humidity: Fletch was having difficulty keeping the paper dry to write.

“We need to get packed,” Fletch said. “We’re starting home tonight.”

“Once we came here to camp, we never really unpacked. Just underwear.”

“I guess we don’t need to pack the torn sweaters and cutoff ski pants.”

“I’ll hang them from the trees. Maybe the monkeys will wear ’em. Suits them.”

“Still. We must repack.”

“It’s not as if I’m overburdened with souvenirs.”

“You have some memories. For the long ride.”

“I never even sent my mother a postcard.”

“You can send her one from home. Where’s Carr?”

“In his tent. He’s writing something, too.”

“His version of events.”

“He says he thinks it will clear up enough for us to take off at noon.”

Fletch looked out through the tent flap Barbara had left askew. “Can’t take off in this rain.”

Barbara said: “So I heard.”