Son of Fletch

20

“Mister Fletcher? We got us a dead man on the place,” Emory announced.

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes, sir. Dead and bloatin’ up real bad.”

Sunday morning, head still hurting, throat sore, neck stiff, Fletch had checked the fax machine in his study and, finding nothing yet on it from Andy Cyst, took his cup of coffee out onto the upper balcony. He loved to watch the rising sun dissipate the fog that was in the farm valley most mornings.

It had been nearly midnight when he and Carrie had left Camp Orania in Tolliver, Alabama, for home.

Before Fletch left the encampment, Jack had placed his hands on the windowsill of the station wagon as if he still had something, one more thing to say to Fletch. Fletch waited, but Jack said nothing.

Fletch realized that Jack was still in shock from having killed someone, their having found the cook hanging by his neck from a tree branch.

So was Carrie, of course, and she was heading down the long dark timber road alone in the farm truck.

So Fletch said to Jack through the car window, “We’ve given each other interesting times so far, haven’t we?”

Jack said, “I’ve had more boring weekends.”

“The weekend isn’t over yet.”

Jack looked to his side. “Why are you leaving? It may be over anytime now.”

Coolly, Fletch said: “I have other things to do.”

Jack did not inquire.

Fletch said, “I’m a great one for confirming things.”

“Isn’t that how you almost just got killed?”

“One source for any story is never enough,” Fletch said. “By the way, thanks for riding shotgun for us back in the woods. You had both of us fooled.”

“I guess I still can’t say to you, ‘Trust me.’”

“Sure. You can say it,” Fletch said. “I’ll store the request.” Then Fletch said: “Repeat after me.”

“Okay.”

“All bullies are cowards.”

“All bullies are cowards.”

“Paranoids’ worst enemies are themselves.”

“Paranoids’ worst enemies are themselves.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Following Carrie on the long drive home to the farm, Fletch telephoned airlines.

Then he telephoned Andy Cyst at his home.

“Andy! I’ll bet you’ve heard enough from me today.”

“No, sir.” Andy yawned. It was midnight and Andy most likely had been in bed asleep. “It’s okay.”

“Thing is, I’d like to set up that story regarding people with life-threatening food addictions. Specifically, I’d like to do a short feature at that place called Blythe Spirit in Forward, Wisconsin.”

“You have a sore throat, Mister Fletcher?”

“A bit of a one.”

“Sorry. When do you want to do the story?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You mean, today? Sunday?”

“Is it Sunday yet?”

“As far as I’m concerned it is. After I go to bed and wake up, it’s the next day, however early. I was brought up that way.”

“Yes. Today. Sunday.”

“What’s the hurry, Mister Fletcher? It’s a pretty soft feature.”

“That it is.”

“I’ve got it. Sorry. This is your way of getting to that Faoni woman.”

“Yes.”

“And you need to get to her because of some other story you’re working on.”

“You’re thinking pretty well, for someone half asleep.”

“And let me guess: the other story has something to do with those escapees from the federal prison in Kentucky. Am I right?”

“I make no promises. I’m not sure what the story is. I’m not even sure there is a story. And if there is a story, at this moment I haven’t the slightest idea how I can get ahold of it, or how I can report it.”

“I understand.”

“Andy? To be honest, there is also a personal element to what I’m doing.”

“Aha! Just as I guessed: the shapely Faoni is an old flame!”

“Therefore I expect to pay my own expenses on this one.”

“We wage-slaves will appreciate that, Mister Fletcher.”

“Who is free on-camera in Chicago right now? Could Cindy and Mac meet me at O’Hare Airport shortly after noon?”

“I’ll check.”

“I’ll do the writing, of course, if…”

“Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher. I’ll get Research to fax you everything they have about food-addicted people at the farm before dawn.”

“Atta boy. Also everything about Blythe Spirit. Who owns it, who runs it, does medical insurance pay for their services, or is it a place one checks into with a credit card?”

“Yes, sir. But, Mister Fletcher …”

“Yes, Andy?”

“When I called Blythe Spirit they were highly protective of their patients, or clients, or whatever. What makes you think they’ll be glad to see you arrive with Cindy Watts and Mac and his camera on a Sunday afternoon?”

“You’ll have to talk with them, of course. That charm of yours. Assure them we absolutely shall respect the privacy of their clients, except any who volunteer to be interviewed on camera, either disguised or not. Their choice.”

“You don’t think they might suspect an ulterior motive if I call them at midnight and say a GCN crew is arriving at teatime?”

“I believe Blythe Spirit is a private, for-profit enterprise, Andy. You know they’ll be dazzled by the publicity possibilities. For them it means more clients, income, a chance to explain their meditation techniques. And you know the one thing people never can remain silent about is silence.”

Andy remained silent.

Fletch chuckled. “So call Blythe Spirit early in the morning and tell them we just happen to have a crew in their area, this is their big chance—”

“Okay.”

“Sorry to ask for all this at this late hour Saturday night, Andy.”

“Sunday morning.”

“Sunday morning.”

“It’s okay, Mister Fletcher. It’s always interesting to see how you work. I’ll bet you have a very big story here.”

“Don’t bet anything you can’t afford to lose, Andy. Don’t bet your job on it.”

When he arrived home, the Jeep was in the carport as clean as new.

Thus Fletch assumed a certain matter had been taken care of.

He assumed the remains of Juan Moreno had been carted off.

The garbage bag filled with the filthy prison clothes and boots was undisturbed by the back door.

The phones were working.

Before he had poured his coffee Sunday morning, Fletch had heard Emory’s truck arrive. Normally, Emory did not work on the farm Sundays.

Emory stood on the front lawn, squinting in the early morning light, talking to Fletch on the upper balcony.

“I didn’t know you and Carrie made it home last night. So I came by to feed the horses and the chickens.”

“Nice of you, Emory. We got home pretty late.”

“I didn’t know you were here until I saw the truck and the station wagon.”

“We were at a dance. In Alabama.”

“Was it a high ol’ time?”

“I guess. You should have been with us.”

“Did you do any buck dancin’, Mister Fletch?”

“Not last night.”

“Many pretty girls?”

“Pretty girls…” Fletch thought of the bare-chested men circling the bonfire knocking each other silly. “I only had eyes for Carrie, Emory. You know that.”

“None you’d bring home to Mama, uh?”

“A few I might bring home to the Judge.”

“That ugly, uh?”

“Criminal.”

“Mister Fletch, I thought maybe we’d lost a cow. Some-thin’ smelled dead. I followed my nose. To the gully. A human. A dead man in the gully. Suspect it might be one of those escaped villains?”

“Might be. All your relatives accounted for this morning, Emory?”

Emory laughed. “I never have been able to count ‘em all. The mess in the gully isn’t anybody I recognize, anyway.”

“That’s good.” On the balcony, Fletch blinked in the sunlight. “Guess I’d better come look, Emory, before I call the sheriff’s department.”

The sheriff’s department without a sheriff, he said to himself.

Fletch realized there really was not much need for him to go look. The mess in the gully was Juan Moreno, late of the federal penitentiary in Tomaston, Kentucky. Fletch had already seen him dead. He did not want to see him again.

His training as a reporter made him go down through the house, leave his coffee cup in the kitchen, walk with Emory up the fields to the gully, and peer down at what once had been relatively human.

He could not report anything of which he was not immediately sure.

“GUESS I’M GOING to Chicago.”

When Carrie came into the study in her bathrobe she was holding a cup of coffee to her lips as she walked.

At the desk, Fletch was reading through a sheaf of faxes which had arrived from GCN and Andy Cyst. There were several pages describing the clinical disorder of life-threatening obesity. There were two pages regarding Blythe Spirit, its founding, corporate structure, ownership, size, services offered, qualifications of senior staff, professional operating theory, licenses, etc.

There was a one-page note from Andy saying that Mac was in hospital with a slipped disk but Cindy and Roger would meet him at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport shortly after noon; the administration and staff of Blythe Spirit would be delighted to see the crew from GCN whenever they arrived that afternoon, and would do their best to prevail upon “one or two patients to volunteer for interviews.”

“When?” Carrie drew her legs onto the couch under her.

“Leaving as soon as I get dressed.”

“You’re going to see Crystal. I thought she was out of pocket.”

“I hope to see Crystal.”

“Maybe she’ll show you her son’s postcards from Greece.”

“Maybe.”

“What if she does?”

“I don’t know.”

Carrie quoted Fletch: “‘We’re all mysteries awaiting solution.’”

Fletch said, “We’re all histories awaiting execution.”

“I don’t know what else you can do,” Carrie said. “I mean, you’ve got to try to see Crystal, soon as you can. Whatever else that kid is, or isn’t, he saved our lives last night as sure as God made bedbugs. I was awake much of the night. I must have turned fourteen miles.”

“I know.”

“Fletch, I’m not sure what I heard, saw yesterday. All those wild-lookin’ men together. Their crazy eyes. Their guns. The foul condition of the women and children. Those three guys ol’ Leary kindly run off after smashin’ two of their heads together. What I heard of that obscene speech. ‘Mud people.’ ‘Children of Satan.’ ‘Z.O.G.’ Chants of ‘White rights’ have been ringin’ in my ears all night. Everybody throwin’ up. Did Jack really cause that with his electronic gimmicks? That violent dancin’ around the bonfire. Those stupid men bumpin’ into each other like battery-operated toys, whackin’ each other over their heads. Seein’ Sheriff Joe Rogers killed with a single stroke of that boy’s hand. The cook hangin’ from the tree branch, his face all pooched out.”

Carrie’s face did look as if it had spent the night in a pail of warm water.

“Pretty rough on you.”

“You, too.”

Fletch said, “I’m still not sufficiently sure of anything. Maybe it’s the bangs on the head I got. I still don’t know why all this has happened, or what, if anything, to do about it.”

She said, “I won’t really know what I saw and heard until I know if Jack is really your son. Does that make sense?”

Fletch hesitated.

“I mean,” she said, “if Jack is your son, what is he doing with these people? Whoever he is, why did he lead us into this putrid mess?”

“Isn’t that what kids do? I’ve heard something like that, from parents.” Fletch picked up the phone. “I’ve got to call the sheriff’s department.”

“I wish I could call Francie,” Carrie said. “Guess I’ll have to wait.”

“Maybe forever,” Fletch said.

“AETNA? HOW COME you’re workin’ Sunday morning? The choir can’t do without you.”

“Hydy, Mister Fletcher. Everybody else seems just plumb wore out, after all this excitement about those escaped convicts, and all. Haven’t heard gurgle or burp from the sheriff since sometime yesterday. He could be dead, for all I know.”

Fletch neither confirmed nor denied.

“Say, Aetna, we have a dead body out here in the gully.”

Carrie’s eyes popped.

“You don’t say.”

“I do. He’s been there all day yesterday, from the looks of him. His body is all swollen up. He’s popped his shirt buttons and split the zipper on his jeans.”

Across the room, Carrie wrinkled her face and said, “Oouu…”

“Do you suppose it’s anyone we know, Fletch?”

“It’s a good bet it’s one of those escaped convicts you all have been lookin’ high and low for.”

“The sheriff will be glad to hear that. The boys are sort of disappointed they didn’t catch a single one. I’ll call him before he gets dressed. He might want to run out and take a look before church.”

“You do that.”

“Is Carrie within hailin’ distance?”

“She’s right here.”

“Let me speak to her, will you? I got that recipe for firecracker cake from Angie Kelly I know Carrie wants real bad…”

Handing over the mouthpiece, Fletch said to Carrie, “Aetna wants to talk to you. Firecracker cake.”

“Oh, good!” Carrie crossed the study and took the phone receiver. “Ha, Aetna, how’re you this mornin’?”

Going upstairs to dress to go to Chicago, Fletch muttered, “God! We’ll never get rid of that damned body!”