Son of Fletch Read Online Free PDF Page A

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. Carriewas 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.
    He was suntanned.
    He looked up from the acoustic guitar he was tuning.
    To the deputies following Fletch into the study, looking up, smiling, Jack said, “Ha!”
    “I’ll be damned,” Fletch said. “You clean up pretty good, for a frog. Just maybe pigs can fly.” Louder, he said, “This is my son, Jack Fletcher. Deputies Will Sanborne and Michael Jackson, Jack.
    Putting aside the guitar, Jack stood and shook hands with the deputies. “How’re you guys doin’?” Jack asked.
    “Oh, my God,” Fletch muttered. “A Southern prince yet.”
    “How come I don’t know you?” Michael asked. “We’re the same age.”
    “Didn’t go to school here,” Jack answered.
    “I don’t know you either,” Will said. “I’ve never seen you around.”
    Jack hitched up his shorts slightly. “That’s because my daddy’s just a little bit ashamed of me.” At the word
daddy
Fletch felt like an electric shock hit his lower spine. “He took exception to my being born plumb ignorant and kept me away from him all my growin’ up years in one school after another.”
    “He was raised by his mother,” Fletch said.
    “Still—” Michael said.
    “Who’s your mama?” Will’s question wasn’t as suspicious as it was country curious. The next question, with any pretext, would be,
She got kin around here?
    “Her name’s Crystal,” Jack said. “She’s in the radio business up north.”
    Jack had eliminated the pretext. His mother was a Yankee. Named Crystal.
    “She’s a career woman,” Fletch said.
    Will said