“Okay,” Pettis conceded, “looks like it works, close up, anyhow. How far away can that thing see him?”
“Seven miles, says the company that makes it,” said Angie. “That’s if the terrain’s flat and there’s nothing in the way between the collar and the receiver.” She scanned the flat terrain around the cabin. “We might need to find a piece of higher ground to get better line-of-sight reception. Anyplace nearby that’s higher up?”
“Hell, yeah,” he said. “How about a hunnerd fifty feet higher up? There’s a old fire tower right over yonder.” He pointed. “I’d check the stairs and the floorboards pretty careful before I trusted it, but it looks to be in pretty fair shape, at least from the ground.”
Angie cocked her head, much as the dog had done a few minutes before. “So you’re willing for us to track Jasper for a few days, see where he goes, see if he brings another bone back from one of those places?”
“Sure, why not,” he said. “On one condition.”
“What condition?”
“If he shows you where the rest of them bones are, you’ve got to give him another hamburger. Sound reasonable?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Pettis.” Angie laughed, and they shook hands. “We’ll get somebody out here to check the tower later today. Oh, we’ll need to change the battery in the collar every couple days. Is that okay?”
Pettis scratched his stubble again. “That might require some additional compensation,” he said. Angie looked worried. “Better make it a cheeseburger.”
“You and Jasper drive a hard bargain, Mr. Pettis. But you’ve got me over a barrel. A cheeseburger it is.”
He grinned. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Angie.”
Breakfast anytime, promised the marquee of the Waffle Iron, a glass-fronted cinder-block diner on the main street of Sinking Springs, the tiny county seat of Bremerton County. The sign appeared to date from the 1950s or early ’60s; the diner’s name was outlined in script by glowing tubes of neon, and so was the profile of a cartoonish chef, who wore a puffy white hat and served up a golden neon waffle. Underneath the sign’s offer of breakfast were two alternatives: Lunch Specials and Fried Cat. It was only when I did a double take that I noticed the word Fish tucked on a separate line underneath. The fried cat must have been pretty tasty, because the parking lot was packed fender to fender with pickups and SUVs.
After our errand at Pettis’s, Angie and I had returned to explore the ruins of the school further while Vickery mined the courthouse records for information about the reform school, or old-timers who might still remember it. We rendezvoused with him shortly after dark in the Waffle Iron’s parking lot.
Every head in the diner swiveled in our direction when we entered, sizing us up frankly and reminding us clearly that we were outsiders. Angie and I ignored the stares; Vickery took the opposite tack, nodding and waving amiably at various patrons, as though they’d greeted him in a friendly way. We ran this visual gauntlet to a back corner of the diner, where a booth had just opened up. As we slid onto the plastic benches, Angie and Vickery with their backs to the wall, the clatter of silverware and chatter of conversation gradually resumed.
The waitress who came to take our order was young, slightly plump, and pretty. I saw her taking the measure of the three of us—glancing at our ring fingers, considering whether Angie was married to either Vickery or me. She must have decided Vickery was fair game, because when she asked for his order, she flashed him a dimpled smile that was orders of magnitude brighter than the token one she’d given me. She held the pen a few inches above the order pad and tilted her head slightly to one side, raptly waiting his decision. “And what would you like, sir?”
Vickery slowly removed the cigar from the corner of his mouth. “I’m open to suggestions,” he said. “What would you say is the tastiest thing on the menu?”
The waitress reddened slightly, but her smile broadened. “I’d say it depends on what you’re in the mood for.”
I saw Angie’s eyes roll in disgust. She turned to Vickery and laid a hand on his arm. “Do tell us, darling, what you’re in the mood for.”
Vickery glared at her. “I’m not sure, sweetheart,” he said, “but weren’t you planning on having a little humble pie for dessert?” Angie laughed, and the waitress—undone by the exchange—dialed down her demeanor from flirtatious to businesslike. Angie ordered the chicken-salad plate, Vickery got fried eggs and bacon, and I decided to try the fried cat.