“You are the law,” I pointed out. “Didn’t they make you a U.S. marshal when you started tracking down Internet predators?”
“They did,” he said, “but I’ve only got arrest powers in Tennessee.”
“Well, damn,” I said. “You reckon we can persuade Mr. Littlejohn to haul those bodies across the state line so you can arrest him?”
“Brilliant idea,” he said. “I’ll let you be the one to climb back over that gate, make friends with the nice doggies, and present that plan.” He flipped open his cell phone. “I think it’s time to call the friendly neighborhood sheriff.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “What if Littlejohn’s in cahoots with the friendly neighborhood sheriff? Remember Cooke County.” Art and I had nearly perished in the mountainous county, not once but twice, both times at the hands of corrupt sheriff’s deputies. “If the sheriff’s in this guy’s pocket, we’d just be giving him a heads-up.”
“O ye of little faith,” Art said. “Seriously, what do you suggest?”
“I don’t know yet; let me sleep on it,” I said. “All those folks are already dead. They’re not going to get any deader if we wait twenty-four hours before we call the law.”
We rode the rest of the way back to Knoxville in silence.
AFTER I DROPPED Art at KPD headquarters, I called Jeff’s house. Jenny answered the phone. “Hey,” I said, “mind if I invite myself over again?”
“I’d mind if you didn’t,” she said. “Jeff’s coaching Walker’s T-ball practice right now, and I’m dashing to pick up Tyler from his baseball practice, but we’ll all be back under one roof in half an hour. I hope.”
“How ’bout I pick up some Buddy’s barbecue?”
“You willing to bring some coleslaw and potato salad and baked beans to the table, too? Oh, and a bag of ice?”
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said, “but okay, deal.”
“What about some batter-dipped, deep-fried corn on the cob?”
“They have deep-fried corn on the cob at Buddy’s?”
“Tragically, no,” she said. “Only at Sullivan’s in Rocky Hill. Breaks my heart I can’t get it anywhere out this way. My consumption’s fallen way off since we moved to Farragut.”
“I’m not sure I believe in deep-fried corn on the cob,” I said.
“Sounds like gilding the lily to me.”
“You’ve never had it?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“If you’d had it, you’d definitely remember,” she said. “It’s practically a religious experience. Better than sex.”
“Remind me to have a talk with Jeff,” I said. “Sounds like he could use some pointers.”
“He does all right,” she said. “But deep-fried corn—that’s some pretty stiff competition.”
“No pun intended, I hope.”
She laughed. “No pun intended.”
“Seriously, you’ve got a desperate craving for fried corn?”
“I do,” she said. “But it wouldn’t be good by the time you got out here with it. It’s gotta be fresh from the grease, so the batter’s still crunchy.”
“Sounds like you’ve made a careful study of this,” I said.
“I have done years of research on Sullivan’s deep-fried corn,” she said. “I should have a Ph.D. in food science, I’ve done so much research. I’ve probably eaten my weight in deep-fried corn by now. That’s one reason I still run—to burn off the calories. Otherwise I’d weigh four hundred pounds by now.”
“Who knew?” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”
“It will change your life,” she said. “Take me with you when you go. I want to see the look on your face when you taste it for the first time.”
“You’ll be sitting right across the table when that hot grease scorches my lips,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
An hour later Jeff and Jenny’s kitchen was a debris field. The pine trestle table and the tiled floor beneath were strewn with sandwich wrappers, plastic forks, soggy Chinet plates, spilled drinks, melting ice, and stray bits of food: pulled pork, slaw, potato salad, and baked beans. The only thing missing was a pile of ragged corncobs. “Looks like somebody had a food fight in here,” I said.
“Doesn’t take long to demolish dinner after ball practice,” said Jeff.
“I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when they’re both teenagers,” said Jenny. “We’ll probably need to contract with a wholesale food distributor to keep them fed.”
After dinner the boys spun off to watch a Disney movie before baths and bedtime. As the sounds of singing squirrels and chipmunks wafted through from the living room, I described what Art and I had seen in the Georgia woods earlier in the day. Jeff and Jenny stared in astonishment.
“Did you call the cops yet?” Jeff asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m not sure which cops to call, or even what crime’s been committed—if any. I don’t think it’s murder. Maybe just first-degree sorriness.”