This boy from Bixby was working out better than Carl could’ve hoped. Carl said, “But this place doesn’t offer chicken-fried steak, does it?” and kept talking. He told Kevin he’d check into the hotel and sleep for a couple of hours. “Call Honey and tell her we’re having lunch at her store and would like to have her join us. She won’t have to put on a coat.”

“What if she can’t make it?”

Carl said, “Why not?”

“I mean what if she’s busy?”

“Doing what? Tell Honey we’re expecting her there.”

“What time?”

“Say one-fifteen. Have her tell you where we’re gonna meet.”

Kevin ducked into an empty office to use the phone.

The News photographer was taking pictures of the display case that showed some of the FBI’s most wanted fugitives. He stepped aside with his big Speed Graphic as Carl approached the display. Carl nodded to the photographer, an older guy in his fifties.

“You finished here?”

“I got time. Go on and look if you want.” Every one of the mug shots was familiar to Carl; he knew all the names from the photos. Jurgen and Otto were here, escaped prisoner of war heading each of their wanted dodgers. A flash of light hit the glass covering the display and Carl turned to the photographer lowering his four-by-five.

“I see my picture in the paper,” Carl said, “you’re in trouble.”

“I got you from behind,” the photographer said, “someone looking at the bad guys. There’s no way you could be identified.”

Carl said, “You through here?”

The photographer said, “I guess so,” and walked out toward the elevators.

Kevin came in a few minutes later.

“These are the same shots,” Carl said, “on file at the camp. I told Jurgen one time he looked awful, like he was waiting for the end of the world. He said becoming a prisoner of war was dreadful at first. That was the word he used, dreadful.