The Depth of Darkness (Mitch Tanner #1) by L.T. Ryan Page B

paused and exhaled into the phone. “All
right.” I ended the call and looked toward 95.
    “Well?” Sam asked.
    “Wasted our time.”
    “Nah, we got to bond. Never a waste of time.”
I didn’t have to look to know he had that boyish grin spread across
his face.
    “Think we should try to track the kid down on
our own?”
    “The security footage will tell us all we
need to know once we get our hands on it. No need to waste any more
time up here.”
    “Wanna get a drink?”
    Sam looked at his watch. “A little early for
that.”
    I shrugged. “Maybe you got a point. It’s five
o’clock somewhere, though.”
    Sam rolled his eyes. “Get in the car and cut
the cliches.”
    And so I did. We got back on the interstate,
heading south. I spotted a sign for a Cracker Barrel and told Sam
to take the exit.
    “Place is always packed,” he argued.
    “That’s ‘cause it’s good,” I countered.
    “Look, there’s a Waffle House, two more
exits. We can get in and out and be back in town in time for
lunch.” Good ‘ole Sam, planning with his stomach.
    “I want pancakes.”
    “You can get them at Waffle House.”
    “No you can’t. It’s not called Pancake House.
It’s the Waffle House for a reason.”
    “I bet you twenty bucks you can get pancakes
there.”
    “Twenty bucks?” I said.
    He nodded.
    “Show me,” I said.
    He stopped at the light at the end of the
exit and unfolded an Andrew Jackson in front of me.
    “Shoot, keep on going,” I said. “We’re going
to Waffle House. You might as well hand that over to me right
now.”
    It turned out that Sam knew there were no
pancakes served at the establishment. He was willing to part with
twenty bucks if it meant not waiting a half-hour or more in those
stiff wooden rocking chairs that line the porch of every Cracker
Barrel in the U.S. of A.
    We slid into a booth just past the counter. A
good seat, I noted. Not held together with duct tape like some
diners I’d been at in the past. I ate my waffles, not leaving a
single piece behind. Not pancakes, but they were good. A side order
of sausage rounded out my meal. The coffee was better than I had
expected. Good enough that I’d consider coming back. I had two
cups, black. After I finished I licked the grease off of my
fingertips and leaned back in the booth, stretching both arms out
along the vinyl top. It didn’t take long for my stomach to feel
like it contained a thirty-five pound kettlebell.
    “Aren’t you glad we came here?” Sam asked,
tearing a corner from his over-buttered toast and stuffing it into
his mouth.
    I nodded. At the same time, the waitress came
by and asked if I wanted anymore coffee. I declined, as did
Sam.
    “Just the check,” he said to her. Then he
turned his head toward me. “You’ve had some time to think and eat
and drink that coffee.”
    “I have.”
    “What do you think?”
    “I think Waffle House makes good waffles and
great coffee.”
    Sam smiled. “You’re easy to please, but
that’s not what I meant.”
    “I know, man, I know.”
    Sam mirrored my posture and waited for me to
give him an answer. I knew he wouldn’t agree to leave until I did.
We’d been through this a time or fifty before.
    “This guy’s a bit odd,” I started.
    “That psychology degree tell you that?”
    “It’s a minor, which means I took about four
classes. And yeah, it does. So does my common sense. And don’t you
go ragging on me for getting some kind of education.”
    “Hey, I got my education out there in the
‘Stan.”
    I nodded. While not college, spending a year
or two in Afghanistan should qualify any soldier for a degree. At
least an Associate’s in ass-kicking and bullshit-bureaucracy.
    “So give me a diagnosis,” Sam said.
    “On you? We don’t have enough time for that
you philandering fool.”
    Sam smiled as he used his last piece of toast
to soak up the remaining egg yolk on his plate. “On Roy.”
    “I’d have to go look at those old textbooks.”
Which wasn’t