county, we might not even need a search warrant.”
Pettis cleared his throat. “Not to cause trouble, but does that mean you-all needed a warrant to search my property?”
Vickery laughed. “We’d be in trouble at this point if we did, huh? But nah, we’re like vampires—if you invite us in, you’re stuck with us. If you don’t invite us in, we have to stay out.”
“Well,” interjected the deputy, “unless there’s an active crime scene. For instance, if a human skull turns up, we can do at least an initial search even if you don’t want to cooperate.”
Pettis frowned. “But I called you. If I didn’t want to cooperate, why would I call you?” I smiled; the man had a point.
“And we sure do appreciate your cooperation,” Angie threw in quickly.
Pettis’s frown turned into a smile. “Well hell, I’m glad to help. Seems like the right thing to do. Couple kids dead; be good to figure out who they were and how they died. Besides, truth is, me and Jasper kinda like the excitement. It’s pretty quiet out here most of the time. Ain’t it, Jasper? Huh, Jasper? Jasper, what do you say?” The dog, hearing his name three times in quick succession—the pitch rising each time—capered and spun, and gave a yodeling version of a bark.
“Speaking of Jasper,” I said, “did you happen to see what direction he came from when he brought either skull home?”
“Nope. Wish I had. Like I told Miss Angie here, way it happened was, I was sleeping in the bed. It was right about daybreak.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “was that the first time, or this time?”
“It was both times. Jasper, he’s kind of a night owl. Likes to roam around while I’m asleep. So there I am, sleeping like a baby, and Jasper jumps up in the bed with me. He mostly just does that if there’s a thunderstorm, ’cause he’s scared of thunder. But sometimes he does it if he’s real pleased with himself. So anyhow, there I am, dreaming about something or other, and I feel Jasper curl up beside me, and he’s slurping and gnawing on something that keeps bumping me in the leg. First time it happened, I ’bout jumped out of my skin when I saw what it was. Second time, I just said, ‘dammit, dog’—’scuse my language, ma’am—‘you have got to quit doing this.’ ”
W here should we begin? What were we searching for, and how hard should we search? Did the two skulls come from the grounds of the school? If so, were they victims of the fire that destroyed the place in the 1960s? Or was there another, darker story?
Those and a hundred other questions spun through my mind as the black Suburban hummed northwest toward Bremerton County, taking Angie, Vickery, and me toward what had once been the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory.
U.S. 90 almost, but not quite, managed to dodge Bremerton County altogether. As it was, the highway cut through such a small corner of it that even as I passed a faded sign announcing B REMERTON C OUNTY , I glimpsed another, a hundred yards ahead, reading M ICCOSUKEE C OUNTY . Midway between the two signs, a two-lane county highway intersected 90, and Angie slowed the Suburban.
“Turn left,” Vickery instructed.
Angie made the turn. A mile down the empty road, she glanced at Vickery. “You’re sure that was it?”
“Pretty sure. Unless our Bremerton County agent is having some fun with us. I asked him how to get to the old reform school from Highway 90 in Apalachee County. He had no idea—he’s only been assigned here about six months—but he checked with the sheriff’s dispatcher, and she said to turn right there where we just turned.”
“Wait.” Angie took her foot off the gas. “We were supposed to turn right there?”
“No. Left there. Right there . Exactly there.”
I laughed. “Are you two secretly married?”
“Good God, no,” exclaimed Angie.
“Hey,” Vickery squawked, “you don’t have to sound so horrified. Some women have actually liked the idea of being
Pettis cleared his throat. “Not to cause trouble, but does that mean you-all needed a warrant to search my property?”
Vickery laughed. “We’d be in trouble at this point if we did, huh? But nah, we’re like vampires—if you invite us in, you’re stuck with us. If you don’t invite us in, we have to stay out.”
“Well,” interjected the deputy, “unless there’s an active crime scene. For instance, if a human skull turns up, we can do at least an initial search even if you don’t want to cooperate.”
Pettis frowned. “But I called you. If I didn’t want to cooperate, why would I call you?” I smiled; the man had a point.
“And we sure do appreciate your cooperation,” Angie threw in quickly.
Pettis’s frown turned into a smile. “Well hell, I’m glad to help. Seems like the right thing to do. Couple kids dead; be good to figure out who they were and how they died. Besides, truth is, me and Jasper kinda like the excitement. It’s pretty quiet out here most of the time. Ain’t it, Jasper? Huh, Jasper? Jasper, what do you say?” The dog, hearing his name three times in quick succession—the pitch rising each time—capered and spun, and gave a yodeling version of a bark.
“Speaking of Jasper,” I said, “did you happen to see what direction he came from when he brought either skull home?”
“Nope. Wish I had. Like I told Miss Angie here, way it happened was, I was sleeping in the bed. It was right about daybreak.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “was that the first time, or this time?”
“It was both times. Jasper, he’s kind of a night owl. Likes to roam around while I’m asleep. So there I am, sleeping like a baby, and Jasper jumps up in the bed with me. He mostly just does that if there’s a thunderstorm, ’cause he’s scared of thunder. But sometimes he does it if he’s real pleased with himself. So anyhow, there I am, dreaming about something or other, and I feel Jasper curl up beside me, and he’s slurping and gnawing on something that keeps bumping me in the leg. First time it happened, I ’bout jumped out of my skin when I saw what it was. Second time, I just said, ‘dammit, dog’—’scuse my language, ma’am—‘you have got to quit doing this.’ ”
W here should we begin? What were we searching for, and how hard should we search? Did the two skulls come from the grounds of the school? If so, were they victims of the fire that destroyed the place in the 1960s? Or was there another, darker story?
Those and a hundred other questions spun through my mind as the black Suburban hummed northwest toward Bremerton County, taking Angie, Vickery, and me toward what had once been the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory.
U.S. 90 almost, but not quite, managed to dodge Bremerton County altogether. As it was, the highway cut through such a small corner of it that even as I passed a faded sign announcing B REMERTON C OUNTY , I glimpsed another, a hundred yards ahead, reading M ICCOSUKEE C OUNTY . Midway between the two signs, a two-lane county highway intersected 90, and Angie slowed the Suburban.
“Turn left,” Vickery instructed.
Angie made the turn. A mile down the empty road, she glanced at Vickery. “You’re sure that was it?”
“Pretty sure. Unless our Bremerton County agent is having some fun with us. I asked him how to get to the old reform school from Highway 90 in Apalachee County. He had no idea—he’s only been assigned here about six months—but he checked with the sheriff’s dispatcher, and she said to turn right there where we just turned.”
“Wait.” Angie took her foot off the gas. “We were supposed to turn right there?”
“No. Left there. Right there . Exactly there.”
I laughed. “Are you two secretly married?”
“Good God, no,” exclaimed Angie.
“Hey,” Vickery squawked, “you don’t have to sound so horrified. Some women have actually liked the idea of being
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