“I saw a restaurant in town. And you might change your mind about being hungry.” Luke’s lips barely twitched, although smile lines radiated from the edges of his sunglasses. “They’ve got barbecued armadillo on the menu.”

Luke thought he was hungry—he hadn’t eaten all day—but found, when his sandwich arrived, that he didn’t have an appetite, after all. He took a bite, ate a couple of the chips from the side of the plate, and sniffed at the pickle. It all looked and smelled delicious, but he was just too jittery to eat.

“Not happening,” he said, pushing the plate aside.

“The root beer is hitting the spot,” Kitty said, stirring the ice cubes with her straw. “Cold and sweet. Exactly what I needed.”

The restaurant was called June’s or maybe Jane’s. The sun had faded the lettering in the window, but a sign on the sidewalk advertised aircon and best food in town and cold drinks. The décor was functional, with plastic seats and tables, and a desert mural covering one wall. It was no more than Luke expected, with one exception: a soda fountain in back that looked as if it had been extracted from a 1950s drugstore. There were chrome stools, gooseneck soda taps, and posters of long-dead movie icons staring down from the walls. A countertop jukebox played oldies for a quarter a pop.

A few customers dined in the restaurant proper, but Luke and Kitty had the soda fountain to themselves. They could talk without having to whisper, and Luke had free rein on the jukebox. He changed a five into quarters and played the Shirelles and Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers and the Coasters . . . one after the other. He’d just selected Elvis’s rendition of “Blue Moon” when Kitty said:

“We may not have to go back to Stray Bullets. If Mr. Bat-Face lives in town, someone around here will know him.”

“I had the same thought,” Luke said. He picked up one of his chips, considered eating it, then dropped it back onto the plate. “I want to play it cool, though. If we start asking around like a couple of cops, then word might reach him before we do. I don’t want to tip him off.”

“Makes sense,” Kitty said, and tapped one finger against her temple. “You’ve given this some thought.”

“Not really,” Luke admitted. “Other than wanting to keep it low-key, I’ve tried not to think about it too much. I’m going to go with my gut, hope for the best.”

“How do you think you’ll react when you see him?”

“If I see him. I may just get a name and address and hand it over to the cops.”

“Really?” Kitty closed her lips around her straw. Her cheeks dimpled as she drank. “You’re telling me you’re not going to knock on his door?”