The clouds over Lake Michigan hovered low in the October sky. A black Suburban sped west on Route 2. The driver hadn’t seen a car since leaving St. Ignace and this late in the year no state troopers patrolled the two-laner traversing the Upper Peninsula. He cruised though Nabinway at 85, then stamped on his brakes upon spotting a white van parked at restaurant on the bluff. The SUV lumbered to the side of the road and the tall man behind the wheel reached over for his binoculars.

He focused them on the back of the van.

The plate matched those of the fugitive.

“Now I have you, you bastard.”

Only this morning the Assistant Field Director in Petrowsky had called off the hunt for their quarry.

“The fat man has slipped through our net, but someone that size will breach the surface sooner or later like Moby the Dick.”

The driver of the black car hadn’t imagined ‘later’ would arrive so soon and he dialed a number on his cell phone without success, then called 911 with the same result. The UP had horrible coverage.

SOP recommended back-up and the agent waited for the phone service to come back on line.

The diner’s neon sign blinked HOME COOKING every five seconds and thirty minutes went by without a single car or truck passing the Wonderland Diner.

The sun dropped beneath the pines. The thickening darkness was all the cover that the fat man needed to escape into the Upper Peninsula’s trackless woods. The agent once more pressed the number for the FBI.

Nothing.

He pulled out his 9mm.

“Fuck SOP.” The agent shifted the SUV out of park and drove right behind the van. He flicked off the safety of the service 9mm and exited from the Suburban. Blessing himself with the left hand he walked to the entrance with his weapon behind his back. The door opened with a creak.

Neither the cook nor the young man at the counter broke from their fixation on the food fest at table #5, where a fat man in overalls shoveled down the remains of grits and eggs.

“Where them pasties?”

The fat man pushed his stubby fingers through lank hair.

“They’re coming.”

The cook flipped the half-dozen meat-stuffed pasties onto a plate, then turned to the tall man at the door.

“You comin’ or goin’? Cuz either way you gotta shut that door.”

“Business so good you can insult customers.”

The newcomer shut the door.

“Sorry, mister, I don’t heat the great outdoors. Not this time of year.”

The tall man sat at the counter.

“What’s good?”

“Most everythin’.”

The fat man wiped his mouth with the back on his hand.

“Chicken pot pie was damn good. Pork Chops too. Ya should try each.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

The tall man eyed the young man at the counter. The dirt on his hands had not come from any honest labor and the leaves in his long hair indicated a night under a bridge. He was no one and the tall man whipped out his 9mm.

“Don’t shoot me.” The cook dropped the plate of pasties.

“He’s shooting anyone.” The fat man poked a fork into the flapjack stack.

“Not unless I have to.” The tall man produced a badge with his left hand. “I’m a duly authorized federal agent and that man is a fugitive from justice. You two stay out of the way and nobody will be hurt. Big man, keep your hands in front of you and stand away from the table very slowly.”

“I….” the hippie stammered and the agent snapped, ”This doesn’t concern you.”

“Stay out of it,” the fat man mumbled through his pancakes.

“Drop that fork.”

The agent approached the booth, remaing at a safe distance.

“Ya goin’ to shoot me for eatin’?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Damn, who ya’ll? The fat people police?” The big man rose with extraordinary grace for a man his size. His hands rose in the air. “Yer wanna arrest me, go ahead, Ah ain’t gonna fight.”

The fat man was wanted Dead or Alive and his lack of resistance surprised the agent, but he said, “You know through the drill; turn around, face the wall, and spread them wide.”

“Tell me, if Ah’m gonna be safe with ya’ll.”