The Lucky One(19)

“That looks more like a hole made by a buck-knife,” said his dad, bending down, examining the tires.

“I told you it was nails.”

“There’s no construction out there.”

“I don’t know how it happened, either! I’m just telling you what happened.”

“Where are they?”

“How the hell should I know? I pitched them in the woods.”

The old man wasn’t convinced, but Clayton knew enough to stick to his story. Always stick to the story. It was when you started backtracking that people got in trouble. Interrogation 101.

Eventually the old man left, and Clayton put on the spares and drove to the garage, where they patched the original tires. By then a couple of hours had passed, and he was late for an appointment with one Mr. Logan Thigh-bolt. Nobody, but nobody, messed with Keith Clayton, especially not some hippie drifter who thought he could put one over on him.

He spent the rest of the afternoon driving the streets of Arden, asking whether anyone had seen him. Dude like that was impossible to miss if only because of Cujo by his side. His search yielded zippo, which only infuriated him further, since he realized that it meant Thigh-bolt had lied to his face and Clayton hadn’t picked up on it.

But he’d find the guy. Without a doubt he’d find the guy, if only because of the camera. Or, more accurately, the pictures. Especially the other pictures. Last thing he wanted was for Thigh-bolt to stroll into the sheriff’s department and drop that baby on the counter—or even worse, head straight to the newspaper. Of the two, the department would be the lesser of two evils, since his dad could keep a lid on it. While his dad would blow a gasket and most likely put him on some crap detail for the next few weeks, he’d keep it quiet. His dad wasn’t good for much, but he was good for things like that.

But the newspaper . . . now that was a different story. Sure, Gramps would pull some strings and do his best to keep it quiet there, too, but there was no way that sort of information could be kept in check. It was just too juicy, and the news would spread like wildfire through this town, with or without an article. Clayton was already regarded as the black sheep of the family, and the last thing he needed was another reason for Gramps to come down on him. Gramps had a way of dwelling on the negative. Even now, years later, Gramps was still bent that he and Beth had divorced, not that it was even his business. And at family gatherings, he could usually be counted on to bring up the fact that Clayton hadn’t gone to college. With his grades, Clayton could easily have handled it, but he simply couldn’t imagine spending another four years in the classroom, so he’d joined his father at the sheriff’s department. That was enough to placate Gramps. It seemed like he’d spent half his life placating Gramps.

But he had no choice in the matter. Even though he didn’t particularly like Gramps—Gramps was a devout Southern Baptist who went to church every Sunday and thought that drinking and dancing were sins, which always struck Clayton as ridiculous—he knew what Gramps expected of him, and let’s just say that taking nudie pictures of coeds was not on the “to do” list. Nor were some of the other photos on the disk, especially of him and a few other ladies in compromising positions. That sort of thing would definitely lead to serious disappointment, and Gramps wasn’t very patient with those who disappointed him, even if they were family. Especially if they were family. Claytons had lived in Hampton County since 1753; in many ways, they were Hampton County. Family members included judges, lawyers, doctors, and landowners; even the mayor had married into the family, but everyone knew Gramps was the one who sat at the head of the table. Gramps ruled the place like an old-fashioned Mafia don, and most people in town sang his praises and went on and on about what a quality man he was. Gramps liked to believe it was because he supported everything from the library to the theater to the local elementary school, but Clayton knew the real reason was that Gramps owned pretty much every commercial building in the downtown area, as well as the lumberyard, both marinas, three automobile dealerships, three storage complexes, the only apartment complex in town, and vast tracts of farmland. All of it made for an immensely wealthy—and powerful—family, and since Clayton got most of his money from the family trusts, the last thing he needed was some stranger in town making trouble for him.

Thank God he’d had Ben in the short time he’d been with Beth. Gramps had this weird thing about lineage, and since Ben had been named after Gramps—a pretty slick idea, if he did say so himself—Gramps adored him. Most of the time, Clayton had the sense that Gramps liked Ben, his great-grandson, a lot more than he liked his grandson.

Oh, Clayton knew Ben was a good kid. It wasn’t just Gramps—everyone said so. And he did love the kid, even if he was a pain in the ass sometimes. From his perch on the front porch, he looked through the window and saw that Ben had finished with the kitchen and was back on the couch. He knew he should join him inside, but he wasn’t ready just yet. He didn’t want to fly off the handle or say something he’d regret. He’d been working at being better about things like that; a couple of months back, Gramps had had a little talk with him about how important it was to be a steady influence. Peckerhead. What he should have done was talk to Ben about doing what his dad asked when he asked, Clayton thought. Would have done a lot more good. The kid had already pissed him off once tonight, but instead of exploding, he’d remembered Gramps and pressed his lips together before stalking outside.