The Lucky One(3)

The stranger wasn’t with the girls. Clayton was sure of it. The guy was too old to be a college student, for one thing; he had to be late twenties, at least. His long hair reminded Clayton of a rat’s nest, and on the stranger’s back, Clayton could see the outlines of a sleeping bag poking out from beneath a backpack. This was no day-tripper on the way to the beach; this guy had the appearance of someone who’d been hiking, maybe even camping out. No telling how long he’d been here or what he’d seen.

Like Clayton taking pictures?

No way. It wasn’t possible. He’d been hidden from the main road, the underbrush was thick, and he would have heard someone tramping through the woods. Right? Still, it was an odd place to be hiking. They were in the middle of nowhere out here, and the last thing he wanted was a bunch of hippie losers ruining this spot for the coeds.

By then, the stranger had passed him. He was nearly to the cruiser and heading toward the Jeep that the girls had driven. Clayton stepped onto the road and cleared his throat. The stranger and the dog turned at the sound.

From a distance, Clayton continued to evaluate them. The stranger seemed unfazed by Clayton’s sudden appearance, as did the dog, and there was something in the stranger’s gaze that unsettled him. Like he’d almost expected Clayton to show up. Same thing with the German shepherd. The dog’s expression was aloof and wary at the same time—intelligent, almost—which was the same way Panther often appeared before Moore set him loose. His stomach did a quick flip-flop. He had to force himself not to cover his privates.

For a long minute, they continued to stare at each other. Clayton had learned a long time ago that his uniform intimidated most people. Everyone, even innocent people, got nervous around the law, and he figured this guy was no exception. It was one of the reasons he loved being a deputy.

“You got a leash for your dog?” he said, making it sound more like a command than a question.

“In my backpack.”

Clayton could hear no accent at all. “Johnny Carson English,” as his mother used to describe it. “Put it on.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t move unless I tell him to.”

“Put it on anyway.”

The stranger lowered his backpack and fished around; Clayton craned his neck, hoping for a glimpse of anything that could be construed as drugs or weapons. A moment later, the leash was attached to the dog’s collar and the stranger faced him with an expression that seemed to say, Now what?

“What are you doing out here?” Clayton asked.

“Hiking.”

“That’s quite a pack you’ve got for a hike.”

The stranger said nothing.

“Or maybe you were sneaking around, trying to see the sights?”

“Is that what people do when they’re here?”

Clayton didn’t like his tone, or the implication. “I’d like to see some identification.”

The stranger bent over his backpack again and fished out his passport. He held an open palm to the dog, making the dog stay, then took a step toward Clayton and handed it over.

“No driver’s license?”

“I don’t have one.”

Clayton studied the name, his lips moving slightly. “Logan Thibault?”

The stranger nodded.

“Where you from?”

“Colorado.”

“Long trip.”

The stranger said nothing.

“You going anywhere in particular?”

“I’m on my way to Arden.”

“What’s in Arden?”

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t been there yet.”

Clayton frowned at the answer. Too slick. Too . . . challenging? Too something. Whatever. All at once, he knew he didn’t like this guy. “Wait here,” he said. “You don’t mind if I check this out, do you?”

“Help yourself.”

As Clayton headed back to the car, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Thibault reach into his backpack and pull out a small bowl before proceeding to empty a bottle of water into it. Like he didn’t have a care in the world.

We’ll find out, won’t we? In the cruiser, Clayton radioed in the name and spelling before being interrupted by the dispatcher.

“It’s Thibault, like T-bow, not Thigh-bolt. It’s French.”

“Why should I care how it’s pronounced?”

“I was just saying—”

“Whatever, Marge. Just check it out, will you?”

“Does he look French?”

“How the hell would I know what a Frenchman looks like?”

“I’m just curious. Don’t get so huffy about it. I’m a little busy here.”

Yeah, real busy, Clayton thought. Eating doughnuts, most likely. Marge scarfed down at least a dozen Krispy Kremes a day. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.

Through the window, he could see the stranger squatting beside the dog and whispering to it as it lapped up the water. He shook his head. Talking to animals. Freak. Like the dog could understand anything other than the most basic of commands. His ex-wife used to do that, too. That woman treated dogs like people, which should have warned him to stay away from her in the first place.

“I can’t find anything,” he heard Marge say. She sounded like she was chewing something. “No outstanding warrants that I can see.”