The Lucky One(4)

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I do know how to do my job.”

As though he’d been listening in on the conversation, the stranger retrieved the bowl and slipped it back into his backpack, then slung his backpack over his shoulder.

“Have there been any other unusual calls? People loitering around, things like that?”

“No. It’s been quiet this morning. And where are you, by the way? Your dad’s been trying to find you.”

Clayton’s dad was the county sheriff.

“Tell him I’ll be back in a little while.”

“He seems mad.”

“Just tell him I’ve been on patrol, okay?”

So he’ll know I’ve been working, he didn’t bother to add.

“Will do.”

That’s better.

“I gotta go.”

He put the radio handset back in place and sat without moving, feeling the slightest trace of disappointment. It would have been fun to see how the guy handled lockup, what with that girly hair and all. The Landry brothers would have had a field day with him. They were regulars in lockup on Saturday nights: drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, fighting, almost always with each other. Except when they were in lockup. Then they’d pick on someone else.

He fiddled with the handle of his car door. And what was his dad mad about this time? Dude got on his nerves. Do this. Do that. You serve those papers yet? Why are you late? Where’ve you been? Half the time he wanted to tell the old guy to mind his own damn business. Old guy still thought he ran things around here.

No matter. He supposed he’d find out sooner or later. Now it was time to get the hippie loser out of here, before the girls came out. Place was supposed to be private, right? Hippie freaks could ruin the place.

Clayton got out of the car, closing the door behind him. The dog cocked its head to the side as Clayton approached. He handed the passport back. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Thibault.” This time, he mangled the pronunciation on purpose. “Just doing my job. Unless, of course, you’ve got some drugs or guns in your pack.”

“I don’t.”

“You care to let me see for myself?”

“Not really. Fourth Amendment and all.”

“I see your sleeping bag there. You been camping?”

“I was in Burke County last night.”

Clayton studied the guy, thinking about the answer.

“There aren’t any campgrounds around here.”

The guy said nothing.

It was Clayton who looked away. “You might want to keep that dog on the leash.”

“I didn’t think there was a leash law in this county.”

“There isn’t. It’s for your dog’s safety. Lot of cars out by the main road.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay, then.” Clayton turned away before pausing once more. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been out here?”

“I just walked up. Why?”

Something in the way he answered made Clayton wonder, and he hesitated before reminding himself again that there was no way the guy could know what he’d been up to. “No reason.”

“Can I go?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Clayton watched the stranger and his dog start up the logging road before veering onto a small trail that led into the woods. Once he vanished, Clayton went back to his original vantage point to search for the camera. He poked his arm into the bushes, kicked at the pine straw, and retraced his steps a couple of times to make sure he was in the right place. Eventually, he dropped to his knees, panic beginning to settle in. The camera belonged to the sheriff’s department. He’d only borrowed it for these special outings, and there’d be a lot of questions from his dad if it turned out to be lost. Worse, discovered with a card full of nudie pictures. His dad was a stickler for protocol and responsibility.

By then, a few minutes had passed. In the distance, he heard the throaty roar of an engine fire up. He assumed the coeds were leaving; only briefly did he consider what they might be thinking when they noticed his cruiser was still there. He had other issues on his mind.

The camera was gone.

Not lost. Gone. And the damn thing sure as hell didn’t walk off on its own. No way the girls had found it, either. Which meant Thigh-bolt had been playing him all along. Thigh-bolt. Playing. Him. Unbelievable. He knew the guy had been acting too slick, too I Know What You Did Last Summer.

No way was he getting away with that. No grimy, hippie, dog-talking freak was ever going to show up Keith Clayton. Not in this life, anyway.

He pushed through branches heading back to the road, figuring he’d catch up to Logan Thigh-bolt and have a little look-see. And that was just for starters. More than that would follow; that much was certain. Guy plays him? That just wasn’t done. Not in this town, anyway. He didn’t give a damn about the dog, either. Dog gets upset? Bye, bye, doggie. Simple as that. German shepherds were weapons—there wasn’t a court in the land where that wouldn’t stand up.

First things first, though. Find Thibault. Get the camera. Then figure out the next step.

It was only then, while approaching his cruiser, that he realized both his rear tires were flat.

“What did you say your name was?”