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. Clay-ton 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."
"Whats 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 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 lease 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 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 s
"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 sheriffs 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.