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.”
“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