He saw their young faces grow even more pale, knowing they were imagining this little transgression on their record. Fun to watch, but he reminded himself not to let it go too far.
“What’s your name?”
“Amy.” The brunette swallowed. “Amy White.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chapel Hill. But I’m from Charlotte originally.”
“I see some alcohol there. Are y’all twenty-one?”
For the first time, the others answered as well. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Amy. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take you at your word that you didn’t see the sign and that you’re of legal age to drink, so I’m not going to make a big deal out of this. I’ll pretend I wasn’t even here. As long as you promise not to tell my boss that I let you three off the hook.”
They weren’t sure whether to believe him.
“Really?”
“Really,” he said. “I was in college once, too.” He hadn’t been, but he knew it sounded good. “And you might want to put your clothes on. You never know—there might be people lurking around.” He flashed a smile. “Make sure you clean up all the cans, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I appreciate it.” He turned to leave.
“That’s it?”
Turning around, he flashed his smile again. “That’s it. Y’all take care now.”
Clayton pushed through the underbrush, ducking beneath the occasional branch on the way back to his cruiser, thinking he’d handled that well. Very well indeed. Amy had actually smiled at him, and as he’d turned away, he’d toyed with the idea of doubling back and asking her for her phone number. No, he decided, it was probably better to simply leave good enough alone. More than likely they’d go back and tell their friends that even though they’d been caught by the sheriff, nothing had happened to them. Word would get around that the deputies around here were cool. Still, as he wove through the woods, he hoped the pictures came out. They would make a nice addition to his little collection.
All in all, it had been an excellent day. He was about to go back for the camera when he heard whistling. He followed the sound toward the logging road and saw the stranger with a dog, walking slowly up the road, looking like some kind of hippie from the sixties.
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