Clayton
Of all the places in all the world, he had to find the guy at Beth’s place. What were the odds on that? Pretty damn small, that’s for sure.
He hated that guy. No, scratch that. He wanted to destroy the guy. Not only because of the whole stealing-the-camera-and-flattening-his-tires thing, though that was definitely worthy of a little time locked in the jail alongside a couple of violent methamphetamine addicts. And it wasn’t because Thigh-bolt had him over a barrel with the camera disk. It was because the guy, the same guy who’d played him once, had made him look like a quivering jellyfish in front of Beth.
If I were you, I’d let go of her arm had been bad enough. But after that? Oh, that’s where the guy went seriously wrong. Right now. . . . I think you’d better go. . . . All spoken in that serious, steady, don’t-piss-me-off tone of voice that Clayton himself used on criminals. And he’d actually done it, slinking away like some stray dog with his tail between his legs, which made the whole thing worse.
Normally, he wouldn’t have put up with that for a second, even with Beth and Ben around. No one gave him orders and got away with it, and he would have made it perfectly clear that the guy had just made the biggest mistake of his life. But he couldn’t! That was the thing. He couldn’t. Not with Cujo around, eyeballing his crotch like it was an appetizer at the Sunday buffet. In the dark, the thing actually looked like a rabid wolf, and all he could do was remember the stories Kenny Moore told him about Panther.
What the hell was he doing with Beth, anyway? How did that come about? It was like some sort of evil cosmic plan to ruin what had been for the most part a pretty crappy day—starting with mopey, moody Ben showing up at noon and complaining straight off about having to take out the garbage.
He was a patient guy, but he was tired of the kid’s attitude. Real tired of it, which was why he hadn’t let Ben stop at just the garbage. He’d had the kid clean the kitchen and the bathrooms, too, thinking it would show him how the real world worked, where having a halfway decent attitude actually mattered. Power of positive thinking and all that. And besides, everyone knew that while mamas did the spoiling, dads were supposed to teach kids that nothing in life was free, right? And the kid did real well with the cleaning, like he always did, so for Clayton the whole thing was over and done with. It was time for a break, so he took Ben outside to play catch. What kid wouldn’t want to play catch with his dad on a beautiful Saturday afternoon?
Ben. That’s who.
I’m tired. It’s really hot, Dad. Do we have to? One stupid complaint after the other until they finally get outside, and then the kid shuts up tighter than a clam and won’t say a thing. Worse, no matter how many times Clayton told him to watch the damn ball, the kid kept missing it because he wasn’t even trying. Doing it on purpose, no doubt. But would he run to the ball after he missed it? Of course not. Not his kid. His kid is too busy sulking about the unfairness of it all while playing catch like a blind man.
In the end, it pissed him off. He was trying to have a good time with his son, but his son was working against him, and yeah, okay, maybe he did throw the ball a little hard that last time. But what happened next wasn’t his fault. If the kid had been paying attention, the ball wouldn’t have ricocheted off his glove and Ben wouldn’t have ended up screaming like a baby, like he was dying or something. Like he was the only kid in the history of the world to get a shiner playing ball.
But all that was beside the point. The kid got hurt. It wasn’t serious, and the bruises would be gone in a couple of weeks. In a year, Ben would either forget it completely or brag to his friends about the time he got a shiner playing ball.
Beth, on the other hand, would never forget. She’d carry that grudge around inside her for a long, long time, even if it had been more Ben’s fault than his. She didn’t understand the simple fact that all boys remembered their sports injuries with pride.
He’d known Beth would overreact tonight, but he didn’t necessarily blame her for it. That’s what mothers did, and Clayton had been prepared for that. He thought he’d handled the whole thing pretty well, right up until the end, when he’d seen the guy with the dog sitting on the porch like he owned the place.
Logan Thigh-bolt.
He remembered the name right off, of course. He’d searched for the guy for a few days without luck and had pretty much put it behind him when he figured the guy had left town. No way some dude and his dog couldn’t be noticed, right? Which was why he’d eventually stopped asking folks whether they’d seen him.
Stupid.
But what to do now? What was he going to do about this . . . new turn of events?
He’d deal with Logan Thigh-bolt, that much was certain, and he wasn’t about to be caught off guard again. Which meant that before he did anything, he needed information. Where the guy lived, where the guy worked, where he liked to hang out. Where he could find the guy alone.
Harder than it sounded, especially with the dog. He had the funny feeling Thigh-bolt and the dog were seldom, if ever, separated. But he’d figure out what to do about that, too.
Obviously, he needed to know what was going on with Beth and Thigh-bolt. He hadn’t heard about her seeing anyone since Adam the dork. It was hard to believe that Beth could be seeing Thigh-bolt, considering the fact that he always heard what Beth was up to. Frankly, he couldn’t imagine what she’d see in someone like Thigh-bolt in the first place. She’d gone to college; the last thing she wanted in her life was some drifter who rolled into town. The guy didn’t even have a car.
But Thigh-bolt had been with her on a Saturday night, and that obviously counted for something. Somewhere, something didn’t make sense. He pondered it, wondering if the guy worked there. . . . Either way, he’d figure it out, and when he did, he’d deal with it, and Mr. Logan Thigh-bolt would find himself hating the day he’d ever showed up in Clayton’s town.