"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.