The Lucky One

by Nicholas Sparks

  Cars roared past in both directions. Clouds began to roll in, gray and puffy. He smelled rain before the first drop hit him, and within a few steps it was pouring. It lasted fifteen minutes, drenching him, but the heavy clouds kept moving toward the coast until only a haze remained. Zeus shook the water from his coat. Birdsong resumed from the trees while mist rose from the moist earth.

  Eventually, he reached the fairgrounds. It was deserted. Nothing fancy, he thought, examining the layout. Just the basics. Parking on a dirt-gravel lot on the left; a couple of ancient barns on the far right; a wide grassy field for carnival rides separating the two, all lined with a chain-link fence.

  He didn't need to jump the fence, nor did he need to look at the picture. He'd seen it a thousand times. He moved forward, orienting himself, and eventually he spotted the ticket booth. Behind it was an arched opening where a banner could be strung. When he arrived at the arch, he turned toward the northern horizon, framing the ticket booth and centering the arch in his vision, just as it had appeared in the photograph. This was the angle, he thought; this was where the picture had been taken.

  The structure of the marines was based on threes. Three men to a fire team, three fire teams to a squad, three squads to a platoon. He served three tours in Iraq. Checking his watch, he noted that he'd been in Hampton for three hours, and straight ahead, right where they should have been, were three evergreen trees clustered together.

  Thibault walked back to the highway, knowing he was closer to finding her. He wasn't there yet, but he soon would be.

  She'd been here. He knew that now.

  What he needed now was a name. On his walk across the country, he'd had a lot of time to think, and he'd decided there were three ways to go about it. First, he could try to find a local veterans association and ask if any locals had served in Iraq. That might lead him to someone who might recognize her. Second, he could go to the local high school and see if it had copies of yearbooks from ten to fifteen years ago. He could look through the photographs one by one. Or third, he could show the photograph and ask around.

  All had their drawbacks, none were guaranteed. As for the veterans association, he hadn't found one listed in the phone book. Strike one. Because it was still summer vacation, he doubted if the high school would be open; even if it was, it might be difficult to gain access to the library's yearbooks. Strike two--for now, anyway. Which meant that his best bet was to ask around and see if anyone recognized her.

  Who to ask, though?

  He knew from the almanac that nine thousand people lived in Hampton, North Carolina. Another thirteen thousand people lived in Hampton County. Way too many. The most efficient strategy was to limit his search to the likeliest pool of candidates. Again, he started with what he knew.

  She appeared to be in her early twenties when the photograph had been taken, which meant she was in her late twenties now. Possibly early thirties. She was obviously attractive. Further, in a town this size, assuming an equal distribution among age brackets, that meant there were roughly 2,750 kids from newborns up to ten years of age, 2,750 from eleven to twenty, and 5,500 people in their twenties and thirties, her age bracket. Roughly. Of those, he assumed half were males and half were females. Females would tend to be more suspicious about his intentions, especially if they actually knew her. He was a stranger. Strangers were dangerous. He doubted they would reveal much.

  Men might, depending on how he framed the question. In his experience, nearly all males noticed attractive females in their age bracket, especially if they were single men. How many men in her current age group were single? He guessed about thirty percent. Might be right, might be wrong, but he'd go with it. Say 900 or so. Of those, he figured eighty percent had been living here back then. Just a guess, but Hampton struck him as a town that people were more likely to emigrate from, as opposed to immigrate to. That brought the number down to 720. He could further cut that in half if he concentrated on single men aged twenty-five to thirty-five, instead of twenty to forty. That brought it down to 360. He figured a good chunk of those men either knew her or knew of her five years ago. Maybe they'd gone to high school with her or maybe not--he knew there was one in town--but they would know her if she was single. Of course, it was possible she wasn't single--women in small southern towns probably married young, after all--but he would work with this set of assumptions first. The words on the back of the photograph--"Keep Safe! E"--didn't strike him as romantic enough to have been given to a boyfriend or fiance. No "Love you," no "I'll miss you." Just an initial. A friend.

  Down from 22,000 to 360 in less than ten minutes. Not bad. And definitely good enough to get started. Assuming, of course, she lived here when the photograph had been taken. Assuming she hadn't been visiting.

  He knew it was another big assumption. But he had to start someplace, and he knew she'd been here once. He would learn the truth one way or the other and move on from there.

  Where did single men hang out? Single men who could be drawn into conversation? I met her a couple of years ago and she told me to call her if I got back into town, but I lost her name and number. . . .

  Bars. Pool halls.

  In a town this size, he doubted whether there were more than three or four places where locals hung out. Bars and pool halls had the advantage of alcohol, and it was Saturday night. They'd be filled. He figured he'd have his answer, one way or the other, within the next twelve hours.

  He glanced at Zeus. "Seems like you're going to be on your own tonight. I could bring you, but I'd have to leave you outside and I don't know how long I'll be."

  Zeus continued walking, his head down, tongue out. Tired and hot. Zeus didn't care.

  "I'll put the air conditioner on, okay?"

  5

  Clayton

  It was nine o'clock on Saturday night, and he was stuck at home babysitting. Great. Just great.

  How else could a day like today end, though? First, one of the girls almost catches him taking pictures, then the department's camera gets stolen, and then Logan Thigh-bolt flattens his tires. Worse, he'd had to explain both the loss of the camera and the tires to his dad, Mr. County Sheriff. Predictably, his dad was spitting mad and somehow didn't buy the story he'd concocted. Instead he just kept peppering him with questions. By the end, Clayton had wanted to pop the old man. Dad might be a bigwig to a lot of the folks around here, but the man had no business talking to him like he was an idiot. But Clayton had kept to his story--he'd thought he'd seen someone, gone to investigate, and somehow run over a couple of nails. And the camera? Don't ask him. He had no idea if it had even been in the cruiser in the first place. Not great, he knew, but good enough.

  "That looks more like a hole made by a buck-knife," said his dad, bending down, examining the tires.

  "I told you it was nails."

  "There's no construction out there."

  "I don't know how it happened, either! I'm just telling you what happened."

  "Where are they?"

  "How the hell should I know? I pitched them in the woods."

  The old man wasn't convinced, but Clayton knew enough to stick to his story. Always stick to the story. It was when you started backtracking that people got in trouble. Interrogation 101.

  Eventually the old man left, and Clayton put on the spares and drove to the garage, where they patched the original tires. By then a couple of hours had passed, and he was late for an appointment with one Mr. Logan Thigh-bolt. Nobody, but nobody, messed with Keith Clayton, especially not some hippie drifter who thought he could put one over on him.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon driving the streets of Arden, asking whether anyone had seen him. Dude like that was impossible to miss if only because of Cujo by his side. His search yielded zippo, which only infuriated him further, since he realized that it meant Thigh-bolt had lied to his face and Clayton hadn't picked up on it.

  But he'd find the guy. Without a doubt he'd find the guy, if only because of the camera. Or, more accurately, th
e pictures. Especially the other pictures. Last thing he wanted was for Thigh-bolt to stroll into the sheriff's department and drop that baby on the counter--or even worse, head straight to the newspaper. Of the two, the department would be the lesser of two evils, since his dad could keep a lid on it. While his dad would blow a gasket and most likely put him on some crap detail for the next few weeks, he'd keep it quiet. His dad wasn't good for much, but he was good for things like that.

  But the newspaper . . . now that was a different story. Sure, Gramps would pull some strings and do his best to keep it quiet there, too, but there was no way that sort of information could be kept in check. It was just too juicy, and the news would spread like wildfire through this town, with or without an article. Clayton was already regarded as the black sheep of the family, and the last thing he needed was another reason for Gramps to come down on him. Gramps had a way of dwelling on the negative. Even now, years later, Gramps was still bent that he and Beth had divorced, not that it was even his business. And at family gatherings, he could usually be counted on to bring up the fact that Clayton hadn't gone to college. With his grades, Clayton could easily have handled it, but he simply couldn't imagine spending another four years in the classroom, so he'd joined his father at the sheriff's department. That was enough to placate Gramps. It seemed like he'd spent half his life placating Gramps.

  But he had no choice in the matter. Even though he didn't particularly like Gramps--Gramps was a devout Southern Baptist who went to church every Sunday and thought that drinking and dancing were sins, which always struck Clayton as ridiculous--he knew what Gramps expected of him, and let's just say that taking nudie pictures of coeds was not on the "to do" list. Nor were some of the other photos on the disk, especially of him and a few other ladies in compromising positions. That sort of thing would definitely lead to serious disappointment, and Gramps wasn't very patient with those who disappointed him, even if they were family. Especially if they were family. Claytons had lived in Hampton County since 1753; in many ways, they were Hampton County. Family members included judges, lawyers, doctors, and landowners; even the mayor had married into the family, but everyone knew Gramps was the one who sat at the head of the table. Gramps ruled the place like an old-fashioned Mafia don, and most people in town sang his praises and went on and on about what a quality man he was. Gramps liked to believe it was because he supported everything from the library to the theater to the local elementary school, but Clayton knew the real reason was that Gramps owned pretty much every commercial building in the downtown area, as well as the lumberyard, both marinas, three automobile dealerships, three storage complexes, the only apartment complex in town, and vast tracts of farmland. All of it made for an immensely wealthy--and powerful--family, and since Clayton got most of his money from the family trusts, the last thing he needed was some stranger in town making trouble for him.

  Thank God he'd had Ben in the short time he'd been with Beth. Gramps had this weird thing about lineage, and since Ben had been named after Gramps--a pretty slick idea, if he did say so himself--Gramps adored him. Most of the time, Clayton had the sense that Gramps liked Ben, his great-grandson, a lot more than he liked his grandson.

  Oh, Clayton knew Ben was a good kid. It wasn't just Gramps--everyone said so. And he did love the kid, even if he was a pain in the ass sometimes. From his perch on the front porch, he looked through the window and saw that Ben had finished with the kitchen and was back on the couch. He knew he should join him inside, but he wasn't ready just yet. He didn't want to fly off the handle or say something he'd regret. He'd been working at being better about things like that; a couple of months back, Gramps had had a little talk with him about how important it was to be a steady influence. Peckerhead. What he should have done was talk to Ben about doing what his dad asked when he asked, Clayton thought. Would have done a lot more good. The kid had already pissed him off once tonight, but instead of exploding, he'd remembered Gramps and pressed his lips together before stalking outside.

  Seemed like he was always getting pissed off at Ben these days. But it wasn't his fault; he honestly tried to get along with the kid! And they'd started out okay. Talked about school, had some burgers, tuned in to SportsCenter on ESPN. All good. But then, horror of horrors, he'd asked Ben to clean the kitchen. Like that was too much to ask, right? Clayton hadn't had the chance to get to it for the last few days, and he knew the kid would do a good job. So Ben promised he'd clean it, but instead of doing it, he'd just sat there. And sat. And the clock ticked by. And then he'd sat some more. So Clayton had asked again--he was sure he'd said it nicely--and though he couldn't be certain, he was pretty sure that Ben had rolled his eyes as he'd finally trudged off. That was all it took. He hated when Ben rolled his eyes at him, and Ben knew he hated it. It was like the kid knew exactly which buttons to push, and he spent all his spare time trying to figure out new buttons to hit the next time he saw him. Hence, Clayton had found himself on the porch.

  Behaviors like that were his mom's doing; of that, Clayton had no doubt. She was one hell of a good-looking lady, but she didn't know the first thing about turning a young boy into a man. He had nothing against the kid getting good grades, but he couldn't play soccer this year because he wanted to play the violin? What kind of crap was that? Violin? Might as well start dressing the boy in pink and teaching him to ride sidesaddle. Clayton did his best to keep that sort of pansy stuff in check, but the fact was, he had the kid only a day and a half every other weekend. Not his fault the kid swung a bat like a girl. Kid was too busy playing chess. And just so everyone was clear, there was no way on God's green earth that he'd be caught dead at a violin recital.

  Violin recital. Good Lord. What was this world coming to?

  His thoughts circled back to Thigh-bolt again, and though he wanted to believe the guy had simply left the county, he knew better. The guy was walking, and there was no way he could reach the far side of the county by nightfall. And what else? Something had been gnawing at him most of the day, and it wasn't until he'd come to cool off on the porch that he'd figured it out. If Thigh-bolt had been telling the truth about living in Colorado--and granted, he might not have been, but let's say he was--it meant he'd been traveling from west to east. And the next town east? Not Arden. That's for sure. That was southwest from where they'd met. Instead, heading east would have brought the guy to good old Hampton. Right here, his hometown. Which meant, of course, the guy might be less than fifteen minutes from where he was sitting now.

  But where was Clayton? Out searching for the guy? No, he was babysitting.

  He squinted through the window again at his son. He was reading on the couch, which was the only thing the kid ever seemed to want to do. Oh yeah, except for the violin. He shook his head, wondering if the kid had gotten any of his genes at all. Not likely. He was a mama's boy through and through. Beth's son.

  Beth . . .

  Yeah, the marriage didn't work. But there was still something between them. There always would be. She may have been preachy and opinionated, but he'd always watch out for her, not only because of Ben, but because she was surely the best-looking woman he'd ever slept with. Great-looking back then and somehow even better-looking now. Even better-looking than the coeds he'd seen today. Weird. Like she had reached an age that suited her perfectly and somehow stopped aging after that. He knew it wouldn't last. Gravity would take its toll, but still, he couldn't stop thinking about having a quick roll in the sack with her. One for old times' sake, and to help him . . . unwind.

  He supposed he could call Angie. Or Kate, for that matter. One was twenty and worked in the pet store; the other was a year older and cleaned toilets at the Stratford Inn. They both had nice little figures and were always dynamite when it came time for a little bit of . . . unwinding. He knew Ben wouldn't care if he brought one of them over, but even so, he'd probably have to talk to them first. They'd been pretty angry at him the last time he'd seen either of them. He'd have to apologize and turn on the charm, an
d he wasn't sure he was up to listening to them smack their chewing gum and chatter away about what they'd seen on MTV or read in the National Enquirer. Sometimes they were too much work.

  So that was out. Searching for Thigh-bolt tonight was out. Looking for Thigh-bolt tomorrow was out, too, since Gramps wanted everyone over for brunch after church. Still, Thigh-bolt was walking, and with the dog and the backpack, it meant catching a ride was unlikely. How far could he get by tomorrow afternoon? Twenty miles? Thirty at the most? No more than that, which meant he was still in the vicinity. He'd make some calls to a couple of other departments in the surrounding counties, ask them to keep an eye out. There weren't that many roads leading out of the county, and he figured that if he spent a few hours making phone calls to some of the businesses along those routes, someone would spot the guy. When that happened, he'd be on his way. Thigh-bolt never should have messed with Keith Clayton.

  Lost in thought, Clayton barely heard the front door squeak open.

  "Hey, Dad?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Someone's on the phone."

  "Who is it?"

  "Tony."

  "Of course it is."

  He rose from his seat, wondering what Tony wanted. Talk about a loser. Scrawny and pimpled, he was one of those hangers-on who sat near the deputies, trying to worm his way into pretending he was one of them. He was probably wondering where Clayton was and what he was doing later because he didn't want to be left out. Lame.

  He finished his beer on the way in and tossed it in the can, listening to it rattle. He grabbed the receiver from the counter.

  "Yeah?"

  In the background, he could hear the distorted chords of a country-western song playing on a jukebox and the dull roar of loud conversation. He wondered where the loser was calling from.

  "Hey, I'm at Decker's Pool Hall, and there's this strange dude here that I think you should know about."

  His antenna went up. "Does he have a dog with him? Backpack? Kind of scruffy, like he's been out in the woods for a while?"

  "No."