Clayton didn\'t want to believe it, but there was Gramps actually complimenting Thigh-bolt after church. Shaking his hand, acting like he was some sort of hero while Ben stared up at Thigh-bolt with big puppy-dog eyes. It was all he could do to make it through brunch without cracking open a beer, and since dropping Ben at his mother\'s, he\'d already gone through four. He was pretty sure he\'d finish off the twelve-pack before turning in. In the past two weeks, he\'d had a lot of beer. He knew he was overdoing it, but it was the only thing that kept him from dwelling on the latest run-in with Thigh-bolt. Behind him, the phone rang. Again. Fourth time in the last couple of hours, but he wasn\'t in the mood to answer it. Okay, he admitted it. He had underestimated the guy. Thigh-bolt had been one step ahead of him from the very beginning. He used to think Ben knew how to press his buttons; this guy dropped bombs. No, Clayton thought suddenly, he didn\'t drop bombs. He directed cruise missiles with pinpoint accuracy, all geared toward the destruction of Clayton\'s life. Even worse, Clayton hadn\'t seen it corning. Not once. It was beyond frustrating, especially since the situation seemed to be getting worse. Now, Thigh-bolt was telling him what to do. Ordering him around, like he was some flunkie on payroll, and for the life of him, Clayton couldn\'t figure a way out. He wanted to believe that Thigh-bolt had been bluffing about videotaping the break-in. He had to be bluffing—no one was that smart. He had to be. But what if he wasn\'t? Clayton went to the refrigerator and opened another beer, knowing he couldn\'t risk it. Who knew what the guy was planning next? He took a long pull, praying for the numbing effect to kick in soon. This should have been easier to handle. He was a deputy sheriff, and the guy was new in town. Clayton should have had the power all along, but instead he found himself sitting in a messy kitchen because he hadn\'t wanted to ask Ben to clean it for fear the kid would tell Thigh-bolt, which just might spell the end of Clayton\'s life as he knew it. What did the guy have against him? That\'s what Clayton wanted to know. Clayton wasn\'t the one causing problems, Thigh-bolt was the one making things difficult—and to rub salt in the wound, the guy was sleeping with Beth as well. He took another drink, wondering how his life could have turned to crap so quickly. Sunk in misery, he barely registered the sound of someone knocking at the front door. He pushed back from the table and stumbled through the living room. When he ............