The Naturalist (The Naturalist Series Book 1)

by Andrew Mayne

  It’s him.

  It’s really him.

  I compose a text message to the police in Red Hook and cc Dr. Mead. I provide the Lanes’ address, a list of the cars, and their connection to Sarah and the murders.

  With this information, they can get the names of who was living there and get his name.

  I hit “Send” and feel a wave of relief that could also be the disembodied euphoria of passing out.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  ALIBI

  The Poitier County sheriff substation in Red Hook is a small building attached to the post office. The walls are filled with brochures and notices. Two desks sit in back of a small counter, and the rest of the station is behind a secure metal door where I assume they have a holding cell or a safe.

  Sergeant Graham, a female officer who wears a serious expression over an otherwise friendly face, is making notes as I tell her how I came to the Lane house and discovered the cars.

  I’ve had to change the story a little, or rather redact some of the details, because I was clearly trespassing.

  “When I knocked on the door, there was no answer. So I went around back to see if she was there.”

  “Did you have permission to do this?”

  “I’d spoken with her on the phone. She told me I could stop by.” This part is true, until she told me to go to hell.

  Graham writes this down in tiny, very concise script. “And that’s when you discovered the cars?”

  “I saw the woods and decided to take a closer look.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a biologist. You don’t see as many fir trees at this altitude around here.”

  She taps her pen on the edge of her chin. “Huh. I never thought about that.”

  I get the impression that she thinks deeply about a lot of things and make a mental note to try not to be too clever.

  “I think it has to do with the soil. This is all glacial flood plain. The top layer is good for farming, but more than a few feet it’s too rocky.”

  “And that’s when you saw the cars?”

  “Yes. Lots of them. It seemed odd. I wrote down the model numbers and makes and compared them to a list of cars belonging to missing persons in the 1980s.”

  “And you think this is connected to the bodies that have been turning up?”

  “Yes. They’ve all had similar claw marks. I was told that a foster child under care of the Lanes had suffered something similar, so I went to investigate.”

  She leans back in her chair and assesses me. “That’s quite a leap.”

  “One of the victims at Cougar Creek had a similar wound. It seemed worth looking into.”

  “On your own . . .”

  There’s something about the way that she says this that’s slightly condescending.

  “Let’s just say that the other authorities I’ve spoken to haven’t been very proactive.”

  “Probably true. Can’t say that I’m much better. I’ve got a stack of reports and incidents that keeps growing.”

  “I understand. But we’re talking about murder.”

  “And I take this very seriously.” She picks up her radio shoulder mic. “This is 163. Do we have anyone near Highway 30 and Harris Road? Over.”

  “Hey, Graham,” a man replies. “Finley is about ten minutes away from there.”

  “Could you connect me to him?”

  Seconds later an older voice announces himself. “Finley here. Over.”

  “Hey, Fin. This is Graham. I’ve got a witness here with an interesting lead. Could you go over to 848 Harris and check on some possible stolen cars in the back of the property? Just ask the owner if they’ll let you do a search. If not, we’ll ask the sheriff what to do next.”

  “Sure thing. That’s the Lane place, right?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “She doesn’t seem the type.”

  “Maybe one of her foster kids.”

  “Foster kids? I thought she lived alone.”

  “This is going way back.”

  “Roger.”

  She turns her attention back to me. “We’ll see what he finds. If the owner won’t let us search, then we’ll see about a warrant. I’ll need you to speak to the sheriff at that point.”

  “Whatever I can do.”

  “So you think one of the foster kids is the fella that was killing all those girls?”

  “I’d say there’s a definite connection there. The cars are what convinced me.” Since she seems at least into the theory and hasn’t locked me up or kicked me out, I decide to go a little further. “Can you pull up a list of names for the foster children who stayed there?”

  “I’d have to call family services.” She checks her watch. “But . . . it might not be a bad idea to be a little proactive.”

  She picks up her desk phone and dials. “Hey, Bonnie, this is Graham calling from the Poitier County sheriff’s office. I wanted to find out about getting the records for some foster parents going back to the late 1970s and early 1980s . . . uh-huh . . . Helena? . . . Can’t you do it electronically? No? . . . Well, if it’s not too much trouble, could you go ahead and have them pull them and set them aside? The department has a liaison there.”

  When she hangs up, she shrugs. “That’s half my day, asking for things that I should be able to find in a second. My friend is calling over to Helena to have them pull the records. If your story pans out, then we’ll be able to dig in a little farther.”

  I have no doubt that it will pan out. There’s no way the killer could remove that many cars overnight without leaving evidence.

  Her radio bursts to life with an urgent announcement from the dispatcher. “All available units to respond to a fire at 848 Harris Road!”

  Graham and I both look up in shock. Hers is more subdued than my own.

  Her radio crackles. “Graham, this is Fin. Is that witness with you right now?”

  “Right in front of me.”

  “What time did he say he left the Lane residence?”

  “Dr. Cray?” she asks.

  “Last night. I went to the hospital after. You can talk to them,” I reply.

  Graham relays this into her radio. “He says he was there last night. The department also got an e-mail from him last night as well.”

  “Okay. Well. Damn it. The woods are on fire. Looks like it may have started a little while ago. I think we need you out here.”

  Graham bolts upright. “Dr. Cray, I have to lock up the substation, but if you can stick around in this area, that would be helpful.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  Jesus. He set the whole woods on fire to keep them from getting to the cars. But how much will that really help?

  Dumbfounded, I follow Graham out the door and watch as she locks it.

  As she heads to her car, there’s another call on the radio I can hear clearly. “Dispatch, this is Finley. I’m at 848 Harris and have a 10-54.”

  Graham turns around and stares at me for a moment from the side of her police car, her hand hesitating on the door handle.

  I force myself to give her a nod. “I’ll be at Darcy’s Hotcakes & Coffee if you need me,” I say.

  “All right. Stay close,” she says, then climbs into her cruiser and drives off.

  I wait until she’s around the corner to fall to my heels and take a deep breath. I’m amazed I lasted this long. The last radio call sent me into a panic it took all I had to suppress.

  A 10-54 is police code for a possible dead body.

  The killer not only tried to make the cars difficult to investigate, he murdered Mrs. Lane, the woman who raised him and the one person who might be able to connect him to his past.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  FOUNDLING

  I walk to my Explorer expecting Graham to come tearing back down the street, siren blazing, ready to jump out of the cruiser with her gun drawn and tell me to go face-first into the pavement.

  It’s not until I’m on the highway, heading in the opposite dir
ection, that I feel a modicum of relief.

  I try to process what happened after I left Lane’s house. The killer must have been concerned that I would go to the authorities, so he attempted to cover up a long-forgotten connection.

  He probably assumed that the cars were safer back in the woods than trying to move them. And they probably were. Even if someone else had stumbled on them, abandoned cars aren’t exactly out of the norm around here. When I do searches on Google Maps, I spot old cars all the time, sitting in yards on blocks or just half-buried in the weeds with rotten tires.

  The cars at the Lane property would be no big thing—unless you knew whom they previously belonged to. That’s what spooked the killer.

  Torching the woods would only delay identifying them, even if he put some thermite on the engine blocks.

  His real motive was to kill Julie Lane. Doing that would not only silence her but attract attention to me and misdirect the authorities. The killer wasn’t just getting rid of a loose end, he might be trying to frame me.

  I’m the last person to see Lane. I’m also the one with a bizarre story involving the Cougar Creek Monster and the recent murders . . . and I left a trail of blood from the woods to the road.

  If the killer strangled her and dipped one of her kitchen knives in my blood to make it look like she was trying to defend herself, I’ll have a hell of a time proving my innocence.

  I take the exit leading to Helena instead of going back to Gus’s place. I have to get to those foster parent records and find out who I’m dealing with. Then I need to get a lawyer.

  I also need to warn Gus and Jillian. I call her first.

  “Hey! What’s up? How did the research go?” she says as soon as she picks up.

  My words come out in a rush. “Jillian, I think I found out who he is, or least where he’s from. I think he just killed his foster parent to cover his tracks.”

  “In Red Hook?”

  “Yes. I was there yesterday talking to her. I found the cars in the woods that belonged to the missing hikers. There were ten of them.”

  “Oh, my god!”

  “That’s not all. He knows about me. He knows my name. That means he might know about you and Gus.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you into this.”

  “You didn’t. Stop blaming yourself.”

  “He might come for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does he do anything?”

  “Where are you? Come here so we can talk about this.”

  “I have to do something first. I need to get his name.”

  “Then you’ll come straight here?”

  “Yes. But call Gus and warn him. Also, call Hudson Creek PD. Tell them whatever you have to. Hell, tell them you’re afraid of me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You need to do something.”

  I hope I’m overreacting. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Jillian.

  I spend the rest of the drive to Helena worrying about two things. What if he’s using the fire and the murder as a distraction to get away? He could be long gone by the time the authorities realize they should be pursuing him.

  The other concern is what if he’s not using this as a cover to run away? What if he’s staying put and killing anyone that could connect him?

  Sarah Eaves’s son was convinced his mom was murdered. What if that was the killer eliminating one more witness?

  When I get to the Child & Family Services office, my stomach is a knot of agitation. I don’t know which way is up. Making my anxiety worse, I have to go inside the building and lie.

  I pull in to a parking spot in front of the blocky building and spend a moment calming myself down. His name is inside there. All of this could be over very quickly. I just have to go in there and get the paperwork Graham requested.

  Yeah, that’s probably a felony. But that’s the least of my worries right now.

  I step out of my Explorer, make sure I’m wearing a clean shirt without any bloodstains, and enter the lobby.

  A security guard sitting at the front desk looks up from his phone. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to pick up some records for Poitier County.”

  I’m ready to try to bluff him with my National Parks research permit and university ID, in the hopes that those official-looking documents would give me some credibility.

  “Third floor. Room number four.”

  “Thank you.”

  Two minutes later I’m standing at the front desk. My leg is shaking so hard I have to press it against the counter to stop.

  “May I help you?” a woman asks as she takes a seat behind the desk.

  “Hello. I’m here to pick up some foster records requested by Poitier County?”

  “When did you put the request in?”

  “This morning.”

  “Sorry. That takes about ten days. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you.”

  Damn. Damn, damn.

  I’ll be in jail or dead by then.

  A voice calls out from an office. “Is that the Poitier County Sheriff’s Department?”

  “Yes,” the woman in front of me replies. “I told him that it’d take at least ten days.”

  “I have them on my desk,” says the person in the other room. “We had another call come in an hour ago, an urgent one. Apparently there’s a murder investigation.”

  A woman dressed in a sharp pantsuit steps out of her office holding a thick binder. “I just finished putting these together. Here you go.”

  I try to keep my hands from trembling as I take the binder from her. I casually flip it open. It’s filled with forms and photographs of children. There are at least thirty of them here.

  “Thank you.”

  I almost walk into the door as I scan through the faces, trying to find the one that belongs to the killer.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  COUNTERMEASURE

  “Are you going to get that?” asks the guard as I walk past the front desk.

  “Excuse me?” I look up from the binder.

  “Your phone.” He points to my pocket.

  I just now realize that it’s been ringing. “Oh, yeah.” I tuck the folder under my arm and take out my phone.

  It’s a long-distance number from some area code I don’t recognize. I’m tempted to not answer but decide to take the call as I sit on a bench outside the building.

  “Hello?” I say, only half paying attention. I’m trying to sort through the dozens of faces and find the ones that match up with when Sarah Eaves was at the Lane home.

  “Theo?” asks a deep, basso voice.

  “Yeah . . .” I flip toward the back when I realize that’s where the late ’70s and early ’80s are grouped. I stop on Sarah’s face. It’s a younger one than I’ve seen.

  “Do I have your attention? Because you certainly have mine.”

  The tone of the voice makes me look up from the folder. “Who is this?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  I feel a cold finger touch my heart. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Let’s get right to the point and what you’re going to do.”

  “About what?”

  “First, you’re going to destroy all your notes and anything you haven’t turned over to the police.”

  Fuck, no . . . it can’t be . . .

  “Wait a second . . .”

  “Theo, I’m not finished.” His voice is firm, like a K9 instructor telling a German shepherd to sit. “After you destroy your notes, you’re going to go to make a videotaped confession to the murder of Julie Lane.”

  “But I didn’t kill her . . .”

  “Of course you didn’t. I did. She was like a mother to me. And look what you made me do.”

  My breathing is shallow. “Why?”

  “Why do you think? If you hadn’t knocked on her door, she’d still be alive. You did that.”


  “No, you did . . . ,” I say feebly.

  “I may have been the instrument, but you were the cause. You know this. It’s just one more mess you’ve created that we have to clean up.”

  “All of those people . . .”

  “We’re all going to die. What difference does it make?”

  “How . . . could you?”

  “It’s what I am. Now let’s talk about what you are and what you’re going to do. After you destroy those notes and confess to killing Julie Lane, they’ll want to know about the other bodies. That’s why you’re going to say in your confession you manipulated them to hide the fact that you killed Juniper Parsons.”

  “That’s insane. That’s not even possible.”

  Everything feels like a dream. I have to stare out at the passing cars and smell the breeze to convince myself that this is really happening.

  “Trust me. They’ll believe you. They already suspect you. Use your brain to think of methods and explanations. You’re a clever man. Too clever.”

  “They won’t believe me.”

  “They will, some of it. It’s up to you to convince them of the rest. Trust me, they want a simple explanation. They always do.”

  For some reason I don’t protest. I just ask questions, as if this was inevitable.

  “And if they don’t?”

  “If you don’t convince them? What do you think, Theo?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know . . .”

  “I’m sending you a photo.”

  My phone chirps as a text message arrives. A black-and-white image pops up. I have to squint to see the details at first. When I recognize what I’m looking at, the world stops.

  It’s an image of Jillian, taken with a night-vision camera.

  She’s sleeping in her bed.

  “I was there last night, Theo. I stood over her for an hour, watching. I’m very quiet. But I don’t have to go to her house again. I could sit at a table in her restaurant and slip a knife into her ribs as she refills my coffee. I could grab her as she goes to her car at night. I could shoot her from a hundred yards away. I have a lot of ways. And your friend, the old man, how hard do you think that would be? I could kill them both in twenty minutes and then be on my way to Florida to visit your mother. Or I could go to Texas and start killing random students at your college.”