The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(11)

It would be easy to call me unemotional. And perhaps I am, if you use a literal definition of the word.

When my father died, I went from an outgoing if not extroverted boy to very withdrawn. My mother sent me to several psychologists. She was worried that I wasn’t dealing with my grief appropriately.

Sitting in their offices, I could really only articulate my feelings in yes-or-no fashion. When given a written quiz by one therapist, Dr. Blakely, that asked me specific questions about how I felt, what was going on in my head became apparent—at least to Blakely and myself.

Blakely sat my mother in a chair beside me and told her bluntly that I was managing this as well as could be expected. I wasn’t a sociopath or unfeeling. I just didn’t express how I felt or even recognize it the same way other people did, or in the same time frame.

The trouble is we expect the emote part of emotion. Humans are social primates, and our experiences have to be externalized to be acknowledged by others.

Mother never saw me cry. I used to think that’s what bothered her and why she sent me to the different therapists. When I was a little older and had the benefit of perspective—plus some insight from her second husband, Davis—I finally realized why she kept trying to get a second opinion.

She never cried.

Mother couldn’t admit her own guilt at not expressing the emotions people are supposed to when a loved one dies.

I have no doubt she felt the loss of my dad deeply. I know she loved him dearly. Everyone did. He was a selfless human who died trying to help other people.

I never judged my mother’s sense of loss by how she acted. It was as plain as an equation. When Dad died, the echoes of boisterous laughter and the light he seemed to radiate throughout our home were gone. A stranger to our house could sense that something was missing.

In retrospect, it reminds me of the stories my stepfather told about taking the train from West to East Germany when he was stationed in Berlin. Davis said it was like going from a color to a black-and-white movie.

When Dad was alive, the world was filled with color. Afterward, color only existed as a number on a list of hues. Everything felt muted.

My reaction to Juniper’s death was a slow burn. Glenn may now believe I didn’t kill her, but as I lie in my bed staring at the ceiling, I wonder if he thinks I’m the type of man who could.

What was I supposed to say when he mentioned her name? How was my face supposed to move? I don’t know. I’m sure the right response wasn’t to do nothing and stare blankly like a Greek statue.

At the end of the interview, Glenn gave me a second chance to react like a normal, feeling human being when he said they’d catch the bear. My response was that of a scientist, not a red-blooded man who should be driven to revenge for this injustice.

To be clear: I hate that fucking bear.

It may have been doing what comes naturally, but so does Ebola or cholera. I’d wipe them from the face of the planet if I could.

Bears are fascinating animals that share more similarities with us than we realize. They’ve adapted to almost as many environments as we have. They’re an extremely successful and intelligent mammal.

They deserve our protection.

But not this one. Too stupid to know that harmless young woman was no threat, it has to die.

Right now I wish I were out with the hunters trying to track it down.

That’s what I was supposed to tell Glenn. The right response was anger and the desire to do something.

He probably thinks I’m something worse than unemotional.

A coward.

The real men, men who never met Juniper or were in positions of authority over her, are out there in the woods seeking her killer.

I’m in a climate-controlled room, behind a mostly locked door, sulking over my inability to let people know how angry I am.

No judgment Glenn could pass on me would be harsh enough.

I’m pathetic.

Unable to express my frustration, I’m even worse than pathetic: I’m impotent.

I lie motionless until my phone rings.

It’s Detective Glenn.

“We got him,” he says enthusiastically.

“Where? I want to see it.”





CHAPTER TEN


THE BEAST

I pull my Explorer into the Highway Department lot at the edge of the forest where they keep road-clearing equipment in a shed. A crowd of men surrounds something under the solitary streetlight.

At least twenty people are standing in a circle. Trucks with gun racks partially block my view of them and what they’re gathered around. Most of the vehicles are local and state government.

I park and get out. The distance from me to the thing under the light seems like a football field. I’m conscious of every step yet feel like I’m not getting any closer.

The camera flashes from the circle’s center light up the tall pines like silent lightning. The scent of hot coffee fills the cold air along with the sound of laughter.

Take away the trucks, the iPhones, the box of doughnuts, and the rifles, and this could be a scene from the Lascaux Caves, where twenty thousand years ago men would gather to celebrate their victories on the hunt.

I’m the interloper, while they’re the heroes that go after the monsters that kill the fair maidens. I’m the bystander here to see the face of the monster but have no right to participate in the backslapping and congratulating.