The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(12)

“Dr. Cray!” Detective Glenn shouts to me. He breaks away from a man in a Forest Service uniform to step over to me.

I half expect him to ask me what I’m doing here, even though he invited me.

He shakes my hand. There’s a grin on his face. He only knew Juniper as a corpse. For him, her story began when she was found dead in the woods and has ended happily with the vanquishing of the monster.

The same for the other men.

The main character in their drama is the bear. Each man a protagonist, the animal the antagonist. Poor Juniper is merely an inciting incident. She’s nothing but a name and a cause to them.

I’m not angry with them for this. At least they did something while I gazed at my navel.

Glenn introduces me to a man with a peppered beard and a Fish and Wildlife jacket. He’s wearing shorts with a pistol strapped to his waist. “This is Kevin Richards. He tracked the animal and killed him.”

I shake his hand.

“I’m sorry about your loss.” Richards gives me a solemn look. I sense he’s the kind of hunter that doesn’t relish in the death of any creature.

I can’t think of anything to say. I just nod, too embarrassed to admit the biggest loss I’m feeling is my sense of pride.

I catch a glimpse of brown fur between a break in the crowd.

Richards clasps my shoulder. “Let me show you.”

His gesture is supposed to be comforting. It’s emasculating. I have to resist the urge to shake it off.

He’s the triumphant knight showing the scared villager the dead dragon. As if to say, “Don’t be afraid. I have it covered, little man.”

The crowd notices Richards and Glenn approaching and splits apart so we can see the thing.

A large blue tarp is splayed across the gravel. In the middle sits a mountain of fur, splattered with leaves and twigs.

I can see the dark red of blood on the body, but they don’t appear to be the bullet wounds.

In fact, there’s only one visible wound on the animal: an entry mark on its right temple, just behind the eye. It was a master shot and a quick death.

The bear’s eyes are still open. Its jaws wide in a snarl with sharp fangs visible. The creature’s claws jut out from its paws like steak knives.

This is the monster that killed Juniper.

This is the nightmare that took her life.

It’s big, even for a grizzly.

I should feel hatred looking at it.

Some instinct should make me want to grab a hatchet and start hacking the beast into pieces, demonstrating my rage. I can’t even muster the anger to spit or shake my head.

I look at it and all I see is a bear.

Just a bear.

The snarl on its face was probably just a spasm after getting shot. When Richards pulled the trigger, the animal more than likely had its head down as it tried to smell if there was something to eat under a log.

It was killed in a moment of peace, not in the middle of an epic battle. It died quietly and unaware, as it should have.

As Juniper should have, in old age.

I pity the bear. His path and Juniper’s never should have crossed. Had she been ten meters downwind, the bear would be nestled into his sleeping place right now and Juniper would be grabbing a slice of pizza and glass of wine at the parlor in the next town. Both would be happy and content.

Instead, we have a dead girl in the morgue and a dead bear spread out on the ground, the target of derision and hate.

I glance over at Richards and offer my weak praise. “Good job.”

He gives me a knowing nod, not really knowing what I’m thinking, and walks away with Glenn.

I stand over the bear and stare at the creature without really looking at it.

“Excuse me,” someone says from behind.

I turn around and see a young woman in a deputy uniform. She’s holding a thick envelope. “Are you the biologist?”

“Yes.”

“I was told to bring these here.” She hands me the envelope. “My husband has to leave for work, so I have to head back.” She looks down at the bear. “Holy shit. What a monster,” she says, then rushes back to her car.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m holding the envelope. The eyes of the bear appear to be looking up at me.

I slip my hand inside and touch several glass vials. At first I think they’re some samples they took from my field kit. I pull one out and read the label.

PARSONS, JUNIPER 8.04.17-H.C.M.E.

The dark material inside is unmistakable. It’s blood. Dark and clotted. This was taken from a wound. I examine several other vials. All have the same markings.

I’m holding her blood.

Inside this is her DNA. The recipe for making a Juniper Parsons is in my fingers.

Of course, if I could coax the genetic material into an egg and get it to split, even forgetting the information lost from not knowing the original DNA surface methylation, it wouldn’t be Juniper.

From the act of fertilization to the moment she slid closer to me in the restaurant years ago, the world around her affected her, molded her into the Juniper I remember. That girl is gone, and I never really knew her. Her DNA is no more Juniper than her photograph.

I read the label on the envelope.

TO: DR. LIAM GOODSON. FISH AND WILDLIFE

That explains why I was just given several vials of blood. I flag down Richards. He’s in a conference with Glenn and several other men.