The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(2)

Trevor had told her that there were bears and mountain lions in these woods. Kelsie had no idea what attacked her. All she knew as she lay paralyzed, bleeding out, was that she’d never heard of an animal that wounded you, then just sat there, watching you die.





CHAPTER TWO


ICE MACHINE

A scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections, a mere heart of stone.

—Charles Darwin

Red and blue police lights splash off the chipped chrome letters spelling ICE MACHINE. I’m standing in front of the motel vending machines with my plastic pail in my hand, lost in thought. Where does the water for the machine come from? Is it from some local stream? Do they filter it? Is the water sealed inside an internal reservoir before it’s frozen into cubes?

I just read a paper that described a new bacterium found deep inside ice caves. It evolved from photosynthesis to chemosynthesis—literally eating the rocks to survive. It could also chew through the charcoal used in most filters like soft ice cream.

So far it hasn’t been shown to be harmful to humans . . . which makes me wonder if it would be useful for dissolving the mineral buildup of kidney stones. So many questions . . .

So many questions . . . I barely notice the squeal of tires as a vehicle comes to a stop behind me. I turn and see that it’s an armored van and that the parking lot has filled with a half dozen police cruisers, each with a pair of county deputies ducked behind, guns drawn and shotguns pressed to their shoulders. Every eye and weapon is trained on the rooms across the lot from me.

“Get down,” someone whispers harshly.

A man in black slacks and a tie covered by a bulletproof jacket is hiding behind the driver-side door of a Ford Bronco parked beside me. I can see a badge on a pendant, but his gun isn’t drawn.

He waves me away. “Go back to your room.”

Everything is happening in slow motion, but I can’t move. All I can do is crouch and watch from behind his rear bumper.

Four men in black tactical gear with metal face masks leap out of the back of the van and run toward the row of rooms across from us. One of them is carrying a thick metal cylinder. He rams it against a lock, and the door bursts open. Guns pointed inside, two men rush into the room while the others keep them covered.

There’s a tense silence.

From inside someone shouts, “Clear!”

One of the armored men steps outside and makes some kind of hand signal while shaking his head.

The other armored men exit after him, letting three deputies enter, followed by a tall woman wearing a jacket and a cowboy hat. She’s got tan skin, like leather, with laugh lines and crow’s-feet I can see across the parking lot.

After peering into the motel room, she steps back into the parking lot and scans the cars in the lot. She points to one, and a deputy calls out its plate number on his radio. Everyone is quiet as his voice carries across the parking lot.

The man who told me to get back relaxes and stands up from behind his door. He catches my reflection in his driver-side mirror and wheels around to face me. “Didn’t I ask you to go to your room?”

“I . . . can’t.” I look to the deputies surrounding the door. “I don’t think they’ll let me.”

It takes a moment for this to register with him. I’m still processing what just happened.

“Holy shit.” He narrows his eyes. “Are you Dr. Cray?”

“Yes . . . Theo Cray. What’s going on?”

His hand touches his hip where a gun sits. He doesn’t draw but keeps his palm on the handle.

The man’s voice is low and measured. “Dr. Cray, for your safety, may I ask you to slowly set down the ice bucket and place your hands in the air where I can see them?”

I don’t think. I just follow his directions.

“Now would you get on your knees?”

I’m wearing shorts, so gravel digs into my knees, but I’m too numb to feel any pain.

He steps over to me, his hand never leaving his pistol at his side. “I’m going to stand behind you to make sure you don’t have a weapon.” I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His free hand goes to his other hip. “May I put handcuffs on you for my safety?”

“Okay.” He has a gun. I’m not sure I can say no. I’m too afraid to ask why he feels the need to cuff me.

After the cold metal restraints are quickly, but not forcefully, clicked around my wrists, he asks, “Is it okay if I lift your shirt?”

“Sure,” I say weakly.

I feel cold Montana air on my sweaty back.

“I’m going to pat your pockets now.”

“Okay.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, pinning me down as he feels both my pockets. “What’s inside there?”

I panic as my mind blanks. “Um . . . my room key. Wallet. Um . . . phone.”

“Anything else?”

I think for a moment, afraid of getting the answer wrong. “Uh . . . a Leatherman.”

I smell the scent of latex as he pulls on a pair of gloves. “May I remove them from your pockets?”

“Yeah. Yeah . . . of course.”

In movies there’s a lot of yelling when this happens. This man talks to me like he’s a doctor. He never raises his voice. He never threatens me.

He removes everything from my pockets and sets them several feet away from me. Close, but out of my reach.