The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(34)

Hopefully, she can tell me what the code meant, as well as what really happened to Chelsea.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


TROUBLED YOUNG THINGS

Amber—or “ambyr,” as she called herself in her text message—is half an hour late. The waitress pours me another cup of coffee as I pick at a cherry in my pie.

“Want something else?” she asks, noticing I haven’t touched it.

“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

She gives me a polite smile, then moves on to another table. She looks just shy of thirty. Dirty-blonde hair to her shoulders, athletic, small-town pretty.

I like the way she makes small talk with the other patrons and their kids as she bounces around the busy place. There should be at least two more servers here, but she manages to keep things moving, dropping off food, running the register, and taking care of food prep.

The diner is immaculate. The wall by the register is filled with framed photos of men in uniform. There are service patches pinned up as well.

I’d imagine that for some in a town like Hudson Creek, the best prospect was going into the military.

The part of Hudson Creek that’s not the new 88 Service Station or the King’s Diner is oil stained and run-down. Across the street is a motel that looks like zombies would feel at home in it. Next to it is a convenience store plastered with ads for high-alcohol-content beers. In front of it, two men in their midtwenties lean against the hood of a truck, eating microwave hot dogs and burritos. Their truck suggests redneck, but one of them wears a hipster knit cap and the other a Halo T-shirt.

I’m debating whether or not to text Amber back when my phone rings.

“Where are you?” asks a young woman.

“King’s Diner.”

“You’re not in the diner, dumb ass? Are you?”

“Yes. You said—”

“That’s not what I meant. They watch the diner. I’m out back by the old car wash.”

“Oh, I’ll . . .” She’s already hung up.

I hurriedly drop money on the table and head outside.

What did she mean by “they”?

Her paranoia is infectious. I walk out to the sidewalk and glance around. Between here and the 88 are half a dozen parked trucks. Behind the diner is a small, open lot with rusting cargo containers.

The car wash, actually a large truck wash, is a crumbling block of concrete covered in vines. It resembles an ancient temple.

Tall weeds stick through the cracked asphalt. In a few decades you’d never even know there was something man-made here.

I walk around the back of the truck wash and see a girl smoking a cigarette as she texts on her phone.

She’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. Underneath the heavy eyeliner is an attractive young woman who looks like she’s getting over a cold.

“I won’t bite you,” she says when she spots me.

I glance around, looking for the “they” she warned me about.

She notices my anxiety. “They never come back here. We’re fine.”

“Are you Amber?” I ask, stepping closer. Nearer to her I can see she’s got a lot of makeup caked on. Probably to cover acne.

“I hope so.” She gives me a smile. “How much did you bring?”

“Bring?”

“Money.”

Is she in hiding and needs help? I pull my wallet from my pocket and start counting bills. “How much do you need?”

She looks down at the cash and steps close to me. “Now we’re talking.” Her breath is overpoweringly minty. Like she just used mouthwash.

Out of nowhere, she grabs my crotch.

I stare at her hand, confused. “Um . . . I just wanted to talk.”

She leans in and whispers into my ear, “That’s what they all say.”

After a confusing moment, I manage to overcome my shock and pull her hand away.

She looks over my shoulder.

There’s the sound of squealing tires as the truck from the convenience store comes skidding around the side of the building. The two men inside the cab are looking at me with murder in their eyes.

“Oh, shit!” says Amber before she runs away.

The driver pulls the vehicle to a stop and flies out of the cab with his friend behind him. “What the fuck are you doing with my sister!”

“I just wanted to ask her a question!” I plead, holding my hands up. He has a metal baseball bat in his hands.

He bolts straight for me and slams the bat into my stomach. I crumple to my knees.

His companion kicks me in the ribs, and I fall onto my side.

“There’s been—” My words are cut off as I try to fend off a flurry of blows with my hands.

The brother, the one in the knit cap, slams a fist into my jaw and my face falls into a patch of leafy spurge. I lose consciousness, perversely wondering if the weed broke the asphalt or if the hot-and-cold cycle of the weather allowed it to spring through.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


CHERRY PIE

I come to some unknowable time later and manage to move from the ground to lean on the building. My side hurts like hell. I spit out a mouthful of blood. The red saliva lands on my shoe.

My battered ribs shriek as I bend over to retrieve my empty wallet. I shove it back into my pocket and, using the hand that isn’t swollen, give myself a spot check for broken bones. There’s lots of sore muscle, but no sharp pain from fractures or suspicious clicks. Only an X-ray can tell for sure, but I think I’ve at least dodged that bullet.