The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(36)
Holy crap, I’m an even bigger idiot than I realized. She had me for a mark the moment I left my confused voice mail message.
“If it’s common knowledge, why don’t the police do something?”
“Because you’re not a local. Hudson Creek has bigger problems. Did you get a look at her face?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I mean did you notice the makeup?”
“Huh? Yes. I thought it was because of lingering teenage acne.”
“We call that meth face.”
Then the mouthwash was because of her breath. As a hooker, she had to make herself presentable.
Crap, now I get it. I’ve read about this. Seen it on TV. The run-down houses and the new cars—it’s like Southeast Central LA in the 1980s, when crack was an epidemic. Out here it’s meth.
“How bad is it?”
“Two police officers were arrested last month by state police for trafficking. But it’s worse than that.”
I nod to the wall with the photos of all the soldiers. “I’d think you’d get better police out here.”
Jillian looks at the faces of the men for a moment. “Those are the ones that didn’t make it back. Hudson has another distinction besides meth. Per capita, we’ve provided more Special Forces than any other town. We’ve also lost more men than anyone else.”
So this town is what happens when you kill off the best and the bravest. You’re left with a cancerous epidemic that turns the young into violent sociopaths.
And you create the perfect environment for a killer to come and go as he pleases.
“Do you know anything about Chelsea?”
“No,” Jillian replies. “I was at Fort Bragg when she went missing.”
“Military?”
“Reserve. My husband was, too.”
“And now?”
“I’m out.” She sighs. “And he never made it home. This was his parents’ place.”
I can’t think of anything to say. My pain seems rather insignificant at the moment.
Jillian slides out of the booth. “I’ve got to check in on the other tables. And don’t worry, I’m no longer kicking you off my property.”
“Thank you. Do you know anyone who could tell me about Chelsea?”
She shakes her head. “The only person I know of that knew her well just had your ass kicked so she could buy meth.”
“Delightful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OPEN WOUNDS
Between her rounds, Jillian fills me in with more town gossip, then gives me the name of a motel with the lowest number of sheriff department raids.
The Creekside Inn is from a bygone era when color TV was an attraction like Wi-Fi is today. The manager, an older man with a goatee, is leafing through a stack of fly-fishing magazines when I walk in.
He gives my face one look and decides he doesn’t want to know the story behind the bruising.
I get the key and limp to my room. It takes me three trips to get my luggage inside. A futile act, given that I don’t expect to be here more than a day or so, just long enough to feel up to the drive back to Austin.
I make a nest for myself on the bed, using pillows to make it easier for me to sit up. In a moment of absentmindedness, I set my laptop on my stomach and feel a flash of pain.
There’s a nice yellow color surrounding the bruise. It’s a beauty. I’m pretty sure I can make out the brand of boot Amber’s friend was wearing.
Hudson Creek has become one painful dead end for me. The one person I wanted to talk to nearly put me in the hospital.
Determined to not be a complete quitter, I do an Internet search to see if Chelsea might have any less violent friends I can speak to.
An old Instagram photo shows her partying with three “best buds.” One I recognize as Amber with a shorter and lighter haircut. The other two girls are tagged Gennifer and Lisa.
The photo was taken in a kitchen. They’re mugging at the camera dressed in pajamas, holding cans of beer. Just four girls having a fun Friday night.
And now one is missing, probably dead. Another is a hooker frequently involved in felony robbery.
I find Gennifer’s last name: Norris. She pops up in a database of Montana mug shots looking older than she should. She was booked for intent to traffic.
Lisa Cotlin managed to get out of town. I find some wedding photos in Tampa that Chelsea liked. The groom is wearing a marine uniform.
At least one person had a happily ever after.
I can’t find anybody else besides these three who was in regular contact with Chelsea. Gennifer disappears from her social media stream not too long after the party photo.
Chelsea’s updates are mostly photos of landscapes and various cats and dogs from around Hudson Creek.
If I could describe it in one word: lonely.
These are the kind of photos you take when you’re walking back and forth between two forgettable places, texting on your phone, looking for some kind of escape, when a random dog pokes his nose up above a fence and gives you an unconditional smile.
I don’t know anything about Chelsea, but these photos are how she looked at the world, or at the very least, the parts of it she thought worth remembering or sharing.
Her last photo before she went missing is an antique metal headboard.