The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(38)

“Half the city council has cars in their driveways they can’t afford.”

This seems like a nightmare. “How does that work?”

“It’s not like they’re being given bags of money. Well, some are. The more honest ones—rather, the ones that try to see themselves as that—they’re getting paid rent on property they bought for next to nothing or profits from businesses they were practically given.”

“By who?”

“Whoever wants to keep doing business here and not get hassled. When this was a mining town, it was the owners of the cathouses and the saloons. Later it was the moonshiners.

“When meth came to town, it got worse. We’d lost a processing plant. Honest people were taking dishonest money.”

“Everyone?”

He leans back and squints down the highway. “You see that bass boat dealership?”

“Yeah.”

“Connor is the owner. He and his wife are good friends of mine. Nice folks. He sells two or three boats a week. Great business for around here.

“Do you think he asks everyone who steps on his lot where the money came from? He just built a new house on what he’s made selling boats. That’s how most people here make their money. They do it honestly, selling to dishonest people.

“The problem is that when you know where your money is coming from, whether you’re making it legally or not, you’re resistant to things changing. You stop caring about getting rid of meth in Hudson Creek and start talking about getting rid of the violence. Like Las Vegas.

“You resign yourself to the fact that you’re always going to have crooked politicians and police, but just as long as you’re safe.”

I got mugged because I was an out-of-towner they thought was here to do something illegal. If I went to the police, I probably would have found myself in jail.

Gus continues, “The reality people are facing is that all you can really do is push it below the surface. You ignore the problem and then find out your daughter is working as a prostitute or your son is beating up people trying to cook meth on the side.

“The price for all those shiny new cars is Hudson Creek’s children.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s like the old stories where a town would drown a child in a lake to prevent flooding. You do it enough times and your lake runs dry, your children are gone, and all you have left is an empty lake filled with skeletons.”

I don’t know what to say. So I turn back to the reason I’m here. “What do you think happened to Chelsea Buchorn?”

“I want to believe she decided to leave. What do I think really happened?” He stands up and faces the mountain where the mine was located. “Let me show you.”

I get to my feet with some strain and stand beside him.

“See the notch just below the ridge?”

Orange and purple clouds are visible just beyond. “Yes?”

“About twenty years ago, some surveyors found a skeleton there. And another and another. They were dead at least fifty years by then.

“That notch is about a mile off the path that led from the mining camp to Hudson Creek. The nearest building was a cathouse.

“They found at least twelve bodies before they gave up. All of them young women. All of them probably prostitutes that worked either in the whorehouse or the mining camp.

“We still have the town newspapers from back then. Not one, not a single one, ever mentions a missing girl.

“Old-timers just assumed they moved on. At least twelve girls didn’t. That’s just the ones they found. Who knows how many others were never seen again by anyone. Those hills could be filled with lost girls.

“Back then, just like now, whenever people look the other way when evil is around them, the wicked will find it. Chelsea wasn’t the first. She won’t be the last.”

Gus and I quietly eat the pie Jillian prepared for us.

My gaze keeps returning to the notch where the forgotten girls were buried. How many other places are there? How many more children were lost?

We say good night and I head back to my room to chase down some ibuprofen with a medically inadvisable amount of beer.

When I wake up the next day, as sore as should be expected, I make a decision not to head back to Austin just yet.

I still want to talk to Amber.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


STALKER

When I wake up and feel coherent enough to think, I send a text message to Amber.

We need to talk.

Half an hour goes by and there’s no answer. I decide to be more direct.

I don’t care about what happened. I want to talk about Chelsea. I think I know what happened to her.

Another half hour and no answer. I decide to just call her.

A robotic voice tells me that her phone isn’t accepting calls.

She’s blocking me.

Of course. I’m sure I’m not the first person to call her after falling for their stunt.

I drive to the 88 Service Station for coffee. Walking through the brightly lit aisles, I see a shelf full of prepaid cell phones and purchase one for fifty bucks.

I open it in my front seat and play around with it. I’m surprised to find out that it’s more fully featured than I would expect for the price. By no means is it as good as my iPhone, but it has a web browser and runs Android apps.