The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(39)

An interesting realization hits me: if I’d paid cash, this phone would be totally untraceable to me.

I go back into the store and buy another one with money from an ATM. In theory, the phone could be connected via the ATM withdrawal if someone knew the time of purchase and checked the ATM’s history log. But it seems secure enough. I have no idea why that’s even important to me.

I guess, given what happened yesterday, a little more caution might be a good idea.

I put away the phone I bought with the credit card and text Amber on the one purchased with cash.

I’m not angry about yesterday. It was a mix-up. I wanted to talk to you about Chelsea.

To be honest, I’m mad as hell. But I just want to find out what she knows and get the hell out of this town.

I sit in the parking lot and drink my coffee while I wait for her to respond.

An hour goes by. Frustrated, I call her and get her voice mail.

I try to make myself sound as casual as possible. “Hey, Amber. This is Theo from yesterday. I’m not mad. I don’t care about the money. I just want to talk about Chelsea and what happened to her. Um, I’m not a cop or a weirdo. I lost someone, too. I just want to compare notes.”

I hang up, thinking that’s about as sincere as I can possibly get.

There’s no immediate text back from Amber like yesterday.

I get the feeling she’s not going to have anything to do with me. For all she knows, this could be a setup.

I try to look at it from her point of view. I’d be paranoid as hell. She probably thinks I’m out to kill her.

Mentioning Chelsea might only make her more frightened.

I need to figure out another way to reach out to her.

On my burner phone I do a Google search for a website that locates people. It takes me fifty dollars to get her most recent address.

It’s eight miles away.

Google Street View shows Devon’s pickup truck in the driveway. The sight of it makes me ache.

Crap. This isn’t going to be easy.

I don’t want to confront him again.

I go back into the 88 and buy two cans of Mace. The clerk is the same one that sold me the burner cell phones. He doesn’t bat an eye.

With my face bruised up, this has to look sketchy as hell. I’d call the police on me.

But apparently in Hudson Creek, this isn’t all that unusual.



When I drive by the address, Devon’s pickup is still in the driveway, just like the aerial image on Google. Seeing it close up makes me start breathing heavily.

I keep my window up and don’t stop. It takes me two miles to calm down.

The house had two stories and a large yard. It wasn’t terribly run-down, but it was cluttered. Three other cars were parked nearby.

They looked beat-up and not the kind of vehicle I’d expect the son of a police chief to drive.

The report on Amber said she owned a Honda Civic. I think I remember seeing one in the yard as I drove by, trying not to be seen.

My plan is to pass by the house every hour until the truck is gone and Amber is there alone. No way am I going there when Devon is around.

The truck sits there for four hours. At one point Amber’s car is gone, but it’s back when I drive by again.

When I turn the corner and see the truck has finally left, I feel a strange, perverse rush of excitement.

I park my Explorer in front of the house. I’m too scared to pull into the driveway and get trapped.

My face looks like crap, so I pull a baseball cap over my head and put on a pair of big aviators. When I step onto the road, my leg is trembling. My knee doesn’t want to support my weight.

I guess this is what they call spaghetti legs.

I should just get back into my Explorer and head home.

Yesterday was a warning. I’m getting too deep into this.

But there are answers here. Or at least the potential for answers.

My legs finally find their courage, and I walk up to the front door. I also have two cans of Mace in my pockets.

Three aluminum chairs sit on the porch along with dirty ashtrays and crushed cans. In one of the ashtrays there’s a glass meth pipe.

Through the window I can hear a television and see someone lying on a couch.

A dog starts barking when I knock. I step back from the door. Somewhere inside a young man says, “Hold up.”

I hear scuffling feet and the sound of the dog being pushed into another room.

The young man who answers the door has messed-up hair, bad teeth, and a bug-eyed expression. “Yeah?” he says drowsily.

“I’m here to talk to Amber. Is she here?” I have to use every ounce of control to avoid stammering.

I keep glancing over his shoulder, afraid Devon or Charlie is going to come running at me with the baseball bat. The only thing that stirs is an interior door when the barking dog throws his body against it.

The house is a pigsty. Dirty plates and takeout containers litter the floor. There are piles of clothes everywhere. Filled ashtrays sit on the arms of the couch and on the floor. Glass pipes are strewn about without care.

The place has a funky smell whose source I don’t even want to guess at.

My greeter shouts upstairs, “Amber, one of your gentlemen callers is here.”

“Who is it?” she shouts down.

“Ask him the fuck yourself. I’m not your butler.” He gives me a “What can you do?” look and rolls his eyes, then returns to the couch.