The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(42)

“Really?” I say a little too loudly.

“He loves all that shit. He’s got a Neil deGrasse Tyson T-shirt and everything. We used to get high and watch Bill Nye the Science Guy.”

Out of nowhere, this makes me laugh. My stomach protests in pain, and I try to stop moving.

“Yeah, fucked-up, I know. You ever watch Sesame Street wasted? It’s like it’s made for two-year-olds and stoners.”

“No. I’ve never gotten high all that much. As an undergrad I was on a trip to the Amazon and a local medicine man gave some of us something that I still can’t identify. We sat around in a circle drinking it, thinking it was a bonding ceremony.

“Turns out they were just messing with the out-of-towners. I sat in a tree for hours convinced I was a spider monkey. When I got back down and explained what I experienced, the medicine man asked me how I was so certain I wasn’t a spider monkey that got high and thinks it’s a scientist.”

Amber taps the side of her nose. “That guy knew what he was talking about. How are you so sure?”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

She leans back and stares at the passing clouds. “Chelsea and I used to have those conversations all the time. We’d wonder if this world was the real one. When we were little girls, we’d always be looking through closets and random doors, hoping we’d find one that led to another place. Like Narnia. Something different.”

She leaves out “someplace better,” but I know what she’s trying to say.

She tugs at a weed. “When we got older and realized that we weren’t going to find that door, we started thinking that world was around us, but we couldn’t see it. I don’t mean like a Doors song or nothing. Just that we get used to calling things by names and thinking about them in a certain way.

“We started making up our own names for stuff. Like the phone was the far talk box. We’d call the TV a magic window. We’d come up with names for people, too. Chief York was the Evil Baron. Charlie was the Bad Prince. We had names for everyone. Reverend Goat, the Red Witch, the Bad Wizard—he was a meth cook.” Her voice drifts. “Anyway. Stupid stuff.”

I feel a connection to this lost girl. “It’s not stupid at all. I teach a whole class on nomenclature. I explain how using different names, but ones that still fit, can give you a different understanding of things.”

“Like how?”

I think for a moment. “Take Hudson Creek. It’s not much of a creek, but the whole town and everything around is in its valley. Actually, it’s kind of a bowl between the mountains. On the other side are a couple of different towns. One is more in the mountains—lots of summer rentals, right? The other seems like a nice enough place. What makes this town different? What name would you give it?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Hell Mouth. This isn’t hell, but the entrance can’t be far. We’re all circling the edge, waiting to fall in.”

“I don’t know about all that, but I’m sure you get more than your share of wicked passing through.” I think of the dark-purple bands MAAT showed me. I wonder what I’d see if I used data from last century. Was Hudson Creek still on the devil’s highway? From what Gus told me, it would seem so.

“Amber, if I give you a map, can you show me where you last saw Chelsea?”

She thinks it over, then shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”

“Could you at least tell me some markers to look for?”

“They’re hard to find.”

I’m frustrated that she’s suddenly become a dead end. Maybe the subject is still too painful.

“How about I show you myself?” she offers.

“You mean, go back there?”

“I’m not scared,” she says defiantly. “If the devil wanted me, he would have come for me when he got Chelsea.”

Amber is a tortured soul, but I admire her bravery.

Going there sounds like a horrible idea, but I agree anyway.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


FIELD TRIP

When I return to Amber’s house later that afternoon, Devon’s truck is still parked in front. So I text her to let her know that I’m here. She texts back, b right there.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for out there. But if the police never did a thorough investigation, who knows what still might be up there? A piece of fabric, a shoe, anything that backs up Amber’s story would help me know if I’m looking in the right direction.

But for what?

I only have a few more days before I should head back to Austin. As things are, it’s going to be tight getting everything ready for class. I’m already going to have to beg off a couple of faculty meetings. These are usually pointless anyway, but not being there has political consequences. My contract is up for renewal. It’s best to play nicely.

There’s a knock on my window. I look up from my phone and nearly piss myself. Devon is standing there. He motions for me to roll down my window.

I reach my hand toward the shifter to put the Explorer in drive, but I hesitate when he steps away from the door and holds his hands up.

“I just want to talk to you,” he says.

I fumble for my Mace and hold on to it tightly before cracking the window.

“Amber says you’re going to where she says Chelsea went missing.”