The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(69)

I forget she was in the army—she’s so . . . feminine. I’d protest again that it wasn’t safe, but I have no reason to think she’s any safer here. And the Cougar Creek Monster hasn’t been seen in decades. I doubt he’d revisit a haunt that almost got him killed. Still . . . nothing about this makes sense.

“Fine,” she says. “It’s settled. You’ll pick me up in the morning.”

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“Too late.”

I know arguing with her is pointless. And to be honest, I like the idea of not having to share her attention with a restaurant full of people.

“Some men came by yesterday asking about you,” she says.

“Really? Who?”

“Didn’t say. Looked like cops. Not ones I recognized. One of them had a watch that was two hours ahead. Maybe from out of town.”

“Cops? I’m not hard to get hold of.”

“It may have just been a casual thing. I hear they’re looking for a mountain lion now?”

I groan. “Yeah. Five claws. Polydactylism in cats usually results in six or more, not five. I haven’t heard of this happening in large cats, not that it makes a difference. They’ll make up whatever theory they want.”

“What are we looking for tomorrow? Not bodies, right? I mean, I’d be up for that. I guess.”

“No. We’re looking for the Cougar Creek Monster, or the Cougar Man, as he’s sometimes called.”

Jillian raises one eyebrow, waiting to see if I’m joking. “I’ll bring my gun.”

“I’m sure he’s long gone.”

“The gun isn’t for him.”

“Ah, you trust the mad professor to go off on a hike alone with him, but only if you’re packing heat?”

“More or less. Also, like I said, wait until you see me in hiking shorts.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX


THE RAVINE

I let Jillian keep a few paces ahead of me, mostly because this part of the ravine is too narrow for us to walk side by side. Mostly. She wasn’t exaggerating about the hiking shorts.

As distracted by her as I am, I still can’t keep my mind off the unsettling feeling this trail is giving me. Certainly part of that is the vivid imagery of Elizabeth’s story and the dreadful thought of what else happened here, but another aspect is geography.

The trail follows a gradual incline between two steep ridges. At one time there was a stream here, but it has been cut off for years, leaving a dry rock bed that winds its way through the hills.

The trees along the sides are so tall, the only time the ravine isn’t in shadow is near noon.

“This place feels off,” says Jillian.

I’m relieved to hear her say it, because I didn’t want to cause her any unnecessary unease.

“It’s because we’re vulnerable. Nobody feels comfortable pinned down in a tight crevice.”

“That’s what he said,” she replies with a small laugh.

I get the joke a beat too late and have to settle for grinning when she checks over her shoulder to see how it landed.

“Right . . . Some evolutionary psychologists think that we’re hardwired to feel more comfortable in certain landscapes than others. That’s what goes into park design. They’re not meant to recreate nature, but to soothe us. A small body of water in a wide-open space with a few clusters of trees to hide in if there’s a large predator. This is what we looked for when we left the jungle for the savanna. It’s what medieval landscape painters tried to represent and how manors and country estates were designed for hundreds of years. This place? It’s the opposite.”

“Yeah, but I think I can see why a bunch of teenagers would want to come up here. It feels very far away from authority. Especially after graduation.”

I keep my eyes on the shadows, trying to imagine how I’d react if I looked up and saw someone . . . or something . . . watching.

There are a thousand places to hide, and undoubtedly we’re being watched. This place got its name, Cougar Creek, from some settlers who lived nearby a hundred years ago. Statistically, the number of mountain lion sightings here is lower than in other areas, probably from excessive hunting due to the name. That said, I’m sure more than one carnivore knows we’re here.

Jillian stops to tuck a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear, then takes a sip from her canteen. “How you holding up, city boy?”

“This city boy was trekking through Belize when you were holding pom-poms.”

“Pom-poms? Softball and volleyball. I liked to hit things. What were you doing in Belize?”

“Hunting a killer,” I reply.

“Really?”

“Culicidae. Mosquitoes. We were tracking down a species that had a higher incidence of transmitting malaria than others. I was an undergraduate following a field researcher, collecting specimens while the government tried eradicating them from danger spots.”

“How did that work out?”

“A slightly less infectious species filled the niche. Statistically speaking, we saved eleven lives. Eventually, better eradication methods made a more significant difference.”

“Interesting.” She keeps walking for a while. “This is the same to you?”