The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(71)

“Just hang. Let me see what’s here.”

“Fine. But I’m coming after you in ten, not getting help.”

I get an anxious feeling and look out at the clearing. I’m not sure if it’s nerves for what’s inside or the thought of leaving her alone.

I take my gun out and lower it down for her to take. “Here.”

“What are you going to use?”

“Common sense?”

“How has that worked out for you so far?” She waves the gun away. “If I need it to go after you, then it would be better if you had it in the first place.”

There’s no point arguing with her. I tuck it back into my waistband and step inside the cave.

A scent washes over me. Acrid and moist, I can’t quite place it. I’ve smelled plenty of dead bodies in the past few weeks. This is something different.

I go deeper into the cavern, past the twist in the passage, and the walls begin to widen out. The roof gets lower, but I can still walk with only a slight hunch.

The floor is a layer of dirt covering a flat rock surface. I search for any sign of habitation but only find rocks and a few dry branches a storm probably blew in here.

It’s certainly deep enough for someone to live in, or at least spend a few days on a murder vacation.

I keep going farther, looking for something. I really don’t know what. It’s been over thirty years since Elizabeth had her encounter. And assuming the Cougar Man did hang out up here, I’m not sure what I should be looking for.

Okay, that’s not honest. I think I was expecting to see a pile of bones from those missing hikers. All I have is a dirt floor.

After another ten yards, I reach the end of the cave. Just to be certain, I double back and aim the light at all the places where the floor meets the wall, searching for small passages into other chambers.

Nothing.

The strange scent is still present, but I don’t smell the decay of bodies.

I have a few other spots on my map to check, but I’m doubtful any of them would be as promising as this place. I turn back and head toward the sunlight bouncing around the corner.

When I reach the bend, I flick my light off. I’m able to make out the front of the cave well enough. But in the half second it takes to turn the switch, I see something that tells me to flip it back on.

It’s such a subtle feature. A foot to the left or right and I might never have noticed it. When I move the light around, the details stand out quite clearly.

Four long gouges—the kind you’d get if you scratched the wall with metal claws.

I have to be careful of confirmation bias, but I just can’t imagine any other explanation. It looks like the Cougar Creek Monster decided to sharpen his claws before going out on the hunt.

I take some photos, take a flake from the groove, check the other walls, then run out to Jillian. “I found it!” I shout down to her.

“Found what?”

“He was here! Claw marks. Four of them.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a cat?”

“Cats don’t leave bits of metal when they scratch rock.”

Amid my excitement I can see an uneasiness in Jillian’s eyes. Things have suddenly become very real for her. She came up the mountain with me to investigate a decades-old legend. Now I’ve tied it in to the present.

“Was there . . . anything else?” she asks.

“No. Just the claw marks. The police might do a better job of searching the floor.”

“Do you think they’ll come out here for that?”

“I don’t know. Elizabeth’s husband might take an interest now that there’s proof.”

“Gouges on the wall?”

I begin to realize what she’s thinking. While the significance is important to me, it won’t be to anyone else—especially when the police are still convinced they’re after an animal.

“Yeah. I see what you mean. But this can be helpful to me.”

“I guess it’s better,” she replies, probably glad the cave isn’t filled with victims. “Maybe that means the stories of the other missing hikers are just stories?”

“Possibly.”

“And there’s no way they could be buried up there?”

“No. It’s a solid rock floor.” I scan the rest of the caldera. “I don’t think there’s really anywhere else you could stash a body here without burying it.”

“Could you find a buried body?”

“Not the way I found the others. It’s been too long.”

“Maybe there aren’t any.”

I watch the steam rise off the spring and waft away in the breeze. “Yeah . . .”

“Theo? Theo?”

I let my attention come back to the present. “Yes?”

“What is it?”

I’m still staring at the hot spring. The anxious feeling begins to fill me again.

“He didn’t bury them . . .”





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


EXTREMOPHILE

Jillian watches me as I circle the pond. The outer edge has a yellow sulfur coloration, while the center is a dark void where an occasional bubble of gas breaks the surface. It’s shallow around the first ten feet or so; then the back end drops off dramatically.