The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(80)

“You just wait until . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

I stop myself at the door. “Wait until what? Were you going to tell someone?”

“The police. I’m calling the sheriff right now!” She takes her phone from her pocket and holds it up in the air like it’s some kind of talisman, reinforcing how empty her promise is.

I hurry back to my car and drive back to my earlier waiting spot down the road to play back the recording.

I click “Play.”

Lane only waited a minute after I left to make a phone call.

“Damn it,” she cried into the phone. “I was hoping you would pick up. There’s been a man here asking questions about Sarah and you and Pa. You told me to call if that happened. Well, it did. I told him to go to hell and didn’t say anything. I have his number if you want to set him straight.”

After she hangs up, there’s the sound of footsteps as she paces around the house and mutters to herself. I think she took a seat at the kitchen table across from the living room.

Twenty minutes in there’s the sound of a phone ringing.

“Hello? . . . Thank god . . . Yes . . . About fifteen minutes ago . . . His name? Kay . . . Leo Kay, I think . . . What was that name? Theo Cray? . . . Yes, that’s it! . . . Unpleasant man . . . You’ll talk to him? . . . Oh, thank you . . . Thank you!”

So far there’s nothing to tell me who this other person is. Although I’d bet anything it was one of the foster children living with the Lanes at the same time as Sarah. A record search should provide some names.

It’s a little disconcerting to hear that he knows my name, but I shouldn’t be surprised.

There’s a long silence; then Lane says, “Okay . . . okay. What about the cars? You said you’d be sending some men to move them? . . . Okay.”

After she hangs up, there’s just the sound of footsteps until I show up again. I sound like a goddamn door-to-door con man. But it served its purpose. I know she called someone.

Maybe even him.

Short of stealing her phone, which I consider briefly, I don’t know how to directly act on that information, but it’s a clue. A really big clue.

Damn it. I may be real close to knowing who this is, assuming the man who scarred Sarah is the same one that killed all those other people.

And the cars? What did she mean by that?

There was just an old station wagon in the driveway. I didn’t see anything else. Was there something in the barn, or maybe the woods? What’s the connection to him?

My curiosity is driving me crazy. I have to go back again.



I wait until dark to return yet again to her house, parking down the road and walking the rest of the way on foot. I follow a wire fence toward the back of the property, keeping a cautious eye on the house in case a light turns on or someone shows up.

I try to convince myself that he won’t come over right away, maybe not at all. Especially if he thinks I’m on to him.

This might be more wishful thinking than rational judgment.

I pass the barn and step through some thick weeds on the far side. I’m tempted to use my light, but I don’t want to alert her to my presence.

I can barely see my own shoes in the darkness by the time I reach the woods. It probably would have been better to have done this early in the morning in the gray light of dawn, instead of now. I just didn’t have the patience to wait that long.

The woods are a mixture of tall trees and overgrown brush. I have to walk around the edge to find a gap in the brambles to penetrate farther in.

I find a small foot trail and meander through wild berry bushes and shrubs. When I look behind me, the house is no longer visible, so I turn on my flashlight.

Immediately, something reflects in the weeds. I get closer and realize I’m staring at the headlight of a car. It’s a rusted blue Chevy Citation.

There’s no license plate on the front or the back, but I spot another car, a Datsun, about ten feet farther back. Orange with rust, again with no license plate.

When I spin my light around, I realize that there are at least eight or nine other cars around me. All of them at least thirty years old and covered in rust.

None of them has a license plate. I open the doors to some of them and search the glove boxes for anything to identify where they came from, but there’s nothing to be found.

Weird.

Damn weird.

I take photos using my phone and try to find the VIN numbers. The ones on the dashboards have all been pried off. I check the running boards and engine blocks and come up empty.

What’s with all the unmarked cars? Was old Jack running a car-theft ring?

No.

That’s not why they’re here.

My breath grows shallow as I understand where I’m standing.

Damn.

Holy crap.

I need to get out of here fast.

This isn’t a junkyard.

This is another one of his graveyards.





CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE


JUNKER

I have to get out of here. In a flash, this went from theoretical to very real. Lane’s mystery foster child could have been one of many potential suspects, but the cars tell me otherwise.

All the missing hikers back in Cougar Creek, traveling there from across the country—as Elizabeth said, their cars would have to have piled up.