The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(81)

And they did.

He brought them here.

I race through the woods, weaving around the rusted junk heaps, and try to find my way toward the gap out of here. My foot hits a half-buried piece of metal, and I trip.

There’s an icy pain as my elbow smashes into the side-view mirror of a Toyota Celica. When I pull my arm free, there are bits of glass in my skin and blood on the door.

Damn it.

I try to wipe the blood away with my sleeve, but all I do is smear it over the panel. I see an upstairs light turn on through the trees. Not good. She has to have heard me.

Screw the car. I bunch my jacket around the gash in my arm and take off running again.

I reach the edge of the woods and race over to the property line to follow the fence back to the road. I’m making a hell of a noise as I stomp through the dry grass. My knees clip the edge of a woodpile, knocking it over.

In the distance there’s the sound of a door slamming, and lights come on at the edge of the yard.

“I know you’re out there!” yells Julie Lane. Then she says something truly chilling. “Wait until he finds out! Just you wait!”

I make it to the gravel road, shoulders hunched, fearful that I’m going to get a spine full of lead from a shotgun blast.

Lungs heaving, I start to wobble as my vision begins to get dim around the edges. Crap. I’ve lost more blood than I realize.

I brace myself on a fence post, take a deep breath, and check back over my shoulder. I see Mrs. Lane’s silhouette on the porch, watching me.

I stumble farther along, using the wooden rail to keep me from falling. Eventually I walk far enough away that she’s out of sight. Not that it makes any difference—but mentally it does.

I keep going, afraid that any moment I’m going to take one mushy step and collapse.

Somehow, I make it to my Explorer. When I open the door and see my arm in the interior light, it’s covered in my blood.

I want to drive off and leave this damned place, but I’m fearful that I might pass out behind the wheel and slam into a tree. This needs to be taken care of now.

Using my good arm, I pop the hatch at the back of my Explorer and get out my first-aid kit.

I managed to nick my basilic vein. It takes a tourniquet on my elbow to stop the blood.

I pick away the piece of glass holding it open and squeeze the rupture. Thankfully, the vein isn’t severed, just slit like a botched blood draw. As I sit on my bumper waiting for blood platelets to coagulate and seal it from within, I keep a watchful eye on the road.

I slide Gus’s gun from my waistband to the floor, in case I have to get to it in a hurry. The only problem is that I’m a righty and that hand is out of commission for the moment.

Patience, Theo. Patience.

My heart stops beating so fast and the blood isn’t running down my fingertips anymore. When I release the vein, there’s still a trickle, but something I can manage with a tight dressing.

Just to be sure, I need to have a two-handed physician examine the cut, in order to make sure I don’t have to stitch it up.



Forty minutes later I’m sitting in the emergency room of Fairfax Hospital waiting for them to call my name. The fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell are strangely soothing to me. It’s the only relaxing thing in my world right now.

My bandage is bright red, and the blood has started to flow back down my arm. I want to say something to the receptionist, but I’m sure I have another few pints to go before I’m really critical.

The numb arm isn’t what disturbs me the most. It’s the confirmation of what I suspected.

As I sit here, bleeding out, I use my left hand to operate my phone and search through all the records I could find about missing persons around Cougar Creek.

Six of the cars I found in the woods are the same make, model, and color of cars belonging to missing persons.

It’s him.

It’s really him.

I compose a text message to the police in Red Hook and cc Dr. Mead. I provide the Lanes’ address, a list of the cars, and their connection to Sarah and the murders.

With this information, they can get the names of who was living there and get his name.

I hit “Send” and feel a wave of relief that could also be the disembodied euphoria of passing out.





CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX


ALIBI

The Poitier County sheriff substation in Red Hook is a small building attached to the post office. The walls are filled with brochures and notices. Two desks sit in back of a small counter, and the rest of the station is behind a secure metal door where I assume they have a holding cell or a safe.

Sergeant Graham, a female officer who wears a serious expression over an otherwise friendly face, is making notes as I tell her how I came to the Lane house and discovered the cars.

I’ve had to change the story a little, or rather redact some of the details, because I was clearly trespassing.

“When I knocked on the door, there was no answer. So I went around back to see if she was there.”

“Did you have permission to do this?”

“I’d spoken with her on the phone. She told me I could stop by.” This part is true, until she told me to go to hell.

Graham writes this down in tiny, very concise script. “And that’s when you discovered the cars?”

“I saw the woods and decided to take a closer look.”