The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(84)

A security guard sitting at the front desk looks up from his phone. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up some records for Poitier County.”

I’m ready to try to bluff him with my National Parks research permit and university ID, in the hopes that those official-looking documents would give me some credibility.

“Third floor. Room number four.”

“Thank you.”



Two minutes later I’m standing at the front desk. My leg is shaking so hard I have to press it against the counter to stop.

“May I help you?” a woman asks as she takes a seat behind the desk.

“Hello. I’m here to pick up some foster records requested by Poitier County?”

“When did you put the request in?”

“This morning.”

“Sorry. That takes about ten days. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you.”

Damn. Damn, damn.

I’ll be in jail or dead by then.

A voice calls out from an office. “Is that the Poitier County Sheriff’s Department?”

“Yes,” the woman in front of me replies. “I told him that it’d take at least ten days.”

“I have them on my desk,” says the person in the other room. “We had another call come in an hour ago, an urgent one. Apparently there’s a murder investigation.”

A woman dressed in a sharp pantsuit steps out of her office holding a thick binder. “I just finished putting these together. Here you go.”

I try to keep my hands from trembling as I take the binder from her. I casually flip it open. It’s filled with forms and photographs of children. There are at least thirty of them here.

“Thank you.”

I almost walk into the door as I scan through the faces, trying to find the one that belongs to the killer.





CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT


COUNTERMEASURE

“Are you going to get that?” asks the guard as I walk past the front desk.

“Excuse me?” I look up from the binder.

“Your phone.” He points to my pocket.

I just now realize that it’s been ringing. “Oh, yeah.” I tuck the folder under my arm and take out my phone.

It’s a long-distance number from some area code I don’t recognize. I’m tempted to not answer but decide to take the call as I sit on a bench outside the building.

“Hello?” I say, only half paying attention. I’m trying to sort through the dozens of faces and find the ones that match up with when Sarah Eaves was at the Lane home.

“Theo?” asks a deep, basso voice.

“Yeah . . .” I flip toward the back when I realize that’s where the late ’70s and early ’80s are grouped. I stop on Sarah’s face. It’s a younger one than I’ve seen.

“Do I have your attention? Because you certainly have mine.”

The tone of the voice makes me look up from the folder. “Who is this?”

“Who do you think it is?”

I feel a cold finger touch my heart. “I’m not sure . . .”

“Let’s get right to the point and what you’re going to do.”

“About what?”

“First, you’re going to destroy all your notes and anything you haven’t turned over to the police.”

Fuck, no . . . it can’t be . . .

“Wait a second . . .”

“Theo, I’m not finished.” His voice is firm, like a K9 instructor telling a German shepherd to sit. “After you destroy your notes, you’re going to go to make a videotaped confession to the murder of Julie Lane.”

“But I didn’t kill her . . .”

“Of course you didn’t. I did. She was like a mother to me. And look what you made me do.”

My breathing is shallow. “Why?”

“Why do you think? If you hadn’t knocked on her door, she’d still be alive. You did that.”

“No, you did . . . ,” I say feebly.

“I may have been the instrument, but you were the cause. You know this. It’s just one more mess you’ve created that we have to clean up.”

“All of those people . . .”

“We’re all going to die. What difference does it make?”

“How . . . could you?”

“It’s what I am. Now let’s talk about what you are and what you’re going to do. After you destroy those notes and confess to killing Julie Lane, they’ll want to know about the other bodies. That’s why you’re going to say in your confession you manipulated them to hide the fact that you killed Juniper Parsons.”

“That’s insane. That’s not even possible.”

Everything feels like a dream. I have to stare out at the passing cars and smell the breeze to convince myself that this is really happening.

“Trust me. They’ll believe you. They already suspect you. Use your brain to think of methods and explanations. You’re a clever man. Too clever.”

“They won’t believe me.”

“They will, some of it. It’s up to you to convince them of the rest. Trust me, they want a simple explanation. They always do.”

For some reason I don’t protest. I just ask questions, as if this was inevitable.