The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(91)

At best, the police might stick around for a few hours and watch her place, but if he wants to get to her, he will. There’s no way Hudson Creek will put in the kind of manpower necessary without more credible evidence. Even then, I don’t know how much faith I have in Whitmyer.

My fear is that they know Joshua Lee Clark personally and will laugh off my suggestion of what he truly is without more evidence. To make sure they don’t ignore him, I have to yell his name far and wide, as loudly as I can. But first, I have to make sure Jillian and Gus are safe. It’s a dangerous gamble.

I park down the block from her house, a two-bedroom home across the street from some wood-covered property. This is what scares me. A man like Clark could hide in there like a sniper and never be found.

The street is quiet. Jillian’s car is in her driveway. Nobody else has their car on the street.

The woods make me nervous. I’m afraid he might be in there watching. So I decide to take the long way around and approach her house from the back, cutting through the neighbor’s property and her backyard.

This part of the street is quiet, too. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks, but there isn’t anyone stirring.

The whole house is brightly lit. I crouch behind a bush next to a woodpile and watch for a moment, waiting to see if she’s up and about. Her porch light is on; so are the kitchen and dining room lights.

After five minutes of no movement, I decide to give her phone a call again.

It rings five times, then goes to voice mail.

Damn.

I go to dial again but stop when I see a notification from one of my computer scripts.

BREAKING: SUSPICIONS MOUNT IN ALLEGED SUICIDE.

No. Not this soon! I click through the article. An unnamed person in the Helena police department says that they’re hesitant to confirm my identity because of “forensic discrepancies.”

Fuck.

He knows.

I call Jillian again. This time I put my phone on silent and listen.

Across the yard I can hear her phone ringing from inside the house.

Why isn’t she picking up?

I can’t wait any longer.

I rush to her back porch, setting off a motion-sensing light.

When I get to the sliding door, I press my face against the glass and peer inside. I can’t see into the bedrooms, but this part of the house is empty.

I try the door, but it’s locked. I want to knock, but I’m worried that the sound might tip off Clark that I’m here.

I climb over the porch railing and go to the side of her house. The shades are drawn, but I can see light from behind them.

I creep toward her bedroom window and put my ear to the cold glass.

I think I hear her voice.

I raise my hand to tap gently but freeze when something snaps in the woods directly to my right.

Somebody is out there.

I press my body flat against the wall and search the shadows for the source of the sound. All I see is darkness.

If I go out there, he’ll see me. If he has a rifle trained on the house, he’ll drop me before I know what hit me.

I take my phone out of my pocket and crouch down, using my jacket to shield the glow, which kills my night vision.

I try calling Jillian again.

Her phone rings from just a few feet away.

On the third ring she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Jillian! It’s me!”

“Theo!”

I can hear her voice through the window.

“Listen carefully. You’re in danger.”

Something moves behind me. Still blinded by the glow of my phone, all I see is a distant yard light.

“Don’t move,” says a voice in the shadows.

I slide my arm behind me to grab my gun, but a man in a mask runs toward me and fires something.

My chest explodes in pain, and I collapse.





CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX


PROTECTION

There’s a bright light in my eyes, and somebody is talking to me.

“Are you okay, Theo?”

I begin to focus and see a male paramedic peeling back my eyelid and looking at my pupil for dilation.

When I try to move my arms, I can’t. For a moment I think they’re paralyzed, then realize they’re handcuffed behind my back.

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?” the paramedic asks.

“I . . . was checking on Jillian. Jillian! Where is she?”

“She’s in the house.”

“I need to talk to her.”

The paramedic steps back and takes off his gloves. “That’s going to be up to these men.”

Detectives Glenn and Whitmyer are standing off to the side. There’s a third man I don’t recognize.

I remember why I came here. The flashing red lights of the ambulance reflect off the trees in the woods behind it, and I get a knot in my stomach, feeling suddenly exposed. I want to shout out, to warn them, but I’m afraid it’ll only make me look crazier.

My shirt is ripped down to my chest, and there’s a Band-Aid right where I felt the exploding pain. Someone—probably one of the cops standing in the street wearing camouflage—shot me with a stun gun. I guess I should be happy it wasn’t a real gun, but I still feel sore all over.

They must have been waiting for me. And that means they probably never bought my faked death, or didn’t take long to see through it.