Hudson Creek has none of that. There’s no new construction. No signs that the town is fighting for life.
The only things not falling apart are the shiny new cars I occasionally spot in weed-infested driveways.
These people have mixed-up priorities.
Or do they?
Would you invest in landscaping if you knew your property values were going to keep declining? Maybe it’s better to spend your money on an escape pod with leather seats and a Bluetooth system.
How people get the money for the fancy four-by-fours and Corvettes is beyond me.
I guess there’s always some kind of commerce. Once upon a time, Hudson Creek may have been a mining town or played some crucial role for the railroad.
Now? It’s a place between here and there.
Yet according to the purple trail MAAT had displayed, there’s a high probability the killer has been through here. Several times. He’s driven down this same highway and stared out his window at the run-down houses I’m looking at.
Did he see it as a decaying carcass to be preyed upon?
The town where Juniper was staying was a smaller-scale Hudson Creek. Her motel had a burned-out neon sign and bare plywood on one side. Bryson’s Auto Repair was a junkyard that only functioned as a business because one person knew how to change tires and oil.
A tractor-trailer truck barrels around my car, frustrated at my gawking. I step on the accelerator and head toward what the GPS says is the city center of Hudson Creek.
Along the way I pass the only new construction I’ve seen for miles. It’s a huge service station catering to truckers. Next to it is a diner with a parking lot full of cars.
City hall may be a mile down the road, but this is clearly the center of what’s alive in this town.
When I seek answers as a biologist, it’s not too hard to know where to start. I can either call the local Fish and Wildlife office or the Farm Bureau.
In another country, I start with the biology department at the biggest university and then work my way through a network of connections until I can find someone who knows something about an arboreal rat or a species of flowering plants.
If I were a cop, I’d probably just roll into the nearest police station and ask to speak to the investigator in charge.
Having just been kicked out of the last police station I visited, I’m not too eager to do that.
However, there’s another resource I’ve used when I’m in a strange country and the locals are distrustful of strangers.
It’s never failed me. I don’t need my GPS to find it; I just have to watch for it. Even in as sad of a place as Hudson Creek, I’m sure I can find it.
Sure enough, I see a cross next to a small church. There’s an old Ford Focus in the parking lot.
In every country and every town I’ve been in, no matter how far away from civilization, I’ve always been able to find a priest, a nun, or an imam willing to help me out.
I decide to start my questions here and pull into the parking lot.
The church consists of three buildings attached by a covered walkway. When I knock on what looks like the office, there’s no answer. The other doors are locked.
I hear the sound of a lawn mower from the other side of the building. When I round the corner, I spot a man in a T-shirt on a John Deere, mowing the field that runs from the back of the church to a forest line.
I wave to him, and he cuts the engine. Thinning gray hair; he looks to be about sixty. We walk toward each other.
“What can I do for you?” he asks when we’re close enough not to have to shout.
“I was looking for the”—I do a quick glance back at the sign on the road to figure out what denomination of church this is; it’s Baptist—“minister.”
“You found him.” He wipes a grimy hand on his jeans and offers it to shake. “Call me Frank.”
“I’m Theo Cray. I’m a professor visiting from Texas.”
“Professor? Theology?”
“No. Bioinformatics.” I make feeble small talk because I don’t know how to get to the point.
“Is that like robotics?”
“No, sir. I’m a biologist who stares at a computer screen and sometimes goes out into the real world.”
“So what brings you here?”
“It’s a little complicated.”
He takes a look at his watch. “The good news is I’m due a break and a glass of tea right now. I can handle a little complicated and spare a glass. Follow me.” He steps past me and leads me toward the office. He asks over his shoulder, “What are the basics?”
“I want to ask about a girl that used to live here.”
“Who is that?”
“Chelsea Buchorn?”
He stops walking and faces me. The smile is gone from his face. “What exactly about Chelsea do you want to know?”
This stops me in my tracks. In biological terms, I’d describe his posture as suddenly defensive, if not hostile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE LAWN MOWER MAN
I don’t know what to do. All I have is the truth. “I lost someone under similar circumstances.”
“You lost someone?” Some of the edge has left his voice.
“Yes. A student. I was looking for a connection.”
“A connection with Chelsea? Did they know each other?”
It’s a question I never even thought of. It seems unlikely, but it’s worth looking into. “I don’t know.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know anyone here. I saw your church and thought you might know the people around here.”
His body relaxes. “Ah. I understand. Let’s go get the iced tea and I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not a lot. Chelsea wasn’t a member of our church.”
He leads me into his office. I take a seat opposite his desk while he pours two glasses of tea from a pitcher kept in a small refrigerator.
The room is small, lined with bookcases. A window overlooks the highway. Pictures of what look to be his children at different ages line the walls, along with various awards. His desk is cluttered with notepads and a laptop.
Frank moves a book out of the way and places a glass in front of me, then takes his seat behind the desk.
He takes a long sip, then cools his brow with the glass. “We used to have someone who did this. The lawn, that is. We used to have people do a lot of things around here.”
“I’d think someone would volunteer.”
He lets out a small laugh. “Not so much, these days.” He shrugs it off. “Who did you lose?”
“Her name was Juniper Parsons.”
“The girl that got killed by the bear?”
“Yes, her.” I’m about to blurt out my suspicions but decide to phrase things carefully. “That’s what they think. But I’ve heard there’s still some suspicious circumstances.”
“Suspicious? How?”
“They interviewed two people as potential suspects before they settled on the bear.” I don’t point out that one of those suspects is in the room. “I’ve heard they don’t all agree about the DNA evidence.” That’s true, if I’m included in that all.
“Interesting. So how is this connected to Chelsea?”
“I’m not sure. But she disappeared under similar circumstances.”
Frank shakes his head. “Chelsea didn’t disappear. She left town. Her friend—what’s her name, Amber—isn’t exactly what I’d call reliable. The pair of them had run away several times on their own before. They get caught up with the wrong boys. Or rather, they’re drawn to them. Either way, nobody here takes it seriously. Chelsea just moved on. It happens.”
“It’s serious enough for her to be on a missing-persons list.”
“They put her on there because of Amber’s mixed-up stories. Even Chelsea’s mother doesn’t believe it.”
“So you don’t think anything happened to her?”
“No. Not here, at least. She was a lot of trouble herself. Loved to make up stories. She probably loves the fact that some people think she’s a victim.”
“But you don’t?”
“I don’t know for sure. But she’d cleaned her stuff out of her apartment before she allegedly went missing. That sounds rather odd.”