The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)

“None.”

“Why?” I scan the ground for anything unusual. “Or rather, why aren’t they growing together elsewhere?”

“Because they don’t like each other,” Amber answers.

“Exactly. The plants create their own herbicides that kill off rival species. But it takes a while for one to win out.

“When you dig up the soil, you’re basically tilling it and creating a free-for-all for anything that wants to take seed there.”

Devon gets to the point. “So what is here?”

“Probably nothing. It was just a theory.”

“Let’s test it. You have a shovel?”

I never planned for this. “I don’t know if we should be digging here.” The thought that Chelsea could be under my feet is making me anxious.

Amber chimes in, “So, what? We’re going to go into the police station and tell them we found some pretty flowers? We might as well go home.”

“Give me your keys,” says Devon. “I’ll go get the shovel.”

I hand them over without much thought.

As he reaches the top of the hill, he shouts back, “See you later, sucker!”

I spin around. He shakes his head and laughs. “Whatever you two are gonna do, hurry it up.”

“He’s such an asshole,” Amber groans as she stares at the ground.

I think I can tell what she’s wondering—is my friend really down here?

Devon’s jackass behavior is because he’s nervous. For Amber, this could be vindication.

A sad vindication. For as long as people said she was full of shit, there was the possibility in her mind that they were right.

Chelsea could be out there having a great life.

If Amber is right . . . if I’m right . . . she’s rotting away beneath our feet.

I feel her shoulder touch mine. I awkwardly put a hand on it. I don’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend,” she whispers, probably thinking of her own loss, too.

“Me, too. I wish I’d known her better.”

“You guys are too slow. Or too quick,” Devon chides as he comes skidding down the hill with the shovel.

He sees the tears in Amber’s eyes and shuts up.

“Here?” he asks, pointing to the ground.

We step back. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s as good as any. It could be several feet down. We’ll probably need to dig a few different holes.”

He scoops up a pile of dirt, uprooting the plants. I examine the soil, trying to figure out how to tell if it’s been disturbed.

Devon tosses aside another pile. I grab a handful and start poking through it with my finger, looking for some clue. This could take forever.

He stops digging. “Want me to take over?” I ask.

I look up when Devon doesn’t answer. He’s staring at something. Amber steps up behind him, then suddenly puts her arms around his waist.

It only took three camping shovels of dirt in the very first place we decided to look.

Dirty, but as plain as could be, a bright blue coat is lying there.

Amber buries her head in Devon’s shoulder. I look up at him in disbelief. He covers his mouth and shakes his head.

“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”

I’m not sure which one of us said it. But I know we are all thinking it.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


REMNANTS

I remind myself that it’s just a blue piece of fabric we’re looking at. We don’t know that it’s a coat, let alone Chelsea’s.

“Is it her?” asks Amber, as if Devon and I have the answer.

Devon lowers the shovel and looks at me.

This was all theoretical until now. It’s a strange blend of the thrill of discovery and horror as the reality sinks in.

I came to Hudson Creek on little more than a lark, because of an educated guess based on the slimmest of data. My gut and MAAT thought that there was something here that fit the pattern of Juniper’s death.

Now I’m staring at what may be proof. The analytical part of my brain is exhilarated; the neurons that get pleasure when I solve a Sudoku are euphoric.

But is it what I think it is?

Is it Chelsea?

Devon nudges the coat with the tip of the shovel. “Should we dig it up?”

My first impulse is that we should go straight to the police. But with what? A photo of the coat on a phone?

Assuming we could convince them to come out here, something they weren’t too enthusiastic about before, what if it is just a piece of blue fabric?

I’ll look foolish.

There’s only one solution. “We have to see what’s under there.”

Devon begins to reach down to grab the coat. I clutch his wrist to stop him. “Hold up.” I’d done that more than once in the field or the lab when a careless student let their excitement get the better of them.

I take out a pair of latex gloves from my day pack and slip them on. I keep them around for dealing with specimens that could do me harm, or that I could kill through my touch.

I squat down and carefully grab the coat. If I had the proper tools, it would be better if we removed more dirt before pulling it free, in case it falls apart.

I slowly lift the fabric, and it begins to slide out of the dirt. It resists for a moment, and I get a nauseated feeling at the realization Chelsea could still be wearing it.

Gently, I pull back the coat a little more. A pungent odor wafts through the air.

Devon makes a choking noise as he turns away. Amber covers her mouth and steps back but doesn’t take her eyes off the hole.

I’ve encountered lots of dead things in the field, but this is probably the worst smell I’ve ever encountered.

I pull my shirt over my mouth and nose and lift the coat entirely free of the earth. It’s in tatters.

At first I think it’s just decomposing; then I notice five long gouges in the fabric.

Setting it aside, there’s something marble white underneath.

Using two fingers like a trowel, I scoop away the dirt and reveal a forearm, wrist, and fingers.

“Fuck,” Devon whispers.

I stare at the arm in silence, not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Keep digging? Confirm that it’s Chelsea? Make sure it’s not some elaborate prank?

No. This is proof enough. It has to be her.

My doubts seem silly to myself on one level, because what else could it be? But on another, a voice is telling me this can’t be real. It refuses to believe.

The excitement of being right is obliterated by the fact that things are so much darker than I could imagine.

“Hand me the shovel,” I say to Devon.

“Are you going to dig her out?” he asks.

“No. We’re going to cover her back up.” I take a garbage bag from my pack and lay it over the body, then start heaping dirt on it.

“Why are you burying her?” Amber asks through tears.

“Because we have to let the police do it. This is a crime scene.”

“Yes, but why are you burying her?”

“So the animals don’t get her,” Devon explains.

“We’ll put her coat in a bag and take it with us. But we have to protect this for now.”

Amber wipes her nose on the sleeve of her jacket. “Should we call 911?”

“We should drive Amber’s coat there,” says Devon. “Get Charlie to meet us at the station. It’ll be easier than explaining on the phone.”

I put the dirt back in place and drag a log over the grave. “This is to make it easier to mark and make it harder for any scavengers to find the body.”

Chelsea’s made it this long without being dug up, but now that we’ve disturbed the body and the scent of decaying flesh is spreading throughout the forest like blood in the water, animals from all around know there’s something here.

The light has begun to fade, and we’re less than an hour away from full darkness.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” says Amber.

I feel the same way. “You guys go back to the car. I’ll be there in a second, after I bag the coat.”

Devon gives me a nod, then escorts her up the hill.

After they’re out of sight, I bag the jacket, then grab the log they saw me put over the grave and drag it ten yards down the gully.

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