Savaged

by Mia Sheridan

  Or killed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jak’s teeth were chattering so hard he thought they might crack. He pulled his legs closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, trying to curl into every tiny bit of heat his body was making.

  He knew he had to move. He had to get dry. He had to . . . Tears filled his eyes, then moved down his cheeks, freezing over his icy skin. He wiped at them, making himself sit up. Live! he’d told the dark-haired boy as he’d flung him up on that small ledge. He’d demanded it, because only one of them could have that ledge—that chance—and if the boy he gave it to died anyway, then it was wasted.

  I should have taken it for myself.

  But even though the thought flashed in his mind, it didn’t feel true. He’d somehow survived the fall by grabbing another piece of branch sticking from the side of the slope. There hadn’t been a ledge or anything for him to climb onto and he’d quickly lost his hold. But that branch had been closer to the ground and when he’d landed in a deep pile of snow, it hadn’t been with as much speed, though it had still knocked the wind from his lungs anyway, and he’d had to fight his way out of the icy hole his fall had made.

  One of the other boys had been lying nearby, both legs twisted in different directions, and Jak had rushed to him, shaking and panting as he turned the boy over. But he could see right away that he was dead. His face was bloody and beaten, his gaze forever staring at the stars above. Jak had cried out, jumped back, and rushed as fast as he could to get away. Away, away.

  Because he didn’t know how long he had before someone came after him.

  He’d made it to a group of trees close by, out of breath, soaking wet, his shoulder hurting bad, and he was so scared that whoever the man had been at the top of that cliff, was on his way down to find him.

  Did he know that Jak had lived? That the dark-haired boy might have too? And what happened to the blond one? Jak hadn’t seen any trace of him at the bottom of that cliff, but he must be dead too. Buried under snow, his limbs twisted grossly like the other dead boy’s.

  Help me, someone. Anyone. Please, he begged in the quiet of his mind. But no one was listening, except the silent moon hanging in the nighttime sky.

  Jak tripped through the forest, his shivering getting more, his eyes starting to blur around the edges. The strength he’d felt had drained out from him, making his muscles feel loose and filled with water. He ran anyway, stumbling, on and on until his legs had no feeling. Heat filled his bones, moving up, shooting flames through his chest. He was suddenly burning hot. Too hot. And thirsty. He bent down and scooped up some snow, bringing it to his mouth and eating it as he moved deeper into the darkness.

  So hot. So hot. The world started to tilt. He took off his jacket, dropping it in the snow and moving forward. He tripped over something under the snow he couldn’t see, picking himself up and falling forward. I will not die, I will not die. But his thoughts felt slow again, the same way they had at the top of that cliff. At the thought of that terrifying fall—that man with the loud deep voice—he pushed forward again, his strength getting less. So hot, so hotsohotsohot. With the last of his strength, he pulled off his jeans and his sweatshirt, leaving them in the snow.

  His head swam and he tripped, falling to the ground with a crunch of ice and cry of pain, sharp needles sticking into every part of his naked skin. He reached a hand forward and felt nothing. He tumbled into it, rolling, falling, somewhere small and dark and soft where the cold and the wind couldn’t find him.

  Will you die today?

  No, he tried to yell. Live! But the words died on his lips as the world around him disappeared.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Offered up her services? Which ones exactly? “Dwayne, what do I have to offer in a murder investigation?”

  “No one’s asking you to be a police officer. Although I’m sure some of it is in your blood.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “What we really need is someone who knows the area very well and owns a four-wheel-drive vehicle. That’s you. You’ll meet the agent who’s been sent in. Nice guy it seems. New at the department and get this—a native Californian. The guy showed up wearing so much winter gear, he was walking like the Michelin Man, and asked me how to de-ice his windshield.” Dwayne laughed and Harper smiled at the image of the unknown agent. “He’s over at the Larkspur now, but he’ll be back soon, and he’ll let you know what he needs.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them and without waiting for an answer, Keri stuck her head in. “Dwayne, line one for you. Bob Elders from Missoula.”

  Dwayne’s lips thinned. “Thanks, Keri.” He looked at Harper. “I gotta take this. Do you mind waiting in here for the agent? Mark Gallagher’s his name.”

  Harper gave a distracted nod as Dwayne left the room. She hadn’t decided if she would help out on this case. Something about it felt . . . risky in some personal way. She was sure it had to do with the fact that her dad had worked in this very building for so many years . . . she could practically feel him there, smell the aftershave he’d worn, hear his laugh . . .

  Suddenly weary, she sat in one of the chairs at the table, glancing at the dark screen. Her attention was pulled by the thought of the man sitting alone in the cell, and she was grateful for the shift in focus. The soft sound of her fingers drumming on the table filled the room as she wondered what he was doing right then. Still sitting there? What else would he be doing, Harper? Was Dwayne right when he said the man hadn’t seen a car before? Curiosity needled her, the fact that he might be a killer—one who had a penchant for nailing his victims to walls with sharpened arrows—not enough to douse that particular sensation. Apparently.

  She drummed at the table for a few minutes longer, then fiddled with her hands, bit at her lip, looked over at the door, and hesitated only another moment before she stood quickly and walked to the monitor. It came on with a click, the view of the small cell where the man still sat blinking to life. He was in the exact same position as before. In fact, it appeared as though he hadn’t moved a muscle.

  For a solid minute, Harper simply watched him as he sat on the bench in the other room, still and unmoving. Through the anonymity of the screen, she allowed her eyes to roam freely over him—from his unruly hair down to his strange footwear. He was lean but muscular. Solid. He’d have the strength to shoot an arrow straight through a body. He was big. And strong. And wild looking.

  Caveman, indeed.

  She could see this man fighting wildebeest. And winning.

  Who are you?

  Her eyes moved to his hands, resting on his thighs. They were large, and even through the monitor she could see they had numerous scars. He had the hands of a . . . warrior, scarred and supremely masculine, and Harper wanted to study them, as though they were a work of art. They were . . . brutally beautiful in a way she’d never before seen. And she couldn’t help wondering what he’d done with those hands to cause so many injuries.

  A tremor went through her, not born entirely of fear. But she sucked in a surprised breath when he suddenly turned his face to the camera like he’d done before, his eyes seeming to study hers. She felt her face flush as she looked away and then almost laughed at herself. He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see anyone—he was simply looking up at the blinking eye of a camera. She stepped closer, studying his expression. There was something in his eyes . . . bitterness if she wasn’t mistaken. But . . . why? If he didn’t know what a vehicle was, how in the world would this man know that the flashing red light he could see would enable someone else to watch him? And even if he did, why would it cause that fiery intensity on his face? She tilted her head, studying him intently. He stared back as though he could feel her on the other side of the camera. Silly, of course. She knew that and yet the feeling persisted. His eyes were piercing as he stared at the piece of equipment high up on the wall in the room he occupied, and . . . there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence in his gaze. Caveman maybe. But no brainless Neanderthal.

  Though
ts were whizzing through his brain. She could see it. Perplexity. Confusion. Anger. So many emotions.

  He looked away, facing forward again—expression suddenly blank—as if he’d heard her thought and refused to accept that she could see what he hid. Or tried to. It didn’t stop her though. She leaned closer. From this angle, she could see a scar arcing down the side of his face under his right cheekbone. It was slight and mostly faded, but it called attention to the sharp lines of his bone structure. And . . . yes, his expression was blank now, but there was a war being waged behind his eyes. She recognized it as someone who had perfected the art of stoicism. Don’t react. Don’t let them see your fear. Don’t let them know you care.

  Harper felt a surprising jolt of empathy, but then chastised herself internally. She was creating a narrative about the man based on her own experience, not his. She really knew nothing about him. Although . . . if he was only a “person of interest” as Dwayne had said, was it ethical to keep him sitting in that cell? If all he’d done was have the bad timing of stumbling in front of a police vehicle and they weren’t charging him with anything, he had the right to leave. Would he know it? Had they even told him that?

  The door opened, startling her from her voyeurism and the questions running rampant through her mind. She blushed again, turning off the monitor, but not before Dwayne and the older man entering the room had seen what she was doing.

  The man who must be the agent extended his hand and Harper took it as Dwayne came to stand next to them.

  “Mark Gallagher, this is Harper Ward. Mark, Harper knows why you’re here. Harper is our local wilderness guide, slash psychologist.”

  Harper let go of Mark Gallagher’s hand, and gave Dwayne an exasperated look. “The first is true. But Dwayne, I’m not a psychologist, and you know it.” She gave him another stern look, but he didn’t look the least bit contrite. She breathed out a sigh and gave Mark Gallagher a small, embarrassed smile. “I work part-time at a group home.”

  “And you’re taking some classes in Missoula, aren’t you?” Dwayne asked.

  “I haven’t signed up for those yet,” Harper said, feeling like a complete loser. The accomplishments Dwayne had obviously listed under her name were dwindling by the moment.

  Dwayne winked at her. “Well, closest we got. And it’s mostly your knowledge of the area that Mark needs. And that truck you have. Now, I’ve got to make a couple of calls, but you and Mark chat and then you can let him know if you’re available.”

  “Okay.”

  The sheriff left the room, and Mark Gallagher nodded to the table where they both took a seat across from each other.

  The agent took a notebook and a pen from his coat pocket and began flipping through it while Harper took that moment to study him. He was older, probably in his fifties, but he was still fit and very much an attractive man with a full head of salt and pepper hair, trimmed short, and a sort of . . . capability about him. A competence few men carried. He was the type of man who would always take charge during an emergency situation, and he’d remain calm while doing so. He was the type of man you’d naturally turn to if you were having a problem. He seemed like . . . like her dad had been. She recognized that quality in him because she’d experienced it in her father. And because of that, her comfort level increased immediately.

  “Dwayne tells me your father was the sheriff here before him.”

  For a moment Harper simply stared at him, the question taking her by surprise after she’d just literally been thinking about her dad. She gave herself an internal shake and cleared her throat. “Yes. He . . . he was. For a short time.”

  Mark Gallagher paused for a beat before nodding. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Harper’s eyes darted away. She wasn’t used to speaking about her parents and especially not with strangers. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

  “Time can be relative.”

  She nodded and looked away. When she returned her eyes to him, he looked down to his notebook, tapping the pen on the cover.

  “Dwayne also says you grew up in this area, and that you know every nook and cranny of the surrounding wilderness.”

  Harper blew out a breath. Dwayne apparently had said quite a bit. “I did grow up here. I moved to Missoula when I was seven, but spent summers here when I was in high school, and then moved back four years ago. Since then, I’ve spent practically every day in the wilderness, nine months out of the year. I’m very familiar with the area. But there’s no way any one person could know every inch of the wilderness surrounding Helena Springs. It’s vast, and it’s extremely harsh in winter—deadly even . . .” Unexpectedly, her breath hitched. Deadly even. Yes, she should know. She’d lost both her parents in that unforgiving terrain. She shook off the emotion, surprised that it’d gripped her so suddenly. Time can be relative. Yes, and who knew that better than she did? She still grappled with their loss well over a decade later. But she rarely lost control of her emotions, and especially not in front of a perfect stranger. She cleared her throat, annoyed with herself. “But I’m very familiar with quite a bit of it, depending on what you’re looking for and where you’re looking.”

  Mark Gallagher leaned back in his chair. “That might be the difficult part. We’re not quite sure what we’re looking for, other than someone adept with a bow and arrow. Although there were some unusual things found at the second crime scene that might prove helpful. I’m assuming Dwayne filled you in on the basics about the two crimes?”

  Harper nodded. “Yes. I’ve got the basics.”

  Agent Gallagher leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Good. Mostly, I need someone who can get me out there, and you seem to be just that person.” Before she could reply, he went on. “You’d be paid as a consultant to the case. Reimbursed for your mileage and any other expenses.”

  Harper bit at her lip. She could use the money. She could always use the money. Still, she’d never imagined she would be a consultant to anyone, much less someone trying to solve two grisly crimes. “How long do you think you’ll be here?” She had no idea how crime solving worked, despite that her father had made his livelihood in the field. But she’d been so young when he died. And anyway, then, or now, crimes simply didn’t occur in Helena Springs. In fact, the last time she could remember a crime that had been remotely similar to this one was when Lyle Fredericks beat his wife half to death and then used his shotgun on himself. His wife, Samantha, had survived, but she’d left town to live with her cousin—and to escape being “the woman whose husband almost beat to death before committing suicide.” Labels were difficult to get away from in a small town.

  Of course, what had happened to her parents, what had happened to her, had been an accident, not a crime. Still, she’d heard the whispers, knew the labels she wore.

  That poor thing.

  Orphan.

  “Depends. Might be three days, might be three months. There’s no way to say at this point in the investigation. I’m here to do my very best to find justice for the two victims. Or at least, answers.” He paused, studying her in that way that made her feel slightly itchy. “If you agree to help, you’ll need to keep any information quiet. Like I said, I’ll need your help canvassing some of the area, and I may have a question or two pertaining to the case, and so you’ll be privy to things I’d prefer aren’t discussed openly.”

  Harper nodded. “Of course. I understand. I’m a vault.”

  Agent Gallagher chuckled. “Okay, good. Then what do you say?”

  What do you say? Why did she have this feeling in her gut that getting involved—even as a glorified chauffer—was going to matter in some way she couldn’t possibly know right then? The picture of the man with the fiery eyes sitting one room over flashed in her mind, as did the terrain she’d be driving this stranger in front of her into. This man who seemed capable, yes, but was used to sunny skies and sandy beaches, not frigid canyons and frozen rivers.

  She wasn’t out there as much herself during the cold sea
son. For one, there were fewer clients who wanted to venture into the wild tundra to freeze their asses off, and two, it would be foolish to carry on her personal search during the snowy months when what she was looking for would be piled under a mound of icy white. She paused for another brief second, resolve filling her. “I’ll do it.”

  Agent Gallagher’s lips tipped. “Great. Can you start now? I need to get out to that second crime scene, Harper. If I may call you Harper?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I need to take a few minutes to ask the man in the next room some questions. I’ll be quick. I imagine he’s ready to get home.”

  She nodded, and Agent Gallagher left the room, headed toward the “wild man.” No, Lucas. His name is Lucas. And his home is in the middle of nowhere.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Unhappy smells. Old sweat, tears, fear. The stink of human urine. And over that, something sharp and strong that Lucas could not name. Unnatural.

  He hadn’t been paying enough attention, his thoughts flying like the whipping snowflakes all around him. And then there had been the truck where a truck had never been before. The big machine that roared and rumbled and left deep tracks in the snow. But he hadn’t run. Hadn’t fought. Because he’d wanted to see the man who drove it. Up close. Wanted to know if he might be a friend, or if he was an enemy.