by Mia Sheridan
“Mr. Fairbanks,” Mark said, walking to the tall, broad-shouldered, older gentleman and extending his hand. “Agent Mark Gallagher. Thank you for seeing me.”
They shook, Mr. Fairbanks’s grip strong, his eyes assessing. “Agent Gallagher.”
“Please call me Mark.”
Mr. Fairbanks nodded as he turned, moving back to the bar cart. “Call me Halston and you’ve got a deal. I was just pouring myself a drink. It’s about happy hour, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled, large, straight white teeth flashing. “Join me?”
“No, sir, thank you.” It was only four o’clock and Mark didn’t drink on the job, but he figured this man was rich enough to designate happy hour to whatever time he chose.
“How long has your family lived here at Thornland?” Mark asked, as he heard ice dropping into a glass.
“It’s been in the Fairbanks family for four generations now. Almost one million acres of prime Montana land that stretches over six counties.” Mark knew that part because he’d looked it up before coming out there. He also knew that the Fairbanks family had earned their substantial wealth as one of the top ten lumber companies in the United States. The current CEO of Fairbanks Lumber turned, smiling, and swirling a crystal glass of amber liquid. “But I’m sure you’re not here to discuss Thornland. What is it I can do for you, Agent?” He inclined his head to a seating group and Mark took a seat in one of the blue velvet chairs, Halston sitting across from him as he took a sip from his glass.
“Mr.—Halston, I’m here because a woman was found dead in Helena Springs a little over two weeks ago, and I have reason to believe she contacted your office the day before she died.”
“Died?”
“Yes, sir.”
Halston Fairbanks regarded Mark over the rim of his glass, taking another small sip and then setting his glass aside. He let out a sigh. “Emily Barton.”
Mark was caught by surprise. “We don’t know the victim’s name yet. We recovered some prints but so far—”
“It was Emily Barton.” Halston sighed, rubbing at his eye. “How’d she die? Overdose?”
“No. It was a homicide.”
That seemed to surprise Halston, and for a moment he simply stared at Mark. “Murdered? Why?”
“We don’t know that yet.”
The color had drained from Halston’s face and for a second, he simply gaped before reaching for the glass again and downing the remaining liquid.
“We’re still gathering information about the victim and the crime. The name you supplied—if correct—will go a long way in helping us do that. Can you tell me how you knew her?”
Halston sat back in his chair, seeming to need a moment to gather himself. Mark gave it to him, glancing around the room, taking in the paneled walls, the rich drapes, the two groupings of luxurious furniture, the grand piano in the corner. He couldn’t imagine waking up every day in a place like this. It would feel like living in a museum.
“Emily Barton,” Halston mumbled. “She’s the woman who ruined my son’s life. And mine, though I own most of the blame for that.”
Mark leaned forward. “I think you need to tell me about Emily.”
Halston sighed, meeting Mark’s gaze. He looked weary suddenly, older than he’d first appeared. “My son, Hal Junior, took up with Emily Barton when he was barely eighteen years old, his whole life in front of him. I told him to cut her loose. She was pretty to look at, but trash is trash. I don’t know how many times I told him not to let some two-bit whore with dollar signs in her eyes trap him. The boy didn’t listen.” Halston paused, looking off into the past, his expression set, deep sadness in his eyes. “Wasn’t even six months before he knocked her up, the dumb fool. I offered her money to get the hell out of town. Told her she’d never get a dime otherwise. As expected, she took it.”
When Halston lapsed into silence again, Mark asked, “What’d you hope she would do with the baby?” Your grandchild. Your blood.
“At the time? I didn’t care as long as she didn’t give him or her our name. I wasn’t even convinced the baby was my son’s. Girls like that . . . well, anyway. Now? Time and circumstance change things, don’t they?” He paused and when he began speaking again, there was a hitch in his voice. “Hal never was quite the same after she skipped town. Fancied himself in love with her, I suppose. He’d dabbled in illegal substances, thanks to her, but when she disappeared without a word, he started the heavier stuff.” He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “He was killed in a high-speed drag race, heroin in his system.”
Mark took a deep breath, his heart going out to the man. “I’m sorry for your loss. I lost a daughter myself. I know the agony.”
Halston Fairbanks met his eyes, an understanding flashing between the two men who’d survived the un-survivable. Despite the difference in the way Mark would have handled the situation Halston Fairbanks spoke of, the loss of a child was something Mark wouldn’t wish upon anyone. He’d made the offer that drove Emily from town and perhaps led to his son’s spiral downward, but Emily Barton had accepted it.
But now? Halston Fairbanks looked like an old man filled with regret. “What’d she do with the baby?”
“I didn’t know until two weeks ago. Turns out the boy was less than an hour away from me his whole life. Emily gave him to a man who raised him off the grid, away from society. He grew up in the woods outside of Helena Springs.”
The boy. Raised off the grid. Mark sat in shock for a moment, digesting the information.
Lucas.
Holy Christ. Lucas had family. Lucas was a Fairbanks. The woman at the bed and breakfast with an arrow through her throat had been his mother. But if she gave him up for adoption—legally or not—why in the world had she opted to give him to Driscoll instead of a nice family in the suburbs? Had it simply been a matter of money? He flinched internally, picturing some of the unthinkable things he’d seen mothers do to their children for drugs over the span of his career.
Halston Fairbanks had just provided several answers, and ushered in a whole slew of new questions.
“Isaac Driscoll.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the name of the man whose property he’s living on. Although to say he ‘raised him,’ is a stretch. Lucas, that’s the name of your grandson, said he barely had a relationship with the man. And Isaac Driscoll was found dead a week after Emily Barton, murdered in the same manner.”
Again, Halston Fairbanks gaped, but then shook his head, released a loud whoosh of breath. “Can’t say I’m sorry.”
Mark understood that. Now that it was becoming clear that Driscoll had had far more to do with Lucas living alone in the woods the way he was, and that his motives were more than likely nefarious in some way Mark was still trying to figure out, he couldn’t muster much sympathy for the dead man either. Lucas was a different matter. Lucas had never been given a chance to live a normal life. But why?
“Today is the first time you’re hearing his name? You didn’t know anything about him prior to two weeks ago?”
He shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“Do you know what Emily’s connection to Driscoll might have been? Did she give you any indication why she’d given him her baby?”
“Because she was an addict. He probably paid her. Who knows?”
They were both silent for a moment, Mark attempting to piece together this new information. He was surprised that the victim’s fingerprints hadn’t gotten any hits. It was rare that a person with a lifetime of addiction—if Halston was correct—avoided at least a run-in or two with the law. She’d gotten lucky. On one front at least. “What did Emily want the night she called from Helena Springs?”
“Money. She always wanted money.”
Mark frowned. “Why did she think you’d give it to her?” His son was dead. It’d been two decades. What could she threaten him with?
“To make a life for her and the boy,” he said. “She’d burned through the money I’d given her originally, and
whatever money she might have made from the adoption, and had caved to her addiction again. She’d come back to town before, asked for money, but wouldn’t give me any information about the child then except that he’d been adopted. Two weeks ago she told me how he’d been raised—if you can call it that—in the woods like some goddamned animal. But not by whom.” The words had emerged through gritted teeth, the final one sounding choked. Halston Fairbanks dropped his head, taking several deep breaths, his shoulders quaking with the movement. “She said she’d caught a ride from a friend, and only had enough money to pay for a week’s stay in town, but not a dime more. It was my fault, she said, that things had turned out the way they had. It was because of me she’d been forced to make the choices she’d made. I’d backed her into a corner and now lives were ruined. She said she was back to right the wrongs, and I could do the same if I gave her and the boy enough to start a new life.” Mr. Fairbanks’s last word emerged on a broken whisper and Mark gave him a moment to compose himself.
After a minute, Mark asked, “Lucas is in his early twenties, if I’m doing the math correctly. Do you know why Emily wanted to set up a life for them now? Why she’d waited so long? He’s an adult.”
Halston shrugged. “Because in the past the girl couldn’t get clean. This time, she told me that she’d been clean for a year, though I didn’t believe her. Or if she was, it wouldn’t stick. As far as Lucas, he’s an adult, yes, but what prospects does he have to make a life for himself? The boy must be completely uncivilized.” He looked defeated, not like a man who’d built an empire.
“He’s not. I’ve met him. He’s . . . lived an unusual life, yes, but he’s no animal.”
Halston regarded Mark, something that looked like the bare glint of hope coming into his eyes.
“What’s the likelihood he’ll ever live a normal life?”
“Normal? I’d say it depends on your definition. I’m not a psychologist, Halston, and I can’t begin to guess what type of psychological harm came to him after the severe isolation he’s experienced. But he’s intelligent. He’s obviously a survivor. I’d hazard a guess that he could adapt to society if he chose to do so.”
Halston sighed, looking off to the side again, seeming to be deep in thought.
Mark leaned forward. “You regret rejecting your grandson? Letting Emily give him up for adoption?”
Halston Fairbanks pressed his lips together. “I acted hastily, with selfish motives in mind. I . . . don’t suppose he’ll ever really be one of us, but the least I can give him is his name. Whether he chooses to accept it is up to him. What does he go by now? Barton or Driscoll?”
“Neither. Only Lucas. He’s never had a last name. He’s been alone for a long time.”
Halston steepled his fingers and mumbled a curse under his breath.
“Along with a name, you think you might find it in you to give him a home too?”
Halston Fairbanks looked up, appearing surprised. “A home? Why? I was of the understanding that he has a home.”
“The cabin where he’s lived most of his life belonged to Isaac Driscoll and now belongs to a sister who is uncompromising about allowing Lucas to stay there.”
“I see.” He pressed his lips together, looking Mark in the eye. For several beats he said nothing and then, “If the boy will accept it, he has a home here at Thornland.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The white car he’d seen parked next to Driscoll’s house was gone, which meant Driscoll was too. Jak watched the house from the low light of the forest for a few minutes, making sure he didn’t see movement through one of the dusty windows. His gaze moved to the trees, squinting into the light as he looked close at those too, looking for that tiny flash of something that didn’t belong. He didn’t see it, but the day was overcast and cloudy and he wasn’t sure if he’d see a camera, even if one was there.
He’d have to take his chances.
He’d spent the last few days going over the things the redheaded woman had told him, the way she had made him feel, the questions she’d brought to his mind. He’d felt like she was lying to him, and he didn’t have enough understanding of the world to make sense of it. But he felt in his gut that it led to Isaac Driscoll.
Isaac Driscoll was the only one who gave information to Jak. Isaac Driscoll was the only one who explained what happened in the world outside the forest—what was safe, what was not, and who and what to stay away from. He’d given Jak shelter, fire, so he had no need to leave.
But what if Isaac Driscoll was crazy?
What if he was lying?
But why would he? Jak couldn’t figure out a reason, so he wondered if asking the question made him the crazy one. He didn’t think so.
He’d thought about trying to walk into town, into the faraway, however many days or weeks that might take. His old fear about the enemy killing children could be behind him now. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was a man. His body was hard and muscled. He knew how to use a weapon. He could fight. He could kill if he had to.
Whenever he’d had the thought before, he’d always talked himself away from it. Even though he was lonely, he’d found some peace in his life, and there didn’t seem like there was a good reason to walk away from everything he knew into a war. He still fought and struggled because there was nothing you could always count on about nature, but he’d learned to get ready for the winters as best as he could, and he was the master of his small world. Why risk it?
But now . . .
Now things had changed and Jak had to know.
He moved quickly from one tree to the next, a wolf in the shadows, as he kept looking for cameras or anything else that might not belong, something he’d never looked for when he’d gone to see Driscoll before. After he’d watched the house for a time, he put on his flat shoes and walked out into the snow like he’d come to trade something or another. He didn’t think Driscoll was home, but he’d rather be sure before breaking in.
In the bag hung on his back, he had a hat made from soft rabbit fur that he’d tell Driscoll he wanted to trade for matches if the man was home.
He stepped sideways as he walked up the steps, not removing his flat shoes so he wouldn’t make any footprints. He knocked on the door, his gloved hands making the sound soft, but not enough so Driscoll wouldn’t hear if he was inside. Jak waited a minute before knocking again to be sure. When there was still no answer, he tried the handle but it was locked. He stood there for a minute, trying to figure out a way to open the door, other than breaking it down. Unsure, he stepped carefully down the steps and walked around the side of the house, trying each window along the way. The second window on the side slid up when he pushed hard. “Yes,” he murmured. He untied the flat shoes and left them on the ground. In a minute, Jak was standing in Driscoll’s living room.
He walked through the room, not making a sound. Jak knew how to be silent, quick. His life depended on it. There was no one in the main room, and the kitchen area was empty. Jak blew out a breath and started looking around. Things looked the way they always had when he’d been there to trade. Except . . . he spotted a pile of notebooks on a small table next to the one chair. He opened the one on top and a pile of pictures fell out, dropping to the floor. Jak began taking his deerskin gloves off when he stopped, the face looking up at him from right next to his foot . . . familiar. He’d seen it before, staring back at him from a clear patch of water. And he knew the clothes. He was wearing them now. Shocked, he reached for the picture, turning a few of the others over and freezing when he saw that they were all of him.
He stood slowly, looking through the pictures, insects starting to buzz in his head as his skin got cold. In one he was dragging a deer through the forest, a long trail of blood left behind it, in another he was sitting on a rock on the riverbank taking off scales from a fish. He went through them faster, blinking. They went back to when he was just a young boy, still in the same jeans he’d been wearing the night he was taken and woke up on the edge of the cli
ff. Pup was in most. Driscoll had known he wasn’t wild. He’d known he belonged to Jak. He’d killed him on purpose.
Jak gripped the pictures, deep confusion and anger rocking through him. He set them aside and started reading the journal on the top of the pile . . . about a possum and a deer, and a wolf. All the journals were the same. He read a few of the entries, a lump filling his throat. He stuck the pictures in his pocket—they were his, proof of everything he’d done to survive. Looking at them brought him back to those times and made him feel dizzy. Sick.
He put the journals back where they’d been, and then stood, holding his hair in his hands. Driscoll had watched. He’d watched and he hadn’t helped. He felt a howl rising in his throat but he swallowed it down, made himself stand still instead of tearing the house to shreds, to break furniture, to—
He heard a noise from the bedroom and went into a crouch, a low growl coming from his throat, too soft for anyone to hear. He turned his head so his ears faced up, sniffed the air.
He let out a slow breath. Just a tapping bird in the near faraway.
He stood slowly, walked to the bedroom on legs that felt stiff like tree trunks. The room was empty. Jak moved to the dresser, pulling drawers open, looking for what, he didn’t know. He opened the drawer of the table by the bed. There was a piece of paper with some shapes drawn on it . . . three squares, two Xs, a wavy line and a word at the bottom he didn’t know. He thought he knew what the drawing might be, but he didn’t think more about it right then, even though that sickness rose in his throat.
There was a small piece of paper next to the map that had the name Peg’s Diner at the top. It listed eggs and bacon and had a price next to each thing. Peg’s Diner? Were food places open during wars?
Jak didn’t think so.
He shut the drawer so hard the small table almost fell over.
He looked around the room, trying to understand something when he saw the picture over Driscoll’s dresser, the one he’d gone on and on about. Jak remembered his eyes, and how they’d been filled with so much . . . excitement. He walked toward it slowly, standing in front of it, a man now, when the last time he’d seen it, he’d been a boy, not much taller than the dresser.