by Mia Sheridan
In all of them.
Oh God.
What is this?
Harper swallowed, cold dread seeping through her.
Several kerosene lanterns hung from rafters and she stepped slowly toward the closest one, switching it on, brightening the space. She felt like she was in a dream, a nightmare, as she looked from one photo to another, her throat closing.
One was of Jak—for it had to be him, all of them seemed to be—as a small child, tears streaked down his dirty face, sitting on the snowy riverbank, his arms wrapped around his skinny legs. He was shivering. She could tell just by looking at it and her heart cried out. She couldn’t save him. He’d already saved himself. Had no choice even though a man had sat photographing his misery, not lifting a hand. The evil nearly brought her to her knees. What sort of person could do this? How?
There were other photos, hundreds, pictures of Jak biting into a bloody, fur-covered rabbit, his face gaunt, no more than ten. She cringed, looking away. How hungry, how desperate, had he been to bite into a fur-covered animal?
On the back wall were a series of pictures and she stopped in front of them. Hot tears were streaking down her cheeks. Her heart leapt with horror when she saw that Jak wasn’t alone in this series of photos. He was fighting a blond boy, who was skinny and obviously starving, sickly, and . . . deranged looking. There was a dead deer in the middle of them and she wondered if that’s why they had battled. Each photo was worse than the one before it, each scene like a movie she wanted to look away from but could not. And the end . . . she sobbed when she looked upon the photo of Jak, a wolf—was it his beloved Pup?—over his shoulder, the deer being dragged behind him, the dead boy lying in a pool of blood in the snow. The expression on Jak’s face . . . utter devastation.
Oh God. It was too awful to bear. Had Jak killed the two children in those graves? Another sob came up her throat and now she was outright crying.
She turned away, in a fog, spotting a bow and arrow leaning against the wall in the corner, one arrow clearly missing from its spot. She shook her head. Too much, too much. This was Driscoll’s secret place. That was Driscoll’s bow and arrow. Had Driscoll killed the woman? Jak’s mother? Her mind spun.
There was a laptop on the desk but of course, the battery was dead. She wondered what horrors were contained on that small device and shuddered. A recorder lay next to the laptop and she pressed the button, expecting that to be dead too, and startled when a man’s voice began speaking.
“The possum is out today, crying in the snow, snot all over his face, eating clumps of grass and then throwing them up.” Her chest tightened with sorrow. She pressed fast forward, in a daze, a horror-filled daze. “The young buck seems to have made an appearance, gaining confidence yet still wary. He was wearing a new coat today. He’s learning. Adapting. Although I still see the possum far more than I’d like.”
Her finger pressed fast-forward again.
“That’s it. There’s the wolf,” the man’s voice said excitedly, and Harper could only imagine what he was watching. She clenched her eyes shut. “There’s the Spartan. The soldier. The beast of all beasts. The savage.” He whooped softly and she could hear the pride contained in that sound. It disgusted her.
She pressed stop on the recorder, unable to hear anymore. Her heart was shattered. How had Jak survived this? How was he so gentle and warm and loving . . . despite this? He was no savage. Far from it. He was the one who had been savaged by cruelty and evil.
When Agent Gallagher stepped inside, his eyes darting around, his face etched in shock, she was sobbing.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jak stepped onto Driscoll’s porch, his heart beating quickly like the flutter-fast wings of a hummingbird. He swung his bow and arrow higher up on his shoulder. I’m going to kill him. His knock echoed, ringing into the snowy air, wind snatching it up and tossing it away. But Driscoll’s car was there, and there were footprints going up his steps. He tried the doorknob and it turned in his gloved hand. Surprise made him pause.
Yes, he was going to kill Driscoll. But first, he needed answers. He needed to know why Driscoll had lied to him about the war. Why he’d given him a house and kept him out there in the faraway wilderness, alone for all his life.
Why he’d killed Pup. Taken his only friend from him. His throat felt tight. He pulled in a quick breath.
If Driscoll wasn’t home, he’d wait for him. The door creaked as it opened and the whispers hummed inside him. He took off his flat shoes and left them by the door. His hair stood up and he knew something was wrong . . . different. He sniffed the air and smelled . . . blood. Fear. Coming death. And below that, the scent of a strange campfire, something Driscoll had burned using wood Jak had never smelled before. Strong. Ashy.
His ears pricked up and he listened for a minute before stepping forward, into the almost-dark room.
The smell of blood grew stronger and he pressed himself against the wall, following it, crouching, going up on his toes, light-footed.
He heard a groan from the bedroom and moved toward it. Slow. Slow. Silent. The way he did when he moved through the forest, a deer in his sight, the arrow drawn back in his hand. He peeked around the corner, his heart slamming between his ribs, his eyes trying to understand what he saw.
Driscoll was pressed to the wall, an arrow through his chest, a lake of blood at his feet. Jak stepped into the doorway and Driscoll’s head lifted. “Jak,” he croaked. “Help me.”
He took another step inside the room, looking around for an enemy. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know him . . . tall . . . man.” His breath made a high groaning sound and his face screwed up.
“You lied to me,” Jak said. “You betrayed me.”
Driscoll ignored him. “Please. Help me. You can’t move me from this wall . . . will make it . . . worse for me. Just . . . my phone.” Jak looked at the dresser where he saw the small black thing Driscoll wanted him to hand to him. He paused. Why should I help this man? He looked back at Driscoll who was watching him. Anger came into his eyes and they bugged from his head like a green slimy frog. “If you don’t help me, they’ll lock you in a cell! In a cage like an animal! You killed, Jak. They won’t understand. And if you let me die, it will be even worse for you.”
Jak’s head pounded, hatred for the man flaming like fire. He should walk out. He should let him die. He had planned to kill him himself. He was a liar and a cheat. He was one of the enemies. He’d killed Pup, and Jak wanted vengeance.
Driscoll’s shoulder’s drooped. He made a strange jerky move, and blood came from his mouth “Please . . . my phone. I’m sorry you suffered just . . . hand me my phone.”
Jak paused for another minute, the whispers growing loud within him, drowning out his hate even though he tried to hold it tight. The woman’s voice rose up, above the whispers. Let it go. He knew her . . . her words . . . the things she would say to him. He heard her in his mind. Let it go.
On legs that didn’t feel like his own, he walked to the dresser, picking up the object and moving slowly toward Driscoll, stepping around the puddle of blood and holding the phone out to him. He took it, pressing on it for a second. Jak stepped back and Driscoll looked up, their eyes meeting for a moment. More blood came from Driscoll’s mouth. His eyes grew soft. “To see you,” he whispered, “a wolf over your shoulder and . . . dragging a deer behind you, the body of your enemy lying dead in the snow.” More blood. A gurgle as if a river flowed in his chest, moving, bubbling. “It was a marvel. And only twelve years old.” He laughed and blood splattered. Red rained on his shirt. “I knew . . . then. That moment . . . you were a warrior of another era, worthy . . . of the Spartans. You . . . surpassed . . . all . . .” He straightened his neck, seeming to use the last of his strength. He brought his hand to his forehead and made a salute to Jak. Then a whistle sound came from his mouth and his breath halted as his head dropped, the phone in his other hand splashing into the blood on the floor.
&nb
sp; Jak stood there for a minute, the whispers quieting, drifting away. Jak was alone. He turned, walking from the room, closing the front door behind him.
It was snowing. Soft, fluffy flakes. He put on his flat shoes and walked toward the trees on the other side of Driscoll’s house. More footsteps in the snow, ones that went to the side window and disappeared. Jak’s heart beat quickly. The snow was already filling them in. Soon they’d be gone. Jak raised his head and sniffed the air. The snow would stop soon, though there was more, high in the sky. He stepped forward, his eyes to the gray horizon, reminding himself that sometime in the near faraway, deep beneath the frozen earth, spring would begin to stir.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Where is she? Jak’s heart thumped nervously as he looked out the window for the hundredth time, hoping to see her truck pulling through the gate, but the gate was still closed.
He walked down the stairs and into the foyer where Nigel appeared as Jak had hoped he would, though he still couldn’t figure out how he did that. Jak would say he was like a wolf and could smell people as they got near, but the man didn’t have the feel of a wolf. He definitely had the feel of something slinkier. “Did I miss any calls?”
He cleared his throat. “No, sir. Not in the last twenty minutes.”
He narrowed his eyes sensing the man was using . . . sarcasm. He’d learned that word today from one of his books, learned the meaning. But his books hadn’t said that some people used sarcasm to make people feel bad about themselves. Slinky.
He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose. He smelled slinky too. Oily. “How do you see people before they come into a room?”
Nigel lifted his nose like he was smelling something but didn’t inhale. “The cameras, sir.”
Cameras. Jak’s heart dropped to his feet. “Cameras?”
“Yes, sir. There are cameras in the rooms so the staff knows where the family may need service.”
A buzzing had started in Jak’s ears, like the cicadas—he’d learned the name of those insects that buzzed and sang in the trees, filling the forest with their noise, but only every seventeen years. They’d only come out once but Jak remembered them—the whole forest had vibrated from their mating.
Jak turned from Nigel, walking toward the library, glancing up now and again, trying to spot the cameras.
He was being watched. Again.
He closed the large door behind him, standing against it for a minute as he fought to catch his breath. He felt . . . he didn’t know the word. There were still so many words he didn’t know. He walked to the table, picking up the dictionary and leafing through it like he might stumble upon the right word to tell him how he was feeling.
The door clicked. He smelled her before he saw her. The bird woman. She smiled at him and closed the door behind her.
“Jak,” she purred. She was always purring, like a cat. But cats hated birds. Maybe that’s why she liked to hear them cry. She came toward him, and he wanted to back away but held his ground, that slight cicada buzzing growing louder in his ears again.
She ran her bird talons down his chest, licking her lips and looking up at him. “Oh, the things I could teach you, Jak.” She unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, then the second.
He understood what she wanted. She was going to get naked like the redheaded woman and offer her body to Jak, though he’d done nothing to try to earn it. He stepped away and her hand dropped from his chest. “I have a woman.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t like a laugh. More like the sound a coyote made right before it attacked something. Her tongue clicked and she moved closer again. “Big man like you?” She looked down, her eyes stopping between his legs and then raising to his face. “One woman can’t be enough.”
“You’re wrong.”
“So sweet,” she purred. “But I wouldn’t stop you like she did. I’d let you do whatever you wanted. Would you like that? Hmm?” She reached down, rubbing her hand over his manhood, grasping him. He hissed with surprise.
I wouldn’t stop you like she did.
She’d watched them? Him and Harper. Right there. He looked up, searching for the camera and spotting it in the far corner of the ceiling. His blood boiled and a groan came up his throat. He’d felt safe there.
“Oh yess,” she purred, rubbing him harder.
He took her by her arms and pushed her away. She stumbled backward, catching herself. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he growled.
Her eyes filled with anger, her cheeks getting red. She stepped toward him, her mouth opening to speak when a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Jak called, trying to cool the hot anger in his blood, the feeling of . . . betrayal. He took a deep breath, letting it flow through his body.
The door opened and Nigel entered. “Agent Gallagher is here to see you, sir.”
Jak didn’t look at the cat-pretend-bird lady as he said, “Tell him I’m in here.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lift her shoulders and then her back was to him as she walked out. The room still held her smell. It made him feel . . . disgust.
Agent Gallagher entered and Jak sunk onto the edge of the table, letting it hold his weight for a moment. “Jak,” he said, a strange look on his face. A mixture of sadness and . . . something else.
He straightened up, offering the agent his hand. They shook.
“Can we sit down?” the agent asked. Jak nodded, his heart beating faster.
“Is Harper okay?”
“Harper’s fine. She was with me this morning. I just dropped her at home. This isn’t about her.”
Jak frowned. Why had she gone with the agent instead of picking him up like she said she would? Something was wrong.
They sat in two chairs near the stone fireplace and Agent Gallagher leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “We did another search of Isaac Driscoll’s land, Jak.”
“Okay,” he said slowly.
“We found two bodies, both children, though of different ages.”
Jak’s blood turned icy. He didn’t move.
The agent sat back, letting out a deep sigh. “We also found an old mine shaft that Isaac Driscoll used to store his . . . work.”
The buzzing again. Louder. In his head. Under his skin. Everywhere.
“We found the pictures, Jak. And video recordings . . . of you. They begin when you’re very young and continue until Driscoll was killed.”
Jak’s stomach knotted. He couldn’t speak.
“We also found the bow and arrow that we believe was used to kill your mother. We found pictures of her from town, and her purse too with her ID. It looks like he was following her.”
Driscoll. Driscoll had killed his mother. It should make him angry, full of . . . rage. But he couldn’t feel anything. Why?
“We believe Driscoll found out somehow that she’d interfered with what he was doing, that she planned to tell you the truth, or maybe she told him of her plans herself, confronted him, and he went to her room at the bed and breakfast and killed her.”
Silence. Jak took in the words. He’d go over them later, try to feel something about them.
“I need you to tell me about the other kids, Jak,” Agent Gallagher said, and there was only sadness in his face. And . . . disappointment. Deep shame rolled through Jak. Cold sickness.
“Did Harper see?” he finally choked out. Does Harper know what I did? What I am?
Agent Gallagher studied him for a second, his expression still sad. “Yes. Harper saw the pictures. She found the mine shaft.”
Jak let out a sound that was like a dying animal.
“Jak,” Agent Gallagher sat forward. “I need to know what happened. What really happened.”
Numbness swept through him and he sagged back in the chair, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. When he opened them, he said, “It happened the way I said, only there were three boys with me. One died in the fall, I pushed another one to a ledge, but he probably died too. I killed the third one. But that was la
ter. We fought over food. I tried—”
“I saw the video, Jak.”
Jak’s eyes moved slowly to the agent’s face. He couldn’t tell what was there, but he could imagine what the man was thinking. Beast. Animal. Killer.
Video. Video was moving pictures. There was video of Jak stabbing that boy and leaving his body in the snow. Sickness moved up his throat and with effort, he swallowed it down.
“Do you have any idea who those boys were?”
Jak shook his head, but slowly. “No. I don’t know anything about them.”
Silence for a minute and then Agent Gallagher said, “We think the boy you . . . fought . . . lived under Isaac Driscoll’s porch for a while. There were notes about a rat living under his porch and stealing his food, his knife. He talked about setting up a test. We think he set up that fight between you both to see what you’d do.”
Numbness. Buzzing. Sickness. Swallow it down, swallow it down.
“Jak—”
“Why did he do it? Take me. Watch me . . .” It was the same question he’d battled with since he saw the photos from Driscoll’s cabin. Why? Why me? He was filled with anger and he didn’t know what words to use.
Agent Gallagher’s jaw tightened. “We think he was doing observational experiments. At first, they were mostly about survival, strength, fortitude. We believe he meant the house you lived in to house all of you, but you were the only one who survived. His notes indicate he was planning on more specific studies on you using contrived situations, actors . . .”
“I don’t understand all those words,” he admitted, his head swimming. He didn’t like to say that, but he needed to understand.
“I’m sorry, Jak. I think Driscoll was going to use people to pretend they were someone they were not, and watch how you reacted.”
“The redheaded woman,” Jak said. His voice sounded as dead as he felt.
Agent Gallagher nodded. “Yes,” he said and his voice broke just a little. Was he sad? Disgusted? Both, Jak thought. “We saw the notes on that, the video . . .”