“I didn’t then. I still don’t. I know that Driscoll was . . . in on it somehow, but he wasn’t the man on the cliff. Driscoll told me there was a war.”
“A war?” Agent Gallagher asked, and Harper seemed to lose more color.
Jak looked away from her. He hated the look on her face—unbelieving. He didn’t know if she couldn’t believe what was done to him, or if she couldn’t believe he’d fallen for it. Maybe he didn’t want to know. For the first time since he’d started talking, he wasn’t sure he should go on. But there didn’t seem to be a way to go back now.
“Jak,” Agent Gallagher said and Jak looked at the man instead of Harper. That made it easier. He wanted so much for her to think good things of him. But he didn’t want her to leave either. He wanted her to know him, to understand him.
Maybe not all. Not that wild part he kept hidden inside. The part that had come out when he was starving and suffering, the part that he never wanted to come out ever again. But most. As much as he could let her and still have her want him.
Jak told the agent about Isaac Driscoll, about the war, about the enemy and what had kept Jak alone all this time.
“Do you know why he would do tha
t? Lie to you that way?”
Jak shook his head, the anger rising like a wave. “No. He was watching me though. There were cameras in the trees.”
“Cameras?” Agent Gallagher leaned forward, putting his hands on the table. “Where?”
“I can’t see them anymore. They’re gone. I think Driscoll took them down.” He must have noticed Jak had stolen the pictures. Known he’d been in his cabin. Known he’d found out the truth.
Agent Gallagher frowned. “Okay. Do you have any idea where the recordings were going?”
Recordings? Jak didn’t know what that word meant. “I thought they took pictures. I don’t know where the pictures are,” he lied. He’d torn them into little pieces and thrown them in the river, watched them float away.
The agent paused. “Okay. Okay. And the man on the cliff, you’ve never seen him again?”
Jak shook his head.
“Jak, can you tell me what you remember before that?”
Jak glanced at Harper, the sight of her there beside him helping him to feel brave. “A woman raised me until I was almost eight,” Jak said. “I don’t know her name. I think it was something that started with A. She said words different than the people on the TV and she told me to talk like them, not like her. I called her Baka.” He told Agent Gallagher about how she’d taught him to read, and how to count, and to believe that he was strong. “That’s all I remember. I haven’t seen her since the night I fell asleep in my bed and then woke up . . . out here.”
Harper looked sad and so did Agent Gallagher as he nodded. They were quiet for a minute before he said. “Thank you, Jak, for telling me the truth. You’ve given me lots of good information to work with.” He paused for a second. “One of the things I need to tell you is that the woman murdered in town, the one we questioned you about? Jak, she was your mother.”
Harper let out a small gasp. His mother. His mother. The hairs on Jak’s neck stood up. “My mother?” he asked, rubbing his hands on his thighs. They felt cold and sweaty. His mother was dead? The woman who had brought him books and told him she would come back for him? Ice ran down his spine.
“Yes. Jak, do you know anything about your mother?”
“I . . .” He looked at Harper and her mouth was open. His mother was dead. No one could hurt her now. “She came here. I never met her before that.”
Agent Gallagher pressed his lips together, his eyebrows moving closer to each other. “When did she contact you and how?”
“She came to see me five . . . years ago. She told me she was trying to find a place for us to live. She brought me kids’ books. She promised to come back and bring me more books. She told me not to tell anyone about her.”
Agent Gallagher frowned again. “I see. And did she indicate why?”
“No. I thought . . .” He looked at Harper. “I thought it was something about the war. The war Driscoll told me was being fought.” He looked back at the agent. “I said something about it, the war, and she agreed, or . . .” He frowned, looking away, trying to remember what he’d said and what she’d said back. “She said, yes, the world is on fire.”
They were all quiet for a minute before Agent Gallagher asked, “Do you think your mother was working with Isaac Driscoll somehow?”
Working? Did she have a job with Driscoll? Is that what the agent meant? Jak thought about it. “I don’t know. She didn’t seem to like him. She said she’d followed him from town. But . . . there was another woman too . . .” He kept his gaze on the agent instead of looking at Harper, feeling heat rising in his face. He didn’t want to tell them about the redheaded woman, but he knew he had to. He told the agent and Harper about thinking the woman was hurt, about bringing her back to his cabin, and then about her offering her body to him. He didn’t look at Harper while he told the story, not wanting to know if she was angry, or worse, if she didn’t care that he’d touched someone else. He was not like the gray fox, he wanted to tell her. He only wanted to touch her.
And he knew now why the other woman had felt wrong. Smelled wrong. She hadn’t been meant for him. She wasn’t Harper.
“Did you get the feeling the redheaded woman was involved with Driscoll somehow? And if so, why would she tell you about the cameras?”
Jak shook his head. He had no idea. Most of him hoped the agent could put it together, find answers. But another part just wanted it all to go away. Driscoll was dead—his life was better without him—and he wanted to figure out where to go now.