Agent Gallagher was still talking with the other men, so she walked around Driscoll’s house, heading toward the copse of trees in front of her, focused on that dark area. A good hiding spot for . . . anything really. But what? If the two red markers had indicated the bodies of dead children, what other horrors might be lurking out there? She paused, deciding to turn back. She’d wait for Agent Gallagher.
Just as she began to turn, the sun hit the side of the forest and she spotted a large grouping of rocks beyond a couple of sparse trees. She walked toward it, entering the trees, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She’d seen other areas like this, other . . . yes. It was an old mine shaft, a door inset in the side of the rock. Her heart started hammering. Was this what Isaac Driscoll had marked? And why?
She pulled on the door, expecting it to be locked, but with a rusty squeak, it opened, light flooding the space. She leaned inside, the air colder in there, the smell metallic and dank. Her heart rate increasing, she turned on her phone’s flashlight and shone it into the room.
She sucked in a breath. The small room, an entrance to a deeper portion of the mine at the far side blocked off, had a table and a monitor and pictures tacked up to every portion of the walls.
Jak.
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.”