Page 31 of Unwanted

An ant, cursing God from the summit of a blade of grass.

Why did those words sound so familiar? And why did they seem…more sophisticated than she’d expect from a man who spoke little and had no access to books?

And yet he’d been quoting someone. Or…something. That was why. A book or a poem. She was sure of it. She knew those words somehow. And right after he’d said them, he’d looked as though he wished he hadn’t. He’d quickly changed the subject.

Harper stood, the blanket dropping to the bed. She grabbed her laptop and sat back down, logging in and opening her internet browser, typing the words into the search bar. “I knew it,” she muttered, her heart thrumming. It was one of the more obscure quotes from The Count of Monte Cristo.

Her caveman had quoted Alexandre Dumas.

Her caveman? Not exactly. But…

The caveman had quoted Alexandre Dumas.

She stared at the computer for a moment before closing her eyes. A vague picture of her mother flitted through her mind. Harper was sitting on a bench with her father, and her mother was walking toward them, smiling. Her father said something that made her mother laugh, and she put the turquoise backpack down next to where they sat and kissed him before taking Harper into her arms and asking what they’d brought for lunch.

That turquoise backpack. She’d used it to carry her class notes. Her father had laughingly told her it made her look like one of the high school girls instead of a teacher. An English teacher, who always included her favorite novel as required class reading: The Count of Monte Cristo.

A distant ringing broke through her trance, and she sat upright, her head turning toward the sound. Her cell phone. She stood, feeling somewhat off balance, and hurried to her purse where she’d left it hanging by the door. When she answered, she was slightly breathless.

“Harper, hi. It’s Mark Gallagher.”

“Oh, hi,” she said, walking back to her bed and sitting. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Listen, I’m hoping you can help me with something else.” She heard a noise in the background that sounded like paper rustling and the phone shifting on Agent Gallagher’s ear.

“Yeah, of course. Did you find anything out about those books and the Missoula library?”

“I’m actually going there shortly. I was looking through the entries in Driscoll’s journal, and some don’t make a lot of sense to me.”

“How so?”

“Well, for instance, this one: This morning I spotted the white-tailed deer eating raw fish at the river. Seems he is a natural survivor in that he will eat what is necessary to live, whether distasteful or no.”

Harper frowned. “A deer eating fish?”

“That’s what I’m confused about. I did a simple Google search, and I couldn’t find anything that said deer eat fish.”

“No, they’re herbivores,” she said, as confused as Agent Gallagher.

“What about in extreme cases like…famine or an extra-long winter, something of that nature?”

Harper chewed at her lip for a moment. “An animal will eat anything if it’s starving, but how in the world would a deer catch a fish?”

“Maybe it was already dead, lying on the riverbank?”

“That’d have to be the case, I guess.”

“So, if a deer were starving and it found a dead fish on the riverbank, it might eat it.”

“Animals will do what they have to do to survive. Yes. But in general, no, deer don’t eat fish.”

“Okay, I wanted to double-check with you. I’m still making my way through this thing, but it’s…odd. It almost appears as if Driscoll was watching one specific possum, one specific deer, and one specific wolf.”

“Why would he do that? And how would he know it was the same one?”

“I have no idea. If anything comes to you, will you let me know?”

“Of course.”

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