Page 6 of Unwanted

Jak’s teeth were chattering so hard he thought they might crack. He pulled his legs closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, trying to curl into every tiny bit of heat his body was making.

He knew he had to move. He had to get dry. He had to… Tears filled his eyes and then moved down his cheeks, freezing over his icy skin. He wiped at them, making himself sit up. Live! he’d told the dark-haired boy as he’d flung him up on that small ledge. He’d demanded it because only one of them could have that ledge—that chance—and if the boy he gave it to died anyway, then it was wasted.

I should have taken it for myself.

But even though the thought flashed in his mind, it didn’t feel true. He’d somehow survived the fall by grabbing another piece of branch sticking from the side of the slope. There hadn’t been a ledge or anything for him to climb onto, and he’d quickly lost his hold. But that branch had been closer to the ground, and when he’d landed in a deep pile of snow, it hadn’t been with as much speed, though it had still knocked the wind from his lungs anyway, and he’d had to fight his way out of the icy hole his fall had made.

One of the other boys had been lying nearby, both legs twisted in different directions, and Jak had rushed to him, shaking and panting as he turned the boy over. But he could see right away that he was dead. His face was bloody and beaten, his gaze forever staring at the stars above. Jak had cried out, jumped back, and rushed as fast as he could to get away. Away, away.

Because he didn’t know how long he had before someone came after him.

He’d made it to a group of trees close by, out of breath, soaking wet, his shoulder hurting badly, and he was so scared that whoever the man had been at the top of that cliff was on his way down to find him.

Did he know that Jak had lived? That the dark-haired boy might have too? And what happened to the blond one? Jak hadn’t seen any trace of him at the bottom of that cliff, but he must be dead too. Buried under snow, his limbs twisted grossly like the other dead boy’s.

Help me, someone. Anyone. Please, he begged in the quiet of his mind. But no one was listening, except the silent moon hanging in the nighttime sky.

Jak tripped through the forest, his shivering getting more, his eyes starting to blur around the edges. The strength he’d felt had drained out from him, making his muscles feel loose and filled with water. He ran anyway, stumbling, on and on until his legs had no feeling. Heat filled his bones, moving up, shooting flames through his chest. He was suddenly burning hot. Too hot. And thirsty. He bent down and scooped up some snow, bringing it to his mouth and eating it as he moved deeper into the darkness.

So hot. So hot. The world started to tilt. He took off his jacket, dropping it in the snow and moving forward. He tripped over something under the snow he couldn’t see, picking himself up and falling forward. I will not die, I will not die. But his thoughts felt slow again, the same way they had at the top of that cliff. At the thought of that terrifying fall—that man with the loud, deep voice—he pushed forward again, his strength getting less. So hot, so hotsohotsohot. With the last of his strength, he pulled off his jeans and his sweatshirt, leaving them in the snow.

His head swam, and he tripped, falling to the ground with a crunch of ice and cry of pain, sharp needles sticking into every part of his naked skin. He reached a hand forward and felt nothing. He tumbled into it, rolling, falling, somewhere small and dark and soft where the cold and the wind couldn’t find him.

Will you die today?

No, he tried to yell. Live! But the words died on his lips as the world around him disappeared.

Chapter Five

Offered up her services? Which ones exactly? “Dwayne, what do I have to offer in a murder investigation?”

“No one’s asking you to be a police officer. Although I’m sure some of it is in your blood.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “What we really need is someone who knows the area very well and owns a four-wheel-drive vehicle. That’s you. You’ll meet the agent who’s been sent in. Nice guy, it seems. New at the department and get this—a native Californian. The guy showed up wearing so much winter gear, he was walking like the Michelin Man and asked me how to deice his windshield.” Dwayne laughed, and Harper smiled at the image of the unknown agent. “He’s over at the Larkspur now, but he’ll be back soon, and he’ll let you know what he needs.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and without waiting for an answer, Keri stuck her head in. “Dwayne, line one for you. Bob Elders from Missoula.”

Dwayne’s lips thinned. “Thanks, Keri.” He looked at Harper. “I gotta take this. Do you mind waiting in here for the agent? Mark Gallagher’s his name.”

Harper gave a distracted nod as Dwayne left the room. She hadn’t decided if she would help out on this case. Something about it felt…risky in some personal way. She was sure it had to do with the fact that her dad had worked in this very building for so many years. She could practically feel him there, smell the aftershave he’d worn, hear his laugh…

Suddenly weary, she sat in one of the chairs at the table, glancing at the dark screen. Her attention was pulled by the thought of the man sitting alone in the cell, and she was grateful for the shift in focus. The soft sound of her fingers drumming on the table filled the room as she wondered what he was doing right then. Still sitting there? What else would he be doing, Harper? Was Dwayne right when he said the man hadn’t seen a car before? Curiosity needled her, the fact that he might be a killer—one who had a penchant for nailing his victims to walls with sharpened arrows—not enough to douse that particular sensation. Apparently.

She drummed at the table for a few minutes longer and then fiddled with her hands, bit at her lip, looked over at the door, and hesitated only another moment before she stood quickly and walked to the monitor. It came on with a click, the view of the small cell where the man still sat blinking to life. He was in the exact same position as before. In fact, it appeared as though he hadn’t moved a muscle.

For a solid minute, Harper simply watched him as he sat on the bench in the other room, still and unmoving. Through the anonymity of the screen, she allowed her eyes to roam freely over him—from his unruly hair down to his strange footwear. He was lean but muscular. Solid. He’d have the strength to shoot an arrow straight through a body. He was big. And strong. And wild looking.

Caveman, indeed.

She could see this man fighting wildebeest. And winning.

Who are you?

Her eyes moved to his hands, resting on his thighs. They were large, and even through the monitor she could see they had numerous scars. He had the hands of a…warrior, scarred and supremely masculine, and Harper wanted to study them, as though they were a work of art. They were…brutally beautiful in a way she’d never seen before. And she couldn’t help wondering what he’d done with those hands to cause so many injuries.

A tremor went through her, not born entirely of fear. But she sucked in a surprised breath when he suddenly turned his face to the camera like he’d done before, his eyes seeming to study hers. She felt her face flush as she looked away and then almost laughed at herself. He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see anyone—he was simply looking up at the blinking eye of a camera. She stepped closer, studying his expression. There was something in his eyes…bitterness, if she wasn’t mistaken. But…why? If he didn’t know what a vehicle was, how in the world would this man know that the flashing red light he could see would enable someone else to watch him? And even if he did, why would it cause that fiery intensity on his face? She tilted her head, studying him intently. He stared back as though he could feel her on the other side of the camera. Silly, of course. She knew that, and yet the feeling persisted. His eyes were piercing as he stared at the piece of equipment high up on the wall in the room he occupied, and…there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence in his gaze. Caveman maybe. But no brainless Neanderthal.

Thoughts were whizzing through his brain. She could see it. Perplexity. Confusion. Anger. So many emotions.

He looked away, facing forward again—expression suddenly blank—as if he’d heard her thought and refused to accept that she could see what he hid. Or tried to. It didn’t stop her though. She leaned closer. From this angle, she could see a scar arcing down the side of his face under his right cheekbone. It was slight and mostly faded, but it called attention to the sharp lines of his bone structure. And…yes, his expression was blank now, but there was a war being waged behind his eyes. She recognized it as someone who had perfected the art of stoicism. Don’t react. Don’t let them see your fear. Don’t let them know you care.

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