Savaged

He rifled through the case files sitting on his desk in front of him. Crime scene photos, information obtained about the arrows used in the murders—a popular brand sold in hundreds of sporting goods stores, both locally and on the internet. All dead ends at the moment.

The ding on his phone alerted him to an email, but since he was sitting in front of his computer, he opened it there. “Well, that’s interesting timing,” he murmured to himself when he saw it was from Dr. Swift. When he opened it, there was a very short note and attached, the final study that Isaac Driscoll had worked on at Rayform. Mark scrolled through it. It was a study on the incidence of incarceration in inmates raised by single mothers. There were lots of stats and graphs, none of which seemed to make a good case for single motherhood—though Mark knew that in any good psychological study, other variables needed to be accounted for, or at least mentioned as contributing factors. The study did that, naming low income, gun and gang violence in the area where the inmate grew up, and things of that nature. It painted a bleak picture, and Mark realized that it was mostly because the piece of work simply offered numbers and stats—not solutions. Which, of course, was what studies were meant to do. They weren’t designed to solve problems, simply identify them. He could see why Isaac Driscoll, or anyone working in that field for that matter, might become cynical about society after performing such studies year after year.

His door creaked open, and his wife peeked around it, her smile hesitant. He sat back in his chair, offering her one in return. “I made lunch if you’re hungry.”

Mark ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks. I’m kind of involved in this though. Will you set some aside for me?”

He didn’t miss the minute drop in her smile, but he also didn’t acknowledge it. The truth was, he’d gotten lost in his work, lost in the puzzle of the case in front of him, and he craved it. God, he craved it. An escape that wasn’t only for him, but for two dead people counting on him for answers. Is that how you’re justifying it, Gallagher? He heard his inner voice whisper the question but pushed it aside. Maybe it was a justification, but it was also true.

“Need any help?” Her smile grew, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes. He knew her. He still did, he realized. Knew her expressions and her body language. What had changed was his desire to respond to what he knew she was asking for. Inclusion. But he had gone to her for the same thing, during moments when she had been the one unwilling to let him in. It felt like they just kept missing each other emotionally. He had to focus, though. In the past, she’d been his sounding board, the person he bounced ideas off if he was stuck, the person who’d helped him so many times when he couldn’t connect A to B. Now, having her around would distract rather than assist him.

It will take time. He kept telling himself that and somehow it kept ringing hollow, but he didn’t know what else to hope for. “No, thanks. Not on this one. I’ll be out soon.”

Her smile did slip then, but she nodded and turned, closing the door softly behind her. He released a breath, massaging his temples, trying to move his mind back to the case.

But his focus was gone, at least for the moment. As he was closing the study Dr. Swift had sent him, he made note of not only Isaac Driscoll’s name, but his assistant who had worked on the study: Kyle Holbrook.

He put in a call to Rayform and found that the man was still listed on the directory, but his voicemail picked up when Mark dialed it. He left a message and then tapped his pen on the desk, the smell of grilled cheese and tomato soup drifting under his door, as he sat staring at the wall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The snow sparkled under the silver-gray sky, fat flakes floating down and melting on Jak’s skin as he slid across the open field. The long flat shoes he’d put together, made it easier to walk over the ice-crusty ground without sinking into the soft fluffy snow beneath. He wished he’d thought of making something like these a long time ago. But, how could he? He learned the best he could as he went along, figuring new and better ways to survive. These shoes weren’t a . . . what was the word? He didn’t need to have them, but they were nice to have.

His mind drifted, the words of the woman in the picture going around in his head. He talked to her sometimes, asked her questions, tried to guess what her answers would be.

Sometimes, like today, when his mind wanted to drift from the cold of winter, he’d say the words that brought him peace. He’d say them over and over again until his heart settled, and he could find something good about the day. About life. About his presence in a world that only made sense in a physical way. To Jak, the writings of the woman were his friend, she was his priest from the story that he’d never actually read, and his teacher. He loved her, even though he’d never met her. He visited her sometimes too, in the bottom of that canyon. He sat outside the car where she’d died, said words to her and the man. He wondered if they’d died right away or if they’d suffered. He wondered where their child was—the girl. He felt so

much sadness. He wished he could have saved them. He wished they were alive and he could meet them. He would ask the woman all the questions in his mind and heart. She had so many more words than he knew.

In his pretending, she answered. He closed his eyes and heard her speak, clearer now than the faded voice of his baka.

It had been five winters since he’d found the car and the blue bag, and while he would never say his living was easy, the writings he’d found had made things . . . better. He wasn’t sure exactly why. He only knew that the writings had changed his mind about wanting to die. Had he really wanted to die though? No. He had wanted the pain to end, the loneliness. The writings had made him care about living.

His muscled legs pushed one board forward, then the next, sliding across the snow, his breath puffing white in front of him for only a brief second before it was snatched up by the wind.

Movement caught his eye and he slowed, his muscles tensing as he spotted a person far off to his right. Hide? Slink? No. He crouched low as he loaded an arrow into his bow, looking through the scope.

It was . . . a woman?

Jak lowered the bow and arrow, standing back up, his fast heartbeat slowing down, questions circling in his mind. Fear.

The woman was fast-walking toward him, taking big steps in the snow, sinking down and then with a lot of trying, lifting her foot again and again. Jak was still with shock and confusion. As she got closer, Jak saw that she wasn’t wearing any winter clothes and much of her skin was showing. And she looked like she was crying, big chest-moving wails that came to where Jak was standing.

Jak took two steps toward the woman at the same second that she spotted him. She stopped, and then moved toward him again, picking up her footsteps, tripping and getting back up. “Help!” she called. “Help!”

Jak moved toward her quickly, and she tripped again, pulling herself up, her wails getting clearer the closer she got. “Please, please!” she cried. “I need help!”

“What happened?” Jak asked as the woman collapsed in his arms, shivering and crying, her skin purple-red and covered in goosebumps. Her wide gaze moved over his face, her lips shivering so hard, her whole jaw was shaking.

“Lost . . . the enemy chasing me . . .” Another big shiver went through her, stopping her words, and Jak’s skin prickled with unease. The enemy? He looked behind her, from where she’d come. He’d always felt mostly safe from other people in this wilderness, safe from the war and whatever might be going on out in the world. Nature had been his enemy . . . any other danger seeming very far away. But now . . . here was a woman running from this enemy that he’d only thought of as the booming voice behind him telling him the only goal was survival.

“Please help,” she cried softly looking at him in a strange way. Jak took off his animal-skin jacket, the one he’d made himself, held together with long strips of the tough, stringy parts between deer muscle and bone that he’d bleached and dried in the sun. He wrapped the jacket around the woman as her knees gave out, but he caught her, lifting her easily into his arms and heading toward his cabin.

When he got there, he set her down in front of the open wood stove, wrapping his blanket around her bare legs and throwing another log on the fire so it leaped and grew, the warmth traveling farther into the room.

The woman began to move, pushing her long red hair out of her face and sitting up slowly. “Where am I?”

“My cabin. Who’s chasing you?”