Wild Heart (23 page)

If he stared hard at the fox, he could just make out a movement, a tiny rise and fall of the animal's hide above the shoulders; otherwise he would have said it was dead. Dead for a long time; its dingy fur had no color, no shine. Was it alone in the glass cage? Nothing else stirred. Maybe they hibernated here the year round. What else could they do? Foxes lived for two things: running and burrowing. Behind the glass wall of this little case, this box where it was always daylight, they might as well be dead.

MARTEN, said the sign on the next cage—MARTEN AMERICANA.

"Is that one?" Sam pressed his face to the steamy glass. "I think it moved. See it? That brown thing?"

"Marten," Michael mouthed.

"They eat squirrels," Sam read from the sign, "and mice."

And birds. They traveled from tree to tree in the early morning or the late afternoon, miles and miles through the trees, playing, looking for food. For some reason they liked cloudy days best.

"They're boring," Sam decided and moved on.

Fisher and weasel, ermine and skunk. Raccoon. Badger.

Michael couldn't look at the badgers, couldn't bear to peer through the smudged window at their shabby cage. At home, they had been his good friends. They came out of their dens to play games before they went foraging.

They would go to a stump or a fallen tree along one of their familiar trails; one would climb to the top of the stump, and the others would try to pull him down. They played that game over and over, taking turns being on top. And sometimes, on moonlit nights, they danced.

"Let's go, this is dull. Let's go outside and look at the wolves."

Canis lupus.
Gray wolf.

Six of them. In a square paddock, maybe fifteen feet on a side, with wire between the bars of the high fence around it. No trees, no shade. Odor of urine and feces. The wolves lay in the sun on the hard, grassless dirt, raggedy-looking, like pieces of a dirty rug flung around. Some kind of food, lumps of something, lay on the ground beside bowls of water, overturned or empty or fouled. The wolves' faces were empty, their eyes blank. He couldn't tell who their leader was. Maybe they had no leader. Their stillness wasn't peaceful, it was numb. Dead.

A wolf came out of a wooden shed at the back of the pen. He had a thick coat of silver-gray, with a black ruff around his shoulders. He was taller than the others, and older, maybe ten or eleven. He stood still, blinking at nothing, his hot tongue lolling. For the space of one second his yellow eyes met Michael's. And then they slid past him, indifferent. Blank.

" 'Solitary and nomadic, the North American gray wolf is a vicious and dangerous predator.' " Sam read. " 'Unchecked, his relentless hunting has decimated the Canadian and Alaskan caribou herds, and his attacks on men have made him one of the most feared of all the carnivores.' "

"That's a lie."

"What is?"

Michael didn't answer.

"What is?" Sam repeated.

"All of it."

"Why? Why, Michael?"

The big wolf came forward a few steps, circled twice, and lowered himself to the dirt, chest first. He put his head on his forepaws and closed his eyes.

Michael thought of the old wolf. He was bigger than this one, and his coat was brownish gold; he had a white tail and white paws, and his eyes were the color of amber. Now that he knew his own age, Michael could reckon the number of years they had known each other: about fourteen. If he was still alive, the old wolf, his brother, would be seventeen or eighteen now. But last winter had probably killed him.

"Michael?"

There were no pups, at least not outside. They didn't breed here, he was sure of it. They lived and died here, and when the zoo wanted more, they set traps and captured them.

"Michael?" Sam was leaning against his thigh, looking up into his face with wide, searching eyes. "Let's go, okay?" He slipped his hand into Michael's and squeezed it.

They walked away. Philip didn't say anything, but Michael could feel his glance, as worried as Sam's. "Shall we go look at the seals?" Philip said, trying to make his voice sound happy.

"Oh, yes, the seals!" Sam tugged on Michael's hand, smiling up at him, trying to make him smile back. "You'll like them, they're so funny."

He went with them for a little ways, but then he stopped. "No, I can't."

They didn't ask why. "Shall we just go home, then?" Philip said.

He nodded, because that was easier. He didn't say the true thing, that he had no home.

* * * * *

Sam finally stopped talking and fell asleep on his shoulder, lulled by the rocking of the train. Across the aisle, Philip looked up from the puzzle he was working on in the newspaper and smiled. Michael smiled back.

For a while he had tried to pretend that they were his brothers. Sometimes it had seemed that way. His little brother and his big brother, and him safe in the middle; a family. But it was like the dream he had had over and over when he first got lost, that his mother and father found him in the forest and took him home, holding his hands on either side, and him safe in the middle.

A dream. Not real.

Outside the window, he could see the blue of the lake through patches of trees in Jackson Park. Close up, little houses flew by, shabby houses where Sam had told him poor people lived. The train was crowded; people had to stand in the aisle, hanging on to leather straps, swaying and bouncing. They smelled like sweat and frankfurters and newsprint. When their dark, human eyes slipped over him, sometimes resting for a second, they didn't think anything of it. They were sure he was one of them.

"South Shore. Next stop, South Shore."

Michael put his hands on Sam's shoulders and carefully leaned him in the other direction, against the window. He didn't even stir.

Philip looked surprised when he stood up. "Lavatory," Michael mouthed. Philip nodded and went back to his puzzle.

Outside on the platform, he moved with the crowd toward the exit, but stopped just short of the stairway. The train jerked once and began to slide away. He saw Sam's bright blond hair in the window, the tip of his ear flattened against the glass. And behind him, the white edge of Philip's newspaper. Then they were gone, and the train was just a blur.

He went down the steps and started to walk the other way, back toward the city.

Chapter 13

“What do you mean, he didn't get off the train?”

Philip pulled his chair out and sat down at the dining room table. "Just what I said. He got up to go to the lavatory, and that's the last we saw of him."

Sydney stared. "Did you look for him? Why did you get off without him?"

Sam came to stand beside her chair. She took one look at his face and put her arm around him, drawing him up close. "Flip says he probably got off," he said in a wobbly voice. "He thinks he ran away."

"Ran away!"

"But this is dreadful." Aunt Estelle squeezed her napkin into a ball and dropped it on the table. "The poor man! We must find him. Should we call the police? No-— no. Harley, what do you think?"

Sydney's father pulled off his eyeglasses and examined the lenses by candlelight. "Hmm," he said. "Hmm."

Across the table, Philip put up a hand to shield his face from Aunt Estelle and sent Sydney a look of wild inquiry—
What the hell is the matter with her?
—that under any other circumstances would've made her laugh. As it was, she sat back in her chair, still holding on to Sam, and told Philip the news without a smile. "Mr. Hig-gins phoned this afternoon. He's found out who Michael's parents are. They're—"

"Who's Mr. Higgins?" Sam cut in.

"A detective who's been looking for Michael's family."

"And?" said Philip, goggle-eyed.

"They're—"

"It seems we've underestimated our Mr. MacNeil," Aunt Estelle interrupted with a simpering smile that set Sydney's teeth on edge. All day she'd been battling a hot rage against her aunt, even knowing it was irrational. "It seems he's—"

"He's the son of an earl," Sydney blurted out, purely to deny Aunt Estelle the satisfaction of saying it first. "His father is the Laird of Auldearn. Michael's called 'the Younger of Auldearn.' He's Scottish royalty."

* * * * *

Everything was ready for the party. The workmen and gardeners and landscapers had gone away late in the afternoon, their jobs finally finished. Flowers in borders, flowers in clumps, flowers in great pots littered the lawn, scenting the still night air. The tasseled sides of the yellow-and-white striped awning winked in the first light of the moon rising over the lake. The lanterns, the ones Michael had said looked like Sydney's skin, were dark now, but they waved gaily when the whisper of a breeze caught at their papery sides. Sydney had seen weddings less elaborate than this supper dance her aunt would host tomorrow afternoon. Now everything was just right, down to the last linen napkin, bleached snowy white and ironed by the maids with military exactness.

How ironic that Sydney's personal life had never been in a bigger mess.

"Where is he, Philip?" she asked, hugging her knees, peering into the darkening yard as if she could see him, as if her hard stare could conjure up his lean, lanky form on the path, sauntering toward her, smiling his shy smile.

"He'll come back."

"Will he?"

"Sure. I think he just wanted some time to be by himself."

She put her chin on her knees, wishing he was right, wanting him to convince her. But the memory of the last things Michael had said to her, and the awful things she'd said to him, stole away her complacence.

"He was sad today," Philip said thoughtfully. "Not himself at all. He hated the zoo. We shouldn't have taken him—it was stupid. I never even thought."

"What?"

"The animals, the cages. Everything. He hated it," he said again. "But he wouldn't talk about it, so we didn't, either. Maybe we should have. He's not happy, Syd. Something's wrong."

Yes, and she knew what it was. "Oh, God," she mumbled into her hands, wretched. Philip began a soft massage on the back of her neck, and in spite of everything it comforted her a little.

"He'll come back. Don't worry. This is his home, we're his family."

She put her hand on her throat, trying not to cry. "I hurt him," she confessed, and immediately the tears overflowed, stinging the backs of her eyes. "This is all my doing."

"Come on, Syd. What are you talking about?"

The need to tell somebody and the need to keep her awful cowardice a secret battled and clashed inside, increasing her misery.

"I know he's in love with you."

She straightened slowly. "You—he—" Philip's hand fell away as she turned her head to stare at him. "How?" she finally managed.

He smiled. "I've got eyes."

"Did he tell you?"

"He didn't have to. What happened, Syd?"

She took a deep breath. "Aunt Estelle caught us together. In the dining room," she added hastily.

"Aha." Philip looked relieved, but kept his voice carefully toneless.

"She was—not pleased. Ha. We had a terrible quarrel." She hugged herself, shuddering, remembering it.
Do you intend to marry this person? Or are you only going to have a sexual affair with him?
Hearing her aunt say the word
sexual
had absolutely appalled her. It had sounded so dirty on her lips, and in that one moment Sydney had felt real shame.

Philip started to laugh. "I can imagine."

"It's not funny. I told Michael we couldn't be together anymore, that what we'd done was a mistake. And then— he left me. He said he loved me, and he left me. He knew it was over."

Philip gave her his handkerchief and she buried her face in it. She could have sobbed all night, but she didn't want him to see her like this.

"What's this?" he said softly, rubbing her back. "Is this guilt, Syd, or something else?"

She blew her nose and didn't answer.

"Hm? What's going on? You didn't go and fall in love with Michael, did you?"

She felt her heart break, right in two. "I did," she choked and covered her face again. "I did, I did, I did." The confession cheered her up a little.

"Well," he said, his glibness deserting him for once. "Well, well. This is. a bit of a sticky wicket. As they no doubt say in Scotland. He's the son of an
earlT'

Some kind of hysteria bubbled up, making a giggle and then a sob catch in her throat. "And Aunt Estelle wants to claim him! All's forgiven—she wants me to dance with him tomorrow night at the party!"

Philip laughed, and this time she didn't scold him. She couldn't join in, but the sour humor of the situation wasn't lost on her.

"It'll work out," he said consolingly, still chuckling. "And just think: if you marry him, you'll end up a countess or something. Lady Sydney of Auldearn."

"I don't care about any of that. Oh, Philip, I can't stand this. I have to see him, talk to him." The night had turned black while they spoke. She couldn't make out the path to the lake anymore. "Where is he, Philip? What do you think he's doing right now?"

* * * * *

First he set the wolves free.

He found the key to their pen in the keeper's shed, neatly labeled, hanging from a hook next to the keys to the cages of the other "carnivores." It was easy. The shed wasn't locked; all he had to do was wait until the keeper fed the animals and went away, then wait a little longer for the moon to rise, while he crouched in the cover of low bushes beside the path. So easy. Humans were the simplest to fool; he had done it all his life. And he had no fear of them, not now, not here, with the ground hard and sure again under his bare feet, the rich, complicated scent of the night in his nostrils. He'd shed his coat, but his dark shirt and trousers would hide him well, better than his white skin. He would be invisible to these whistling, mumbling, slow-moving zookeepers in their green uniforms and flat-topped caps.

There were eight wolves in the pen, lying on the ground under the stars, scattered around, no two together. They jumped up, first one and then all of them, and when he unlocked the paddock and pushed open the gate they backed up with their ears pricked, smelling him, eyes intent.

He made a mistake then. He said a human word, "Come."

They darted away, bunching together, fear making them a pack. Two ran through the low door to the enclosure at the back, snarling as they went, their tails tucked. The others retreated to the fence, keeping him in sight, never turning their backs. He went three slow paces toward them and dropped to his haunches.

Time passed while they watched each other, and it was the old time, the kind he had never thought to measure in minutes or seconds. He could feel himself slipping back, and everything falling away, memory, time, wanting, fear, until there wasn't anything except this now, this here. The wolves were part of him and he was one of them, and there was nothing between all of them and the night, the sky, the smell of dry earth and the touch of sharp, dark air.

The big wolf, the leader, moved out of the middle of the pack and came forward on stiff legs, the black ruff on his shoulders standing straight and prickly. Michael held out his hand, palm up to show it was empty, fingers spread. The wolf showed his teeth but didn't move. Behind him the others stirred, whining uneasily, asking a question.

In their own language, Michael told them why he'd come.

They froze.

He stood up slowly and began to back through the gate. Outside on the path again, he stopped and spread his arms wide. The big wolf sat down to stare at him some more, breathing through his mouth, his tongue lolling. He looked over his shoulder at the others. They had a silent debate. When it was over, the wolf got to his feet and led the way out of the pen while the rest followed, slowly, carefully, shivering with excitement, and Michael backed up in time to their steps, keeping the same distance away.

A low cry rose from the back of the pen. Through the gloom he saw the two wolves who had run into the shed before. They were cowering against it, one a female, young, gray with a white face, the other a male, all gray. The female was afraid, and the male wouldn't leave her.

So, he'd been wrong. They did mate in captivity.

He moved into the shadow of the trees to watch while the big wolf trotted back inside the pen and the other wolves milled in the open, sniffing at the ground they had never walked on before.

Twice the big wolf went close to the other two and told them something, turned, and trotted out of the pen. But they wouldn't move. The third time, the gray male followed him halfway to the gate, but when the female called him, he went back to her and sat down. Whimpering, she laid her chin on the back of his neck, holding him still. The big wolf turned his back on them in disgust.

Outside the pen, the other wolves prowled and snuffled in confusion, and Michael realized they didn't know what to do. How could they? But he wasn't their leader, and he had no idea if they would go with him.

He started to run, crouching low and keeping close to the trees, away from the lamps that burned on poles along the path sides. A scent, a noise—he stopped short, and a man walked out of the shadow of a building. A guard, not a keeper; he wore a different kind of hat, and he twirled a black stick in his hand. The kind of stick O'Fallon had kept in his belt.

Michael turned his head slowly, slowly, and peered into the blackness behind him. There wasn't a sound, not a stir or a breath, but six pairs of yellow eyes glittered back at him in the moonlight.

The man heard nothing, saw nothing. He strolled on out of sight, and when his scent faded Michael ran again.

The place wasn't far. Part of the zoo was fenced, but not all. He knew the boundaries because he had searched them out an hour ago while he waited for dark. Half of the back of the zoo ran into a wood, thin and scraggly at first but thickening as it climbed up a steep, stony slope. He didn't know how far the wood went or what came after it. But when the wind was right he could smell the lake. That had to be a good sign.

The wolves had run past him, but they stopped when he did, turning to watch him in a tense silence. The leader took a few uncertain steps toward him.
There.
Michael looked behind him toward the hill and pointed to it. The big wolf licked his lips to show he wasn't afraid. Michael returned his keen, thoughtful gaze for a whole minute. Then, with a shake of his head that made his ears flap, the wolf wheeled around and ran with his pack up the hill and out of sight. The thud of a stone falling behind them, loosened by a hurrying, scrambling paw, was the last sound they made.

He could have run then, with them or away from them. He could have found safety, at least for a while, if he'd started to run, anywhere, and not stopped until morning. But the moon was high and the thrill of the hunt was in his blood.
What the hell?
as Philip said—that was how he felt. Reckless, wild.
What the hell.
He would let them all go.

Getting the keys was easy again. Not so easy was getting the weasels and ermines to leave their cramped cages and scamper off into the trees of the park. He ended up herding them out, using his feet to nudge them through the fake moss and dead, dry stumps. The half-grown babies could run now; in fact, freedom looked better to them than it did to their parents. When they jumped and darted away, the older ones took off after them.

The skunks he left alone; opened the door to their cage and left in a hurry. They could do what they liked.