Wild Heart (25 page)

Philip saved her from embarrassing herself. "Evening, Mrs. P," he said breezily, coming up behind Sydney and putting his hands on her shoulders. "Mind if I borrow my sister for a minute? Urgent hostess duties, you know."

The two women gave each other quick, intense hugs, then Sydney let Philip lead her way.

He took her to a dim, deserted place on the lawn. With his back to the dancers, his face changed; all the gaiety left it. "What is it?" She clutched at his arm, sudden dread making her whisper. "What's wrong?"

"They're here. They've found out."

"Who? Oh, God! The police?"

He nodded grimly. "They're with Dad in his study. They're asking him questions."

* * * * *

Detective Lieutenant Moon stuck his thick, bluish chin out and barked like a bulldog. "You sure he's not here? How long has he been gone? How come you didn't report him missing?"

Sydney's father took cover by pulling drawers out of his desk and peering into them, pretending to look for his tobacco. "Have a seat, Lieutenant?" he asked pleasantly, his head half hidden by his desk. "You and your associate?"

Moon only rolled his shoulders and took a more bullish stance. Sydney recognized his type with a sinking heart: rich people scared him, and he covered his intimidation with aggression. "We know he's the one, we got him dead to rights. Now, who saw him last?" He glared at Sydney, at her father, at Philip, not because he suspected them of anything, but because he had decided that was the safest, most dignified way to deal with them.

"How do you know it was Michael?" Sydney ventured, trying to look simultaneously unconcerned and slightly insulted. "What proof do you have?"

Lieutenant Moon's face was pear-shaped, all the fat
and flesh at the bottom; he looked particularly ugly, like a spoiled pumpkin, when he smiled. He drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here's proof. Got it in black and white."

She went closer. Philip groaned under his breath, but she didn't recognize Sam's primitive artistic style until she read the neat caption in his handwriting at the bottom of the sketch: MICHAEL MACNEIL BY SAMUEL ADAIR WINTER.

"Where did you find that?" Papa asked interestedly.

"In the pocket of a jacket we found under some bushes. In the zoo," he added. "Along with a pair of shoes. The guy who let the animals out of their cages didn't have a coat on, plus he was barefoot."

"Still," Philip said weakly. "They could be anybody's clothes."

The lieutenant turned to his assistant, Sergeant Somebody. "Show 'em," he said, and the other man opened a cloth bag and pulled out a wrinkled gray jacket and a pair of fawn-colored balmorals. "Recognize these?"

Nobody answered.

"Well?"

Philip opened his mouth, but Sydney said, -"They're Michael's," before he could speak. He'd been going to lie, she was sure, and that would only have made things worse. "They're Michael's clothes. My brother gave them to him."

Moon gave a sour nod, satisfied, and took a notebook out of his pocket. "Okay, now. He's not here, you say, hasn't been here since yesterday morning. Who saw him last?"

"Is he hurt?" Sydney went closer, ignoring the question, disregarding the policeman's belligerent scowl. "How did he get away? The paper said they hit him with clubs."

"Yeah," Moon growled, "but not hard enough. Guards thought he was out, didn't cuff him. Turned their backs on him for a minute, and next thing they know he's running for the hills. Now, who saw him last?"

While Philip kept his answers short and as uninforma-tive as possible, Papa lit his pipe and blew clouds of smoke around his head to hide behind. Sydney wandered to the curtained terrace doors. Pulling the cloth aside an inch, she stared out at the dancing lanterns strung out across the yard, the guests milling about, happy and oblivious, on the lawn. Anxiety was like a loud buzzing in her ears, drowning out the strains of the music, making it impossible to think. "What will you do with him if you find him?" she heard Philip ask. "Anyway, what are the charges?"

"Assault and battery, trespassing, criminal mischief. Grand theft. Breaking and entering. Reckless endanger-ment, vandalism. That'll do for a start."

Her heart sank. The newspapers had treated the incident as a sensation, a prank, elaborate and expensive but not very serious in the long run. Obviously the law didn't see it that way at all.

"We're putting a patrol around the house in case he tries to come back," Moon continued. "Meanwhile, I'd advise you people to be careful."

"Why?"

Moon frowned at her. "Because the man's dangerous. He's desperate, too; no telling what he'll try next."

"He's not dangerous," she scoffed—then froze. "He's
not
dangerous," she repeated, in a different voice, beating down panic. She moved toward her father's desk, imploring him with her eyes. "Papa, tell him—tell him Michael's not dangerous."

"Hm? 'Course he's not." The vagueness in his eyes cleared; he understood what frightened her. "Daughter's right—no need to pursue MacNeil as if he's a criminal. Man's not violent, never has been."

"In other words," Philip put in tensely, "guns aren't necessary."

Lieutenant Moon misunderstood. "If you're worried about your party," he said with a sneer, "don't be. My men'll be discreet. None o' your important guests will even know they're here."

On cue, the door to the hall flew open and Aunt Estelle burst into the room. "Harley—police everywhere—we're ruined—"

To Sydney's knowledge her aunt had never swooned before. She did it well. She even made it to the couch first and crumpled onto it gracefully before she fainted dead away.

* * * * *

A day passed. At four o'clock on Monday morning, Sydney got out of bed, threw on her robe, and crept downstairs. Hector greeted her in her father's study, where he'd been sleeping since Michael disappeared, by rolling over on his back and thunking his tail on the floor. "Shhh," she told him, kneeling down to scratch his chest. "You miss him, too, don't you?" Hector had been behaving badly, upset by the excitement and disruption of Aunt Estelle's party, and then the strange men, newspaper reporters, and policemen loitering outside the house at all hours of the day and night.

But things were settling down now. A day after what surely must have been the longest party in history—it had been for Sydney—journalists had finally stopped knocking at the door and calling on the telephone, and the police patrol had diminished to only two men, who took turns circling the grounds at thirty-minute intevals. More men on the job than that was excessive, Lieutenant Moon had decided, especially after Papa made him a solemn promise to call the station if Michael did come home. He had had no choice. Sydney saw that now, but at the time she had felt betrayed.

Now she was only distraught. The whole family was distraught. As soon as the last shocked, fascinated guest went home on Saturday night, Aunt Estelle had taken to her bed, and she hadn't been seen since. Papa was taking it hard, too, and not only because what Michael had done would have repercussions for him, political and professional, at the university. He was genuinely concerned for Michael himself—Michael the man, not the scientific subject.

Philip blamed himself, for reasons that made no sense. "I should' ve known better than to take him there in the first place," he kept saying, when he wasn't saying, “I should never have let him get off the train." Sam went on searches for him, taking Hector for long walks in the
neighborhood and along the lake. Michael's zoo escapade
had fired his imagination and increased his hero worship; he wanted to hear over and over about the animals Michael had freed, which ones had been recaptured and which ones had escaped. At the same time, it was just beginning to dawn on him that he might never see his friend again.

Tonight he had cried when Sydney tucked him into bed. "What if he doesn't come back? What if he tries to come back and they hurt him? What if they catch him and put him in jail?" She had dried his tears and reassured him as best she could, but inside she was weeping with him.

Hector stopped grinning up at her, rolled over, and ran to the closed terrace doors, whining. "Hush," she ordered at the same time she followed him, pulling back the curtain over the window to look out. Nothing. Black night. Still, something made her unlock the door and open it a crack. The better to see, she thought—but the next thing she knew she was whispering to Hector,
"Stay,"
putting her bare foot across his chest to hold him, and slipping outside.

The half-moon shone directly overhead in a cloudless sky; she felt vulnerable and exposed in her thin white night robe. But she tiptoed to the edge of the terrace anyway, drawn by something strong, a feeling she
knew
was more than hope.
"Michael?"
she whispered, straining to see through the darkness. Was that a movement, there in the trees, beside the walled garden? She stared until her eyes watered, stopped breathing in case there was something to hear.

Nothing.

Her shoulders sagged. He wasn't there. The police were wrong: this was the
last
place he would come. Michael knew everything about how to hide and how to run. He would be a fool to come home.

She turned. And there he was, standing in a moon shadow at the side of the house. She felt no fear and she knew it was he, even though all she could see was the dim outline of his body. Her heart contracted painfully. She ran toward him and saw amazement in his weary face just before she flung herself into his arms. "Michael." It came out a stifled sob, muffled against his hair. His arms tightened around her, lifted her off her feet while he pressed his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, and finally her lips. Relief made her weak; when he set her down, her knees wobbled. "Hurry," she said, "come inside."

"No."

She halted and looked at him sharply. "But there are policemen—"

"They're in front."

"All right, but come in, you—"

"No, Sydney."

"Why?"
They were both whispering.

"I just wanted to see you. To say good-bye."

"Damn it. Damn it, Michael. If you don't come inside—" She started to cry.

"All right." She was squeezing his hand so hard he winced. "Just for a second," he said and followed her into the house.

Hector went berserk. She had to close the hall door so the noise of his joyful whimpering wouldn't wake the whole house, Michael sat on the floor with him to calm him down. Sydney lit a candle. She watched them, grinning, wiping her face with her handkerchief, and finally sat down, too. With Hector between them they petted the dog, petted each other's hands, leaned over and kissed again. "You look awful," she said tenderly. The sight of his bare feet brought her to the brink of more tears. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm tired."

He looked exhausted. And dirty, and hungry. He had a bruise on his cheek. "Where have you been?"

"Here."

"Here! The whole time?"

He nodded. He bent his head to the dog, but glanced up at her through the lock of unkempt hair that fell across his forehead. "I thought you'd be angry."

"Why?"

"Because of what I did."

"Oh, no, Michael. Worried sick, but not angry." But she had to ask. "Why did you do it?"

He looked at her, and she thought he might be judging her, deciding if he could trust her with the answer. But his eyes were gentle and loving, and in the end all he said was, "I had to. And now I don't have time to tell you why. I have to go away for good."

"You can't," she said flatly.

He shook his head and stood up.

"They'll find you!"

"No, they won't." He started to back away from her.

"Michael!" Through the beginnings of panic, the answer came to her.
"Michael Terence James Brodie MacNeil. "

That stopped him. His expression almost made her laugh. "What?"

"That's you!"

He was having trouble making his mouth work. "That's me," he finally agreed, his eyes wide with wonder.

She went to him, her heart so full it hurt. "Your father is Terence MacNeil. He's the Laird of Auldearn. Your mother is Elizabeth. Your house is a castle in the Highlands of Scotland. You're Michael, the Younger of Auldearn."

"Auldearn." He said it strangely, not the way she said it at all.
All-dern.
His gray eyes had a faraway look, as if he were remembering.

"So you see? You can't go," she said softly, stroking the rough stubble of beard on his cheek. "The detective is sending cables to Scotland, and when he finds your parents they'll come for you. They'll help you."

"But I don't have the time. If I stay, the police will lock me up in jail."

"But if they catch you—"

"They won't catch me."

"They might. This isn't the Canadian wilderness, Michael, it's the real world. You're vulnerable here. Defenseless," she explained when he shook his head impatiently. "Open—unprotected. This isn't your world, it's theirs, and they'll find you here."