Wild

by Mallory, Alex

  Uneasy, Sheriff Porter glanced at him. “You’re creeping me out, I gotta say.”

  “And I haven’t told you one eighth of one thousandth of one millionth of what Liza and I knew when we were building our model. So when you ask me, what do I think might have happened, I think it’s better to ask you: What does a sheriff think about, late at night, as he waits for his first child to be born?”

  The car went quiet. Nothing but the sound of the engine, and the gravel crunching beneath the tires. Licking his dry lips, Sheriff Porter flipped on the turn signal and pulled onto the main highway. “I wanted to take her away so nobody’d ever hurt her.”

  “I had no idea how overwhelmed Liza was,” Dr. O’Toole admitted. “But I understand exactly how she got there.”

  “You’re ruining my life,” Lia complained.

  Dara peeked out the front window again. Because of their dad’s bright idea to leak the picture, things were even worse. The street in front of their house was choked with vans. People walked through the alley behind their house, staring up at them.

  The neighbors on either side of them had put up no trespassing signs, and Dara was pretty sure they were off the Christmas card list. Probably permanently.

  Dropping the curtain, Dara turned to her sister. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  “Duh.”

  “Then come on.”

  It was crazy, and Dara didn’t care anymore. Grabbing her purse, she plucked her keys off the wall and headed into the garage. Her third-hand Honda wasn’t a tank or anything. But basic rules of self-preservation stated that when faced with four cylinders and a driver who had ceased to care, a person would get out of the way.

  Lia followed Dara, hopping into the passenger seat without a question. Things were about to get interesting.

  “Seat belt,” Dara said.

  She started the car before opening the garage door. Incredibly dangerous, and ordinarily, totally unnecessary. But she wanted to be able to hit the gas the second the door lifted. The reporters had proved at the mall that they could swarm. Today, they wouldn’t get a chance.

  Foot still on the brake, she hit the gas hard. The tires screamed and smoke billowed around them. The reporters scattered, and she dropped the brake. The car shot out of the driveway. The tires shrieked again when Dara pulled hard to the right. It wouldn’t do any good to escape, just to crash into Mrs. Bickham’s stone garden wall.

  Lia reached across her and punched the garage door remote. Then she flipped the radio on, turning it all the way up. Pounding bass filled the car, Lia’s whoops, too.

  “Holy crap, that was awesome!” she shouted.

  Too keyed up to talk, Dara just nodded. She figured she had a head start on the news vans. They had to gather everything up if they wanted to chase her. She’d drop her sister at Mom’s office, and then . . .

  And then what? There were probably reporters at Ms. Fourakis’s house, too. And Cade was probably already at the police station. She didn’t want to sic all these lunatics on Sofia, and it wasn’t safe to be in public, either. The mall had proved that.

  Rolling through a stop sign, Dara tried to swallow her rising panic. There was no way she could go to Josh’s. The only thing waiting there was the official breakup. It was already too late to fix, and she was tired of spreading misery.

  So it was a fact: she was trapped. Unless she wanted to drive until she ran out of gas, she had nowhere to go.

  Quietly, she hated herself, because she wished for something terrible to happen. An explosion at a factory, or a celebrity suicide, or . . . something. Anything more interesting than the Primitive Boy in Kentucky. Anything.

  She stopped short of Mom’s office when she saw a single news van in the parking lot. Pulling up to the curb, she left the engine running. Pulling a twenty from her purse, she pressed it into Lia’s hand. “Go. Be free.”

  Lia opened the door. “My life is still ruined, you know.”

  “Whatever,” Dara replied.

  Once Lia closed the door behind herself, Dara pounded the gas and sped away—to nowhere.

  Already, there were too many people in the room. They stank of cologne and soap, coffee, too. Greasy breakfast things that turned Cade’s stomach. Clutching the arms of his chair, Cade forced himself to keep his feet on the floor. He forced himself to keep his head up.

  “If you need a break,” Branson said, sliding up next to him. “Just say the word. You’re not in trouble, and this isn’t an interrogation. We’re here to help you.”

  Somehow, Cade doubted that. He had ears. He could hear them in the next room talking about next of kin and foster care. They wanted to find a stranger to keep him permanently. Far from here, locked up in houses with windows and doors. Not one of them wanted to consider letting him decide.

  The door swung open. Sheriff Porter walked in with Ms. Fourakis. And then, behind her, the man from his picture. Jolting inwardly, Cade made himself hold still. These people had no intention of being fair to him. Listening to him. Anything. So he wouldn’t tell them anything they could use. He would behave, and be quiet. He could make his own plans when they weren’t looking.

  “Cade, I think you know everybody here.” Sheriff Porter nodded. “This is Dr. O’Toole, he worked with your mother.”

  Flattening his lips, Cade stared at him impassively. It felt like holding an ember in his palm, a slow heat turning to pain. He just had to endure it. This Dr. O’Toole probably had answers. Maybe he’d share them. Somehow, Cade doubted it, though. Everyone said they wanted to help. None of them really did.

  Dr. O’Toole shook his head, wonder struck. “You look just like her. My dear boy . . .”

  Cade only blinked. There was no question he paid attention. He followed everyone with his eyes, quick and certain to track them in the room around him. They couldn’t stop him from listening; they couldn’t force him to talk.

  Stepping in, Sheriff Porter slid a box onto the table. “Now y’all know we’re still piecing this all together. I think we all agree our best bet is to sort out a timeline. The lab boys pulled a couple rubber bands and a hairbrush out of Dr. Walsh’s personal possessions, so we’re going to rush a DNA test.”

  “Your part is already done,” Branson assured Cade. “You remember, when they swabbed your cheek.”

  Cade gritted his teeth. If Sheriff Porter noticed, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he went back to answer the knock at the door. Taking a couple heavy sacks from an assistant, he turned to slide breakfast onto the table. Cade smelled bacon in there. Eggs, too. And he’d already learned what happened when he took food from Sheriff Porter.

  Generous still, Sheriff Porter said, “If you want a few minutes alone with Dr. O’Toole, son—”

  “I don’t,” Cade said.

  The abruptness of the reply seemed to dismay Dr. O’Toole. But he waved a hand, brushing up a wavering smile. “I’m sure this has been very confusing for you.”

  “Why don’t we get started, then?” Branson drew his chair to the table. With swift fingers, he split open a package of small, blank cards. Producing a pen, he wrote 1997 on the top of the first. Beneath the date, he scribbled Jonathan Cade Walsh, b. August 19, Cleveland, OH. Capping the pen, he looked back at Cade. “Does that sound right to you?”

  It didn’t. He knew the name, the Jonathan name. But he didn’t know what a Cleveland, OH was. What Walsh was. August was a month of the year, named after a Roman emperor. But he’d never kept time that way. He had seasons in the forest. Cycles. His birthday was the hottest month of the year, just as the birds gathered to fly south.

  Disappointed, Branson gave him another encouraging nod. “It’s okay, Cade. You’re doing fine.”

  Cade closed his eyes. He was so sick of fine.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  FORTY-ONE

  The tank was almost empty, and Dara drove past Clayt
on Park for the fortieth time.

  So much for her great escape. All she’d done was waste a week’s worth of gas, and listened to the same six songs on high rotation. The clock read just past noon. With more optimism than the situation warranted, she headed up the street that would take her to Ms. Fourakis’s house.

  She almost left when she saw the reporters outside, where did they all come from? It seemed like they were multiplying, and they were everywhere. Her patience had run out back when it was just a jerk from the school paper in Sofia’s backyard. Suddenly, Dara ceased to care.

  Instead of sneaking up the alley, she drove right up to Ms. Fourakis’s house. Sunglasses on, check. They weren’t much, but it felt like they protected her. Enough that she got out of the car in front of everybody. Keys in hand, she headed purposefully for the door. She was a magnet. The moment they realized who she was they rushed toward her.

  Mentally, she brushed them away. Physically, she pushed up to the door. They trailed her, crushing behind her in a way they never would have dared in front of the sheriff’s house. It was hard to ignore being touched by so many strangers at once. Feeling them breathe and move behind her like a single-bodied beast.

  She refused to look back. Instead, she knocked on the door. Lightly, at first, then harder. Realistically, she knew no one would answer. If someone did, it probably wouldn’t be Cade.

  But she was tired. Tired of hiding and running and fighting to just be. There was something wrong with the world when she had to break out of her own house in the morning.

  No one answered.

  Dara steeled herself with a deep breath, then turned around. A mural of faces blurred in front of her. She couldn’t even pick out their individual voices anymore. They were a wall to scale. A gate to jump. Squaring herself off, she put her head down and pushed through them.

  They moved—to be honest, she was surprised. But they did, parting for her as she strode back to her car. More predictably, they swarmed around when she got back inside. Like they hadn’t heard about her wild ride just a couple of hours ago—didn’t they realize she wasn’t fooling around anymore?

  Throwing the car into gear, she slammed her hand on the horn. With the high-pitched blare clearing the way, she pulled onto the street, and didn’t bother with her signal at the corner.

  Sheriff Porter stood in the station parking lot to give the latest update. After thirty-six hours, he was a little punchy, and probably the wrong guy for the job. But he wanted to do it; throw these guys some meat and send them off to look for leads in cities other than his.

  The prepared statement was short, and he didn’t pretend he wasn’t reading from it. If they wanted theatrics, they’d have to get them somewhere else. Every few lines, he’d raise his head. Another act, pretending like he cared if they got it all down.

  “With information gathered from many sources, and the cooperation of concerned citizens, we believe we have identified our John Doe. The state lab will be conducting DNA tests, and we expect results in the coming weeks. Because John Doe is a minor, we’re declining to name him at this time.

  “However, we can give you a brief sketch of what we believe to be the facts at this time. In the spring of 1999, we believe John Doe’s parents sold their possessions and abandoned their home in Ohio. It appears they decided to move into the Beaver Creek Wilderness Area of Daniel Boone National Forest.

  “At this time, we can’t comment on their motives for doing so. Nor can we comment on their current whereabouts. We do not believe they will be found alive, nor do we believe they were the victims of foul play.”

  Stopping for a sip of water, Sheriff Porter peered into the cameras. He saw slices of his own face, reflected in black glass over and over. He wondered if they could see how tired he was. If they realized he could drop on the spot, if they’d just pack up and leave. Probably not. The folks with the cameras never slept.

  After clearing his throat, Sheriff Porter shook the statement and picked up where he left off. “John Doe has given us no reason to disbelieve his version of events. As incredible as it sounds, it is our belief that he spent the majority of his life in Daniel Boone National Forest, unaware of the civilized world just outside its borders.

  “The courts will assign him a legal guardian sometime this week. We’ll finish our investigation, confirming his identity. However, at this point, CHFS will take over. This is a case for the family courts, and we ask that you let the system do its job.”

  It was standard to thank people for coming to a presser. Even more standard to open it up to questions. Sheriff Porter no longer cared about standard. He tipped his hat to them, and stepped down without a backward glance.

  They squalled their protest, but the nice thing about the station door was that it cut down on outside noise considerably.

  The shadowy figure above Dara’s bed reached out to touch her. Shaking her, not gently, it leaned closer. Listerine wafted across her face. With another shove, the creature pushed her over and said, “Lord Greystoke is in the backyard.”

  Squinting, Dara struggled to sit up. Flailing one hand, she shoved Lia. Slow to process, Dara took in the glowing numbers on her clock and the alcoholic stench of her sister’s breath. Then she forced one eye open a little wider. Peering at Lia, Dara asked, “Who?”

  Disgusted, Lia walked away. “Don’t you ever read?”

  “Meh meh meh ever read?” Dara repeated under her breath, annoyed.

  Throwing her covers aside, she tugged her cami down to cover her belly and padded toward the window. Thinking twice about the outfit and the fact that there were still footprints all over her front lawn, she pulled on her robe. Then she lifted the shades.

  There, in the bluish haze of their security lights, stood Cade. Wrapped tight in someone else’s peacoat, he looked strange and formal. The only reason she knew it was really him was because of his hair. Bound with a black band, his dreads streamed down his back in a tight column. His face was bare, heart-shaped, and his dark brows framed a thoughtful expression.

  A thin light appeared, then stretched across the yard. It swept over him. Raising a hand, he shrank, but he didn’t retreat.

  Dara’s heart pounded. Taking the stairs two at a time, she practically skidded into the kitchen. To her relief, it was Lia at the back door and not one of their parents. Pressing past Lia, Dara turned back and said, “Flip the inside lights before we get in trouble, will you?”

  “You’re welcome for turning off the alarm,” Lia replied.

  Then she doused the kitchen overhead, and the yard was mostly shadowed again. The security lights would blink off as soon as people stopped moving near them. Plotting her path carefully, Dara hurried across the wet grass. She trailed her hand along the fence. More than a couple sneak-in-sneak-out party nights told her she was far enough from the sensor here.

  Shivering, she did wish she’d put on shoes. As she drew closer to Cade, she asked, “How did you get here?”

  Cade looked to the rooflines. It took Dara a moment to realize what he meant. When she did, her mouth dropped open. How many calls had her dad’s office gotten about intruders on the roof? she wondered. Turning back to Cade, she caught his arms, squeezing them gently. “Are you okay?”

  “I wanted to see you again.”

  Dara led him beneath the willow tree then gently pushed him almost against the trunk. It was a good place to hide from the lights. And from the prying looks of any neighbors or parents (or random, rabid journalists) that might wander by. The thin, new leaves didn’t offer much cover. It was the elegant fall of branches, instead, that shielded them.

  “I tried to see you this morning. The station was overrun, your house, too.”

  “It wasn’t a good day,” Cade replied.

  The hurt in his voice wounded her. It shone in his eyes, even the way he held his head. Dara wanted to rush up to cover him, wrap him in her arms, and take him somewhere safe. Wherever that was. If it even existed.

  Gingerly, she trailed her nails ag
ainst his hands, up his wrists. When she spoke again, it was gently. Quietly, as if the air was too delicate to break with too much sound. “Do you feel that?” she asked.

  Adam’s apple bobbing, Cade said, “Yes.”

  “I feel it, too.”

  Night whispered around them. Wind through trees, and the soft kiss of cars rolling by in the dark. Far at the other end of town, a train whistle lowed. Its plaintive cry echoed, mourned by the sweet cry of new spring frogs.

  Tracing her thumbs against the tender curve of his wrists, Dara dropped her gaze. She was afraid if she looked up that she would kiss him. That wasn’t going to comfort him; that would be for her. Selfish and greedy, when he needed something more than that. Still, his current wrapped around her. He was heat lightning, racing along her skin. Tingling on her lips.

  “Dara,” he murmured.

  She felt him lean closer. If he were more experienced, he might have known how to nudge her into looking up. That he could sway his hip and bump against hers. Or if he slipped his hard, worn hands up to her throat, he could have tipped her chin back and kissed her anyway. “I wish I could make this better,” Dara said. She threaded her fingers through his and took a step back. “I’m going to try. I’ll talk to my mom. She’s better with working outside the system. I don’t want you to go away. I don’t want . . .”

  Cade started to protest. Then suddenly, instead, he seemed to solidify. He wouldn’t let her look away, but he didn’t chase this time. His hands in her hands, they hung together. Knotted between them. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  Confused, Dara shook her head. “I see you. I see Cade.”

  It seemed that wasn’t the answer he sought. His features smoothed, making him strange and flat. The lightning died, no longer passing between them. He let his hands slip away, and he said, “I have to go.”

  “Wait, I don’t— What are you really asking me? You’re standing here, and you’re amazing. And confusing. And broken, god, you look so broken. I want to fix that. I want to . . . I want to kiss you, and I want you to kiss me back, and I want you to stay. When I looked out the window, I hoped it would be you.”