Wild (19 page)

She should have shot him. It would have been faster. It would have blown clean through. Instead, he had to stand there and take it. Act like she hadn't just destroyed him. Gently, he pushed her away. Then he leaned over to collect his sneakers, surprised that gravity didn't drag him straight through the floor.

Straightening up, he recoiled when she reached for him. Holding his shoes out at arm's length, a talisman against her, he threw open her door. Print photos fluttered around him, the walls sighing in empathy.

He could be calm. He had to be, because suddenly all he wanted to do was punch through the wall. Instead, he struck her with words, all he had in his arsenal.

“Call me when you get back,” he said bitterly, and slammed the door.

Thirty

M
onday after school, Dara felt like psycho Betty Crocker, turning up on Cade's doorstep with a dozen cookies.

And a fake one, too, since she'd stopped at the grocery store to buy them. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually baked cookie dough. It was made for eating with spoons in the middle of the night.

Inviting her in, Ms. Fourakis nodded down the hall. “He's in his room. Are those chocolate chip?”

Dara opened the bag for her, paying her toll before walking down the hall to find Cade. She smiled curiously to herself, because music poured out of his room. No one answered the first time she knocked. The second time, she winced, because the door rattled in protest.

The music died. The door opened, and Cade peeked through the crack. “Dara?”

“I brought cookies,” she said. She shook the bag, trying to tempt him.

Pulling the door open, he stepped aside to invite her in. Dressed only in a pair of jeans, he looked like he'd just woken up. But on the bed, he had a tablet open, a can of shaving cream arranged beside it, set off by three plastic razors in a crisscross pattern. Like a little pyramid, or a hut.

Smiling slowly, Dara took in the scene, then turned to Cade. “Do I want to know?”

Torn, Cade looked from her to the bed. Then sullenly, he admitted, “I can't get the YouTubes into the box Branson gave me.”

Dara tried not to laugh. Abandoning the cookies on his dresser, she reached for the tablet. Its image swirled, righting itself as she tucked it against one arm and flicked her fingers across the screen. “What are you looking for?”

Flatly, Cade repeated Ms. Fourakis, gesturing at his whiskers. “I'm getting a little shaggy. She won't let me use the knives in the kitchen.”

“To shave?”

Cade nodded, then pointed at her. “That's the same face she made.”

Still swallowing laughter, Dara slipped the tablet onto the bed. Then she gathered the shaving cream and razors. Nodding toward the door, she asked, “Do you have a towel?” She waited for him to grab it, then led him to the bathroom.

To be fair, she'd never shaved a face before. But she'd tackled enough legs, armpits, and bikini areas that she felt incredibly qualified. It was the same principle, and come on. She couldn't do worse than he would have with Ms. Fourakis' cleaver.

“Towel over your shoulders,” Dara said. She ran warm water in the sink, then dipped her hands. She turned to wet his face. She did laugh, then. His expression was priceless—irritation verging on a real, live pout. Wetting her hands again, she swept them across his cheeks and his jaw.

“So far, this is the same,” Cade said. Then he recoiled when she pressed the button on the shaving cream can. Menthol foam swirled in her hand. Jerking his head back, his nostrils flared when she moved to put it on him. “That's not.”

Amused, Dara waited for him to still. “Do you want me to nick you to pieces? No? Then chill.”

The cream stung a little, sharp and minty on his skin. It was true, he had mint in his shave kit at home, but not this much. This made his eyes water, but he tried not to squirm too much. He watched her in the mirror as she rinsed her hands, then took up one of the sticks. Peeling a cap off its head, she dipped it beneath the tap and turned to him.

“Hold on,” she said. She looked around, then took two thick decorator towels off the top of the medicine chest. Centering them on the floor, she stepped up and grinned. It didn't perfect the difference between their heights, but it was good enough. Rinsing the razor again, she put a hand up to steady his head.

“Hold still.”

They both stiffened when she pressed the blade to his face. Anxious laughter bubbled from Dara, but she was careful as she cut the first stroke from his sideburns to his jaw. The blade tugged a little, and Cade wasn't sure she knew what she was doing when she caught her breath and held it.

But she finished the first stroke, then swept the razor under the water again. Rising once more, she held the razor away from his face before starting the next strip. “You okay?”

Cade nodded. Now that she'd shown him how all this stuff worked, he could have finished the job himself. Selfishly, he liked how close she had to stand to him. He liked her hands on his face, and the warmth of her breath on his lips.

“Good, here we go again.”

He waited until she stopped to say, “You were mad at the boy in the yard.”

Peering at him curiously, Dara dipped and rinsed again. “Yes, I was. And he'd better hope he doesn't run into me again.”

“You weren't mad at me,” Cade said

Befuddled, Dara stopped for a moment. “Why would I be?”

“Because I hid. I watched you.”

“Oh. Ohh.” Dara slumped. Razor held loosely, she swiped the back of her hand across her brow. Steam drifted lazily from the sink, starting to haze the edges of the mirror. “I don't . . . It's hard to explain. I mean, if you get curious about somebody here in town, I wouldn't start following them around. But . . . I wasn't afraid of you. You had lots of chances to hurt us, and you didn't.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn't,” Dara said. “I mean, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. My dad says people worry about being polite, so they don't pay attention to their gut. They let people talk them into situations they don't want to be in.”

“I didn't say anything.”

Struggling with the explanation, Dara turned in a tight circle to gather her thoughts. Then, suddenly, she captured his hands and brought them to her face.

Her skin was so soft against his rough fingers. Their worn, uneven warmth ghosted against her cheeks.

“I knew you were there. And let's be honest. I had Josh there with me. If I'd been by myself, maybe I would have been afraid. But I wasn't. My first instinct was curiosity, not fear. We were so far out, at least it felt like it to me. And I just . . . I was never afraid of you.”

“Then why didn't you come see me yesterday?”

Letting go of his hands, Dara sighed. Stroking the razor under the water again, she lingered there a long time. When she came back up again, she evened out the foam on his face with a careless stroke. Putting the blade to his skin once more, she carefully edged the corner of his mouth.

“Yesterday was a mess. It had nothing to do with you.”

“Your father was on the news,” Cade said helpfully.

“Oh, you're learning to watch TV,” Dara replied. “Awesome. Yeah, he . . . there are a lot of people who want to know who you are. And they're exactly zero interested in taking ‘We don't know' for an answer.”

Trying not to move his lips, Cade tipped his head back so Dara could shave the notch beneath his mouth. The blade stung there, pulling more than cutting. When she moved away, he said, “You don't know.”

“Right, but nobody believes that.”

“They're very stupid people, then.”

“More skeptical,” Dara murmured. Trailing her fingers down his one smooth cheek, she studied it. For what, Cade wasn't sure. But she seemed to find it, because she nodded to herself before starting on the other side.

Watching her, Cade asked, “So I'm the mess?”

“A little bit.” She smiled at him, as if to brush it all away. “And me. And Josh. Plus a dash of my sister, and my parents . . .”

The word tasted bitter on his tongue. “Josh?”

“Don't you start, too,” Dara said. A few more strokes and she'd cleared all the foam from his face. She gave him a cloth to wipe off, then reached for the can again. As she shook it, she considered him critically. “Lean against the counter. Pretend you're a statue. Please tell me you know what a statue is.”

Curling a fist under his chin, Cade froze. He'd seen a picture of this statue in one of his father's books. The posture made Dara laugh, which warmed Cade from the inside. Breaking the pose, he moved out of her way.

The steam swirled around him. Cooler air in the hall kept it from getting too hazy. It left the rest mobile. Almost alive. Twisting around him sinuously, the steam clung to his shoulders, his arms.

Bracing his hands against the counter, he bared his throat to her. All at once, he could feel the breath in his throat. The pulse pounding away beneath his jaw.

Her touch stung in the best way. Clutching the counter tighter, Cade resisted the urge to catch her hips. Pull her closer. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the details. Her chest brushed against his, careless, incidental contact.

Then she pressed a red-hot mark on his chest with her palm. She was steadying herself, her breath reedy as she put the blade down on bare, vulnerable flesh.

“Why'd you get so quiet?” she murmured.

Something in his chest wound tight. Was there a right answer? He didn't know, so he told her the truth. “I'm listening to you breathe.”

With that, Dara stopped. Razor pressed against his throat, chest brushing his, she stopped. At first, her breath thinned. Then it failed completely. He couldn't know for sure, but he thought that the winding in
his
chest had started in hers. Her touch trembled.

When he looked down at her, she broke away. Nervous again, she splashed water all over the counter in her rush to rinse the razor. It flicked onto the mirror, and down the front of her shirt. It beaded her skin like sweat. He wanted to wipe it away with his hands. Instead, he offered his towel.

“Okay?” he asked.

Cutting off the taps, she took the towel. Clutched it, actually. She wasn't doing a very good job of drying herself. Too brightly, too cheerfully she said, “Just . . . totally jonesing for those cookies.”

Cold swept in, now that Dara had pulled away. Gooseflesh broke across Cade's chest, and he wrapped one of the big towels around his shoulders again. It wasn't warm enough, or soft enough. It didn't cling to his skin the way Dara did. It didn't smell as good. But he made do, and followed her to his room with another question.

“What's jonesing?”

Thirty-one

S
ide by side in matching maroon hoodies, Cade and Dara slipped out the back door and headed for the park. It was too pretty out to stay barricaded in Ms. Fourakis' house.

After the shaving, things felt a little too close inside walls, as well. A new hunger clawed Cade from the inside, taunting him with desires he couldn't quite define. He suspected Dara would have no problem with naming them—she just didn't want to say them out loud.

Yet.

The reporters had started to swarm, so their escape included cutting through several gated backyards. Halfway through one, they accidentally antagonized a chained-up Pomeranian. Cade wanted to stare it down. When Dara pointed out its tether, Cade deflated.

“Dog bully,” she teased, slipping her arm in his.

“Cade bully,” he replied.

Clayton Park looked as small as it was in the daylight. Bedraggled swings swayed in the wind. The teeter-totter thumped forlornly, driven into the ground by a kid with a stick almost twice her size. A handful of middle schoolers had claimed the metal dome as their headquarters. They cast poisonous glares at Dara and Cade as they walked by. In fact, Dara thought she heard one of them hiss.

Incredulous, Dara said, “And that's why I quit babysitting.”

“They got too big to sit on?” Cade asked innocently. Then he burst out laughing when Dara started to explain the concept of child care for cash to him. When she realized he was teasing her, she veered and bumped him.

Then, tugging him by their joined elbows, she led him to the swings. Their sneakers scuffed through thinning mulch, and a cedarish scent paired with the dusty air of aging rubber. Dara dropped herself on one of the black seats. Wrapping her arms around the chains, she waited for him to sit beside her.

“So,” she said when he did. “Tell me something cool.”

As she pumped her legs, Cade simply dangled in his swing. He made no attempt to take flight. Instead, he trailed his fingers up the silver chain. His pinkie fit perfectly inside one link.

Since he didn't know what she wanted from him, he considered his options. Then he pointed to a huddle of low, fat birds on the sidewalk.

“I could catch one of those with my bare hands.”

Throwing her head back, Dara laughed. Her hoodie slid down, and she said, “So could I, they're pigeons.”

“No.” Cade moved, as if to prove it, but Dara hauled him back.

“You don't want to. They're nasty.”

“They're tiny. I wouldn't feel their beaks at all.”

“Nooo. They're licey and dirty.” She smiled over at him brilliantly. “Are you impervious to parasites?”

Cade buried a shudder. “No.”

Still smiling, she stretched a hand toward him when she swayed past. “Swing with me.”

The physical principles were the same, whether the swing was made of rubber or woody vines. It wasn't that Cade didn't know how. He did. But he wanted to watch her more. Her hair slipped loose of her hood. It tangled around her ear, a wonderful, perfect shell of an ear.

Taking her hand, Cade let Dara drag him up to speed. Metal creaked above. Friction drew sweat to his palms, different from regular sweat. It smelled tangy, like rusting iron.

It reminded Cade of artifacts he'd found in the mining town. Lanterns softly orange with age, their glass long smashed and oil drained away. Picks and tweezers . . . once, he'd found an iron stem sticking out of the ground.

When he dug it out, he discovered it belonged to a frying pan. It felt almost soft with rust, like it might disappear entirely if he was too rough with it. But after a brisk rubdown with sand and walnut shells, it was solid underneath. Blackened all over. Weighty and good.

However long it had sat abandoned, it was brand-new to Cade. Better than his parents' griddle for a lot of things, it became one of his treasures. Even now, it hung in his cave. Probably needing a new scrub, Cade realized. Which in turn, made him realize he didn't know how long he'd been away.

That pang hooked in his chest again, and he jerked himself out of the thoughts before they consumed him.

“Hey there, sailor,” Dara said. Her smile was curious now, softer. It gentled her gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

Cade watched her full lips form the sounds, then turned his attention to the trees in the distance. The deceptive trees, not very deep, very full of trash. Plastic bags and shattered glass; what a terrible place. Dragging his heels in the dirt, he slowed to a stop. “I know everything about my home. I'm the only one. Everyone else is gone.”

Slowing herself, Dara twisted the chains. Still in motion, her swing gyrated toward his. Her knees bumped his. Their ankles tangled. She had this talent for making him look. It was like she wanted him to fall into her eyes.

“Tell me something.” She grabbed his swing, anchoring them together. “Then you won't be alone.”

Alone.

She didn't realize how big that was. How true. And rather than climb back into the closet with a potted plant, Cade shoved those feelings aside. Today was a good day. Bacon for breakfast again and no tests. The prettiest girl at his back door with cookies. In his bathroom, wearing steam and touching his face . . . good day. It was a good day.

Seizing on his best, favorite thing, he said, “Honey doesn't come in plastic bears. It comes from beehives. Honeycomb.”

“Pretty sure everybody knows that,” Dara said, not unkindly.

“But you don't know how to find a hive in the wild, do you?”

“I don't. Fair enough. Proceed.”

Cade drew a meandering path in the air. It was supposed to be a bee, which he explained as he locked their ankles together. “Worker bee, starving. Flying everywhere to find nectar and pollen.”

“Is he busy?” Dara asked with a crooked smile.

“Very,” Cade replied, ignoring her joke. “Now, they don't fly in straight lines. If you followed him all day, you might end up miles from home and starving. So you only follow him for a while. Then you . . .”

He clapped his hands together. Completely unexpected and wonderful, her squeak delighted him.

“Messing with me, nice.” Dara wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Very funny.”

“Not funny, not done. Listen. You follow him, then you catch him. Gently, you'll ruin him if he stings you. Now, if he was flying east, you walk west. Vice versa. North, south. Anyway, walk at least a hundred steps, two hundred is better, in the opposite direction. Then let him go and follow.”

“I'm not falling for that again.”

Cade leaned toward her, hooking his knee behind hers, catching the chain of her swing in one hand. Pulling her closer, his brow brushed hers. Their noses nearly touched. “You've never heard of triangulation? I guess I really am alone.”

Caught on a hitched breath, Dara didn't move away. Instead, she knit her brows and glanced down. Like there was very important information printed on the knees of her jeans. But really, she was thinking about what he'd said, making it make sense. After a second, she raised her head. Now her mouth rounded, her eyes, too. There was a new light on her, and she laughed—surprised, not amused.

“That's really how you find a beehive?”

Cade raised his finger again. This time, he trailed it through the air in a gentle spiral, and touched it to her hand. As if the bee had landed there, cradled between them. It was their bee. Their secret. She smelled like sugar and the wind and shaving cream.

Voice suddenly warm as his blood, Cade raised his head and said, “It really is.”

And with that, he let his imaginary bee fly home.

 

The second time Dr. O'Toole called the police department, he was incredibly apologetic.

“I know you must be getting a lot of calls about this case,” he said. “And it's entirely possible you've already investigated this lead and discarded it. I didn't expect anyone to call me back . . .”

Reaching for a pencil, Deputy Krause asked, “What was your name again?”

“Dr. Jupiter O'Toole, PhD, not MD.”

What kind of name was that? The deputy scribbled it down, then leaned back in her chair. She trained her gaze on the front windows. Any minute, she expected Deputy Bates to come back in with a cardboard box full of Chinese takeout. The taste of chicken fried rice taunted her—so close, but still an eternity to wait.

Distracted by the potential of lunch, Deputy Krause said, “PhD not MD, all right. Did you have a tip you wanted to report, sir?”

Dr. O'Toole's voice was soft, dusty like powder. It soothed, belying his distress. “Yes. I called previously, because I'm an epidemiologist at Case Western Reserve. Eighteen years ago, I was working with Dr. Liza Walsh on the World's Plagues project.”

“Mm hmm.”

“We were mapping every outbreak from 1600 to the present day. With that data, we planned to build a model that would predict the next outbreak before it happened. I specialize in etiology, she specialized in exposure assessment, you see, and . . .”

Chicken fried rice, so far away,
the deputy thought. Out loud, mildly, she said, “This is what you told us when you called before?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. Papers shuffled. Then Dr. O'Toole said, “But since I called, I have new information. I checked my records. Dr. Walsh and her husband had Jonathan in the summer of 1997. They disappeared, spring of '99.”

“Is there a missing persons report?”

“Well, no,” Dr. O'Toole said. “I mean, yes, the university reported her missing. But when the police went to their house, it was empty. Nothing left behind. There was no family that I'm aware of, and the police said people were entitled to move without leaving a forwarding address if they wanted to. So nothing came of it.”

Light flooded the office, a reflection of a car passing by. The deputy sat up a little straighter. But the door didn't open. Silently, she cursed Bates and asked the doctor, “And what makes you think this is related to our Doe, sir? The names aren't the same.”

“Well, I heard on the news that the first question he asked when he was evacuated from the forest was ‘how many people are left?' Which piqued my curiosity. And the drawing looked a bit like Dr. Walsh. Since I called last, I double-checked my records, and the dates line up. But mostly . . .”

The deputy waited for him to fill in his own silence. She gave up on watching for lunch, and hunched over her notepad. Scribbling in quick details about the call, she hummed. To remind him that she was listening. To get him to quit taking up her time.

Finally, Dr. O'Toole said, “Found it. I've been watching the news coverage, and I was certain when I saw the picture of the boy. I've got pictures from his first birthday party. If you compare them, you see the resemblance.

“That's why I called back, I had more to offer than I did before. I do truly believe Jonathan Walsh and John Doe are the same person. Could I . . . would it be possible for me to send the photos to you? I had my wife scan them.”

“Sure,” Deputy Krause said. “Let me give you the email address.”

Then she proceeded to give him Deputy Johnson's address, because he was lead on the case, second to the sheriff. He could go through it when his shift started at eleven.

Thanking Dr. O'Toole, Deputy Krause rolled her chair back and hung up the phone. Dropping the message on the department assistant's desk, she headed outside. It wouldn't make the food get there any faster, but she went to stretch on the front walk just in case.