Wild

by Kristin Hannah

  There it is. The box that holds the wind. It is not like the other one, the trickster box that kept the outside out, through which you couldn’t touch.

  She moves forward, holding her stomach tightly.

  Sweet air comes through the box. She carefully puts her hand through the opening. She moves slowly, a bit at a time, ready to pull back at the first sharp pain.

  But nothing stops her. Finally, her whole arm is Out There, in her world, where the air seems to be made of raindrops.

  She closes her eyes. For the first time since they trapped her, she can breathe. She lets out a long, desperate howl.

  Come for me, that noise means, but she stops in the middle of it. She is so far away from her cave. There is no one to hear her.

  This is why Him always told her to stay. He knew the world beyond her chain.

  Out There is full of Strangers who will hurt Girl.

  And she is alone now.

  Years ago, Ellie had gone to the drive-in with her then-boyfriend, Scott Lauck, and seen a movie called Ants. Or maybe it had been Swarm. She wasn’t entirely sure now. All she really remembered was a scene with Joan Collins being swarmed by Volkswagen-sized ants. Ellie, of course, had been more interested in making out with Scotty than watching the movie. Still, it was those long-ago film images that came to her now as she stood in the hallway outside the lunchroom, sipping her coffee and looking out at the melee in the station.

  It was a hive of people. From her place at the end of the hall, she couldn’t see a patch of floor or a sliver of wall. It was the same way outside and down the block.

  The story had broken this morning under a variety of headlines.

  THE GIRL FROM NOWHERE

  WHO AM I?

  REMEMBER ME?

  And Ellie’s particular favorite (this from Mort in the Gazette): FLYING MUTE LANDS IN RAIN VALLEY. His first paragraph described the girl’s prodigious leaping capabilities and, naturally, her wolf companion. His description of her was the only accurate report. He made her sound crazy, wild, and heartbreakingly pathetic.

  At eight A.M. the first call had come in. Cal hadn’t had a moment’s peace since then. By one o’clock the first national news van had pulled into town. Within two hours the streets were jammed with vans and reporters demanding another press conference. Everyone from journalists to parents to kooks and psychics wanted to get the scoop firsthand.

  “So far nothing has panned out,” Peanut said, coming out of the lunchroom. “No one knows who she is.”

  Ellie sipped her coffee and eyed the crowd.

  Cal looked up from his desk and saw the two of them. He was talking into the dispatch headset at the same time he fielded questions from the crowd of reporters in front of him.

  Ellie smiled at him.

  He mouthed, Help me.

  “Cal’s losing it,” Peanut said.

  “I can hardly blame him. He didn’t take this job to actually work.”

  “Who did?” Peanut said, laughing.

  “That would be me.” Ellie looked at her friend, said, “Wish me luck,” and then waded back into the sea of clamoring, shouting reporters. In their midst, she raised her hands in the air. It took a long time to quiet them. Finally, she got their attention.

  “There will be no more comments—either on or off the record—by anyone in this office today. We’ll conduct a press conference at six o’clock and answer everything then.”

  Chaos erupted.

  “But we need photos!”

  “These artist renderings are crap—”

  “Drawings don’t sell papers—”

  Ellie shook her head, exasperated. “I don’t know how my sister—”

  “That’s it!” Peanut barreled into the crowd, using the come-to-Jesus voice she’d perfected when Tara, her daughter, turned thirteen. “You heard the chief. Everyone out. Now.”

  Peanut herded them out, then slammed the door shut.

  It wasn’t until Ellie turned toward her desk that she saw him.

  Mort Elzick was standing in the corner, wedged between two industrial green metal file cabinets. He was pale and sweaty-looking in his brown, wide-wale corduroy pants and navy blue golf shirt. His red crew cut was so long it looked like a fringed pompadour. Behind thick glasses, his eyes looked huge and watery. When he saw her looking at him, he moved forward. His worn white-and-gray tennis shoes squeaked with every step. “Y-You need to give me an exclusive, Ellie. This is my big break. I could get a job with the Olympian or the Everett Herald.”

  “With a ‘Mowgli Lives’ headline? I doubt it.”

  He flushed. “What would a junior college dropout know about the classics? I know Julia is helping on this case.”

  “You think she is. Put it in print and I’ll bury you.”

  His pale eyebrows beetled; his face turned red. “Give me an exclusive, Ellie. You owe it to me. Or . . .”

  “Or what?” She moved closer.

  “Or else.”

  “Mention my sister and I’ll get you fired.”

  He stepped back. “You think you’re something special. But you can’t get your way all the time. I gave you a chance. You remember that.”

  On that, he pushed past her and ran out of the station.

  “Praise Jesus and pass the ice,” Cal said. He went down to the lunchroom and came back with three beers.

  “You can’t drink in here, Cal,” Ellie said tiredly.

  “Bite me,” he said. “And I mean that in the nicest possible way. If I’d wanted an actual job, I wouldn’t have answered your ad. I haven’t been able to read a comic book in peace all week.” He handed her a Corona.

  “No, thanks,” Peanut said when he offered her a beer. She went into the lunchroom, then came back out holding a mug.

  Ellie looked at her friend.

  “Cabbage soup,” Peanut said, shrugging.

  Cal sat on his desk, feet swinging, and drank his beer. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat like a swallowed fishbone. His black hair reflected the light in waves of blue. “Good for you, Pea. I was afraid you were going to try the heroin diet next.”

  Peanut laughed. “To be honest, that smoking really sucked. Benji wouldn’t even kiss me good night.”

  “And you two are always making out,” Cal said.

  Ellie heard something in Cal’s voice, a rawness that confused her. She looked at him. For a moment she saw him as he used to be—a gawky kid with features too sharp for childhood. His eyes had always been shadowed then, full of wariness.

  He set his beer down and sighed. For the first time, she noticed how tired he looked. His mouth, usually curled in an irritatingly buoyant smile, was a thin pale line.

  She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. She knew exactly what the problem was. Cal had worked for her now for two and a half years full-time; before that he’d been an at-home dad. His wife, Lisa, was a sales rep for a New York company and was gone more than she was home. When the kids were all in school, Cal took the dispatch job to fill the empty hours while they were gone. Mostly, he read comic books during the day and drew action figures in his sketch pad. He was a good dispatcher, as long as the biggest emergency was a cat stuck in a tree. The past few days seemed to have undone him. She realized how much she missed his smile. “I’ll tell you what, Cal. I’ll handle the press conference. You go on home.”

  He looked pathetically hopeful. Still, he said, “You need someone to answer the emergency calls.”

  “Forward the calls to the service. If something’s important, they’ll radio me. It’ll only be the 911 calls anyway.”

  “You’re sure? I could come back after Emily’s soccer game.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Thanks, Ellie.” He finally grinned; it made him look about seventeen years old again. “I’m sorry I gave you the finger this morning.”

  “It’s fine, Cal. Sometimes a man just has to make his point.” It was what her father used to say whenever he banged his fist on the kitchen table. />
  Cal plucked his department issue rain slicker off the antler hook and left the station.

  Ellie returned to her desk and sat down. To her left was a stack of faxes at least two inches tall. Each sheet of paper represented a lost child, a grieving family. She’d gone through them carefully, highlighted the similarities and the distinctions. As soon as the press conference was over, she’d start calling the various agencies and officers back. No doubt she’d be on the phone all night.

  “You’re getting that faraway look again,” Peanut said, sipping her soup.

  “Just thinking.”

  Peanut set down her mug. “You can do it, you know. You’re a great cop.”

  Ellie wanted to agree with that wholeheartedly. On any other day she would have. But now she couldn’t help glancing at the small stack of “evidence” they’d gathered on the girl’s identity. There were four photographs—a face shot, a profile close-up, and two body shots. In each, the girl was so sedated she looked dead. The press would have a field day with them. Below the stack of eight-by-tens was a list of the girl’s scars, identifying moles, and, of course, the birthmark on the back of her shoulder. In the photograph that accompanied the list, the birthmark looked remarkably like a dragonfly. The record also included X rays; Max estimated that her left arm had been broken when she was quite young. He believed it had healed without professional medical treatment. Each injury, scar, and birthmark had been marked on a diagram of her body. They had taken blood samples—she was type AB—fingerprints, and dental X rays; her blood had been sent off for DNA analysis, but that report wasn’t back yet. Her dress had also been sent away for analysis.

  There was nothing for them to do now except wait. And pray that someone came forward to identify the girl.

  “I don’t know, Pea. This is a tough one.”

  “You’re up to it.”

  Ellie smiled at her friend. “Of all the decisions I’ve made in this job, you know what was the best one?”

  “The ‘Drive a Drunk Home’ program?”

  “Close: it was hiring you, Penelope Nutter.”

  She grinned. “Every star needs a sidekick.”

  Laughing, Ellie went back to work, reading through the pile of documents on her desk.

  A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Peanut looked up. “Who knocks at a police station?”

  Ellie shrugged. “Not a reporter. Come in,” she said loudly.

  Slowly, the door opened. A couple stood on the front step, peering inside. “Are you Chief Barton?” asked the man.

  They weren’t reporters, that much was certain. The man was tall and white-haired, thin to the point of gauntness. He wore a pale gray cashmere sweater and black pants with knife-sharp pleats. And big-city shoes. The woman—his wife?—was dressed in black, from head to toe. Black coatdress, black hose, black pumps. Her hair, an expensive trio of blonds, was drawn back from her pale face and coiled in a French twist.

  Ellie stood. “Come on in.”

  The man touched the woman’s elbow, guided her to Ellie’s desk. “Chief Barton, I’m Dr. Isaac Stern. This is my wife, Barbara.”

  Ellie shook both of their hands, noticing how cold their skin was. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  A blast of wind hit the open door, made it smack hard against the wall.

  “Excuse me.” Ellie went to shut the door. “How can I help you?”

  Dr. Stern looked at her. “I’m here about my daughter, Ruthie. Our daughter,” he corrected, looking at his wife. “She disappeared in 1996. There are many of us here. Parents.”

  Ellie glanced outside. The reporters were still congregated in the street, talking among themselves and waiting for the press conference, but it was the line of people that caught her attention.

  Parents.

  There had to be one hundred of them.

  “Please,” said a man standing on the steps. “You threw us out with the press, but we need to talk to you. Some of us have come a long way.”

  “Of course I’ll talk to you,” Ellie said. “One at a time, though. Pass the word down the line. We’ll be here all night if we need to.”

  While the news was being spread, Ellie heard several women burst into quiet sobs.

  Once the couple was inside, she shut the door as gently as she could. Steeling herself, she headed back to her desk and took her seat. “Sit down,” she said, indicating the two chairs in front of the desk.

  “Penelope,” she said, “you can interview people, too. Just take down names, contact numbers, and any information they have.”

  “Sure, Chief.” Peanut immediately headed for the door.

  “Now,” Ellie said, leaning forward. “Tell me about your daughter.”

  Grief stared back at her, stark as blood on snow.

  Dr. Stern was the first to speak. “Our Ruthie left for school one day and never arrived there. It was two blocks from our house. I called the policeman who has been our friend in this, and he tells me this girl you have found cannot be my—our—Ruthie. I tell him our people believe in miracles, so we’ve come here to see you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small worn photograph. In it, a beautiful little girl with sandy brown ringlets held on to a bright pink Power Rangers lunch box. The date in the lower right corner was September 7, 1996.

  Today, Ruthie would be at least thirteen. Maybe fourteen.

  Ellie took a deep breath. It was impossible not to think suddenly of the line of hopeful parents outside, all of them waiting for a miracle. This would be the longest day of her life. Already she wanted to cry.

  She took the photo, touched it. When she looked up again, Mrs. Stern was weeping. “Ruthie’s blood type?”

  “O,” Mrs. Stern said, wiping her eyes and waiting. “I’m sorry,” Ellie said. “So very sorry.”

  Across the room, Peanut opened the door. Another couple walked in, clutching a color photograph to their chest.

  Please God, Ellie prayed, closing her eyes for just a moment, a heartbeat, let me be strong enough for this.

  Then Mrs. Stern started to talk. “Horses,” she said in a throaty voice. “She loved horses, our Ruthie. We thought she wasn’t old enough for lessons. Next year, we always said. Next year . . .”

  Dr. Stern touched his wife’s arm. “And then . . . this.” He took the picture from Ellie, staring down at it. Tears brightened his eyes. He looked up finally. “You have children, Chief Barton?”

  “No.”

  Ellie thought he was going to say something to that, but he remained silent, helping his wife to her feet.

  “Thank you for your time, Chief.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “I know,” he said, and Ellie could see suddenly how fragile he was, how hard he was working to keep his composure. He took his wife’s arm and steered her to the door. They left.

  A moment later a man walked in. He wore a battered, patched pair of faded overalls and a flannel shirt. An orange Stihl chainsaw baseball cap covered his eyes, and a gray beard consumed the lower half of his face. He clutched a photograph to his chest.

  It was of a blond cheerleader; Ellie could see from here.

  “Chief Barton?” he said in a hopeful voice.

  “That’s me,” she answered. “Please. Come sit down . . .”

  TEN

  Last night Julia had transformed her girlhood bedroom into a safety zone for her and her patient. The two twin beds still graced the left wall, but now the spaces beneath them were filled to block hiding places. In the corner by the window, she’d gathered almost one dozen tall, potted plants and created a mini-forest. A long Formica table took up the center of the room, serving as a desk and study space. Two chairs sat tucked up beside it. Now, however, she realized what she’d missed: a comfortable chair.

  For the past six hours the child had stood at the barred, open window, with her arm stuck outside. Come rain or shine, she held her hand out there. Somewhere around noon a robin had landed on the windowsill and stayed there. N
ow, in the pale gray sunlight that followed the last hour’s rain, a brightly colored butterfly landed on her outstretched hand, fluttering there for the space of a single breath, then flew off.

  If Julia hadn’t written it down, she would have stopped believing she’d seen it. After all, it was autumn; hardly the season for butterflies, and even in the full heat of summer, they rarely landed on a little girl’s hand, not even for an instant.

  But she had written it down, made a note of it in the permanent file, and so there it was now. A fact to be considered, another oddity among the rest.

  Perhaps it was the girl’s stillness. She hadn’t moved in hours.

  Not a shifting of her weight, not a changing of her arm, not a turn of her head. Not only did she evidence no repetitive or obsessive movements, she was as still as a chameleon. The social worker who had come this morning to conduct the home study to determine Julia’s fitness as a temporary foster parent had been shocked, though she tried to hide it. As she closed her notebook, the woman had thrown a last, worried glance at the girl before whispering to Julia, “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” Julia had said. And she was. Helping this child had already become something of a quest.

  Last night after preparing the bedroom, she had stayed up late, sitting at the kitchen table, making notes and reading everything she’d been able to find on the few true wild children on record. It was both fascinating and wrenchingly sad.

  Their cases all followed a similar pattern, whether they’d been found three hundred years ago in the dense woods of Bavaria or in this century in the wilds of Africa. All of them were discovered—usually by hunters—hiding in deep, dark forests. More than a third of them ran on all fours. Very few had been able to speak. Several of them—including Peter, the wild boy in 1726; Memmie, the so-called Savage Girl in France; and most famously, Victor, the wild boy of Aveyron in 1797—had become media sensations in their day. Scientists and doctors and language theorists flocked to their sides, each hoping their wild child would answer the most elemental human nature questions. Kings and princesses brought them to court as oddities, entertainments. The most recent case, that of a girl named Genie, who, though not raised in the wild, had been subjected to such systematic and horrific abuse that she had never learned to speak or move around or play, was yet another case of media attention.