Wild Heart Read Online Free Page A

up the room. "Because now I have you again," he explained, and went back to book-rummaging.
    She shook her head at him, hands on her hips. Just say no, Philip was always advising her. You're not a child anymore, Syd. Why do you let him take advantage of you? In this case, she decided she had two reasons: one, habit; two, the Ontario Man. He fascinated her.
    Her father found what he was looking for and headed for his desk. Sydney got out of the way before he could bump into her—out of distraction, of course, not rudeness. His thin, white, flyaway hair was ridiculously long; obviously no one had cut it since she had, last February. He sat down in his chair, no longer aware of her presence. She watched him a moment, smiling in spite of herself, taking note of his high, intelligent forehead and the vague blue eyes behind the thick lenses of his pince-nez. He was looking all of his sixty years these days, pale and painfully thin, as if the bulk of his physical energy had been diverted to his brain. He had on one of his ancient frock coats, seriously frayed at the cuffs, and a pair of checked trousers with a shiny seat and baggy knees. At least his shirt was clean. Aunt Estelle muttered all the time that if he ever got lost in a bad Chicago neighborhood, he'd be arrested for vagrancy on the spot.
    Sydney thought his carelessness mitigated in a way his blindness to other people's little vanities—her new dress, for example, or the way she was wearing her hair nowadays. You couldn't blame him for not noticing those things about others when half the time he couldn't match his own socks. Truly, he took the cliche of the absentminded professor to new heights.
    "Bad day," he mumbled, a quarter to her and three-quarters to himself. "Accomplished nothing. Man's truculent. Getting nowhere. Preliminary report's late. Look like a fool. Slocum'll gloat. See it all now."
    She was used to his cryptic, staccato style of speaking, as if he were making verbal notes instead of talking. His students had a field day mimicking him. He had embarrassed her to death in her childhood, but thank goodness she'd finally outgrown that. Embarrassment still plagued Philip, though, and it was just starting to torture Sam.
    "Papa?"
    "Hm."
    "Did they really keep the Ontario Man in a cage when he first came to the university?"
    "Hm? Yes, after his wound healed."
    "Why?"
    "Because he kept trying to escape."
    "Yes, but—a cage."
    "Frightened people. Didn't know what to make of him."
    "But—"
    "Damn shame in retrospect. Boy had lice, fleas, what-all, and they deloused him with lye. Had internal parasites—gave him emetics, diuretics. Had good, strong teeth but a couple of rotten ones in back—gave him laughing gas and filled 'em with gold. Traumatized him. Cut his hair—had to hold him down. Scared hell out of him all around. Damn shame."
    "Not to mention shooting him," Sydney pointed out.
    No wonder he wouldn't cooperate with them. They were lucky he hadn't eaten them.
    "What are you going to do with him? What will happen to him if he never speaks?"
    He sat back, folding his hands over his sunken chest. His cloudy eyes grew even vaguer. "Boy's depressed. Sighs all the time. Kicked a hole in the wall last night. Muscles weakening—needs exercise. Night vision not as keen. Smell, ditto. Used to be able to smell the paint on the wall, and newsprint, hair oil. Losing it. Retreating. Melancholia. Homesick. Doesn't care."
    Amazing, thought Sydney, how sensitive he could be to the smallest details of his subjects' actions and reactions. Too bad he couldn't spare too much of that sensitivity for his family.
    "Harley?" Aunt Estelle bustled into the room, pulling Philip behind her. "Harley, I would like your complete and undivided attention."
    Her father looked up, pleasant-faced. "Morning, Estelle. Philip. You, too, Sam?"
    Sam came in last, trying to look inconspicuous. "Hi, Daddy," he chirped, and made a beeline for Sydney. He was nervous, but he didn't want to miss