Finding Fraser (41 page)

And standing beside the car was Jack
Findlay.

I had used up my full capacity of adrenaline
for the day. “What are you doing here?” I asked, as coolly as I could,
considering the handcuffs.

“I was just about to ask you the same
question,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the sight of my shackled wrists.
“I’m here to sign copies of my book at the gift shop.” He glanced up at the
tower looming above us. “My
Wallace
book. And you …?”

I didn’t have time to answer, as something
had come over my arresting officer.

“Hellow Mister Findlay,” said Doris,
simpering.

I stared at her, but she only had eyes for
Jack.

“Er … hello,” he said.

“I’ve read all yer books, Mister Findlay,”
said Doris, breathily. “But this last one about Wallace? It were a
masterpiece.”

“Well, thank you, PC—ah—Potts.
Perhaps you can tell me why you have my friend here all trussed up?”

“I especially loved Missus Wallace, Jack.
She was so—
enamored
with her
husband, weren’t she?”

I noted with alarm how Doris had moved so
quickly into a first-name basis with her favorite author.

“She was indeed, PC Potts. I—I had a
wee bit of historical freedom to develop her character, as so little is
actually known. But, regarding my friend Emma, here. Can you tell me why she’s
being detained?”

Doris looked over at me as though she had
forgotten my existence. “Oh, righ’,” she said. “She tells me she’s overstayed
her visitor’s visa, so I need to run her name through the system.”

Jack’s face cleared. “Oh, is that all? Well,
I’m sure we can clear this up very quickly. Who is it we need to speak to?”

Doris shook her head regretfully. “I’m
afraid there is no speaking to anyone, Mister Findlay, sir. If she is an
overstay, I’ll need to bring Miss Sheridan in to the Bannockburn station, and they’ll
hold her in a cell until she can be deported, sir.”

“He—held in a cell …?” I began.

Jack put a calming hand on my arm. “It’s
okay, Emma,” he said to me in a low voice. “I can handle this.”

“I—I’m not sure I can,” I said,
wondering if I had it in me to drop-kick PC Doris and get away with my hands
locked behind my back.

But she must have sensed my thought patterns
or something, because before I knew it, she’d jammed me into the back of her
car, and slammed the door shut.

I did not know, until that moment, that the
rear seats in Scottish police cars are sound-proofed. PC Doris’s car was,
anyway.

Later, I was grateful for this.

But at the time, I just screamed.

To:
 
[email protected]

From:
    
SophiaSheridan@angstandarg*t.com

September 12

Dear Emma,

Well, all I feared has come to pass. Detained
by the police and asked to leave? Is that the same as being deported? Your
email was conveniently unclear.

Emma,
 
I…I don’t even know what to say. We are
your family, and of course will stand behind you, but…deported?

I will, of course, have Paul research the
implications.

In the meantime, I suppose I should tell
you that Starbucks is opening up a new location in my building downtown. Once
you get back here safely, we can take you down to fill out an application.

Please, please try to stay out of any
further trouble. It’s only a plane ride. Send the arrival information as soon
as you have it.

Sophia

PS. We do love you, Emma. See you soon.

I
sat silently in the car as Jack pulled away from the police station and headed
north.
A doctor had been called and they’d given me
something that left me feeling fuzzy-headed but calm. And a bit weepy.

They’d even let me check my email after I’d
calmed down, but with the drugs on board, that had made me weepy, all over
again. And Sophia’s swift reply to my confessional email had not helped.

I clutched a tissue tightly in one hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, for the nineteenth time. “I don’t know why I ran.”

Jack shot me a sideways glance and swung
expertly through a roundabout and onto the highway. “You ran because you didn’t
want to be locked away. You clearly don’t like being locked away.”

I hung my head. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Twenty.

“Look, I don’t like being locked away
either. In theory, anyway, since I’ve never actually had the opportunity.
Still, I’m sure it’s quite terrible. So there’s no need to apologize.”

I took a deep breath and stared out the
window as the green and gold Scottish countryside flashed by. “It’s so flat,
here,” I said, resting my head back on the seat. “S’beautiful, but I miss the
hills.”

He laughed. “Those hills are our mountains,
I’ll have you know. And you’ll see them soon enough.”

He was quiet then, concentrating on driving.
I turned my head and watched him as he did. With full sunlight on his hair, I
could see glints of copper and rust woven in with the brown.

“Did you have red hair when you were a kid?”
I blurted.

He jumped a little at the sound of my voice,
but recovered quickly. “Vivid orange, sadly. My nickname was Rusty until I was
seventeen,” he said. “Thankfully it’s darkened up a bit since then.”

“Yeah it really has. I thought it was brown
until now.”

He smiled a little, and tapped a finger
lightly against the steering wheel as he drove.

“I forgot you wore glasses,” I said, idly. The
truth was, I felt a little drunk and it was making me dizzy holding my head upright.
So much easier to let it loll back.

“Usually only to read,” he said, a trifle
defensively. “But they seem to help when I drive, too. Signs and all.”

“S’okay by me,” I said, “since I wear ’em
myself. I like my contacts better but …”

“But?”

“She took ’em. Took ’em all. My contacts and
my laptop … and my Jamie.”

I could feel a teardrop roll down my face
and into my ear, and I swiped at it with the tissue.

Missed. The coordination hadn’t quite come
back.

“I know,” he said, quietly. “I was there
when you told the story to the police officer.”

I turned my head to the window then, and we
drove along in silence for a long, long time.

I woke up as the car slowed down, gravel
spitting under the wheels. My head felt clearer, but I was still strangely
exhausted. It was completely dark outside, and a cool wind whistled through the
trees and made me shiver.

Jack wrapped a coat around me and took my
hand to help me across the cobblestones. A lady held open the door for us, but
didn’t say a word as he walked with me inside, down a hallway and into a small
bedroom.

“Are you well, Emma?” he said, when the door
closed behind us. “Do you need help to the bathroom or anything?”

“No—no, I’m good,” I said.

He turned to leave.

“Jack, I want to pay for my own flight home.
I have enough money. I don’t want the police or the government or whoever to
pay.”

“It’s okay, Emma. I’m sure they’ll be happy
to let you do that.”

“‘Cause if they have to pay to throw me out,
they might not want to let me back in. And I’m coming back, Jack.”

“That’s grand, Emma. I’m so happy you like
it here.”

“Back, Jack. I’m coming back. I’ll be back,
Jack.” I started to hum. “Hit the road, Jack, but I’ll be back …”

Right about then, I burst into tears.

I think he lay down with me until I fell
asleep, but I don’t really remember.

I woke with the dawn the next morning,
feeling completely back to myself again. And therefore? Humiliated.

Why had I run from that police officer? Why
was I even still in Scotland? Why hadn’t I just left and gone back to Chicago
before my six months were up?

I had a long, hot shower and changed into
the last set of clean clothes at the bottom of my pack. The famously
unsuccessful pink bra, a tank top, jeans and my sweater. I couldn’t find an
elastic band or anything to tie my hair back, but there was a hairdryer under
the sink, at least.

It wasn’t until my hair was nearly dry that
I remembered Rebecca. Events of the night before were still pretty fuzzy, but I
surely would have remembered Jack’s girlfriend, if she’d been waiting at the
house. The lady who had answered the door last night hadn’t seemed quite
girlfriend material…

Maybe they didn’t live together? The
bathroom was clean and functional, but there were no telltale extra female
products lying around. Even the shampoo in the shower seemed pretty— generic.

By the time my hair was dry and I was
dressed, it was a quarter to eight and I could stall no longer. I took a deep
breath and headed out into the hall.

Jack was standing by the front door. Alone. “Hiyeh,”
he said. “Are ye well this morning?”

“Way better,” I said. “But I have a few gaps
in what happened yesterday …”

“That’s to be expected. Think you can eat
something? We could talk a bit over breakfast.”

My stomach rumbled, answering for me.

“Right then,” he said. “Breakfast it is.”

I took a last bite of bacon and pushed my
chair back. “That was awesome,” I said. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Grand.” Jack smiled at me, and then handed
his plate to a woman who appeared through a swinging doorway. “That was lovely,
Mrs. Moorcock,” he said. “Thank you.”

She nodded, took my plate as well, and
vanished.

The woman had gray hair done up in tiny
curls around her head. Certainly not a look I would associate with the
mysterious Rebecca.

I leaned across the table. “Is that …”

“Mrs. Moorcock, my housekeeper,” he
answered.

“She looks so familiar,” I muttered.

“I think ye may just be remembering her from
las’ night. She met us at the door?”

“I guess that’s it.” I took a shot. “Mrs.
Rebecca
Moorcock?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Gladys, actually.”

I looked down at the spot where my plate had
been, unsure of what to reply. Contrary to his earlier suggestion, our
breakfast had been eaten in almost total silence, with the mysterious Mrs. NOT-Rebecca
Moorcock delivering food and pouring drinks before vanishing through the green
door by the sideboard.

Jack cleared his throat. “Would you like
some more tea?”

“No, thanks.”

The awkward silence resumed, until just when
I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, we both broke it at once.

“What do yeh remember…” he began, while I said,
“Can you tell me …?”

We laughed together, and then said, “You
first,” in total unison.

It was almost worse than the silence.

After another moment, when it became clear
he was going to wait me out, I tried again.

“I really
was
heading to Edinburgh to catch a plane,” I said. “I have no idea
why the police stopped me. I mean, why stop someone who is leaving anyway? It
just doesn’t make sense.”

He took a sip of his tea. “Emma, I don’t
think they were planning to stop you. It’s likely only because you ran off when
the policewoman called over to you. They likely didn’t know you were in
violation of your visa until they looked up your name.”

“I actually told her myself,” I muttered.
“I’m such an idiot.”

He reached across the table and squeezed my
hand. “Why were you in Stirling in the first place? You said in the blog you
were just stopping there briefly before heading home to America.”

 
I sighed and looked up at him. “I know—I
hadn’t even planned on going, really. I just—I caught the wrong bus, and
had to change, and then—well, I just wanted to see the place you’d been
writing about. So I stopped on the way.”

I toyed with a spoon Mrs. Moorcock had left
on the table. “But, I’m still not clear why I am here at all. I mean—here
in Scotland, still. And also here … in this house. The last I remember,
Constable Doris said she was going to lock me up and then put me on a plane.
And then a bit of screaming …”

He shrugged a little. “Not so very much
screaming. Their nurse gave you the shot almost right away.”

I swallowed, trying to remember if I’d ever
had a more embarrassing moment. The only one I could think of was the night I
crawled out of the bar in Philadelphia.

And Jack had been there, too.

“You have a talent for showing up when
things are at their worst,” I whispered. “This is so awful.”

He grinned. “Not for me,” he said, lightly.
“You know, I spend most of my days locked in a dark room, writing stories about
heroes who are long-dead. It’s a rare treat to be able to actually lend a hand
to someone who needs it.”

“I do remember the shot, I think,” I said,
slowly. “And you promised to …”

“Take you with me to the airport,” he said,
and gave me a slow smile. “My American tour is set to begin in a week or two,
so I can move up my flight to New York with no problem. And we had a bit o’
luck in that Constable Doris turned out to be a fan. I signed a book for her,
and promised to have ye on a plane soon as possible. Besides, it’ll make a
great story for your blog. Your stories always make me laugh out loud.”

Not likely
,
I thought, but I beamed at him, anyway.

He pushed his chair away from the table and
stood up. “But first you need to call and book your ticket for tomorrow.”

I stood, too. Mrs. Moorcock appeared at the
door, and directed me through to a phone in the hallway. Thanks to the long-ago
Michael, the airline had my name on file and booked the ticket in under five
minutes. As I stepped out to the front door, Jack appeared, holding my pack and
his own bag.