Sunshine and the Shadowmaster

For Diana “Whitney” Hinz, because I can tell her anything and because she never met a stray cat she didn't adopt.

H
eather Conley hadn't been expecting company. She flipped on the porch light and pulled open the front door to find her nephew standing there on the welcome mat in the balmy June darkness.

He smiled. “‘Lo, Aunt Heather.”

“Mark.” In spite of the late hour, Heather felt an answering smile lift the corners of her mouth. “What a great surprise.”

Mark looked her up and down, noting her robe and pajamas. “You were already sleeping, huh?”

“No, actually, I was in bed, but not asleep yet.” Assuming that his father, Lucas, would be with him, Heather clutched the facings of her robe together and cast an apprehensive glance beyond Mark's shoulder toward the front gate.

Mark caught the direction of her gaze. “I, um, came alone.”

Heather was silent for a moment, studying Mark in the glow of the porch light. His T-shirt looked wrinkled and his sneakers were coated with dust. “What is this, Mark? Are you telling me you came all the way from Monterey alone?”

Mark lowered his head and stared hard at his grimy sneakers. “Yeah, I came alone.”

Heather could hardly believe her ears. “But that's so dangerous.” Mark said nothing, so Heather asked, “Who said you could do such a thing?”

“No one.”

“You're saying you...ran away?”

Mark was silent again. Heather stared at his bent head in disbelief. Mark was a very well behaved boy. Running away was just not his style.

“Has something happened at home, Mark?”

Mark shook his head and continued looking at his sneakers. “Nothing special,” he mumbled. “Nothing that hasn't been happening for a while now.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I told you. Nothing.”

“Well, then, why would you—?”

Before Heather finished the question, Mark's head shot up. He yanked his thin shoulders back and glared at her—hard.

Heather suppressed a gasp. He was the image of his father right then, his lip curling in aloof disdain, his eyes icy with impatience.

“Look. Can I come in or not?” His voice was as hard as his expression. Heather had no doubt right then that if she told Mark he couldn't come in, he would turn and disappear into the night without a backward glance.

But then, she had no intention of doing any such thing. She stepped back. “Of course you can. Please. Come on in.”

Mark watched her face for a moment more, as if gauging her sincerity. Then he muttered, “Okay,” and stepped inside.

Heather shut the door and flicked off the porch light. “Did you bring anything?”

“You mean clothes and stuff?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Naw. I've got nothin'. Just myself.”

She thought how vulnerable he looked right then, all boy—and very lost. A hank of black hair had fallen into his eyes. She reached out and smoothed it back.

“And you're hungry, you said?” The tenderness she felt for him was there in her voice.

He met her eyes and slowly smiled. “Starved.”

“Why don't you go clean up a little? I'll see what I can do about food.”

“Sounds great.”

He went ahead of her, through the living room and the dining room, to the downstairs bath off the kitchen. Heather washed her own hands at the kitchen sink and then set to work slicing ham and cheese and assembling two nice, fat sandwiches.

“This looks great, just great,” Mark said when he emerged from the bathroom.

Heather gestured at the table. “Eat. Then we'll talk.”

Mark ate both of the sandwiches, along with two tall glasses of milk. Then he finished off half a bag of chocolate chip cookies, washing them down with more milk. At last, he sat back in his chair and grinned at his aunt. “That was just what I needed. Thanks.”

Heather, who'd hovered nearby keeping her own counsel while he eased his hunger, leaned against the kitchen counter and folded her arms across her chest. “So what's going on?”

Mark's dark eyes grew wary again. “What do you mean?”

Heather looked at him patiently. “Mark.”

“What?”

“You ran away. Why?”

Mark suddenly found his empty milk glass of great interest. He wrapped his fingers around it and turned it in slow, hard circles, as if he could screw it into the kitchen table.

“Come on, Mark,” Heather prompted. “Talk to me.”

Mark groaned, looked at the ceiling, and then at the milk-filmed glass again. “All right,” he said, and then said nothing more.

“All right, what?”

Mark shot her a surly look.

Heather scowled right back. “I'm listening.”

He went on turning the glass. “All right. My father's not home. He's never home. I got tired of it is all. So I hitched a few rides and here I am.”

“Oh, Mark.”

Mark released the glass. “Don't look at me like that, Aunt Heather. I'm fine. Nothing happened to me. I know what I'm doing.”

“Mark, you are ten years old.”

“Going on eleven. And I was careful, honest. I only hitched with truckers. You can almost always trust a trucker. You know that.”

Heather suppressed a shudder at the things that might have happened to him in the two hundred and seventy-five miles between Monterey and the small Sierra foothill town of North Magdalene. “What you did was very dangerous. And wrong. Does anyone know where you went?”

Mark was turning the glass again. “Rudy Fitch, Buddy Tester and Christos Knockopopoulis.”

“Who are they?”

“The truckers who picked me up.”

Heather only looked at him.

Mark was mature for his age and had the IQ of a budding Einstein. He was also a sensitive boy. He felt the weight of his aunt's disapproving silence. He shot her a glance, then slumped in his chair a little. “Okay. Not funny. I'm sorry.”

“When did you leave home?”

“This morning. Before daylight.”

“And you didn't tell anybody that you were going?”

“Right. I didn't.” He was defiant again.

“Your father will be worried sick.”

“Like I said, he's not there. He's gone on another book tour.” Now Mark was sneering. “He probably doesn't even know I left.”

Heather turned for the drawer where she kept her personal phone book. She pulled out the book—and Mark leapt from his chair and grabbed her arm.

“Please, Aunt Heather...” The veneer of cynicism had vanished. Mark was suddenly his true self: a ten-year-old boy pulling out all the stops to get what he wanted. He tugged on her arm and looked up at her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. “Don't send me back. Please. I just want to stay here for a while. With you.”

Heather gently shrugged off his grasp. “The most important thing right now is to call your father and let him know where you are.”

“I told you. He's not even there.”

“Mark. I'm sure whoever was taking care of you—”

“The housekeeper. Hilda.”

“All right. I'm sure Hilda has figured out you're missing after all this time. And I'm sure your father has been contacted. And I'm also dead positive he's going nuts about now wondering where you are and if you're safe.”

“Okay, okay.” Mark held up a hand. The puppy dog look had vanished. His eyes gleamed with excitement. “But just wait a second. Just listen.”

“Mark—”

“No. Listen. I got it. I got what you could do. You could just call my father's housekeeper and say it's all right. Say that I'm here with you and you want me to stay here. That you...invited me. Yeah. That would be good. You invited me and I came and now it's okay with you if I stay. That would work, Aunt Heather. I know it would. I know my father would let me stay here if you said it was all right. He let me stay here before.”

The open entreaty in the young face squeezed Heather's heart. She stared at him, softening.

Mark pressed his advantage. “It was so great, wasn't it? When I stayed here. Remember what you said? You said that you loved having me here and I could come anytime. Remember? You said that. And I know that you meant it.”

“Yes, Mark. I did.” Heather couldn't hold back a fond smile. She
had
loved taking care of Mark last winter. He had come, with his father, for the funeral of Heather's husband, Jason Lee. After the funeral, Lucas had allowed Mark to stay on with Heather until school started up again after New Years. Having someone to look after for those awful first days had kept Heather from completely surrendering to the grief that had threatened to swallow her alive.

Mark watched her with fierce concentration. His face was flushed with frantic hope. She knew he saw the way she hesitated, that he sensed the direction of her thoughts. “So let me stay now. Please?”

“Oh, Mark.”

“Please?”

Heather longed to give him the answer he wanted. But that was impossible. He had run away from home. That was the issue here. And she was going soft when Mark needed firmness.

She quietly insisted, “Stop this, Mark. You can't just run away from home and expect me to cover for you.”

Mark refused to give up. “You liked having me here, I know it.”

“Of course I did.”

“I wrote you ten letters since then. You answered every one.”

“That's true. I treasure your letters. But that isn't the point. You have run away from home, Mark. That is a very serious thing.”

Mark saw that all his plans and pleading were getting him nowhere. “I don't have a home.” He spun away from Heather and dropped heavily into his chair once more. “I live in a big house with a bunch of people who get paid to take care of me. I visit my mom in Arizona twice a year and she always looks at me like she's not sure who I am. And my Dad's never around either. He's always locked up in his study—or else he's away on a book tour.”

Heather watched him for a moment, not sure what she should say to him. Then she reminded him gently, “Come on, Mark. I'm sure both your father and mother love you very much.”

He snorted in disgust. “You sound just like a grown-up.”

There was no sense in denying it. “I am a grown-up.”

Mark snorted again. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I am on your side.”

“Then call my father's housekeeper and tell her I can stay with you.”

“I can't do that.”

“Great. Fine.” Mark folded his hands over his chest and focused his angry gaze on the far wall.

Heather looked at him, feeling weary. She wanted to say more. But talking was getting them nowhere. He'd said he'd left Monterey before dawn that morning. It was now past eleven at night. His father should be called immediately.

Heather looked down at the phone book in her hand—and realized she was dreading making the call.

The truth was, Lucas Drury intimidated her. He was too intense, too intelligent, too
everything,
as far as Heather was concerned. Her beloved Jason Lee had been Lucas's half brother. Yet no two men were less alike. Jason Lee had had the knack of putting people at ease. Lucas, on the other hand, made them sit up and take notice; he put people on guard.

Heather shook herself. The call had to be made. And Lucas probably wouldn't be there anyway. Mark had said he was away on a book tour.

Heather moved to the end of the counter, where the phone hung on the wall. She opened her little book to the
D'
s and punched up Lucas's number. It was answered on the first ring.

“Yeah?”

Heather recognized the deep, resonant voice immediately. So much for that book tour. She swallowed, because her throat had gone bone-dry.

“Hello, Lucas? It's Heather. Heather Conley. In North Magdalene?”

“Heather.” Lucas repeated her name as if hearing from her was a big shock. And it probably was. The last time Heather and Lucas had spoken had been when he had picked up Mark after Mark's visit last winter. She and Lucas rarely saw each other.

“What's going on?” Lucas demanded now, wasting no time on friendly chitchat.

“I, uh, didn't expect you to be there,” Heather said, and realized how stupid the words sounded almost before they were out of her mouth.

“Well, I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be on a publicity tour. But Mark disappeared some time this morning. I got in from New York just an hour and a half ago. We're all going nuts here, trying to figure out where he went.”

Heather dragged in a big breath. She wanted to say this calmly. Lucas was such a volatile man. “Well, Lucas. That's why I—”

Lucas got the picture before she finished her sentence. “Is he there? In North Magdalene? Have you got Mark?”

He was jumping ahead of her, just as she'd feared he might. “Lucas, I—”

“Just answer my question. Is Mark with you?”

“Yes. Yes, he's here.”

“I'll kill him. Is he all right?”

“He's fine, Lucas. Perfectly safe.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Heather glanced at Mark, who was still glaring daggers at the wall.

In her ear, Lucas demanded, “Heather? Are you still there?”

Heather turned away from Mark and spoke quietly into the phone. “Lucas, maybe you should go a little easy here. Something is really upsetting Mark. And I don't think yelling at him will help matters any.”

“Don't tell me how to deal with my own son. Put him on the line. Now.”

Heather took another long, slow breath and reminded herself that she never should have expected Lucas Drury to listen to advice from her. “Hold on,” she said, then put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Mark again. “Your father wants to talk to you.”