fenced in by nature would not take well to antiseptic-washed floors and Bingo in the cafeteria. But he was beginn ing to see that he had little choice. "Angus," Cam said gently, "this is 1
995."
"It may be at that, but all the same, I fought the English last night with P
rince Charlie." He settled forward, as if he could not believe that Cam was not quick enough to pick up what he had been trying to say. "Your great-grea t-great-great-great-grandfather isna happy. That's why Cameron's come to hau nt me."
55
Cam laid his head down on his desk. He'd humor the old man; he'd talk for five more minutes; then he'd usher him onto Main Street and drive his pris oner to the district courthouse on the other side of town. "Cameron MacDon ald has come to haunt you," he repeated.
"In a matter of words," Angus said. "It's a bit like I've crawled right into his wee brain." He paused, remembering. "He didna want to be on Culloden Mo or at all."
Cam did not lift his head, so his words were muffled by his sleeve. "He was an incredible soldier. He supported the Stuarts. Where else would he have been?"
"He would have rather been home with his kinsmen, I imagine." Cam's patience was wearing thin. "Angus, we all grew up with the story. Th e damn public school probably uses it as a primer instead of Dick and Jane
." He snapped his head up, reciting in a singsong, "Cameron MacDonald offe red his own life so everyone else could go back to Carrymuir."
"Aye," Angus said, pointing with one finger. "But do ye ken why he did it?
Why he was willing to die?"
In a flash of insight, Cam suddenly realized where this was heading. "Becau se he was their chief?" he said smugly, ready to launch into an explanation as to why Jamie MacDonald would still have to be arraigned.
"No," Angus said, "because he couldna stand to see the people he loved hur ting." He stood up and came around the desk, laying his thin, white hand o n Cam's back. "Dinna fash yourself, lad. You'll come up with something." A nd with a goodbye knock on the Flexon-covered bars of the lockup, he walke d out of the police station.
The art of bonsai, Mia told Allie, had to be fashioned in harmony with nature
, in a desire to dominate it and to re-create it, although on a different sca le. She told her its history in China, then Japan; how the French were fascin ated by the power the bonsai artists had--being able to make such a towering, magnificent tree grow in such a tiny space. Allie watched carefully as Mia s ketched for her the different forms of the trees, single trunks curved to the left, cascading trees, upright ones, knotted ones, trees Jodi Picoult
that rooted to rocks. She repeated their Japanese names like mantras: Chok kan, Moyogi, Sabamiki.
They had bought some small Japanese maples at a nursery a half hour away, an d Allie was going to turn them into bonsai trees, like the one Mia had shown her yesterday. Mia had a complete set of tools for pruning trees: saws, sci ssors, clippers, branch cutters. "I'm a surgeon," she had said, and Allie ha d laughed until she realized that Mia was serious.
There weren't many rules. Mia cut back one of two opposite branches on the first trunk with a saw, which would produce alternate branches. She told Al lie to make the cuts clean, so the tree would heal quickly. She had her plu ck off the leaves.
"It looks bald," Allie said.
Mia stood back, assessing her work. "It'll grow. You don't want it to be bush y."
Wiring was the most difficult part. It was to spiral at an angle of 45 degre es, wound around the branches of the tree to train it in the direction you w anted it to grow. The wire would remain on for several months, but was unwou nd daily and repositioned to keep it from cutting into the tree. For a few minutes, Mia watched Allie work. It was easy to talk to her, to t each her, and to learn from her. She did not know if she really liked Allie
--really, truly liked her--or if Allie had become a fast friend simply beca use she