“Why do you think Jane can’t take care of herself?”
“You’d better get used to calling her Caroline.”
“Fine, whatever! Could you please just tell me why you think she’s unstable?”
“I never said she was unstable.” Fancher had used that exact word in the message he left on Myspace. Brett must be the one who posted her picture.
“I mean…you said she isn’t ordinary. Why?”
Look how he’s jumping out of his skin. He’s in deep, covering for her; maybe he’s her boyfriend by now. Fancher decides to tell him everything. The more Brett understands about her troubled history, the more likely he’ll give up her whereabouts.
“Could I get another cup of coffee?”
After Brett refills his mug, Fancher starts from the beginning.
“HER FOLKS THOUGHT they had a normal baby. But by the time Caroline was two, they realized she was different. Totally silent, avoided eye contact. Remote. Screamed when they touched her. They had her tested, fearing the worst, and sure enough the diagnosis came back: she was autistic.”
Fancher watches Brett carefully as he talks. At the mention of autism, Brett’s lips part very slightly, as if he’s trying to keep his jaw from dropping.
“You must have noticed she was a couple cans short of a six-pack,” Fancher drawls, testing him.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Brett closes his mouth firmly.
Fancher presses on: “You can imagine what that news did to them. These are decent, hard-working people of modest means, father’s an electrician, mother ran a cat-care business. They already had three children. The prospect of taking care of Caroline overwhelmed them. And Wyatt Bend is a very small town; no experienced caregivers, no facilities for special-needs kids.
“At first the Mosses did their best, hoping Caroline would somehow snap out of it. The worst part of autism seems to be that the kid just shuts you out. You don’t get any kind of response ever. Not a word, not even a smile. No love. She’s in her own little world, humming, doing repetitive motion stuff like flapping her hands or banging on a wall. Anyway, by the time she was six they were looking to place her in a home. The nearest one was about 60 miles away in Deer Run, across the state line in Pennsylvania.
“They had to come to terms with the probability that she’d be spending her whole life there. The doctors told them, severely autistic people don’t just ‘snap out of it.’ Her mom and dad visited her when they could, but I guess no matter how much you love someone, if you never get anything back, it’s hard to keep it up. So eventually they went on with their lives.”
As Fancher pauses to sip his coffee, Brett interjects eagerly, “But Jane talks. She looks in your eyes, she doesn’t bang her head on the wall.”
“That’s the kicker. Caroline was in Deer Run for 17 years and suddenly—this was in June—Bill and Karen get a call from the doctor. He tells them: she’s talking. I mean, she’s talking normal, like you and me. She can read, and write. Somehow she absorbed a lot of stuff over the years without showing it, and suddenly she’s ready to speak up. She understands where she is, and she’s asking to leave.
“The parents are blown away. All their kids have grown up and left, and they’ve been enjoying the empty nest, and now the facility doesn’t want to keep Caroline anymore because they say she’s competent.
“The Mosses drive up to see her. The Caroline they find waiting for them, with her bags all packed, is well spoken and polite, but still very distant and not affectionate. It was like hugging a statue, Karen said. And now they have to take home this total stranger.
“So they put the bags in the trunk, and Caroline gets in the back. She sits real quiet while they drive her to a mall nearby to buy her clothes and toiletries and things, which Karen thought would be a nice way to get to know each other. Caroline goes along with everything, but she’s not exactly talkative other than ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘thank you.’
“Later the parents are waiting outside the dressing room while Caroline tries on some bathing suits. Karen takes a moment to go to the ladies’ room. When she looks in her purse for some lipstick she notices her car keys are missing, and all her cash.
“She runs out and tells Bill she was robbed, and they get the store detective. Meanwhile no one’s paying attention to Caroline in the dressing room. When they finally remember her, they realize she hasn’t come out. They open the curtain, and she’s gone. She left a note, which she must have written at the institution, planning her escape.”
Fancher opens his attaché, handing Brett a photocopy of the note. Brett recognizes Jane’s careful penmanship.
Dear William and Karen,
I extend my most sincere thanks to you for so kindly providing my comforts of the past twenty-three years. I trust you will accept with equanimity that, since I have reached the age of majority, your obligations to me are at an end. Truly there exist no sentimental ties between us. I have made certain of this, in order to spare you any pain over our inevitable parting. Please be reassured that I am fully able to make my own way in “the world.” Kindly do not seek to find me, as I do not wish it.
With filial gratitude
and most respectfully,
“Caroline”
Brett puts the letter down without comment.
“Kind of formal, wouldn’t you say?”
“She does—did—have a sort of old-fashioned way of speaking,” Brett admits.
“I’m told autistics sometimes have their own language. It’s another way of putting up walls. Anyhow, she succeeded at disappearing. Because she stole their car keys, they couldn’t drive off to look for her. So she gained a lot of time. The police were summoned to the mall, but they wouldn’t conduct a search. Somebody needs to be missing a minimum of 24 hours, and there was no evidence of foul play. And the letter indicated she was exercising her right as an adult to skip town. When the cops were no help, the Mosses came to me.”
Chin in his hands, Brett re-reads the letter before him.
“She’s a sick pup, my friend.”
Brett shakes his head without looking up.
“Come on, is this a normal letter you would write to your own parents?” Fancher taps the signature at the bottom of the note. “Look at the quote marks around ‘Caroline,’ like it’s not her real name. More quotes around ‘the world’—she doesn’t acknowledge reality. She’s made her own world, where she’s Jane, and her whole family—mother, father, three brothers—they don’t exist.”
Brett won’t respond, sliding the letter back to Fancher.
The detective sees that the more he presses his case, the deeper Sampson will dig in his heels. “Look, she needs help,” he says gently. “Regardless of what she writes, she’s not ready to be on the loose in a very confusing world. Not everyone’s as good-hearted as you. She could wind up really damaged—even murdered. I’ve seen it. Just tell me where she is, son.”
Brett folds his arms stubbornly. “I don’t know. She was headed to Montreal.”
“I think you do know. I also think you know what’s the right thing to do. She belongs with her parents.”
“She doesn’t think so. It’s pretty clear in her letter that she doesn’t want to be found.”
The fact is, Fancher’s not sure the Mosses really want her back. Parents who are berserk with grief, they splash their missing loved one’s picture all over the internet, the post office, nailing posters on trees, taking out a mortgage to pay for the search. This couple waited a week before hiring him, and haggled over his fee. He had the impression they were just going through the motions so it would look like they tried.
He tries a compromise. “How about I negotiate so Caroline doesn’t have to return home? If I can just go back to her parents with the information that she’s safe, and tell them where she’s living so they won’t worry, I think they’ll honor her request to leave her alone.”
Brett gets up, clearing the table with finality. “It makes no difference. I don’t hav
e any information.”
All at once, they hear the front door open. Both have the same thought: she’s back.
Vaulting from his chair, the detective bolts for the hallway, but Brett gets there first, blocking the passage with his tall body.
A deep male voice says, “Go get your daddy.”
Fancher arrives in the entry behind Brett, peering around him to see a dusky-skinned boy standing on the stoop, a uniformed cop behind him.
Recognizing Officer D’Annunzio, Fancher quickly ducks his head back and steps into the parlor, out of sight. He trains his ears on the conversation in the hall.
“Mr. Sampson?”
“Yes?”
“I just picked up your boy walking by himself along Fallow Road. I didn’t think it was a good idea for a kid his age to be running around unsupervised.”
“Thanks, officer. I thought he was on a play date.”
Listening as D’Annunzio takes his leave, the detective noses around the parlor. He spots a pink plastic hairbrush on the sofa. Picking it up, he notes long fine strands of blond hair snarled in the bristles. Caroline’s.
He hears the door close, and father and son arguing in the hall:
“Why aren’t you over at Gita’s?”
“She was sick to her stomach.”
“Then why didn’t you come straight home? What were you doing halfway out of town?”
“Let go! It’s none of your business.”
“It darn well is my business. I’m your father. Just what were you doing?”
“Ow! Following somebody.”
Fancher slips back into the hallway, in time to see Brett crouching at Collin’s eye level and gripping the boy’s shoulders hard. “Following who?”
“Jane.” The kid pronounces the word with obvious hatred. Averting his eyes, he catches sight of Fancher for the first time.
The old man smiles kindly at him. “You know Jane? Does she still live here?”
His father jerks up straight. “You can’t question him—”
“Yes,” Collin answers defiantly.
Fancher smiles evenly at Brett. “Guess she missed the bus.”
As Brett hustles Collin upstairs to wait in his room, Fancher collects his attaché from the kitchen. When he returns to the front hall, Brett is already there, holding the door open.
Stepping out obligingly, Fancher turns on the stoop. “My cell number’s on my card. When Caroline gets home, please call me. I’d just like a chance to speak with her, nothing more.”
Brett slams the door on him.
Walking to his car on the corner, the detective knows he needn’t look further for Caroline. She will be coming back to this house.
As he opens the door, the car’s broiling air greets him. He climbs in, wishing he had brought a cooler with some cold soda on ice. It could be a long wait.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jane drinks deeply from one of the plastic water jugs stored in the hunting shack, then studies the old surveyor’s map again. It shows a body of water called Pease Pond not too far from the clearing. She can refill the bottle there, so the shack’s occupant can remain innocent of her embezzlement.
Setting her straw hat’s brim against the sun, she continues along the farmer’s wall, empty jug in hand, following the farmer’s wall.
Today the climb up Rowell Hill is easier; her lungs have adapted to the effort; a long-sleeved shirt and trousers tucked into her socks protect her skin from sharp twigs and thorns. Navigating the woods more confidently, she chants aloud from the poem Brett read to her (“Ulalume, Ulalume”), matching its rhythms to her stride.
She spies a gleam of silvery blue through the trees ahead and, jumping to the other side of the wall, she veers toward it.
Pushing through branches, she emerges into an open space.
A large pond, about thirty acres of limpidly clear water, spreads before her, the metallic sheen of reflected sun concealing its depth. Drought has driven the water from the pond’s edges, leaving cracked mud, wilted weeds, and bleached, half-sunk cadavers of trees with naked branches rising from the surface like rigid white fingers. No breeze stirs the noonday; nothing moves beneath the water, save for the tremors of ghostly grasses as minnows weave in and out.
For some reason the place unsettles her.
Filling the jug, she wedges it between some rocks to retrieve on the way back.
She follows the tumbled stonewall on. Sloping gently downward, it travels through a stately area of pine woods. The trees close ranks like soldiers bristling with weaponry; Jane raises her hands to protect her face as she shoulders through thickly meshed limbs.
Suddenly her hat flies away, snagged by an unseen branch. She wheels, looking up to find it dangling from a spiny tuft, nearly out of reach. Its blue ribbons trail downward.
Blue? Her hat has a plum ribbon.
Standing on her toes, Jane tugs on the ribbons, and the hat falls into her hands.
The hat she holds has a straw brim curved like a horseshoe and a tiny nosegay of silk flowers sewn onto one side of its blue satin band. As Jane fits it on her head, the brim conforms to her face, almost meeting under her chin as she ties the ribbons into a bow.
It is her bonnet.
The stray tendrils of hair she brushes from her eyes are dark, an auburn color. Glancing down, she sees a long white skirt, feels the petticoats underneath jostling about her legs. Narrow laced boots of soft brown leather cover her feet.
Her blouse is white muslin with puffed sleeves, and a pale blue capelet covers her shoulders. She lifts her hand to her throat, where she feels something pinned. Her fingers encounter the familiar delicate convolutions of a gold brooch that, a moment ago, rested in her pants pocket.
I am myself ! Her laugh of amazement dances in the air.
On the path, she seems to glide through the trees, following a now freshly built fieldstone wall bounding a pasture where sheep graze in the distance.
A disconnected voice chatters inside her head:
Almost there—hurry—is he waiting?—God please let him be there—ah, my angel—my one love —
How the sun beats! Mercy, I’m drenched—forgot my handkerchief—shade ahead, soon, soon—
My face hot and red—a sight—make myself pretty—fix my hair—bite my lips—
Hush! Vanity—stupid selfish me—must be pure—root out desire—attend the word of God—
Jane glances down to find a book in her hand, a Bible. A curious emblem is stamped on its black leather cover, something like a crucifix, yet not.
She nearly falls, tripping over a stout tree root. Straightening, she catches her breath and considers the path ahead. Farmer Quirk’s wall twists and jogs; where it turns sharply left, demarcating the farm’s northeast corner, Jane sees a stand of lofty white pines.
Suddenly she is rushing headlong toward the pines, breathless with anticipation, lifting her long skirts to allow her boots to skip over the ground.
Arriving in the center of the grove, she gazes about in a familiar rapture. She is standing in a circle of ancient, towering pines, a soft bed of pine needles beneath her feet. The trees’ arrangement forms a natural glade, their long branches brushing the edges with fragrant shade.
Here is the place.
The stonewall continues past the glade, but Jane has reached her journey’s end.
Overcome by the heat, she sits in shadows on a fallen log, setting her Bible on the grass.
The voice in her mind returns, very distinct now, a rush of chatter:
He hasn’t come yet. I hoped he would be the first, so I might see his countenance light up when I arrive!—though he tries hard to conceal such improper joy. How I love that clumsy little wobble as he rises too quickly to his feet, hastily marking his place in the Holy Book before shutting it. But since I am first, I shall hide in the shadows—observe his impatience when he finds me absent—and when he sits to wait, I shall steal from behind and clap my hands over his eyes in play— though truly it is a pretext
to touch my fingers to his dear, dear face.
But what if he does not come? Be still now! Show forbearance— the sun has put you all in a fever!
Removing her bonnet to cool her brow, Jane places it in on her knees, then gives a start: a plum-colored ribbon encircles the crown, and beneath the flat wide brim on her lap she is wearing trousers. Dead pine needles stick to her socks and dirty sneakers.
Dress, bonnet, and book, have all vanished, and Jane is marooned in a pine grove, without the faintest clue why she is here. She feels an awful wilderness within. Searching in her pocket, her fingers close around the brooch with the broken catch, for consolation, as if it can somehow conjure memory: Come back! Show me more! I want to know everything!
She must be patient. A sign will come if she waits here. The vision showed her this was a meeting place; a man will arrive—but who?
Only the rasping complaint of crows disturbs God’s silence. At length she gives in to the serenity of the place, closing her eyes as she inhales the white pines’ resinous scent.
Hearing a rustle, like that of a bird shrugging its feathers close by her ear, she opens her eyes.
The ground is moving. Frightened, she holds her breath: beneath her the earth rumples like an animal’s hide shuddering off flies, and a patch of earth caves in at her feet; pine needles, loose stones, and dust slide down toward the center as if drawn into a funnel.
As suddenly as the slide began, it stops. Mere seconds have passed; the glade is still. A shallow depression a few inches deep rests before her.
Dig here. Something below invites, waiting for Jane to find it.
LATE AFTERNOON finds Jane trudging toward the house at 53 Sycamore Street, covered with dust, dirt wedged under her fingernails from where she’d tried digging in the glade. Only managing to displace a few inches of soil and stones, she abandoned her task, retracing her steps to the pond and washing her hands as the sun descended. Carrying the water jug back to the hunting blind, she spied the rusty shovel leaning against the side of the shack. She had forgotten it was there. No time today to return to the pine grove with the shovel; she would have to come back tomorrow.
Jane Was Here Page 12
