Authors: Sarah Kernochan
Brett’s heart dips: is he here about Jane? Has something happened to her? “Can I help you?”
“Are you Brett Sampson?” The man has a soft Southern accent.
“Yes.”
“Dick Fancher. I’m a private investigator.” He offers a business card, damp with sweat. “I’m told that you’ve got a young woman staying with you. Is this her?” He hands Brett a printout photo.
Brett stares at the print-out snapshot of Jane, captured by his cell phone and posted, foolishly, on the web.
Fancher notes his dismay. “Can I come in?”
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
B
rett Sampson is not a skilled liar. Dick Fancher, P.I., thinks it’s a safe bet that the girl Brett calls “Jane” did
not
leave Graynier yesterday on a bus to Montreal. Neither does he believe that the girl showed up unannounced, a complete stranger, and Sampson just took her in without hesitation; or that he learned practically nothing about her during the three whole weeks she stayed with him.
Still, Sampson seems in no hurry to get rid of him. On the contrary, he wants to talk, or at least to listen. Inviting Fancher right into his kitchen, the guy sat him down, made coffee and French toast. After offering his phony information about the girl’s departure for Montreal, he started plying the detective with questions: where was she from? (Wyatt Bend, Virginia.) Who were her parents? (Bill and Karen Moss.) Why were they looking for her? (She ran away.) All asked with a heated curiosity, bordering on obsession.
Fancher lets Sampson play interrogator, keeping his answers short to tantalize and draw the guy in further.
“What reason would she have to run away?”
“What reason did she tell you?”
“Like I said, she won’t say anything about anything.” Sampson shakes his head in frustration, not realizing he’s just used the present tense.
She’s still around; Fancher would bet good money on it. She might even be in the house, right now. He keeps an ear cocked for telltale creaks overhead, a toilet flushing, while Brett continues: “I mean, she’s not a minor, right? So how can she be a runaway? She’s free to go where she wants.”
“Legally, yes. That’s why the police aren’t sitting here in your kitchen. But some kids—and a 23-year-old, in my book, is still a kid—they aren’t so well equipped for freedom. They can’t take care of themselves. And then we’re not talking about an ordinary kid either…” Fancher trails off coyly, waiting as Brett grabs the bait.
“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 have 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.