Last Call

by Allyson K. Abbott

  I set her picture aside, along with my own, and took two new blank pieces of paper from the pile. I put one in front of her and kept the other for myself. This time I began with a brown crayon and drew the crude outlines of a house, adding in rectangles to signify a door and several windows.

  There was a light tap on the door, and the girl stopped rocking, frozen like the proverbial deer caught in headlights. The door opened to reveal Duncan, and a second later, the rocking resumed.

  Duncan studied the drawings and the girl for a moment before speaking in a low, soft voice. “Ortega had a chat with a neighbor, a man named John Olbermann who has known Sheldon Janssen for about ten years. Olbermann said he has spoken to Janssen a few times over the years. He said Janssen mentioned having a daughter named Felicity who suffered from severe autism, but Olbermann thought the kid’s mother was the custodial parent because Janssen often griped about disagreements they had regarding paying for the child’s care. Olbermann also said Janssen told him the kid was something of a handful when she reached toddler age because she reacted violently to any number of sounds, sights, or touches. Whenever she got upset she would throw things, break up furniture, and scream relentlessly, and at times she would bang her head against the wall or furnishings until she sustained severe, bleeding wounds.”

  I looked at the calm, largely sedate child before me and had a hard time imagining this. “I guess that would explain the lack of furnishings in this room, as well as all the padding in the little cubbyhole there,” I surmised. “Janssen must’ve made that cubbyhole specially for her. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to do, given his construction knowledge and background.”

  “I imagine not,” Duncan said. “But it’s still a mystery how she ended up here. Olbermann claims Janssen told him the kid had died around a year ago. So he was surprised to learn the kid was living here, not only because he thought she was dead, but because Janssen was often gone for ten to twelve hours at a time, and sometimes went out in the middle of the night. Olbermann never saw any evidence of a babysitter or anything like that, but he also admits he didn’t know Janssen all that well. He and the other neighbors all say Janssen was a loner who didn’t speak to or socialize much with his neighbors.”

  “Well, clearly Felicity didn’t die,” I said.

  “No, but according to Olbermann, her mother did, three months ago. Or at least that’s what Janssen told him. My guess is that’s when Janssen decided to bring his daughter here, though if he thought she was dead . . .” He left the question hanging, a question neither of us could answer for now.

  “What was he thinking?” I said. “Given his work hours and such, you would have thought he’d have hired some caregivers, or made arrangements of some sort.”

  “Maybe he tried,” Duncan said. “And we can’t be one hundred percent sure this child is Felicity.”

  I pondered this for a few seconds and then shook my head. “Why would Janssen take in some other autistic child?”

  Duncan gave me a grave look, one that suggested some ulterior motives I couldn’t bear to consider just yet. “We need to get her checked by a doctor,” Duncan said, and I nodded. “And we’ll do DNA testing to verify her identity.”

  “She has to be his daughter,” I said. “Look at all the prep work he did creating this hiding place for her. What are the odds of finding another child the same age with the same needs?”

  “You’re probably right,” Duncan said.

  I took a moment to contemplate the challenges Janssen must’ve faced given Felicity’s limitations. I couldn’t decide if I admired him for trying to provide some sort of home life for the child, or resented him for essentially locking her away here and leaving her alone for hours on end while he worked. Felicity didn’t look abused or neglected—she and her clothing were clean, and she appeared to be developing normally—but surely there were programs her father could’ve provided for her to try to help her.

  “It looks like the two of you are having an art class,” Duncan said, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Yes, we are,” I said, eager to move on to a less onerous topic. I picked up the picture Felicity had drawn and showed it to Duncan.

  “That’s dark and disturbing,” he observed.

  “It is. But it’s also kind of fascinating.”

  Duncan’s eyebrows shot up. “Fascinating?”

  “Yes, because it’s nearly identical to the visual manifestation I get whenever I hear a gunshot. It makes me wonder if she not only heard the gunshot but saw it as well.”

  Duncan narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you implying this child has the same form of synesthesia you have?”

  I shrugged. “Not necessarily,” I hedged, but the truth was, I was wondering if the child had some form of synesthesia along with her autism. It made sense to me in a way, given that she already had a known neurological disorder. “But who knows? Maybe there are aspects of her autism that allow her to experience the world in a way that is similar to my experiences with synesthesia.”

  “Does that mean you think you might have a mild form of autism?”

  I wasn’t sure if the question was a serious one, or if he was just ribbing me. “I don’t think so,” I said with a frown. “But I suppose it’s possible we have some common elements. I know that children who suffer from autism are often overwhelmed by sensory input, so perhaps we share some sort of neurological malfunction.”

  Duncan digested this for a moment. Then he walked over to the cubbyhole, stepped inside, and examined it more closely. “There’s a handle here on the inside that I didn’t notice before,” he said. He fiddled with the latch on it, testing it. “It looks as if the girl could come and go as she pleased. I thought at first this little hideaway was some sort of cage or prison, but it doesn’t look that way.”

  “If her autism is as bad as the neighbor said, it makes sense,” I said. “To you or me that might seem like a prison, but to her it’s a safe haven. All the extraneous sensual stimuli are absent. It’s safe and secure.” I paused a moment and smiled. “I totally understand it. When I was a kid, I often imagined having a hidey-hole like this whenever my synesthetic reactions threatened to overwhelm me. In fact, there have been times in my adult life when I wouldn’t have minded having a room like this.”

  I noticed then that the child had stopped rocking. “Is your name Felicity?” I asked her.

  She didn’t answer—not that I expected her to—but she did reach into the crayon box and grab a black crayon. Instead of drawing on her own blank sheet of paper, she reached over and took my drawing of the house and proceeded to make big black exes over the windows. Then she dropped the crayon back into the box, got up from the floor, and walked back toward her cubbyhole. She stopped in front of the hidden door because Duncan was still inside, blocking her way. She didn’t look at him; she just stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, staring off to her left.

  Duncan got the message and sidled past her into the main part of the room. Felicity quickly stepped into the hidden room and then, proving Duncan’s speculation, grabbed the inside handle and pulled the doorway closed.

  “She must feel like that’s her safe place,” Duncan said. Then he frowned. “Still, the thought of her being locked away in there alone for hours on end . . .” He shuddered.

  “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “We need to have her checked over by a doctor,” Duncan said. “And we should try to find a relative of some sort. If we can’t find a living relative, we’ll have to contact the Department of Children and Families and have them decide what to do with her. Even if we can find a relative, I’m not sure they’ll be equipped or willing to take her. My guess is that, given Felicity’s condition and limitations, DCF may try to place her in some sort of facility rather than with a family, at least temporarily.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “I’d like to be able to spend more time with her,” I said. “I feel like I have a connection with her and might be able to fin
d out if she saw or heard anything.”

  Duncan chewed his lip in thought. “I can give you another hour or so to spend with her here,” he said. “We’re going to be here processing the scene at least that much longer. After that, we’ll have to see how things go.”

  I nodded. “Any word on Mal?” I asked, switching subjects.

  Duncan shook his head, a worried look on his face. “I’ve got several feelers out, but nothing yet. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon with a logical explanation for everything.” Duncan’s voice always tasted like chocolate to me, and with this latest comment, that taste turned bitter. He was lying, and I felt my heart ache, both literally and figuratively.

  The evidence we found in this house suggested strongly that Mal had been here, but maybe he had been here some other time, and there was another explanation for why his fingerprints were on the murder weapon. And perhaps the blood trail leading into the kitchen hadn’t been his blood. Maybe it was Felicity’s. Except I knew that wasn’t the case. She had no injuries on her that would have created such a trail.

  The evidence technician had said he’d found three prints on the gun. One was Mal’s, and presumably one belonged to the victim. I had to hope the third one belonged to the killer, and that the blood trail belonged to him or her as well. Felicity wasn’t wounded, but was she a killer? I couldn’t wrap my mind around the possibility of either her or Mal being the killer.

  But I knew from the changes in Duncan’s voice that he was more open to the ideas, and all I could do was hope he was wrong. I prayed Mal was okay and alive wherever he was. And I also prayed we would find that someone else had killed Sheldon Janssen.

  Of course, that meant that there was a cold-blooded killer on the loose. I didn’t like any of the options.

  Chapter 5

  Duncan left the room, shutting the door behind him. I crawled to my crutches, struggled to my feet, and hobbled my way into the closet. I pulled the bracket that opened the secret door and found Felicity curled on her side on the mattress, her legs drawn into a fetal position. I studied her for a minute or so, trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, I lowered myself to the closet floor beside her and simply started talking.

  “Felicity, my name is Mack. I have a feeling you have things you want to tell me, and I know you’re probably afraid. Some bad things happened here, and that must be very scary for you. It’s scary for me. These kinds of things . . . scary things like this, make me see and hear and feel things that aren’t there. For instance, the smell of blood makes me hear a certain kind of music. And the feel of the snow falling outside tastes like bread. Today the snow is light and fluffy, so it tastes like white bread. When it’s heavy, it tastes like wheat bread. Do you go outside at all?”

  I paused, not so much for an answer as to gather my thoughts. But I noticed that despite not having moved, Felicity was now looking at me, engaging me with her eyes.

  “It’s cold outside,” I said. “And cold air tastes kind of sour to me, like unsweetened lemonade, or the juice from a lime. Everything I experience comes from more than one sense. For instance, I can tell from your smell that you use a shampoo that smells like flowers. I know that not just because of the smells, but because smells have distinct sounds and feelings for me. Even the smell of those crayons we used makes me hear a bubbling sound. When I hear music, I see different colors and shapes. Do you like music?”

  Again, I paused. She still hadn’t moved, but her eyes were still engaged. I began to sing a ditty I remembered from my childhood about the wheels on the bus going ’round and ’round. My father used to sing it to me, and just hearing the lyrics would make me feel the same sensation I experienced whenever I looked at a bus moving along the street: a vibration in my feet. When I was done with the song—or at least what I could remember of it—I again fell silent.

  After a moment, Felicity pushed herself up into a sitting position, her eyes locked on mine. Then she began to hum. It took me a moment to recognize the tune: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” I listened for a moment, and when she finished the basic tune and started humming it again, I joined her, but did so as if we were singing the song in rounds. She looked surprised, and for a moment, I thought she was going to stop humming, but instead she began to sing the words. Her enunciation was surprisingly clear, and I began singing along with her, still doing the round. After we finished two choruses of the song, she stopped and broke into a loud, happy laugh, the sound of which made me taste sweet strawberries and the sight of which made me feel a warm sensation in my tummy.

  I looked at her and said, “You can talk.”

  Her smile faded. She dropped her gaze and stared at the floor.

  “We don’t have to talk,” I told her. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. Why don’t we draw some more?” I got up and crutched back over to the papers and crayons that were still sitting in the middle of the room. Wordlessly, I sat on the floor, laid my crutches beside me, and picked up a sheet of paper. Then I took a tan crayon from the box and began to draw the figure of a man. My artistic talents were quite limited, and what I ended up with looked more like a gingerbread man than anything else, but I figured the context would be sufficient.

  Felicity watched me in silence for several minutes before finally emerging from the closet. But rather than sit down and draw with me, she paced back and forth, watching what I was doing, and pulling at her lips every few seconds. I wondered when she’d last had anything to eat and if she might be hungry. I took out my cell phone and sent a text to Duncan, asking him if there was anything out there in the main part of the house that he could bring in here for us to eat. While I was texting, Felicity cocked her head to one side and watched me with intent curiosity. After sending the text, I handed the phone to Felicity to see what she would do with it. I should’ve thought it through more. As she was staring at the screen, one hand hovering over it as if she wanted to touch it, it buzzed and dinged with Duncan’s response.

  Felicity let out a screech that sounded like a bird of prey, and she flung the phone away from her. Fortunately, she flung it in the direction of the closet, so the impact was minimal because it hit the mattress, bounced, and caromed off the foam padding on the soundproofed walls.

  My gut response was to get up and try to calm her, but I resisted it, thinking that any sudden physical contact would only heighten her discomfort. After that one primal screech, she made no more noise. She started pacing again—a little faster this time—and again pulled at her lip.

  “Felicity,” I said in a soft, low voice, “I’m sorry the phone scared you. I used it to send a message to Duncan, the man who was in here earlier. I thought maybe he could bring us something to eat.” The pacing slowed, so I scooted into the closet on my rump to retrieve my phone. I read Duncan’s reply. “He’s going to bring us some food in a moment, okay?”

  No response, but the pacing seemed to slow a little more. I returned to my drawing, and a minute later, there was a tap on the door. Felicity dashed into the closet and squatted there, looking out at me. The door opened, and Duncan entered the room carrying a plate that had some crackers, some peanut butter, some baby carrots, and a chocolate bar. He set it down on the floor beside me and said, “Anything?”

  “Not really,” I answered.

  He said nothing more, and after giving me a gentle squeeze on my shoulder, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Come and get something to eat,” I said to Felicity. I picked up a cracker and popped it in my mouth. Then I picked up the chocolate bar and unwrapped it, breaking it into several pieces that I then set on the plate.

  Felicity darted out of the closet toward the plate, grabbed several of the chocolate pieces, and shoved them in her mouth. She did it with such speed and ferocity that it made me laugh.

  “Wow,” I said, “you must really like chocolate. You can have the other pieces, too.”

  She didn’t hesitate. Her hand darted out and the rest of the chocolate pieces disappeared.

  I
smiled at her and said, “You know that man who was just in here, Duncan? The sound of his voice tastes like chocolate to me.”

  She stared at me with a new intensity. After a moment, she grabbed one of the blank pieces of paper and then retrieved a red crayon from the box. She quickly drew what appeared to be some sort of red fruit, either an apple or cherry. Then she picked it up and showed it to me.

  “Is that an apple?” I asked.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Cherry,” she said. She reached toward me with a finger, touching it to my lips.

  I gaped at her. After a moment, I picked up a carrot and showed it to her. Then I bit it in half, chewing the portion in my mouth. “The taste of this carrot makes me hear a clapping sound,” I told her with the pieces still in my mouth. “And when I chew it, the feel of it on my teeth makes me see boxes, piles of boxes.”

  Felicity picked up a carrot and bit it the same way I had. She stared at me as she chewed, the muscles in her face working, frowning one second, looking puzzled the next. She chewed slowly, methodically, never taking her eyes off me. When she was done and had swallowed, she popped the other half into her mouth. She positioned it between her teeth and then crunched down hard just one time. Then, with the carrot still in her mouth, she leaned forward and drew a triangular shape on the same page where she had drawn the cherry.

  I gaped at the picture for a moment, and then I gaped at her. I felt a trill of excitement, certain I had just met a fellow synesthete. Just to be sure, I picked up a cracker and smelled it. In an instant, I heard something that sounded like ocean waves crashing. I dug in the box of crayons until I found a blue one, and then I drew a caricature of a series of waves. “This is what these crackers smell like to me,” I said.

  Felicity reached over, took the cracker from my hand, and then held it up to her nose. I watched as she sniffed and then set it back down on the plate. She looked at the box of crayons for a moment, and then she reached in and retrieved a red one. Grabbing a new piece of paper, she started to draw, making a series of shapes that I thought were leaves at first.