Free Fatal by Michael Palmer

looked on very kindly around here. Not kindly at all. Now, get out!”

  CHAPTER 6

    ELLEN KROFT KNELT BESIDE HER GRANDDAUGHTER  and held the girl tightly by her shoulders, trying to force even a moment of eye contact—of connection of any kind.
    “Grandma loves you, Lucy,” she said, carefully enunciating every word as she would to a three-year-old. “Have a wonderful day at school.”
    The girl, now nearly eight, contorted her face into something of a grimace, then twisted her neck so that she was looking upward past Ellen, at the sky. Not a word. Nearly five years of expensive schooling at the best special-needs facility around, and there still were almost never any words.
    “Lucy Goosey, are you ready for school?”
    The teacher of Lucy’s small class at the Remlinger Institute in Alexandria, Virginia, was named Gayle. She was in her twenties and new to the school, but she had the youthful exuberance, upbeat demeanor, and saintly patience required for a life of trying to reach and teach severely autistic children. Gayle held out her hand. Lucy’s head kept swinging rhythmically from side to side like the switching of a horse’s tail. She neither avoided the proffered hand nor reached for it. Only if it were something spinning, flashing, or brightly colored would she have reacted.
    Eight years old.
    It had been five years since the diagnosis of profound autism was made on the girl and nearly four since Ellen began bringing her to school so that her daughter, Beth, could get to work.
    “Come on, Lucy,” Gayle sang, leading her off. “Say good-bye to Grandma.”
    Say good-bye to Grandma . Ellen laughed to herself sardonically. There had been a time when Lucy Kroft-Garland could do just that. Well, not anymore. She turned and was opening the door of her six-year-old Taurus when Gayle cried out. Lucy, her back arched inward to an extent that seemed anatomically impossible, was on the lawn in the throes of a violent grand mal seizure.
    Quickly, but with businesslike calm, Ellen reached in the glove compartment of her car, withdrew four wooden tongue depressors bound together at the end with adhesive tape, and then hurried over. Lucy’s teeth were snapping together like a jackhammer, threatening damage to her lips and tongue. Saliva was frothing out of the corner of her mouth.
    “What should I do?” Gayle asked. “I’ve seen some of the children have seizures, but never Lucy.”
    “Well, I have,” Ellen said, rolling her grandchild onto her side so that, should she vomit, she wouldn’t aspirate her stomach contents. Next she squeezed her thumb and third finger forcefully into the angle of the child’s jaw. Bit by bit, the pressure overcame the spasm in Lucy’s muscles. A small gap opened up between her teeth, and Ellen expertly inserted the makeshift tongue blade device. With one hand holding the blades in place, and the other maintaining Lucy on her side, she nodded to Gayle that matters were under control.
    “Should I have Mr. Donnegan call nine-one-one?” Gayle asked.
    “No, dear. Lucy will be fine. We just need a little time here.”
    “I’ll go get Mr. Donnegan anyway.”
    “Do that.”
    The violent seizure had largely abated when the headmaster arrived. Ellen was sitting on the grass, Lucy’s head cradled in her lap. The girl was unconscious now—“post ictal,” the doctors called the condition. Ellen checked that Lucy hadn’t soiled or wet herself, then looked up at the headmaster and shrugged.
    “Should we send for an ambulance?” he asked.
    “She’ll be fine in twenty minutes. This hasn’t happened for a while. Her medication may have to be tweaked. If it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon she stay in school if possible. Just leave us right here for a bit. If she’s not up and about in twenty minutes I’ll take her home. But she’s better off here with the other children. Much better.”
    Donnegan looked for a moment as if he was going to object, but instead reached down and