Cemetery Girl (11 page)

“How neat and tidy.”

“Ryan told me he has doubts about the sketch and about the witness. He said if it was up to him he wouldn’t go forward with it. I told him to go ahead and do whatever you wanted to do. I think this is important for you, Tom. Important for your process of moving on. You need to know that everything that could be done has been done.”

“And you don’t need that?”

“We’re in different places in many ways,” she said. “It’s strange, though. When Ryan called and told me about the sketch, I wanted to see it. Right away I did. I told him I didn’t care to, but I really did. That’s why I’m here tonight. I told myself I was getting more stuff.”

“This late? It’s after ten.”

“Yeah.” She laughed a little. “I knew Ryan gave you a copy, and I wanted to see it. I wanted to see that face.”

“I understand.”

“You know what I was thinking about earlier today?” she asked. “That trip we took to New England when Caitlin was little.”

“What about it?”

“What a great time we had. How beautiful the scenery was. How easy it was to just be together, the three of us. I remember how you wanted to baptize Caitlin in Walden Pond. She was just three, but you took her down to the edge of the pond and splashed water on her head like you were in a church.” She smiled a little. “I thought you were crazy, of course. But I also thought it was endearing. I could tell how much you loved her. And how much you loved the idea of baptizing her in that pond.”

“As I recall, you liked the idea too. You took a picture of it.”

“That’s right.” Her mood seemed to have shifted a little. Her voice sounded a little colder, a little more distant. “I did like the idea back then. But now when I look back on it, I see the whole thing differently. I see a couple and the husband wants to baptize his daughter in a pond and the wife wants her baptized in a church.”

“She did get baptized in a church, because you wanted her to.”

Abby didn’t respond. She leaned forward and picked up the sketch of the suspect. She handed it to me, practically stuffing it into my hands, crumpling it a little.

“But I don’t want to see it anymore. Just keep it away from me if I’m around.”

I straightened the paper, smoothed out the crumples.

“I know you know some things, Tom. I could tell by the way Ryan talked to me on the phone that there were things he was keeping from me. I guess they’re the details of what happened in that strip club, what that woman saw.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to know those things, Tom. Ever. Those are just things you’re going to have to endure alone. I can’t—”

“I get it,” I said. “In fact, it’s not really anything new, is it? Me enduring these things alone.”

She let out a long sigh. “We know, Tom. You’re the saddest.” She stood up. “I was going to stay here tonight, but I think I’ll just take some of these things back to the church.”

I stood up, too. “Do you mind keeping it down while you do? I feel pretty tired.”

I went back up the stairs, sketch in hand, and didn’t wait for her to reply.

Chapter Twelve

T
he morning walkers and joggers still crowded the park. People went past me in waves, excusing themselves, occasionally brushing against me, and I wondered what they thought of me, a slightly disheveled man wearing jeans and a button-down shirt among their shorts and athletic shoes. Still, I welcomed their company, the push and jostle of other human beings. Aloneness without being lonely.

I knew what lay on the far side of the park—the cemetery and Caitlin’s “grave.” My reaction to it in the wake of the ceremony and the eyewitness account from Tracy seemed similar to Abby’s reaction to the sketch of the suspect. I wanted to see that grave again, if only to confirm its reality in my head. It was, for better or worse, a memorial to my daughter, a stony testament to the fact that she existed on this earth at one time.

I started to sweat under my shirt. I rolled up my sleeves to my elbows and kept walking. I thought about how we’d made it to that point, how Abby’s involvement with the church had led to that headstone in the ground. Abby had begun attending church with Pastor Chris before Caitlin disappeared, but her attendance at that time was sporadic. Once a month, maybe. Sometimes twice. Eventually, Abby announced that she wanted Caitlin to be baptized there by Pastor Chris. Caitlin was eight years old then and refused, but I took Abby’s side and told Caitlin she should do it. I chose not to attend the service, but Caitlin grudgingly agreed, scowling and dragging her feet the whole way. When they came home, I asked Caitlin how it had gone.

“Weird,” she said, crinkling her nose.

“I figured as much,” I said. “Do you buy any of it?”

“Nope.”

We laughed together, more like conspiring siblings than parent and child. Abby left the room.

“You’re both so . . .
hard
,” she’d said. “I can’t get near either one of you.”

Her involvement with the church had increased steadily after that—a mission she undertook alone—and when Caitlin disappeared, Pastor Chris and a gang of his helpers set up shop in our living room, praying, bringing food, answering the phone. They kept a constant vigil, and when the media and police left, the church people left too, but Abby went with them and so did what remained of our marriage.

At the far side of the park, near the cemetery, I slowed my pace. More trees lined the path there, providing shade. I looked behind me and saw no one, so I wasn’t in any danger of getting run over or becoming the obstacle clogging the path. I knew Caitlin’s marker—
cenotaph
, as Buster would say—lay just beyond the trees, and where the foliage was thin enough I made out the rows and rows of headstones.

What if Ryan was right?

They would release the sketch, and for a time things would happen. A flurry of attention, the discovery of possibilities.

But after that? If none of the leads panned out, and the sketch proved to be a dead end . . .

What would I do then?

I turned my gaze away from the cemetery, and that’s when I saw the girl on the path ahead of me.

We locked eyes for a moment. She saw me. I knew she did. And as soon as she saw me, she bolted, moving from left to right and through the small stand of trees that separated the park from the cemetery. She was blond and young and looked just like—

Caitlin!

I ran forward, my shoes slipping and sliding against the gravel track. I felt like a man running through deep water. I couldn’t move fast enough. Then I reached the spot and looked through the trees. There was a small break, a worn little path leading from the park to the cemetery.

I followed, ducking my head beneath the low branches, and came out onto the green lawn of the cemetery. I looked around. Nothing but the flat earth and the headstones. No sign of the girl.

“Caitlin!”

I moved left, out toward the main road. My breath caught in my throat, the sweat thickening beneath my arms. I crossed the small, winding road that wrapped through the cemetery.

I called out again. “Caitlin!”

No girl in sight, but in the distance a graveside service was in progress. Several heads turned toward me, considering me. I didn’t have time to think about the figure I must have been cutting. I didn’t call out again, but worked my way up through the cemetery, keeping close to the boundary it shared with the park. I looked to the left, into the trees, hoping for another glimpse of the girl or even just the sound of rustling branches and leaves.

But there was nothing. I went all the way up the boundary, all the way to the parking lot by the small limestone chapel, where the cemetery held services. The lot was full of cars, including a hearse and two gleaming black sedans, but no girl. No Caitlin. I stood there in the sun, my breath coming in short huffs. But there was no girl there, no sign of a girl at all.

Chapter Thirteen

I
wandered back toward the house in something of a daze. The girl—blond, thin, fast—definitely looked like Cait-and I’d spotted her in the park where Caitlin had disappeared. She looked younger than Caitlin should have looked after four years away.

But then, if it was Caitlin, if that was my daughter, why did she run at the first sight of me? Why did she bolt when we locked eyes?

The sun was passing overhead, and the sweat under my shirt itched at my skin like millions of tiny bugs. I unbuttoned the shirt, my hands shaking and struggling, and pulled it off. I walked the rest of the way in my sticky wet T-shirt.

My phone rang. Liann. “Tom, where are you?” she asked, without even a hello.

“I just saw Caitlin in the park,” I said, also not bothering with pleasantries.

“What?”

“I saw Caitlin. I mean, it might have been Caitlin. It was a young girl, and she looked like Caitlin, but when she saw me she ran off and I couldn’t catch her.”

“We don’t have time for this now, Tom. Listen. The police, Ryan—they’re having a press conference right now. They’re releasing the sketch.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. You need to get down there. They need a parent, a human face, to give the story more impact.”

“Why didn’t he call me?” I looked down at my sweaty T-shirt, the dust on my shoes. No shower. I probably looked crazed. “I don’t think—”

“You need to go, Tom. I’m coming to your house now. I’ll see you in three minutes.”

I managed to mostly button my shirt by the time I slipped into Liann’s car, and I looked at myself in the mirror on the passenger side, smoothing my hair down with the aid of spit applied to my fingers. Liann was all business. She barely looked at me when I entered the vehicle, and drove across town like a New York cab-bie. “What am I supposed to do when I get there?” I asked.

“Just stand there, be a presence. Answer reporters’ questions. They need to see the toll this is taking on you. You need sympathy.”

“Should I call Abby?”

Liann made a dismissive noise deep in her throat. “You can do this alone. We don’t need her.”

“I look like shit.”

She took her eyes off the road for a second, giving me a quick glance. “Even better. You look more desperate.”

We entered the square and approached the station. My right hand clutched the door handle so hard my fingers hurt.

“How did you know about the press conference?” I asked.

“I know people in the department. I talk to people every day.”

“Why didn’t Ryan call me about it?”

“I’ve seen the police do this before,” she said. “If they think a parent is a loose cannon or too distraught.”

“He thinks that about me?”

“Please, Tom. Look at yourself.” Liann stopped the car behind a news van. I expected more. Liann undid the locks and made a shooing gesture toward me. “Go on. Go. You’re late.”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“You’re better off without me. Go.”

“What about the girl I saw at the cemetery?”

“Our minds can play tricks on us, Tom. Now go.”

I stepped onto the sidewalk and into the sunlight. As soon as I shut the door, she drove off, leaving me alone.

The police spoke to the media in a small conference room near the back of the station that felt small and cheap. The out-of-date wood paneling needed to be replaced. The bookshelves they used as a backdrop were covered with dust. But it played well on TV. When they placed a police official—either in uniform or wearing a suit and tie—in front of that backdrop, addressing a bank of microphones, it brought instant credibility and authority. I’d stood there on more than one occasion when Caitlin had first disappeared. Abby and I were asked to step forward, blinking against the burning glow of the TV lights, and plead for Caitlin’s return. I imagined we looked like any other victims of tragedy—stunned and weary and desperate enough to make the viewers at home say to themselves,
Thank God it’s not me
.

I told the uniformed officer at the front desk who I was and asked to be allowed back. For a moment, he hesitated, studying me in the way only cops can, as though I were giving off a scent he recognized, some combination of fear and desperation. He reached for his phone.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “Detective Ryan told me the time, and I forgot. Ever since my daughter disappeared . . .”

I tried to look helpless. I wasn’t above using my status as the parent of a missing child to get something if I needed it. This cop didn’t seem particularly moved. He picked up his phone, dialed an extension, and then spoke in a voice so low I made out only a few words.

Press conference . . . father . . . back there . . .

He nodded and hung up.

“Someone’s coming to take you back.”

“I know the way.”

He shook his head. “Someone needs to take you.”

I drummed my fingers on his desktop. I looked around. There were hard plastic chairs and copies of
Reader’s Digest
to distract people. An old man waited alone, head down. A TV was mounted on a bracket in the corner. It broadcast a game show.

“Can you get the news on there?” I asked. “Are they showing the press conference?”

“Not live,” he said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Can’t I just go back? I know the way—”

“Sir, you have to wait.”

“Why aren’t they showing it?”

But the cop ignored me. I looked back at the TV. The host of the show threw a bunch of money up in the air, and it fluttered to the ground while contestants grabbed handfuls. The phone on the cop’s desk rang. He listened, then nodded, looking up at me.

“Okay,” he said into the phone and hung up.

“Was that about me?”

“Someone’s coming to take you back now.”

“You said that already.”

“Sir . . .”

The heavy steel door to the side of the desk opened. A uniformed female officer held the door for me and jerked her head down the hallway, indicating I should step through.

“Thanks,” I said.

“They’re wrapping up,” she said.