Cemetery Girl (30 page)

“There usually is,” she said.

“And you’ll find it out?” I asked.

She placed her hand on my chest, gently but insistently, and moved me back. “I’m going to do whatever I can, Tom.”

It took fifteen minutes for Rosenbaum’s office to call my cell phone. When I answered on the porch, it was the man himself speaking, not his secretary.

“Tom, we were just wondering where Caitlin is. She’s missing her appointment with me.”

“I don’t think we’re going to make it in today. To be honest, I’ve decided to take her to someone else, another professional, someone who I thought might have a better rapport with her.”

“You can’t do that,” he said, his voice rising. “It is not advisable to take a patient from one specialist to another. Who did you bring her to? Does your wife know about this? I know we haven’t made much progress yet, but a case like this can take a long time to work through.”

“I have to go.”

“Who have you taken her to? What’s the doctor’s name?”

“It’s not a doctor.”

“Not a doctor? Tom, I’m going to have to tell Detective Ryan. This case is at a critical juncture. If she’s not getting consistent care—”

I hung up.

I paced on the porch after I hung up with Rosenbaum, listening to the birds and watching the comings and goings of the students in the neighborhood. Soon enough, Abby called, and I knew I needed to reassure her.

“It’s okay, Abby. She’s with me.”

She sighed on her end of the line. “Did you really take her to another doctor?”

“No, not that.”

“Who then?” A pause. “Oh, Tom.” She didn’t sound angry. Instead, her voice dripped with judgment and concern. “That woman from the porch?”

“She works with the police department. She’s a counselor—a support system—for victims of crime.”

“Is she a doctor?”

“No, she’s not, but she’s trying to help,” I said. “She listens. She’s trained to work with people who are having crises. She doesn’t have an agenda. She just listens and works with me.”

“Caitlin’s my daughter, too. You need to tell me what you’re doing with her, especially now.”

“I didn’t plan this. I just did it.”

Someone spoke to Abby in the background. She muffled the phone with her hand and said something that sounded like, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Then she came back on the line. “I feel bad that you think this woman was the only person you could turn to in a crisis. You’re so alone, Tom. I worry about you.”

“I have to go, Abby. Caitlin’s going to be ready soon.”

“Will you talk to me about this later? I don’t think this should be the end of our conversation.”

“I have to go, Abby. Good-bye.”

Chapter Forty

I
t took another thirty minutes for Susan to come out onto the porch. Her face impassive, she made a beckoning gesture toward me, summoning me back inside. I followed.

Caitlin sat in the same seat, but she clutched a ragged ball of Kleenex. She’d been crying, but when we made eye contact, she looked away, apparently ashamed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Sit down, Tom.” Susan pointed at an empty chair.

So I sat. My hands were clenched in my lap. I didn’t know what to do with them. I reached out to Caitlin, but she pulled back. Her rebuke felt physical, like a sting. When Susan was settled, I said, “Well?”

Susan rested her hands on the tops of her knees. “Caitlin has been through a profound experience, one beyond her very young years.”

“I can imagine.” Then I shook my head. “I can only imagine.”

“I’m not sure you can. I’m not sure any of us can, Tom.”

“Okay, you’re right. I can’t. I’m starting to understand that.”

Susan looked at Caitlin. I wasn’t certain, but it seemed as though Caitlin made an almost imperceptible gesture, a quick, tiny nod of her head. Susan nodded back, confirming something. “Tom, Caitlin doesn’t want you to ask her any more questions about this subject. She has shared some things with me, and she told me it’s okay if I share them with you.”

“She told you,” I said, looking over at Caitlin again. “But she didn’t tell me. Why won’t you tell me?”

I became aware of a wheedling, pleading tone in my voice, so I stopped.

“She fears your reaction. Like this. She fears you will think too much like a parent and not really hear what she is saying.”

“Okay. I’ll listen. I’ll listen to you, or I’ll listen to her. I’ll listen to whatever is sent my way.”

Susan looked at Caitlin. “Honey, are you sure you want me to be the one to tell him these things?”

Caitlin nodded, still clutching the Kleenex.

“Okay.” She turned back to me. “Tom, Caitlin has fallen in love with this man, the man at the police station. She wants you to know this so that you will understand why she tried to leave that night and why she doesn’t want to cooperate with the police. She doesn’t want this man to go to jail.”

A pause, and I realized Susan wanted a response from me. The room felt smaller, closer and more cramped. It seemed as though I were heading down a blind alley, so I tried to turn around. “What exactly is your interest in all of this?” I asked. “I thought you wanted to help me.”

She didn’t ruffle or back down. “I am.”

I turned to Caitlin. “What do you want then?” I asked. “You just don’t want me to ask questions? You want the police to stop with the questions? Is that all you want?”

Again the look passed between the two of them, and this time Caitlin spoke, although she didn’t look at me. “I want to see him,” she said.

“No,” I said. Then I said it again. “No.” My voice was flat, but firm. It lacked emotion this time, at least to my own ears.

Caitlin still didn’t look at me. “I won’t tell the police anything. They won’t have a case.”

“They have other witnesses. People who saw the two of you out together. In strip clubs and God only knows where else. They’re going to nail him to the wall, with or without you. And I’ll be thrilled to watch it happen.” I stood up. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“Tom—”

“Enough,” I said. “You’ve done enough. Come on, Caitlin.”

Again Caitlin looked to Susan, and again Susan nodded, but this time she nodded in my direction, telling Caitlin she needed to go with me.

But Caitlin still didn’t move. She held the Kleenex, but her eyes were dry. And I feared I was about to truly see the limit of my own power. What would I do with her if she didn’t want to move, if she wanted to curl up in the chair, an inert mass of teenage resistance? How would I move her or reach her?

But she wasn’t ready to make her last stand yet.

She stood up, her shoulders hunched, her posture folded in on itself. When we reached the door, I placed my hand on her, my fingers encircling her bony arm, feeling its scrawniness through her sweatshirt. She looked up at me, then down at the place where my hand made contact with her body. She gave a little tug back, so I tightened my grip, adding not so subtle pressure. I didn’t care if she bruised.

Before we went out the door, Susan said my name. “Tom? I’m happy to see Caitlin again. Or you. Together or alone. But some of this is beyond my expertise. She should—you all should—be dealing with the professionals as well.”

I guided Caitlin out to the car. It felt like we were an odd pair of conjoined twins.

When we were in, and the child safety locks were activated, Caitlin spoke up. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Everything?”

She nodded. “One condition, though.”

“What’s that?”

“When it’s done, when I’ve told you all that bullshit, you let me go. Back to John. Back to the life I want to have. Let me go, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“He’s going to jail for the rest of his life.”

“Then you don’t want the deal.”

I shook my head. I put the car into gear and drove us home.

Chapter Forty-one

I
was outside collecting the paper on Wednesday morning. The weather had swung back to warm again, and the trees and their dying leaves were putting on a red, orange, and gold show that was enough to lift my spirits in that quiet moment on the lawn. My neighbors began to embrace the spirit of the season by putting out pumpkins and corn sheaves and fake spiderwebs. A couple even placed fake tombstones in their yards, RIP scrawled across their front in dripping spray paint.

I took a deep breath.

Once, the Halloween after Caitlin had disappeared, a group of children came to our door. One of them was a teenage boy who almost looked too old to be trick-or-treating. He wore a floppy blond wig and a girl’s dress. He must not have known who I was or whose house he was at, because when I asked him who he was supposed to be, he replied casually, “Caitlin Stuart, that girl who disappeared.”

I shut the door then and turned out the lights inside the house, leaving our bowl of candy on the porch for the kids to pick through if they wanted.

It wasn’t possible to have a normal life. Not then, and it wasn’t possible even with Caitlin back. But in the yard that morning, just for a moment, I felt like a guy collecting his paper while his family slept inside. If I unrolled the paper and saw a news story about Caitlin or the arrest of John Colter, the spell would break.

I didn’t go inside right away.

I sat on the porch, barefoot and wearing my robe, the rolled-up paper in my hand, and just watched the morning unfold for a few quiet minutes. It was all waiting for me: Abby and Caitlin, John Colter, Ryan and the police. A light breeze blew and I took a deep breath, taking in the clean morning air, the sweet scent of decaying leaves.

I must have lost myself to the reverie for a few moments, because I didn’t notice Liann’s car pull up in front of the house. It swept dead leaves in its wake; then she stepped out, her sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head. She smiled at me, some strain on her face, and I saw she carried a briefcase in her left hand.

Something was happening.

“Good morning, Tom.”

“Is it still?”

She sat down next to me on the steps. “Have you talked to Ryan today?” she asked.

“No. What is it?”

“I was down at the courthouse this morning. I know a lot of people there. They still talk to me. Anyway, I found out there’s a bail hearing for John Colter,” she said. “Ten a.m. I think you should be there. You and Abby, if you can both stand it. I’m sure Ryan will be calling you about it. Colter’s lawyer has been pushing for it, and if it goes before a judge—”

“They’re not—”

“I can’t locate Tracy. And while there are witnesses to say they saw John Colter with Caitlin, that in and of itself doesn’t prove he’s guilty of anything beyond being a slimeball.”

“Statutory rape?”

“According to who? Is Caitlin ready to go down there and testify against him? All they have is the fire,” Liann said. “It’s a crime, and when the investigation is complete, they’ll prosecute . . .”

“Insurance fraud.”

“He hasn’t filed a claim, and I doubt he will. His lawyer’s pushing for bail. It will be high, but he’ll get it.”

“Can Colter afford that? He’s on disability.”

“His mother’s putting up her house, some other assets.” She frowned. “He’s going to be out, Tom.”

I dropped the paper, put my head in my hands. My guts twisted and turned like my midsection was full of snakes. “Why should we go then?”

“It can’t hurt. It might pressure the judge, even just a little. I’m going to be there, too. We have to try, Tom.”

I looked up again. The same quiet street, the same falling leaves. Nothing would ever be the same. Truly. “I’m tired of trying, Liann. You can carry the flag for me.”

Part III

Chapter Forty-two

M
y stepfather, Paul, died when I was in graduate school. When I told Abby—Buster was the one who’d called and given me the news, his voice hoarse and halting—I added that I wasn’t traveling home for the funeral.

But Abby told me I had to go, that not only did my mother and my family really need my support, but I also needed to face and ultimately close the door on the things I carried with me from the past.

“That’s why I don’t want to go,” I said. “I’ve already closed the door.”

Abby shook her head. “No, you haven’t.”

When I saw my stepfather in his casket, his face painted and sunken, a Bible tucked between the fingers of his gnarled and wrinkly hands, I felt nothing. It wasn’t him. At least, it wasn’t the version of him I once knew. My mom had told me during a couple of our infrequent phone conversations that he was changed, a different and better man. No more drinking. Better, steadier employment.

I didn’t care or believe it.

And if I’d hoped to feel some kind of glee standing over his coffin, that didn’t come either. He was just a dead body, an empty sack of flesh.

Later, after the service and the burial, the muttered “Amens” and the repetitious words of the minister, we all went back to my mother’s house, the house I’d grown up in with my stepfather, Paul, and Buster. I told myself and anyone who wanted to listen that I couldn’t stay long, that I needed to get back to school as soon as possible. In my mind, I planned to stay for just an hour. No more, no less.

But as the reception went on, as more and more relatives and friends came by and offered their condolences to me, condolences that I accepted even though I didn’t feel I had lost anything, my eyes were continually drawn to one particular feature of the house—the staircase leading up to our old bedroom, where my stepfather used to terrorize us in his drunken rages. I hadn’t been up there for many years—not since I’d left home to go away to college—but in the wake of Paul’s death, I felt a curiosity about the space that figured so prominently in my nightmares.

At an opportune moment, I wandered over to the foot of the stairs.

The same drab brown carpet covered the stairs, worn at the edges and apparently not vacuumed recently. My heart thumped a strange, accelerated rhythm as I stood there, and the palms of my hands felt greasy and slick as though a thin sheen of oil coated them. I almost turned and walked away, back through the party and out the front door to my car, back to the life I’d made for myself away from that place. But Abby’s influence must have worked on me. She’d pushed me to go that far. I decided to go all the way and I took slow, measured steps up the staircase.