Cemetery Girl (23 page)

“Goddamn,” he said. “Look at you. You’re all grown up.”

Abby cringed at his language, but Buster didn’t notice.

“I never thought I’d see you again, girl. I really didn’t. This is like some sort of dream come true. You’re back from the dead.”

A blush rose on Caitlin’s cheeks, but she didn’t say anything.

“You’re going to have to tell me all about it,” he said. “Where you were, what you were doing. All about your adventures.”

“Maybe Caitlin needs to come upstairs and change her clothes,” Abby said. “We got her a bunch of new clothes just now.”

“Yeah?” Buster looked Caitlin over again. “You’re right. It looks like you’re wearing your mom’s clothes. No sixteen-year-old should have to do that.” He let her go. “Okay, but we’ll talk after that.”

Before Abby and Caitlin left the room to go upstairs, Abby looked back at me. “Maybe you can fill William in on all that’s been happening,” she said.

When they were gone, Buster sipped his coffee.

“What is your deal?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You were talking to her like she’d been on a cruise or something. After you came by last night, she ran off. Or did you know that already?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “What happened?”

“Do you know?”

“Jesus, Tom.” He shook his head. “Can you for once—for five fucking minutes—just forget about your own bullshit? And Abby’s? Will you?”

“What are you doing here?” I remained standing, watching him.

“I came to see my niece. I’m family, too. Remember? I know sometimes you want to act like we’re not, but we are, even if you want to deny it.”

My hand was on his shoulder. I hadn’t realized I’d reached out to hold him, but my grip was tight. I let go.

“No more interrogating, okay?”

“Okay. Jesus.” He stared into his mug. “She looks different.”

“She’s older.”

“She’s skinny. Worn. Like she’s been through it. And she has that awful, dykey haircut. What are the cops saying?”

I went over to the table and sat at the opposite end from him. “I don’t know. All we do is hurry up and wait.”

“We’ll never know what happened to her,” he said. “The cops, they’re never going to get anywhere.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, studying his face.

“Do they think she ran away?”

“Maybe.”

“Or they think I did it, right? They’re chasing their tails.”

“She’s back,” I said. “That’s what’s important.”

But the words felt put on, like I was speaking lines from a script.

I heard Caitlin and Abby on the stairs, then in the kitchen. Before they entered the dining room, Buster said, “You keep telling yourself that, Tom. Just go ahead and keep telling yourself that.”

I knew it would bother Abby, so I asked Buster to stay and eat with us. The four of us sat down at the table together, facing a meal of ham, scalloped potatoes, and green beans left by someone from Abby’s church. Between the church and some neighbors, we had enough food to last for weeks. We were all ready to eat, even Caitlin, but Abby bowed her head and closed her eyes. She reached out for Caitlin’s hand, and I was happy to see that Caitlin made no effort to return the gesture. Instead, she grabbed her fork and started eating while Abby murmured a prayer, her eyes shut so tight it looked like it hurt. When Abby opened her eyes again and saw Caitlin eating already, she pursed her lips a little but didn’t say anything.

Caitlin’s eating made me cringe, but for a different reason. She ate quickly, shoveling the food from the plate to her mouth with the rapidity of an automated machine. She didn’t pause long enough to take a breath or use a napkin to wipe her face. And when she chewed, she kept her mouth open wide, the food on display for all to see, her teeth and lips making smacking sounds that would have put Frosty to shame. Abby and I had ridden Caitlin hard when she was little, making sure she knew good table manners, but it was all out the window now. She conducted herself like she’d been living in a zoo for four years. Abby and I didn’t even bother to look at each other during the meal. We each knew what the other was thinking.

All that effort wasted . . .

But Buster spoke up.

“Settle down there, girl. You’re eating like the Iraqis are coming up I-75.”

Caitlin ignored him and kept going.

She did look better in her new clothes—a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and new sneakers. She didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge any of the mindless conversation the three of us made, and when her plate was clean, she laid her fork aside and belched. She began fidgeting with a necklace. It was a simple gold chain with a small amber stone. Topaz maybe? She took the stone between her thumb and forefinger and pulled it back and forth on the chain.

“That’s pretty,” Abby said, her teeth gritted just a little.

Caitlin just nodded.

I watched Caitlin swing it back and forth, a nervous tic. I wanted to know what made her touch it that way and who she thought of when she held it.

“That’s your birthstone,” Abby said. She kept eating, but the skin around her mouth drew tight. She looked like she was chewing broken glass. “Very pretty, very pretty.”

Detective Ryan called as we were finishing our meal. He said he was on his way over to talk to us, the sooner the better. I shared this with everyone when I hung up the phone. Buster poured himself another cup of coffee, but he squirmed in his seat and checked the clock on his cell phone repeatedly. Finally, he stood up and said he was leaving.

“Really?” I asked. “Don’t you want to stay and find out what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to stay and get hassled by the cops. Besides, I have the drive back. . . .”

“Makes sense,” Abby said.

Buster bent down and gave Caitlin a hug.

“We’ll talk soon,” he said.

She nodded, almost smiling.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

I walked with him to the front door. “We took her to a psychiatrist today, and she didn’t say a word.”

“A shrink? Really? Jesus, Tom. That’s worse than that fruity pastor at Abby’s church. What’s he going to do for you?”

“He can tell us what’s wrong, or get her to tell us what happened.”

“You need a shrink for that?”

The doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Buster said. “I should slip out the back.”

“Yeah, that would look good.”

I opened the door for Ryan. Momentary surprise passed across his face; then he held out his hand to Buster and they shook. Buster’s posture stiffened. He pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin.

“Are you living here, William?” Ryan asked. “In New Cambridge?”

“Over in Columbus.”

“Nice,” Ryan said. “Actually, it’s a good thing you’re here. I need to talk to Tom and Abby, and if you don’t mind . . .”

Buster nodded. “Sure. I’ll sit with Caitlin and watch TV or something while the grown-ups talk.”

“Don’t you have to go?” I asked, trying to move things along.

“It’s fine. I’ll make sure I only speak to her in declarative sentences.”

“I’ll get Abby,” I said. “The three of us can talk on the porch.”

The late afternoon was warm, unseasonably so, and a light breeze rustled through the trees. It felt good on the porch, like we were doing something normal.

“Is she doing better?” he asked.

“We bought her some new clothes today,” Abby said. “We’re adjusting.”

“What did you think of Dr. Rosenbaum?”

“It was fine—”

“What are you here for?” I asked. “Did you make an arrest?”

“No, we didn’t. Can you tell me how things went with Rosenbaum?”

“We learned that our daughter doesn’t like to talk to shrinks,” I said. “And we learned that she doesn’t like being with us as much as she liked being gone.”

“Tom . . .” Abby said.

“Okay, he told us a lot of things, things a parent wouldn’t really want to hear.” I kept my eyes on Ryan. “What did you learn today? There must be something.”

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a small spiral notebook. He wet his index finger and started flipping through the pages while he talked. “One of the benefits of Caitlin’s recovery is that it puts her story back in the public eye in a big way, even more than the composite sketch of the suspect.” He licked his finger again, turned a few more pages, and stopped. “In the last twenty-four hours, we’ve been getting a lot of calls about Caitlin’s case, and we’ve only just begun to wade through them. But a picture has started to emerge.”

“A picture of what?” Abby asked.

“A number of people have called and told us that they saw Caitlin during the four years she was missing.”

“You mean people who thought they saw Caitlin and were mistaken?” I asked.

Ryan shook his head. “No, they saw her. Not all of them, of course. Some of them are crackpots, but there’s a consistency to the sightings that makes us believe them.” Ryan looked down at his notes again, and I sensed a reluctance on his part, a hesitation about what he was about to tell us. “People saw Caitlin out in public in the company of the man from the sketch. The stories are similar to the one you heard from the young woman at the Fantasy Club. Caitlin and this man were seen in out-of-the-way places. Strip clubs or diners. Always in rural or isolated areas. Never here in New Cambridge. Never in town or near the campus.”

I felt a sickness churning in my lower gut, a slow roiling, as though I might at any moment have to run to the bathroom to relieve it.

“I don’t understand,” Abby said. “What does it mean that Caitlin was out with this man? She must have tried to get away or asked for help.”

“No, she didn’t. At least not that any of our witnesses saw.”

I leaned forward in my chair, hoping to ease the pain in my gut. I didn’t think I could say anything.

“How can that be?” Abby asked. “Some strange man takes her, and she doesn’t run away. He must have held a gun to her or something, right? Tom? What are you doing, Tom? Are you okay? Are you hearing this?”

“We don’t know if there was a weapon involved or not,” Ryan said. “We’re looking into that. But in cases like this, it’s not unusual to hear that the victim was intimidated into not running away.”

“She has that bruise,” Abby said.

“We don’t know what that’s from,” Ryan said, “but it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that she was physically assaulted by whoever took her.”

“Why are you telling us all of this?” I asked. I shifted my position on the chair.

“I’m really just trying to keep you informed. This is going to somewhat change our approach to this investigation,” Ryan said. “Caitlin was a child when she disappeared. She’s still a child in the eyes of the law. We need to remember that. But this information could suggest a different and potentially more complicated relationship with whoever took her.”

“Let’s not use the word ‘relationship,’” Abby said.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said. “That was a poor choice of words. But Caitlin may very well be seeing it as a relationship.”

“Who is this guy, Ryan?” I asked. “If he showed up in public places, he must have left a trail. Credit card statements, signatures. He must have talked to people, given someone his name or something.”

“We’re going to do everything we can,” Ryan said.

His words were just nonsense syllables, though, meaningless mutterings that made no impact on me. I felt myself tuning out, fading away from a conversation that should have held so much importance for me. When Abby spoke again, her voice came to me from a great distance, as though she were speaking through a long tube.

“Are you going to ask Caitlin about this?” she asked.

Ryan nodded. “That’s the other reason I’m here. I have to see if she’ll talk to me. We gave her a break yesterday, but the sooner we can get some answers out of her, the better for the investigation. I was hoping . . .” Ryan hesitated. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I was a little more aggressive with my questions. I’m going to press her a little bit now just to see if anything shakes loose. We’ll know pretty quickly if she’s going to respond to my approach.”

Abby looked over at me, her face uncertain. I got the feeling she wanted me to object or tell Ryan he couldn’t talk to Caitlin, that it was too soon, give us time. But I didn’t. The pain in my gut was starting up again, and I liked the idea of someone trying to provide me with answers.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll tell her.”

Chapter Thirty

B
uster and Caitlin sat on the couch in the living room, the TV tuned to some kind of talk show. The volume blared, and Buster was leaning over to Caitlin, saying something into her ear. He straightened up when I entered the room.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just hanging out and doing a little uncle and niece bonding.”

“What are you saying to her?” I asked.

“I’m telling her a stupid joke, Tom. Easy.”

“Caitlin, Detective Ryan needs to ask you a few questions.”

I felt Ryan behind me, his bulk looming there like an eclipsing planetary body.

Caitlin kept her eyes on the television.

“Maybe now isn’t the best time there, Sipowicz,” Buster said. “Maybe another couple of days to settle in.”

The left corner of Ryan’s mouth went up in a half smile, but there was no humor in it. “Maybe you could give us some privacy, William,” Ryan said. “But don’t leave. I’d like to ask you some questions as well.”

Buster smirked. He leaned over to Caitlin and gave her arm a squeeze. “I’ll be out there if you need me,” he said, loud enough for all of us to hear. “And don’t take any shit.”

Ryan walked across the room and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Caitlin. He reached out, picked up the remote, and clicked off the TV.

Abby slipped in the front door as Buster went out to the porch. She closed the storm door, blocking out the sounds of the outside world. “Is it okay if we’re here with her?” she asked. “I’d like to be here.”