Cemetery Girl Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part II

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Part III

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  PRAISE FOR

  CEMETERY GIRL

  “Cemetery Girl is more than just an utterly compelling thriller—and it certainly is that. David Bell’s stellar novel is also a haunting meditation on the ties that bind parent to child, husband to wife, brother to brother—and what survives even under the most shattering possible circumstance. An absolutely riveting, absorbing read not to be missed.”

  —Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling

  author of Darkness, My Old Friend

  “Cemetery Girl is my favorite kind of story because it takes the familiar and darkens it. This story is essentially about a missing little girl, but trust me: you have never read a missing-persons story like this one. The reader is taken down the rabbit hole in this novel and when he comes out at the end—just beyond that mysterious and hopeful last page—he is all the better for having been invited inside Bell’s disturbing, all-too-real world.... A fast, mean head trip of a thriller that reads like a collaboration between Michael Connelly and the gothic fiction of Joyce Carol Oates, Cemetery Girl is one of those novels that you cannot shake after it’s over. A winner on every level.”

  —Will Lavender, New York Times bestselling author of Dominance

  “Grabbed me by the throat on page one and never let up. An intense, unrelenting powerhouse of a book, and the work of a master.”

  —John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of Damage

  “A smart, tense, creepy take on the story of a missing daughter, told by her far-from-perfect father. If you think you know this tale—from all-too-familiar newspaper accounts, from lesser movies and books—then this terrific novel will make you think otherwise.”

  —Brock Clarke, author of Exley

  “[Bell] writes with a clarity of both vision and purpose, and his characters are eerily familiar because they are just like you and me.”

  —Thomas F. Monteleone, Bram Stoker Award–winning

  author of Fearful Symmetries

  “With the psychologically twisted Cemetery Girl, Bell stakes his claim as a writer to watch.... Consider me a fan.”

  —Jonathan Maberry, Bram Stoker Award–winning

  author of The King of Plagues

  MORE PRAISE FOR DAVID BELL AND HIS NOVELS

  “Gave me the tingle I felt when I read Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend for the first time. This is a wonderful, forceful, moody book that’s as palpable as it’s engaging. Pay attention to David Bell. This is the start of an impressive career.”

  —David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of First Blood

  “A novel of finely honed characters facing mysterious disappearances, madness, and loss on many levels. A masterful job.”

  —F. Paul Wilson, New York Times bestselling author

  of the Repairman Jack series

  “Bell is the real deal, a true storyteller with a style as compelling as a news bulletin. You just keep turning the pages.”

  —Ed Gorman, Shamus and Anthony Award–winning

  author of Ticket to Ride

  “Just beneath the normal, lurk madness and waiting wickedness.”

  —Mort Castle, author of Moon on the Water

  “Reads like a head-on collision between Dashiell Hammett and early Stephen King, with a touch of Robert Bloch’s sly dark humor thrown in for good measure—but its voice is very much its own, and the mounting sense of dread is undeniably palpable. This one will have you sweating during its final fifty pages, and your hands shaking as you turn those pages. Lean, mean, and ultimately quite moving . . . a rock-solid read.”

  —Gary Braunbeck, Bram Stoker Award–winning

  author of Prodigal Blues

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

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  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2011

  Copyright © David J. Bell, 2011

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Bell, David.

  Cemetery girl/David Bell.

  p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54496-9

  1. Missing children—Fiction. 2. Children—Crimes against—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.E64544C46 2011

  813’.6—dc22 2011020486

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, r
ecording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  In memory of my dad,

  Herbert Henry Bell (1932–2011)

  Prologue

  Let me tell you something about my daughter. L My daughter disappeared, and there were times I wondered if she was somehow responsible. Caitlin wasn’t like most kids—she wasn’t immature or childish. She wasn’t ignorant. In fact, she possessed a preternatural understanding of how the world worked, how humans worked. And she used that knowledge to deceive me more than once, which is why sometimes—I am ashamed to admit—I questioned her role in what happened.

  Caitlin disappeared four years ago—when she was twelve. But the first time I became aware of her ability to deceive she was only six, and the two of us were spending a Saturday together. There were many days like that one with Caitlin, and I always remember them as some of the happiest. Quiet. Simple. As easy and effortless as floating in a pool of water.

  On that particular day, Caitlin was playing with a group of kids from the neighborhood. Back then, a number of families with small children lived on our street, and the kids were all about the same age. They ran around together in the yards, playing on swing sets and jumping in leaves. No matter where the kids went, a set of adult eyes watched them. We liked the neighborhood for that reason.

  Unfortunately, shortly after we moved in, and not long after Caitlin was born, the city widened the boulevard that sat perpendicular to our street in the hope of accommodating more traffic. This brought more cars to our neighborhood. Every parent on the block felt the same degree of concern, and some talked about moving away. But we wanted to stay, so we made a rule for Caitlin: do not ever cross the street without one of us watching. Not ever.

  Anyway, on that Saturday—although it was only later that it would become that Saturday—with my wife, Abby, out of the house for the evening, I cooked hamburgers in a skillet, managing, as always, to splatter the stove top with a liberal amount of grease. I also baked frozen premade french fries in the oven; it was exactly the kind of meal a dad makes when he’s left in charge of his daughter.

  At dinnertime, I stepped into our front yard, expecting to see Caitlin nearby with the other kids, or at the very least I expected to hear their voices. But I didn’t. I stood in the late-afternoon shade of the big maple in front of our house, and I looked one way, then the other, hoping to catch sight of Caitlin and her little posse. I was just about to call her name when I finally saw her.

  She was standing at the far end of the street, where they had widened the thoroughfare a few years earlier. I knew it was Caitlin, even from that distance, because she had left the house that afternoon wearing a bright pink top, and that electric burst of color stood out against the muted browns and oranges of the fall. I started toward her, lifting my hand and getting ready to wave, when Caitlin made a quick move toward the street.

  I’ll never know if she saw the car.

  It turned onto our street, moving faster than it should have, and its grille filled my vision, looming behind Caitlin like a ravenous silver mouth.

  My heart jumped.

  I froze, and for a long moment, time ceased.

  Then the driver slammed on his brakes and stopped a couple of feet from my child.

  Inches from crushing her.

  But Caitlin didn’t hesitate. She took one quick glance at the car, but despite its proximity to her body, she kept on walking across the street, into a yard, and around the back of the house, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I remained rooted to my spot, as dumb and still as stone, my mouth frozen in the process of forming the shout that never came.

  After a brief pause, the car moved forward again. It came down the street slowly, right past me. A couple about my age occupied the front seats; the man was driving. His wife or girlfriend waved her arms frantically, her face angry, no doubt chastising him for his carelessness. And the man held his right hand in a placating gesture as though asking for calm, for time to explain. They didn’t even notice me.

  What should I have done? Flagged them down and chewed them out? Pulled the man out of the car and pummeled him with my fists? The truth was that Caitlin had darted in front of them, and if she had been hit or run over, I couldn’t have blamed them for the accident. My daughter was careless, extremely careless and—more importantly—disobedient. And, yes, I had been careless, too. I had let her go too easily, too thoughtlessly. I deserved my share of the blame as a parent.

  I went back inside the house, where the smell of fried hamburger hung thick in the air, and waited for Caitlin to enter the front door.

  You might think I grew more and more angry as I waited, that I paced and stewed and contemplated the appropriate punishment for a child who blatantly disobeyed me and almost ended up dead as a result. But I didn’t. Abby and I agreed we would never raise our voices to Caitlin, and we would certainly never lay hands on her in anger.

  About thirty minutes later, Caitlin came bustling through the front door. She strolled into the kitchen and bounded up onto a chair.

  I set the table with paper plates and napkins. Caitlin sniffled and carefully wiped her nose with a tissue. She looked at me, her face cheery and full of expectation.

  “Can we eat?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Caitlin, honey, I want to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “Did you cross the street while you were out? Did you cross the street without permission?”

  She didn’t flush or blink or swallow. “No, Dad.”

  “Are you sure, honey? Are you sure I didn’t see you crossing the street?”

  Her voice remained calm. “I’m sure, Dad. I didn’t.”

  I held a paper napkin and twined it between my fingers. I released it, letting it drop to the table. Caitlin, for her part, didn’t seem to notice. She stared back at me, eyes wide and innocent. They were completely free of guile.

  I said, “Are you telling me you didn’t cross the street and almost get hit by a car? I saw you, honey. I was in the yard watching you.”

  Her face flushed a little. A tint of red appeared in her cheeks, and while Caitlin wasn’t a crier, I thought she might break down after being caught in such a blatant lie. But she didn’t crack. She remained composed, a little six-year-old poker player.

  “I didn’t, Dad,” she said. “No.”

  I didn’t lose my temper or send her to her room or give her a patented fatherly lecture on the importance of telling the truth. I didn’t do anything except stand up from the table, go to the stove, and make her a plate of food. I brought back the food and put it in front of her. The two of us sat there, as the sunlight slanted through the kitchen window, eating our burgers and fries like an all-American father and daughter. We chewed our food and talked about her friends and what time we thought her mom would be home. We never again spoke about crossing the street or her near fatal run-in with the car.

  And I never told Abby about it.

  At some point, all parents realize their children have layers that may remain forever unexplored. Maybe I learned it sooner than most. For
whatever reason, Caitlin’s uncharted depths formed a black hole at the center of my being, and when she disappeared six years later, I thought of that moment often.

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Somehow, the dog knew he wasn’t coming back.

  I picked up Frosty’s leash and jiggled it while walking to the door, but he didn’t follow. Ordinarily, that sound made him jump and run, his nails clacking against our hardwood floors, but this time he slinked away, head down, eyes averted. I called his name, but he ignored me. So I went to him.

  Frosty was a big dog, a yellow Lab, gentle and friendly and smart enough to recognize something unusual in my voice, something that told him this wasn’t going to be a normal walk.

  I made a grab for his collar. Frosty tucked his head down against his shoulder so I couldn’t attach the leash. Up close, I smelled the rich scent of his fur, felt his hot breath against my hand.

  “Frosty, no.”

  My frustration grew, and I gritted my teeth, felt the molars grind against one another in the back of my mouth. Frosty ducked even more. Without thinking, I brought my free hand up and gave him a little swat on the snout. He surprised me by yelping, and I immediately felt like a jerk, an indefensible son of a bitch. I’d never hit him before, not even during training.

  He cowered even more, but when I reached out again, he lifted his head, allowing me to attach the leash to his collar.

  I straightened up, took a deep breath. I felt utterly ineffectual.