Cemetery Girl Read online

  “But you can’t throw her story out because of these arrests. That’s—”

  “Criminalization of the victim,” he said. “I know. Liann’s taught you well.” He flipped the notebook shut and put it away. He took off the glasses. “I detected something both times I spoke to Miss Fairlawn about this man. There was something underneath her words, an anger or sense of grievance lurking there, something I couldn’t quite place my finger on, but it gives me reason to stop for a moment. Tom, I want to give you the choice about something. We can go ahead and distribute this sketch, or we can hold off a few days until we know more about where this information is coming from.”

  “Let me just look at the thing.”

  “I think if we run with it, we risk getting a lot of information that won’t be helpful because we don’t know if we’re starting from a good place or not. We risk shooting our last good bullet here—”

  “Can I see it?” I asked. “Will you just hand it over so I can see it? I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to see it.”

  Reluctantly, he started digging into his jacket pocket. He brought out a white piece of paper, folded like a letter. He shifted his bulk, leaning forward, and the paper hovered in the air between us.

  But I didn’t make a quick grab for it. My hand moved slowly, as though weights were tied to it, and the farther I extended the more I felt it shake. Ryan didn’t seem to notice. He held the paper in the air until I took it.

  As I unfolded it, Ryan spoke. “Take a long look. See if it jars your memory. Coworkers, service people. The guy who cuts the grass or cleans the floors at work.”

  I unfolded the paper and took it in. It was a simple drawing, black on white. I saw the wide, fat nose Tracy had described. It filled the middle of the page and made the man depicted look brutish, almost simian. His brows were thick and dark, and the eyes beneath them looked small and narrow, as though the artist had depicted the man in midsquint. I scanned the other features quickly—the hard set of the jaw, the thin lips—and absorbed a sense of menace from the simple drawing.

  “I don’t think I know him,” I said.

  “I would like Abby to take a look at it,” Ryan said.

  I continued to stare at the drawing and tried to retrofit that face to all the images of the kidnapper that continually ran through my head. A car pulling up at the park, or a man talking to Caitlin, making a grab for her arm.

  The man in the strip club, in the little booth with my daughter.

  “Do you think it’s him?” I asked.

  “Like I was saying before . . . Tom?” He wanted me to lower the sketch, so I did. Slowly. “We need to think carefully about what we do next,” he said. “It’s been a long time since Caitlin disappeared. The public has a short attention span. Over time, people understandably forget. They move on to other things, other news stories. Their memories get muddy.”

  I held up the paper. “I want to run it. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been waiting four years, and this is the best lead we have. Run it.”

  Ryan rubbed his hand over his cheek as though he were tired.

  “It’s my choice ultimately,” he said. “If I don’t think it’s in the best interest of the case to run it, I won’t.”

  “How could this not be in the best interests of the case?” I asked.

  “It is, of course,” he said. “What I said the other night is true—this is the best lead we’ve had in four years. But I’m thinking of you and Abby as well as the case.”

  “What about us?” I asked.

  “How well do you know your daughter, Tom?”

  And there it was, just as Liann had predicted. Just as I’d suspected all along. Ryan believed his own counternarrative of Caitlin’s disappearance, and he intended to share it.

  “I guess it’s hard for me to answer that since I haven’t seen her in four years.”

  “Before that. Before she disappeared.”

  “I knew her very well then.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We were happy.”

  Ryan raised his eyebrows. He glanced around the room at the boxes. “Were you?”

  “What are you saying, Ryan? I’m not following you.”

  “We don’t always know people the way we think we know them, do we? People change. Our lives change.”

  “Therefore . . . ?”

  “You believe this was your daughter who was seen in this club, right?”

  “I do.”

  He nodded. “Did the behavior described match what you think you know of Caitlin?”

  “She was twelve when she disappeared. Twelve. And that man”—I tapped the paper—“this man has her. He has her against her will. Which is it, Ryan? Either you believe Tracy’s story and you think this is Caitlin, or you don’t. And if you don’t, why are we having this conversation?”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “Four years have passed, Tom.”

  “I know that.”

  “Leaving aside the very remote chance that this is going to lead to anything positive—”

  “Ryan—”

  “Now, hold on,” he said. “Let’s play a little of the believing game here. Say this sketch does lead to something good. Let’s say this story is true and somehow, someway, we do find Caitlin and bring her home to you. Those four years, the time you lost with her—would you be prepared for what that would be like, Tom?”

  “Will this be in the news tomorrow?” I asked, holding out the sketch.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  “Ryan, will this run tomorrow?”

  He looked around at the boxes again. “Tom, have you and Abby been seeking counseling of some kind? Help? It’s none of my business, of course, but this sort of thing places an enormous strain on a marriage. And on an individual. If you wanted, I could refer you to some of the resources we have available through the department.”

  “You offered me that four years ago,” I said. “And every year since. And I appreciate it greatly, but I’m not interested.”

  “We have a program—it’s funded by the state—where volunteers, private citizens, meet with and assist families affected by tragedy. Did I mention this to you? It’s relatively new, and it’s called Volunteer Victim Services. These people are trained, of course, but some feel it’s less pressurized than conventional therapy. It’s not as structured and it’s even more comforting in a way. Professionals sometimes get constricted by their roles.”

  “Ryan—”

  “You could certainly choose to seek help through more conventional channels,” he said. “There are a number of good therapists and counselors in New Cambridge. Even at the university—”

  “There’s only one thing I want and need. And you know what it is.” I held the paper out in front of me. “Will this be in the paper tomorrow?”

  “It will,” he said. “We’ll go public with it tomorrow. I’ll call you and let you know the details.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Something woke me that night, thumping. I fell asleep in the guest room earlier than usual, after flipping on the porch light and making sure the house key still remained in its hiding spot. After hearing Tracy’s story and seeing the sketch, the ritual seemed more urgent, more essential.

  But Abby’s words had struck a nerve: If Caitlin were living so close to us . . . ? I knew what she meant, what completed the thought: Why didn’t she just come home?

  Abby was gone already, sleeping at the church. Whenever she came to the house to collect more belongings, we were cordially, distantly polite to each other, and I didn’t allow the sight of her to make me think she might have reconsidered her decision to leave.

  I came awake disoriented. I checked the clock on the bedside table: 10:01. Not that late. My heart rate was up, my shirt a little damp. I’d been dreaming. Not a coherent narrative, but a series of disjointed and haunting images, a parade of all my fears. Caitlin calling my name in the park . . . The man from the sketch reaching for her, taking her away . .
.

  I heard the thumping again.

  I lowered my feet to the cold floor. My mind started to catch up, shaking off the dream images and focusing on the real. Someone was in the house. Downstairs.

  Caitlin?

  I jumped up, started out of the room. I made no effort to soften my steps. Whoever—whatever—was downstairs would hear me coming and know I knew they were there. I didn’t care. I bounded down the stairs, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts. At the bottom I called out into the house:

  “Caitlin? Is that you?”

  Light came from both the kitchen and the living room. I turned left, toward the front of the house.

  “Caitlin?”

  I entered the room. Someone was sitting on the couch. She didn’t look up when I came in, but kept her eyes fixed on the paper in her hand.

  Abby.

  Some of the boxes were moved. More were packed.

  And she held the sketch.

  She stared at it, oblivious to my appearance. I didn’t speak, even though I wanted to ask why she was showing up so late. Did she want to scare the crap out of me? But I left her alone to absorb the face on the paper.

  While I stood there and grew colder, Abby raised her free hand and slowly, almost gently traced the outline of the man’s face. It looked like she was trying to get a reading from it, absorb some psychic emanations. Finally, she put the sketch facedown on the table and leaned back against the couch cushions.

  “Is that him?” she asked.

  “It might be.”

  “Ryan called me on my cell phone. He told me about the sketch being released. He said he didn’t know if we’d be talking.”

  “He came by.”

  “Did you tell him I’m moving out?”

  I gestured toward the boxes. “He’s a detective. I think he figured it out on his own.” I entered the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch from her.

  “I must have woken you up,” she said. “You said Caitlin’s name on the stairs. You used to do that all the time, back then. Do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “I used to think I didn’t care as much as you because I didn’t dream about Caitlin or mutter her name in my sleep. I thought I should have been doing that too.”

  “They’re just dreams. They’re not a measure of your love for her.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.” She smiled a little. “You were right about something. I have . . . blamed you for Caitlin’s disappearance at times. I guess it was just easier than blaming some stranger, some unknown entity. I’m working on these things with Chris. We’re trying to move on from all the things in the past and trying to get to a more positive place. Emotionally.”

  “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

  The 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 peo
ple 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.