Cemetery Girl (2 page)

PS3602.E64544C46 2011

813’.6—dc22 2011020486

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In memory of my dad,
Herbert Henry Bell (1932–2011)

Prologue

L
et 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 Saturda
y—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

S
omehow, 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.

“What’s going on?”

I turned. Abby stood in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were wide as she considered me. Even though it was Saturday, she wore a black skirt and striped blouse. Her feet were bare. She used to dress down on weekends, but now she dressed the same every day, as though she were about to rush off to church because she probably was.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I thought I heard the dog squeal.”

“He did. I hit him.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m getting rid of him,” I said. “Taking him to the pound.”

“Oh,” she said. She raised her hand and placed it against her chest.

“Isn’t that what you want? You’ve been after me to do it for almost a year.”

“Yes, I do want that,” she said. “I thought you didn’t.”

Frosty sat at my feet, head down. Defeated. The refrigerator cycled, made a low humming noise and then shut off. I shrugged.

“You keep saying we have to move on with our lives. Right? Turn the page?”

She nodded, a little uncertain. Over the past couple of years, Abby’s face had rarely shown uncertainty. Her involvement with the church made her seem certain all the time, as though nothing were ever in doubt. Except for me. I knew she harbored doubts about me. As a last resort, I was sacrificing the dog. A show of good faith on my part. But I didn’t think she’d let me go through with it. I thought once she saw Frosty on his leash, ready to be led out the door and to the pound, she’d stop me.

Tears stood in her eyes, and she took a deep breath.

“I think we do need to do that, Tom.” She sighed. “With the memorial service coming up, I think we can move on.” She sighed again, and it sounded more like a hiccup, almost a cry. “I used to love Frosty, but every time I look at him now, I think of Caitlin. And I can’t. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“You’re sure, Abby? Really? He’s such a good dog.”

She shook her head, tapped her foot against the floor. “I’m sure, Tom.”

“Fine.” I tugged the leash, harder than I needed to, and Frosty jerked to his feet. His paws clattered against the floor, slow and methodical. Dead dog walking. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“I have a meeting at church.”

I nodded, my hand on the doorknob of the back door.

“It’s funny,” I said.

“What is, Tom? What’s funny?”

“You say you can’t stand to see Frosty because he reminds you of Caitlin. I love having Frosty around for the same reason.”

“Tom. Don’t.”

“I won’t.” I opened the door and stepped outside, leading the only known witness to my daughter’s abduction to his demise.

I didn’t go straight to the pound. My guilt got the better of me—guilt over Frosty’s impending doom, guilt over the slap on the nose, guilt over who knows how many things—so I drove a short distance and stopped at the park. When I pulled into the lot, Frosty perked up. His ears rose, his tail thumped against the backseat, and he started panting, filling the enclosed car with his musky dog breath. I found a spot in the shade and climbed out, then opened the back door for Frosty. He jumped down, nose to the ground, sniffing every square inch he came across, stopping only to pee against a small tree. I took that opportunity to attach the leash again and let Frosty lead me through the park.

Since it was a Saturday and late summer, the park was full of activity. At the baseball diamond near the road, a boys team practiced, their aluminum bats pinging with every contact. Joggers and speed walkers traced the running track, and I followed along in their wakes, letting Frosty pull me off to the side every ten feet while he inspected a fallen branch or a curious scent. I tried to tell myself I was there for the dog, that he deserved to spend his final moments on this earth doing the things he loved the most: romping through the park, chasing butterflies, or charging after squirrels. But it was a lie. Caitlin had disappeared from that park four years ago, while walking Frosty, and I found myself returning there, alone, again and again.