Cemetery Girl (40 page)

He called me one night, out of the blue, the phone ringing late while I was reading in bed. He didn’t identify himself when I answered, nor did he ask how I was doing or waste any time with pleasantries. He jumped right in.

“Why did you grab Caitlin and take her away with you that night at the cemetery?” he asked. “You seemed determined to hand her over.”

I took my time answering. While I thought about it, Buster waited patiently. He didn’t push me or hurry me along.

“I didn’t plan to give her away,” I finally said. “In the end, my instincts as a father are stronger than anything else. I could never let my daughter go with a man like that.”

There was another long silence. Then Buster said, “That’s about what I figured.”

He hung up, presumably satisfied.

Caitlin and I often walk in the park. We don’t talk about everything that happened there, but I take it as a good sign that she’s willing to go back. She may be returning there out of a sense of nostalgia for its associations with John Colter, but whenever that thought enters my head, I chase it away. Instead I choose to believe that this is a step toward the future and not a glance back at the past.

On this particular day, we sit on a bench near the walking and jogging trail. Fewer people pass this time of year, the cold having chased all but the hardiest of exercisers indoors. The tips of my ears and my cheeks tingle. My hands are balled into fists inside my pockets. I notice, for the first time, that Caitlin no longer wears the topaz necklace, her birthstone, the one John Colter gave her while he was holding her. I take it as a small victory, although I don’t comment on it.

From where we sit, I can see the cemetery. The spot on the ground where I wrestled with Colter and, beyond that, where Caitlin’s headstone once stood. It’s gone now, removed in the wake of Colter’s arrest.

I’m enjoying the day, enjoying what little time I have with Caitlin even now.

I’ve almost allowed myself to relax, to believe that our life is returning to some semblance of normal—or what normal will be for us in the future.

And when my guard is sufficiently lowered, Caitlin jumps up from the bench.

It takes me a moment to process the speed of her movement and the direction she’s heading in.

She’s running toward the cemetery.

Running
away
from me.

I follow, calling her name, my breath huffing. Little puffs come out of my mouth and disappear in the air.

But just as quickly as I start, I understand.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing—but I understand.

Caitlin stops in the middle of the park. She goes down on one knee.

There’s a dog jumping against her, licking and pawing at her. A very familiar dog.

And when I get there, when I come alongside of them, I watch with the dog’s stunned owners, an elderly couple holding an empty leash. They’d apparently adopted Frosty from the shelter and attempted to make him their own, but now they seem to realize he isn’t their dog anymore.

And he never was.

Caitlin’s face is streaked with tears, but she’s smiling as the dog licks them away.

“You’re home, Frosty,” she’s saying. “Oh, my Frosty. You’re home. You’re home.”

Acknowledgments

I
have to begin by thanking Ed Gorman. Not only is Ed one of our finest writers; he has been a great friend and supporter of my work. Without Ed, this book wouldn’t exist. And Tom Monteleone has believed in my work for many years. He’s answered questions, boosted my morale, and advocated on my behalf more times than I can count. For their advice and support, I’m indebted to Will Lavender, John Lescroart, Jonathan Maberry, David Morrell, and Paul Wilson. I’d also like to thank my friends and colleagues in the English department and the Potter College of Arts and Letters at Western Kentucky University, especially Karen Schneider, Tom Hunley, David Lenoir, Mary Ellen Miller, and Dale Rigby. And a special thanks to my students past, present, and future, who teach me a lot about writing whether they realize it or not. For friendship above and beyond the call of duty, I’m grateful to Bob and Carrie Driehaus.

Special thanks to my editor, Danielle Perez, and everyone at New American Library/Penguin. Danielle’s ability to ask the right questions at the right times, to gently guide and casually prod while always maintaining her sense of humor, has made this process more enjoyable than I ever thought it would be. And the book is better for her efforts.

And words cannot express the gratitude I owe my amazing agent, Laney Katz Becker, and everyone at Markson Thoma. Laney has worked tirelessly on my behalf over the past two years, and her faith, wisdom, and patience have made me a better writer. I’m so fortunate to have Laney in my corner.

Finally, I have to thank Molly McCaffrey for . . . everything.

Photo by Victoria Taylor

David Bell
is currently an assistant professor of English at Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, Kentucky. He received an MA in creative writing from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and a PhD in American literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice. David can be reached through his Web site at
www.davidbellnovels.com
.