Cemetery Girl

“Let me go!” she said, pulling against me. But I kept my grip-loose enough not to hurt, tight enough that she couldn’t get away. I never should have brought her, I thought. I never should have exposed her to Colter again. It was over. We were going home.

“No,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”

The wailing began again, but this time it was more distant, more sustained.

I looked out to the main road. The blue and red lights strobed, approached the cemetery, and turned in. I looked at Buster, and he shrugged.

“Abby?” I said. “She called them?”

He shrugged again.

Colter pushed himself to his feet. The police cars were coming toward us, blocking the way for our vehicles. There was only one way out, and he took it. He didn’t even look back. He turned and ran into the cemetery, into the darkness, past Caitlin’s headstone and into the darkening night.

“John!” she shouted.

Caitlin tugged against me, but I held on.

I wasn’t going to let go.

Epilogue

Weeks later, I return to the park with Caitlin.

It’s early December. The leaves are all stripped from the trees, and the first frost has already come and gone.

It was Abby who’d called the police that night.

It took her a while to think of it, but she, like Buster, knew me well enough to know the spot I’d pick for a meeting with Colter.

The police arrested John Colter in the cemetery as soon as they arrived. He’d had nowhere to run, and they found him crouched behind a mausoleum. He had slipped in the wet grass and twisted his ankle, making his escape all but impossible. As Ryan had promised, new indictments were handed down against Colter, charging him with the kidnapping and sexual assault of Caitlin. In the wake of his intention to flee the area, his bail was revoked and he remains in custody at the county jail awaiting a trial in the spring.

Whenever I ask Ryan about the possibility of a conviction, he hedges his bets and reminds me that sometimes plea deals have to be struck, especially when eyewitness and forensic evidence remains slim. Caitlin refuses to testify or admit anything, and I try my best to believe that John Colter no longer exists.

The murder of Tracy Fairlawn remains unsolved, although it is widely suspected she was killed by John Colter. Murder charges may still be forthcoming against him.

Jasmine, the cemetery girl, has never been found. Ryan suspects she’s a runaway, and it seems little effort is being expended on tracking her down.

For a while after Colter’s arrest, I found myself in trouble with the prosecutor’s office. They were displeased with my actions on those nights, and they contemplated pressing charges against me. Obstruction. Witness tampering. Assault. In the end, they did nothing but scare me. When news of the arrest reached the public, popular sentiment turned my way, and the prosecutor’s office, facing an election year, decided against continuing their pursuit of the father of a kidnapped and confused child.

My family was not so forgiving. It took less than forty-eight hours for Abby to move out-taking Caitlin with her. They made temporary quarters in dormitory-style housing at Pastor Chris’s church. Abby has filed for divorce, which I have no plans to contest, but I see Caitlin just about whenever I want, especially on weekends.

Caitlin is not allowed to have any contact with John Colter while he is in jail. No letters, e-mail, or phone calls. To do so might lengthen his sentence, and as far as we can tell, neither he nor Caitlin has violated those terms. She continues with her therapy-both with Dr. Rosenbaum and with Susan Goff-and no doubt receives plenty of unsolicited help from Pastor Chris when she’s at the church.

I’ve brought the situation up only once with her, just a week after John Colter’s arrest.

“He ran away in the cemetery,” I said. “He didn’t try to help you.”

“He was scared. The police were after him.”

I should have let it go, but I had to know one more thing.

“So what are you going to do now?” I asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to wait for him.”

Buster and I have spoken to each other only once since that night. He, too, faced more heat at the hands of the prosecutor’s office in light of his connection to Loren Brooks. But after careful examination and investigation, it was determined that Buster had broken no laws.

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.”