Cemetery Girl

“Settle down there, girl. You’re eating like the Iraqis are coming up I-75.”

Caitlin ignored him and kept going.

She did look better in her new clothes-a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and new sneakers. She didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge any of the mindless conversation the three of us made, and when her plate was clean, she laid her fork aside and belched. She began fidgeting with a necklace. It was a simple gold chain with a small amber stone. Topaz maybe? She took the stone between her thumb and forefinger and pulled it back and forth on the chain.

“That’s pretty,” Abby said, her teeth gritted just a little.

Caitlin just nodded.

I watched Caitlin swing it back and forth, a nervous tic. I wanted to know what made her touch it that way and who she thought of when she held it.

“That’s your birthstone,” Abby said. She kept eating, but the skin around her mouth drew tight. She looked like she was chewing broken glass. “Very pretty, very pretty.”

Detective Ryan called as we were finishing our meal. He said he was on his way over to talk to us, the sooner the better. I shared this with everyone when I hung up the phone. Buster poured himself another cup of coffee, but he squirmed in his seat and checked the clock on his cell phone repeatedly. Finally, he stood up and said he was leaving.

“Really?” I asked. “Don’t you want to stay and find out what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to stay and get hassled by the cops. Besides, I have the drive back. . ”

“Makes sense,” Abby said.

Buster bent down and gave Caitlin a hug.

“We’ll talk soon,” he said.

She nodded, almost smiling.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

I walked with him to the front door. “We took her to a psychiatrist today, and she didn’t say a word.”

“A shrink? Really? Jesus, Tom. That’s worse than that fruity pastor at Abby’s church. What’s he going to do for you?”

“He can tell us what’s wrong, or get her to tell us what happened.”

“You need a shrink for that?”

The doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Buster said. “I should slip out the back.”

“Yeah, that would look good.”

I opened the door for Ryan. Momentary surprise passed across his face; then he held out his hand to Buster and they shook. Buster’s posture stiffened. He pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin.

“Are you living here, William?” Ryan asked. “In New Cambridge?”

“Over in Columbus.”

“Nice,” Ryan said. “Actually, it’s a good thing you’re here. I need to talk to Tom and Abby, and if you don’t mind. .”

Buster nodded. “Sure. I’ll sit with Caitlin and watch TV or something while the grown-ups talk.”

“Don’t you have to go?” I asked, trying to move things along.

“It’s fine. I’ll make sure I only speak to her in declarative sentences.”

“I’ll get Abby,” I said. “The three of us can talk on the porch.”

The late afternoon was warm, unseasonably so, and a light breeze rustled through the trees. It felt good on the porch, like we were doing something normal.

“Is she doing better?” he asked.

“We bought her some new clothes today,” Abby said. “We’re adjusting.”

“What did you think of Dr. Rosenbaum?”

“It was fine-”

“What are you here for?” I asked. “Did you make an arrest?”

“No, we didn’t. Can you tell me how things went with Rosenbaum?”

“We learned that our daughter doesn’t like to talk to shrinks,” I said. “And we learned that she doesn’t like being with us as much as she liked being gone.”

“Tom. .” Abby said.

“Okay, he told us a lot of things, things a parent wouldn’t really want to hear.” I kept my eyes on Ryan. “What did you learn today? There must be something.”

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a small spiral notebook. He wet his index finger and started flipping through the pages while he talked. “One of the benefits of Caitlin’s recovery is that it puts her story back in the public eye in a big way, even more than the composite sketch of the suspect.” He licked his finger again, turned a few more pages, and stopped. “In the last twenty-four hours, we’ve been getting a lot of calls about Caitlin’s case, and we’ve only just begun to wade through them. But a picture has started to emerge.”

“A picture of what?” Abby asked.

“A number of people have called and told us that they saw Caitlin during the four years she was missing.”

“You mean people who thought they saw Caitlin and were mistaken?” I asked.

Ryan shook his head. “No, they saw her. Not all of them, of course. Some of them are crackpots, but there’s a consistency to the sightings that makes us believe them.” Ryan looked down at his notes again, and I sensed a reluctance on his part, a hesitation about what he was about to tell us. “People saw Caitlin out in public in the company of the man from the sketch. The stories are similar to the one you heard from the young woman at the Fantasy Club. Caitlin and this man were seen in out-of-the-way places. Strip clubs or diners. Always in rural or isolated areas. Never here in New Cambridge. Never in town or near the campus.”