Cemetery Girl

He broke off eye contact with me and walked away, turning his back. I was surprised to see his hair was thinning at the crown of his head, allowing pale skin to show through. He was younger than me, so much younger than me, I always thought. He took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped it on the porch, grinding it beneath his shoe.

“Your brother?” he said. “You’d really question your brother?”

“I don’t know. .” I paced a little, back and forth on the porch.

“You’ve got all this anger, Tom. All this anger toward me. Toward the family. We were close as kids. We looked out for each other. I looked out for you. Always.”

“I know,” I said. “But you should have heard the things Ryan was saying back there. .”

“What kinds of things?”

I sat down, taking the same seat I was in when we talked to Ryan. Buster sat down, too, using Ryan’s chair. He waited for me to talk, leaning forward expectantly. I wasn’t sure where to start.

“Ryan came by today to tell us that people saw Caitlin out in public with this guy.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

I shook my head. “Restaurants, strip clubs. Hell, maybe they went to church together for all I know. She was with this guy, in public, and she could’ve gotten away from him-several times-and she didn’t. She stayed with him. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think of that.”

Buster leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. He looked like a wise sage, absorbing my story. But I noticed that his fingers were intertwined and squeezed so his knuckles turned white. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s fucked-up.”

“At the hospital,” I said, “they did a bunch of tests. They wanted to make sure Caitlin was in good shape and everything.”

“Sure.”

“They did a gynecological exam.” I felt deflated. “She’s not a virgin anymore.”

Buster lowered his hands and gripped the armrests of his chair. He looked like he’d been slapped. “He raped her,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “It figures, the fucking pig.”

I made a helpless, hopeless gesture with my hands, somewhere between a shrug and a surrender.

“What are we going to do?” Buster asked.

“I need to get back inside.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What are we going to do?”

I couldn’t look at him. “I need time to think about all of this.”

“Sure.” Buster stood up. “The thoughtful, scholarly man. Consider all the angles. Mull it over. We’ve got time, right?”

“You want to go beat the guy up? Find him and kill him?”

“It’s a start.”

He didn’t sound like he was kidding.

“I thought you didn’t know who he was,” I said.

“That’s just it, professor. You find out. You’ve got the sketch. You’ve got two good legs. Can you do any worse than the cops?”

“Did Caitlin tell you anything when you were alone with her?” I asked, jerking my thumb toward the house. “Did she talk to you?”

“Not really. We talked about TV. She said she’s watched the last few seasons of American Idol. It’s her favorite show.”

“So she could watch TV, wherever she was.”

“I guess so.” He seemed to be thinking about something. “Hey?” he said.

“What?”

“Is she-? I mean-did they do a pregnancy test at the hospital?”

“They did. At the time, I thought it was ridiculous.”

He nodded. “So then, it was cool, right? I mean, there’s nothing else to know about that, is there?”

“That’s one thing off my list.”

I stood up. Buster reached for the door and pulled it open.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I think we need to be alone now. Abby’s upset. . and Caitlin. .”

Buster gave me the same smirk I saw him give Ryan.

“I was just getting the door for you, chief. I thought you could use a hand.”

He held it open while I went in, then let it slam shut behind me.

Chapter Thirty-two

I wasn’t sure what brought me awake.

It was a few days after Ryan’s visit. Abby and Caitlin were sleeping in the master bedroom, and I was deep asleep in the guest room when something woke me up.

I wondered if Caitlin was stirring, trying to get out. I had suggested to Abby that we call a locksmith, that we have the windows and doors secured better than they were. Abby vetoed that idea. She said we had to resume normal life as much as possible, that we couldn’t all live like prisoners in our own home.

Did something make a noise?

Rain?

I swung my feet to the floor, listening.

The house was quiet, deathly so. The evening was clear, the stars bright.

I’d imagined it. Maybe it was a dream, the subconscious emergence of some unremarkable phantom.

I needed to roll back under the covers and close my eyes, but a part of me couldn’t let go. I wanted to-needed to? — look outside, into the yard and the street.

I stood up in my drawstring pants and T-shirt. I parted the curtains.

The streetlights glowed. The shadows beneath the trees were thick and black. Nothing moved. No cars.

Then I saw the girl.

She stepped into the bright circle created by the streetlight, looking like a stage actor. She stopped there, seemingly without destination or intent. She looked the same as in the cemetery, like Caitlin.

I pressed my hands against the glass, almost shouted.