Cemetery Girl

She kept chewing.

“What do you want from me? Do you know me?”

She studied me.

“He sent me,” she said.

“Who?”

She didn’t answer, but the realization dawned.

“John Colter sent you?”

She nodded, the finger still in her mouth. “He wants to see her,” she said. “He wants to see the girl in your house.”

“He’s going to jail.”

“No,” she said. “He says he wants to see her.”

“Is he here? Is he in the cemetery?”

The girl craned her neck around, looking behind her.

“Who’s back there?” I asked.

I stepped forward, squinting past the girl, but saw nothing. After a long moment, I heard the sound of footsteps, heavier this time and again stirring up the leaves.

I waited, and a figure resolved out of the darkness.

I expected to see that face from the sketch, the one from the photo Ryan had placed in front of me. That hulking, ugly, scarred face.

So it took me a moment to process the more familiar face I saw before me. The one that looked so much like my stepfather, Paul.

I must have blinked my eyes a few times until he said my name.

“Tom, take it easy.”

It was Buster.

Chapter Forty-four

He moved slowly toward me, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted.

I felt the earth turning, the sky moving above me, the stars streaking through the night like fireballs. Everything welled within me, a burning taste at the back of my throat. Anger, frustration, confusion. My hands went out and took Buster by the lapels of his jacket. I gathered fistfuls of the material until I felt my fingernails bend back with the pressure.

“What are you doing here? What the fuck are you doing to me?”

“Calm down, Tom. Calm down-”

He grimaced as I shook him, his lips peeling back in a crazed-looking grin. But it was fear. He saw something in me. My own lack of control. My rage. I shook until he managed to get his own hands up. He gripped my biceps, slowing me down.

“Tom. Stop. It’s me. It’s Buster.”

“Paul-”

“It’s Buster.”

“You took Caitlin. You took her-”

“No, no. Listen. Listen to me.”

I don’t think I would have stopped, except the girl, the child who’d appeared outside my window, came up and grabbed ahold of me. She tugged on my belt loop and strained to be heard above our grunts and scuffling.

“Stop it!” she said. “Stop doing that to him. Stop it! Stop it!”

Her voice reached me through the fog of my anger. I turned to look down at her, and when I did, I loosened my grip on Buster.

She was about twelve. This close, I finally saw her features. The greasy hair, the pale, almost translucent skin. Her clothes hung loose on her body, like she possessed next to no body fat. There were dark circles around her eyes. Malnutrition. The child hadn’t been eating enough.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She looked scared of me, but held her ground. “He wants her back,” she said again. “The girl. Your girl.”

“John Colter sent you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tell me!” I shouted.

My voice echoed through the night. The girl swallowed, her throat bobbing. But still she didn’t answer.

“Tom?”

I spun around. Buster stood about ten feet away, his right hand rubbing his throat.

“He did send her,” Buster said. “Colter.”

“And you? What are you-?”

He held his hands out again, asking for calm and patience. “Let me explain, Tom. Just listen.”

I stayed rooted in place. My brain spun as fast as the planet.

Buster went on. “I found the girl, Tom. This girl. She was outside your house tonight. You mentioned her in the papers that time, so when I saw her there, standing underneath your window, I knew who it was.”

“What were you doing outside the house in the middle of the night?” I asked Buster. “Were you there to take Caitlin?”

“No, Tom. I came here to see you. To help you. I saw in the paper that Colter was being let out, that they were only going to charge him with arson or some bullshit like that.” He brought his hands together and rubbed them against each other, steadily increasing the pressure. “I tell you, Tom, I was angry when I saw that. I can’t imagine how you felt. But I wanted to do something. I needed to do something about it.”

“What were you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He punched one fist into the palm of his other hand. “I found something. I looked in the phone book. Do you know Colter’s number was in there the whole time? All this time he held Caitlin, his phone number was right there in the book. There he was, getting calls from telemarketers, people asking him to give money to charity, to switch his long-distance service, and he was keeping Caitlin locked away in some room in the basement.” He dug into his pants pocket and brought out a small, wrinkled piece of paper. “His mom bailed him out of jail, you know? She put up her house. Did you see that?”

“Yes.”