Cemetery Girl

We moved on. It felt good to have him by my side. He was right. I’d never been in a fight. Never confronted a criminal. The whole endeavor felt crazy, so much so that my hands shook and my knees felt loose and jangly with every step I took.

When we reached the driveway, Buster pointed, so I followed him. Light spilled out the side of the house, casting a large rectangle on the cracked and crumbling blacktop. Buster moved alongside the lighted window. He held his hand out to stop me.

The window sat at eye level, so it didn’t take much effort for him to look in. He craned his neck and turned from side to side, scanning the room.

“What gives?” I asked.

“Nothing. It’s s dump. Just a TV and a bed.” He pulled his head back. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Some guy came in.”

“Did he see you?”

Buster shook his head. I grabbed his arm. Tight.

“Was it him?”

“I don’t know. I got out of the way.”

“Let me.”

I stepped past him and eased next to the window. I risked a look.

The overhead light was on, a bright wash over the entire room. The walls were painted a pale green. A small TV, a thirteen-inch black-and-white that looked to be about thirty years old, broadcast a fuzzy picture despite its rabbit ears. Crumpled clothes covered the floor, and the closet door was open, allowing more clothes to spill out.

Then I saw the man sitting in a sagging chair. He stared at the TV, his head drooping.

I studied his face in profile. The prominent nose, the pockmarked cheeks. The stringy hair was cut but still streaked with gray. He wore a dirty gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. His feet were in house slippers.

It was him. Colter.

He didn’t know he was being watched. His elbows rested on the arms of the beat-up chair, and his hands joined together before his chest, holding a steaming mug. While I watched, he lifted the mug to his face and blew gently on the hot liquid, then took a tentative sip and pursed his lips. I watched, waiting, but that was all he did.

Buster moved in next to me. He nodded toward the window, his face asking the question: Is that the guy?

I nodded, and while my head moved, something welled up within me. Colter looked pathetic, utterly defenseless and harmless, and it still didn’t stop the rage bubbling within me.

Without thinking, I raised my fist and pounded it against the window.

“Colter! Hey, Colter!”

Buster made a grab for my arm, but it was too late.

Colter jumped when I hit the window, spilling the contents of the mug down the front of his shirt. I jerked free of Buster and hit the window again and again. The pane rattled in the frame, and for a moment my fist moved independently of my mind. I kept hitting the glass, wishing I could break it and smash through and grab the man who had taken my daughter.

Finally, Buster grabbed me from behind and stopped me.

“Easy,” he said. “Easy. You’ll cut your hand off.”

“I don’t care.”

“Look, look-”

Colter was on his feet, peering at the window. Because of the interior light, he couldn’t get a good look at the two of us, and from where he stood, we must have been indistinct ghostly shapes. Two pale, oval forms hovering in the night. He reached and flipped the light off, leaving only the glow of the television. He moved closer, his ugly face uncertain.

I expected him to reach for the phone. Or a weapon. Instead, he took two quick steps across the room and slid the window up.

“What is this?” he asked.

He didn’t sound angry or agitated, just weary and defensive, like a man growing tired of answering questions.

I didn’t answer. I was face-to-face with the man. I grabbed for his neck, but he was too quick. He ducked back out of the way with the skill of a boxer. I stumbled forward and caught myself against the window ledge.

Colter’s eyes were alert now, like a threatened animal. He stared back and spoke in a low voice.

“Get out of here, you assholes. I thought you were reporters. .”

His voice trailed off. He kept his eyes locked on me. Studying me. Examining me.

“Oh,” he said. “I get it.”

“What do you get, shitwipe?” Buster asked.

Colter looked toward him and squinted before turning back to me. He raised his finger in the air as though just remembering something.

“What’s your name?” he asked me.

“You think you know him?” Buster asked. “You know his daughter, don’t you? This is Tom Stuart. Stuart. Caitlin’s father. The father of the little girl you snatched. My niece.”

Colter didn’t look surprised. He didn’t blink or nod, but I saw the recognition on his face.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I asked.

“Please. My mother is asleep.”

“Fuck her. I ought to-”

“Be quiet,” Colter said. “Jesus.” He held out his hands. They were surprisingly small, the fingers long and thin. “The cops said they’d be keeping an eye on me, but I haven’t seen a single car since they let me out. For all I know, some nutjob will want to come around and take a shot at me. All those lies in the papers.”

“Boo-hoo for you,” Buster said.

“Come around to the back,” Colter said. “Quietly.”