Cemetery Girl (12 page)

The door shut behind us as we walked down the hall. Fluorescents glowed overhead and watery blue paint covered the walls.

“Wrapping up? I missed it?”

“We can’t go walk in right in the middle,” she said.

I knew the way and walked ahead of the cop. I turned right and then right again and saw the conference room door. A uniformed officer stood outside, a cell phone to his ear.

“I’ll just slip in,” I said to no one in particular, but the cop with the phone held up his hand like he was directing traffic. I felt another hand on my arm.

“Just wait here,” the female officer said. To make sure I did, she kept her hand in place, and we stood there, waiting for what seemed like another eternity.

Finally the door of the conference room opened. A few people began filing out. I didn’t recognize anyone, and I tried to look over their heads and into the room.

“Can you let go now?” I asked the cop, and she did.

Just a few more people came out, and they stepped aside as I entered the room. I saw Ryan, and he saw me. He looked surprised and—maybe—a little disappointed.

I expected more. A lot of cameras, a lot of people. But I saw only one film crew and a handful of people who looked like reporters.

Someone said my name.

“Mr. Stuart? What did you think of the press conference today?”

I thought I recognized the woman. Did she work for the
Daily News
?

“I missed it,” I said. “I didn’t know—”

“Are you encouraged by this lead?”

“Of course.”

“How have you managed to keep your spirits up during this ordeal?”

A few more people gathered around. I hoped they were all reporters. I saw Ryan come closer, his big head and body standing out in the crowd. He looked nervous, concerned. I remembered what I looked like. Unshaven. Unshowered.

But the questions kept coming.

“How is your wife holding up?”

“She’s fine.”

“Why didn’t she come today?”

“She’s . . . I don’t know. I guess she’s moved on.”

“Moved on? How so?”

“She doesn’t really think Caitlin’s coming home.”

A TV light came on, and, beneath it, a glowing red dot. They were filming. I started to sweat again. Ryan said something, but the light kept me from seeing him.

“Mr. Stuart’s had a long morning,” he said. “And I need to brief him.”

“Do you think your daughter is still alive? Do you think you’ll see her again?”

I couldn’t see who’d asked the question. The room swirled a little bit.

“Yes, I do.”

Camera shutters clicked and whirred. A flash went off. No one said anything, no more questions, so I kept going.

“In fact, I have seen her. Just this morning, I saw her in the park.”

The cameras clicked more rapidly. There were more flashes.

I felt hotter, more nervous, my clothes too tight and constraining.

“You saw her?”

“Your daughter?”

“Really?”

I felt a hand on my arm, a strong grip. Ryan. He started to lead me away.

I wanted to explain.

“I saw her—I saw a girl—in the park by the cemetery. I don’t really know if it was Caitlin—”

Ryan pulled me out of the room and down the hallway, leaving the reporters behind. He ushered me into another office, a small room with two empty desks and a filing cabinet.

“That was not a smart thing you just did back there,” he said.

“Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?”

He sighed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Look, Tom. This came together quickly. I had to get that sketch out to the newspapers. Isn’t that what you wanted? And, yes, we do like to have the families at these things, but given the strain you’ve been under and the strain in your marriage, we—I—thought it might be best to talk about this on my own.”

“I can talk about my daughter if I want. I have the right.”

“You repeated a ghost story. Now anything good that would have come from the sketch could be overshadowed by what you said in there.” He turned toward the door and opened it. He stuck his head into the hallway and looked both ways. “Get out of here. Go out to your car and get out of here. And don’t talk to any reporters. I’ll try to make this right.” He gave me the once-over. “I think they’ll believe you’re under a great deal of stress and don’t know what you’re saying.” He remained in the door, holding it open for me.

But I wasn’t ready to go.

“Ryan, can I ask you something?”

He didn’t encourage me, but he didn’t walk away either.

“What do you think I saw in the park today? What was that?”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” he said. “Nothing more, nothing less. It’s human nature to do that. This is a difficult time for you, Tom. Very difficult.”

“Is that it? It’s just an illusion?”

“The feeling is real,” he said. “The desire to see your daughter.”

I shook my head. “But it’s not enough, is it? The desire? The wish? For me, it’s just not enough.”

Chapter Fourteen

M
y cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. I kept my eyes closed, ignoring it, but it seemed to buzz louder, shaking and jumping against the varnished wood like a beached fish. I reached out and answered it without looking at the caller ID screen.

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck is going on up there?”

“Buster?”

“Did you see this shit in the paper? Did you really say this stuff?”

I didn’t immediately follow what he was saying. I tried, through the fog, to reconstruct the events of the previous day and evening. It came back in a rush—my morning at the park and my encounter with the reporters at the police station.

“It’s in the paper down there?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Missing child possibly seen in strip club, in the company of an adult male, and then the father of the missing child goes on some loony riff about seeing the girl in the park—”

“I know the story,” I said. Through the window I saw a flat, gray sky. The house felt cool, as though the weather was turning. “I’m just glad it’s getting coverage.”

“Don’t worry. Everybody knows your story now.”

I pulled the blanket over my bare legs and leaned back against the soft pillows, letting them support my head and shoulders.

“I’m surprised you called,” I said. “I thought maybe I’d pissed you off.”

“You did,” he said. “But I’ve been thinking about you and how tough this is on you.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I haven’t appreciated the toll it must take on you. And I don’t mean in the obvious ways. Hell, look at you. You lost your dad when you were little. And then you lose your only child. I guess I don’t think of you losing your dad since my dad was always around, but you did. You lost your old man when you were really young. And now you’ve got this with Caitlin. It’s tragic.”

“Thanks.”

“It looks like I was wrong anyway. Shit, this is the real deal, isn’t it? Did you meet this witness?”

“I did.” I told him the story of meeting Tracy in the strip club. He listened, interjecting with occasional exclamations of amazement and surprise. Telling the story to someone who was so into it, who was eager to hear it and who had the appropriate responses, felt gratifying. I felt better just laying the facts out there. “So that’s where we stand,” I said when I was finished.

“I hope they catch this guy. Fucking dirtbag pervert. Look at his fucking face. Have you ever seen such a son of a bitch? I’d like two minutes in a room alone with him—wouldn’t you? I’d rip his fucking guts out for doing that to such a beautiful little girl.”

I didn’t feel anything quite like Buster’s anger. Other parents whose children were victims of violent crimes spoke that way, and I always felt something must have been missing in me since I couldn’t summon the same sense of rage.

When I didn’t answer his rage with my own, Buster changed the subject. “How’s Abby taking all this?”

“Oh, well, she’s the same, you know? She’s still ‘moving on.’ She doesn’t want to hear about any of this. In fact, she’s moving out. She’s leaving me.”

“Oh,” Buster said, his voice flat.

“You’re not surprised?”

“Not really. I could tell she was looking to make a break for it. I saw it in her eyes.”

I sat up straighter in the bed. “You did?”

“Sure. She looked like a caged animal. And she’s probably doing the bouncy-bouncy with that pastor guy.”

“You think that?” The twist of jealousy that knotted in my gut surprised me.

“Who knows?” he said. He sounded less certain now. He cleared his throat. “I’m just saying . . . You know, you said you two weren’t exactly kicking it anymore, so why bother with her? You’re better off without her at your side. You need to know you have people there you can count on.”

“Yeah.” I stared at our ceiling. A long, narrow crack ran through the plaster, bisecting the room; it needed to be painted. “I was hoping maybe you could come up for a few days. You can crash here. I don’t know what’s going to happen next with this suspect. Like you said, it would be nice to have someone here, someone who’s on my side.”

Buster was silent. I waited.

“Well, you know,” he said, “I can’t exactly just break away at a moment’s notice. I’m working and everything.” He cleared his throat.

“Just a couple of days . . .”

“Why don’t we wait and see how this plays out,” he said. “If you get big news or a break in the case, let me know. I’ll come up.” I heard someone talking in the background, a woman. Then the sound was muffled, like his hand was over the phone. I heard his voice but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then the sound cleared, and he was back on the line. “Okay?”

“Are you dating someone?”

“Here and there,” he said, his voice low. “So we’ll keep in touch and see what happens. Right?”

“Yeah. Right. I guess I need to work on my book.”

“Right. Idle hands and all that. Did I ask you what it’s about? Is it Melville?”

“Hawthorne. Remember?”

“Cool.
The Scarlet Letter
. Man, I hated that book.”

I heard the voice again in the background.

“Okay, okay,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or someone else. “Okay, Tom, I’ve got to run.”

“Okay,” I said, but he was already off the phone.

Chapter Fifteen

I
went to my office in the English department—more out of obligation than anything else—but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. When I sat down at my desk, it felt as though I were sitting behind an unrecognizable wooden block, a piece of furniture whose purpose I no longer remembered or understood. The whole room felt that way. It smelled funny—different—and the proportions and angles of the walls seemed off, as though it had been years and not weeks since I’d been there. I made a halfhearted attempt to sort through the mail. I placed it into two piles: things I knew I would throw away and things I would probably throw away.

I turned on my computer and listened to it whir and grind as it booted. Occasionally a group of students passed in the hallway, their voices sounding like the chirps and calls of exotic birds. It was a mistake to come, I decided. There was no work I could do.

I checked my e-mail. More than eighty messages waited, most of them departmental and university announcements. I scanned the subject lines:
Health Fair. Estate Planning. Sandy’s Baby Shower. Spring Teaching Schedules.
I didn’t bother to go through them. They’d still be there later, and if anyone needed anything important from me, they could call. I might not answer, but they could call.

I looked at my overcrowded bookshelves. At eye level sat a pile of research materials for the Hawthorne book. I rolled my chair over and picked them up. The top page was dusty, so I wiped it off with the back of my hand. ThenI flippedthrough.A couple of photocopied articles and some notes I’d made on a legal pad. I knew it was my handwriting, but the thoughts on the page didn’t mean anything to me. I couldn’t remember what I was trying to say. “Wakefield,” it read, and the word was underlined three times. “Opacity.” It was underlined three times as well.

Someone knocked on the door, quick, tentative taps. I decided to just ignore it. But they knocked again, louder and more insistent.

“Shit,” I muttered.

I put the Hawthorne notes away and opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Stuart?”

“Yes?”

Something about her face seemed vaguely familiar, and at first I assumed she was a student from a previous semester, one of the anonymous multitudes who flew under the radar in an American Lit survey, knocking out the requirement with the same joy and gusto usually reserved for doing laundry. But then I noticed the limpness of her hair, the tiredness of her eyes. It registered.

“Tracy,” I said. “I’m sorry. Out of context, I—”

“You don’t expect to see a girl like me here on campus.”

I stepped back. “Come in. Sit down.” She looked uncertain. Her eyes roamed the room as though she were across a boundary and into another world. She settled into my extra chair, the one where students usually sat. I took my seat behind the desk. “Are you a student here?”

Her laugh possessed a bitter edge. “Yeah, I’d have to rob a bank and not just take off my clothes to pay for this. I didn’t even finish high school.”

“Thank you for talking to the police and working with them on the sketch.”

She didn’t respond. Her hand was raised to her head, and her index finger twirled a strand of brittle-looking hair. Her eyes were focused on the desktop.

“It’s going to help a lot, I think. The sketch.” When she didn’t answer again, I said, “Is there a reason why you’re here? Is something wrong?”

“I guess that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, all that stuff in the papers and on TV about your daughter.”

“It’s there because of you.”

“Yeah . . .” She stopped twirling her hair and looked at me. “I’m sorry about that.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“You believe my story, don’t you?” she asked.

“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly, and while she did I remembered Ryan’s comments about Tracy.
Well detailed. Convincingly so.