Gone for Good

by David Bell

  ‘You didn’t have the guts,’ I said. ‘You couldn’t stand up to Gordon.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. You’re right. I still can’t.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘That night,’ he said.

  ‘What night?’

  ‘We went to the diner …’

  He didn’t finish his sentence. But I remembered what Gordon had said at Mom’s house – that when he broke into my apartment, he’d needed a little help.

  ‘You kept me there at the diner while Gordon broke in and trashed my place. You still let him use you that way. You put all of us in jeopardy.’

  ‘It’s just –’ He stopped. ‘Once I did live with what I’d done, I realized I’d rather live with the guilt and shame than go to jail. I just couldn’t think about going to jail. You needed me. You and Ronnie. When your mom … when she was gone, I had a real purpose again. I was an uncle, almost a dad. I thought if I could be out here, I could do more good …’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to finish the job for Mom.’

  I took out my phone and dialled Detective Post. As I had hoped, she was still at Mom’s house, wrapping up matters there. I told her where to meet us and what she could expect to find. She told me they would be there as soon as possible.

  I wasn’t really worried about them hurrying. Paul wasn’t going anywhere – I’m not even sure he would have been capable of moving off the couch.

  Beth remained on the far side of the room, as if afraid to come near Paul. And Ronnie – I turned to look at him. His face was blank, almost expressionless, except for the tears that ran down his cheeks.

  I wanted to stop. I wanted it all to stop. But I had to know one more thing.

  ‘How – Why did you ever get mixed up with Gordon in the first place? Why would you make those movies, or do any of those things?’

  He didn’t respond, but I wasn’t going to let it go. I asked him again.

  ‘Why, Paul? Why that?’

  Still silence. I stood up and took a step towards him.

  ‘Why?’ My voice was a ringing shout. Ronnie jumped at the sound of it. But Paul didn’t move. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

  ‘I was divorced,’ he said. ‘My wife left me. You and Ronnie don’t remember your aunt Diana. But you do, don’t you?’

  Beth nodded.

  ‘She left me, Diana. She … eviscerated me when she left. She cheated on me. She just … gutted me. That’s the only way I can describe it.’ He sniffled.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘What does that have to do with Gordon?’

  ‘I was vulnerable. Weak. Gordon was my brother-in-law. He was older. You have to understand, I knew him and remembered him from high school. That was imprinted on me. But Gordon wasn’t the same guy he was in high school. He wasn’t the big man any more. His life was sliding when Beth was a teenager. He lost his sales job. Did you know that, Beth?’

  Beth shook her head. ‘He changed jobs when I was about twelve, I guess.’

  ‘He was let go,’ Paul said. ‘He was a big talker but not much of a doer. A blowhard, and his bosses could see it. But I couldn’t really. I still saw him as that guy from high school. I fell for that memory. I was swayed by it. He took me down a dark path I shouldn’t have gone down.’

  ‘What dark path?’ I asked.

  ‘It started small,’ Paul said. ‘Gordon was receiving stolen property. I knew that. I let him store things at my house for a while, and he gave me a cut of the proceeds. I knew it was illegal, but I went along. Something about the sense of danger and recklessness made me feel alive again. Hell, I didn’t really care if I got caught or not. I didn’t care about anything then. I told myself I wasn’t hurting anyone, that I was a passive participant in those things. It was an excuse and a poor one at that.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said.

  He smiled a little. ‘You sound just like your mother when you say that.’

  ‘How did this lead to the night you drove Beth away?’ I asked.

  ‘Like I said, the things I did were small. Mostly. Once I helped Gordon with a stolen car.’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t tell me it was stolen. But I knew. I drove it for him, and another guy picked it up. By that point, I was starting to get worried about myself. I knew I needed to snap out of it. I had a job. I needed to get back to having a real life again. That car thing, it was a turning point in my mind. I told myself that I wouldn’t do that any more, any of it. But then Gordon contacted me and asked for one more favour.’

  ‘The movies?’

  He nodded. ‘I didn’t know that’s what they were going to be doing that night. Gordon told me we were just going to be hanging out and drinking, that there would be women there. He dangled that in front of me. Women. I guess he knew what I desired deep down. Maybe I did need that.’

  ‘Sex?’ I asked.

  ‘I was alone when Diana left. We didn’t have kids. I didn’t think I’d ever have kids. Being alone that way … I was lost. Empty. Believe it or not, Gordon’s suggestion of sex helped. It brought me along. I went along. I needed to. I wanted to feel … I don’t know …’

  ‘Like a man again?’ Beth asked. ‘Desirable?’

  Paul looked at Beth. He seemed to be seeing her for the first time. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ Beth said. ‘I didn’t respond to it the way you did. But I know how that feels.’

  ‘I didn’t know they were going to be making a movie like that. I wouldn’t have gone along with it. I showed up and walked into the middle of that. That was … across the line. Disgusting. I took a stand, believe it or not. I told Gordon I was going to leave.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘He asked me to do one more thing,’ Paul said. ‘He told me one of the girls needed a ride to the bus station, and he asked me to drive the car. I didn’t know it was Beth at first. I thought it was strange. Gordon rode in the back with the girl. He had her down low, a coat or something over her. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want to know. I just turned the radio on and drove, kept my eyes on the road.’

  ‘Classical music,’ Beth said, her voice small and hollow. ‘You were listening to classical music.’

  ‘You didn’t know it was Beth at first,’ I said. ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘When she was gone,’ Paul said. ‘Right after that, she was gone. I put it together. Gordon’s secrecy that night. The girl hidden in the backseat. I was an accessory to Beth’s disappearance. Or her running away. Whatever it was, I had played a big role. I’d helped it happen.’

  ‘So why didn’t you come clean?’ I asked. ‘Tell Mom? Tell the police?’

  ‘I went to Gordon and told him what I knew,’ Paul said. ‘I asked him where Beth had gone and told him we needed to make it right.’ Paul sighed. ‘He had leverage over me. The crimes I’d been involved in. Even driving Beth away. He knew those things, and he threatened to use them against me.’

  ‘You gave your niece away,’ I said. ‘She was a kid. You couldn’t stand up to him?’

  He didn’t answer me.

  ‘Well?’

  There was a long silence. When at last he spoke, he looked at Beth. ‘I’m sorry, Beth. But the truth is … it sometimes seemed Leslie would have been happier with you gone. And you seemed like you might be happier as well.’

  Beth kept her composure, but I could see the hurt and regret in her eyes. Her top teeth bit down on her lower lip.

  ‘That’s such bullshit, Paul,’ I said. ‘You’re making excuses for your pathetic life.’

  He turned to me. ‘It was pathetic. Is pathetic. I agree. I just hope you never get to find out how bad a life can get, Elizabeth. I hope you don’t find anything like that out at all.’

  Epilogue

  Five months after Paul’s confession, the three of us – my siblings and I – go to the cemetery to visit Mom’s grave. It is mid-March, and the sky is the colour of steel wool. In the corners of the cemetery, in the shadow of the stone walls, snow remains on the grou
nd. The grass is soggy and springy as we walk across it, our shoes squishing in the soaked earth.

  What can I say about our lives? They move forward.

  I am back in school, arranging my schedule around Ronnie’s needs. Ronnie is working at his part-time job and going to speech therapy. He spends fifteen hours a week or so at the Miller Centre, interacting with other adults with Down’s syndrome, learning the new skills he may need to live on his own – away from me – someday. Although when that day will come, I cannot say. But it is the goal, a goal Ronnie understands and pursues.

  During the times when keeping up with school and Ronnie becomes too much, Dan helps me out. Our relationship has continued to progress. Slowly, but it’s progressing. I’ve tried to keep the door open wide enough to let him in.

  Beth is harder to read. She lives her life in Reston Point. She sees her children and grandchildren and works in a local clothing store. We visit and talk as often as we can, although not as much as we did in the immediate aftermath of Gordon’s death and Paul’s confession. Back then, we all three clung to one another, survivors of the same wreckage. We spent many a late night talking through the things on our minds, sharing the images from our nightmares.

  I used some of the insurance money to install a security system in Mom’s house. And, yes, Ronnie and I did move back in there. It seems like the only place to be, bad memories and all.

  But over time, we all started to recognize the differences in our lives. If siblings grow up in very different circumstances, in very different times, and for all intents and purposes in very different families, are they still siblings? Can they ever feel the way other siblings feel?

  We reach Mom’s grave. The grass has grown in and covered her plot. I stare at the headstone. Mom’s dates have been etched in next to Dad’s. I think about that, the two of them lying side by side for eternity. I’ve thought about it many times over the past five months, and I can only guess that Dad must have known about all of it before he married Mom. Gordon, Beth, the disappearance. How could he not? But the only person I could ask – Paul – is not someone I am willing to speak to. He sits in his prison cell, alone. I am finished with him. Once and for all. I’d like to say he is no longer my uncle, but I know that isn’t true. He is my uncle and always will be. He is part of the story.

  I knew my dad well enough to guess how those things about Mom must have made him feel. It wouldn’t have mattered one bit to him. He would have taken her on – her life and whatever came with it – without a second thought. He loved her. For Dad, it was always that simple.

  The three of us line up at the foot of the grave in a little half circle. Beth has brought flowers, and she lays them in the grass. We all stand there for a moment, alone with our thoughts.

  Then Ronnie says, ‘Sis?’

  I look over at him. He wears a winter coat and earmuffs. Beth looks too, and Ronnie notices.

  ‘Sis and sis?’ he says, his voice uncertain.

  ‘What is it, Ronnie?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re not normal, are we?’ he asks. ‘I mean, everything that’s happened. This family. It’s not really normal.’

  I don’t know what to say to that. Mom lived her whole life making sure Ronnie felt and acted normal, and I am trying to carry that on. Not just because Mom wanted it, but also because I love my brother. I want a normal life for him.

  Before I can formulate a response, Beth says, ‘I’ve been in a lot of families. A lot of them. Marriages, in-laws, kids, grandkids. Not one of them is normal. As far as I can tell, there’s no such thing, Ronnie.’

  This seems to satisfy him. He even laughs a little and nods his head.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Who wants to be normal?’

  The breeze picks up. It moves the clouds, allowing a little sliver of sun to peek through. The wind chills me as well, and I shiver. My brother and sister move closer to me, one from each side.

  And that’s the way we stand in the cemetery:

  Together.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to all my friends and colleagues in the Western Kentucky University English Department and the Potter College of Arts and Letters for a great work environment. Thanks to Lanna Kilgore for legal advice about wills and other matters. (Any mistakes are mine and not hers.) Thanks to Jim Weems, Glen Rose, Jeff Weems, Barrett Griffin, the McMichael family, and the folks at Lost River Cave in Bowling Green, Kentucky, for the book trailer. Thanks to Marianne Hale and Samantha ‘Super’ Starr for assistance and support. Thanks to Kara Thurmond for the website. And, once again, I owe a huge debt to my friends and family.

  Major thanks to the booksellers, librarians, bloggers, reviewers, book club members and readers who love books and keep them alive in all their forms. And a special thanks to the Warren County Public Library in Bowling Green and Barnes & Noble in Bowling Green for all of your help and support over the past few years.

  None of this would be possible without the efforts of everyone at New American Library/Penguin, including my splendid publicist, Heather Connor, her amazing team, and all the folks in sales and marketing.

  Danielle Perez is the best editor on the planet. She knows the right questions to ask, when and how to ask them, and always pushes me to be a better writer. Thanks, Danielle.

  Laney Katz Becker is the best literary agent, guide and advocate I could wish for. Thanks for always demanding the best and getting the best, Laney. And thanks to everyone at Lippincott Massie McQuilkin Literary Agents for their support.

  And finally, special thanks to the one and only Molly McCaffrey for love, advice, and support, for tolerating my habit of watching the Reds and for walking in the cemetery with me, even on Halloween. What more could I ask for?

  from David Bell

  Can’t wait for more? Turn the page for a taste of Cemetary Girl coming soon from Michael Joseph.

  Prologue

  Let me tell you something about my daughter.

  My daughter disappeared, and there were times I wondered if she was somehow responsible.

  Caitlin wasn’t like most kids – she wasn’t immature or childish. She wasn’t ignorant. In fact, she possessed a preternatural understanding of how the world worked, how humans worked. And she used that knowledge to deceive me more than once, which is why sometimes – I am ashamed to admit – I questioned her role in what happened.

  Caitlin disappeared four years ago – when she was twelve. But the first time I became aware of her ability to deceive she was only six, and the two of us were spending a Saturday together. There were many days like that one with Caitlin, and I always remember them as some of the happiest. Quiet. Simple. As easy and effortless as floating in a pool of water.

  On that particular day, Caitlin was playing with a group of kids from the neighbourhood. Back then, a number of families with small children lived on our street, and the kids were all about the same age. They ran around together in the yards, playing on swing sets and jumping in leaves. No matter where the kids went, a set of adult eyes watched them. We liked the neighbourhood for that reason.

  Unfortunately, shortly after we moved in, and not long after Caitlin was born, the city widened the boulevard that sat perpendicular to our street in the hope of accommodating more traffic. This brought more cars to our neighbourhood. Every parent on the block felt the same degree of concern, and some talked about moving away. But we wanted to stay, so we made a rule for Caitlin: do not ever cross the street without one of us watching. Not ever.

  Anyway, on that Saturday – although it was only later that it would become that Saturday – with my wife, Abby, out of the house for the evening, I cooked hamburgers in a skillet, managing, as always, to splatter the stove top with a liberal amount of grease. I also baked frozen premade french fries in the oven; it was exactly the kind of meal a dad makes when he’s left in charge of his daughter.

  At dinnertime, I stepped into our front yard, expecting to see Caitlin nearby with the other kids, or at the very least I expected to hear their vo
ices. But I didn’t. I stood in the late-afternoon shade of the big maple in front of our house, and I looked one way, then the other, hoping to catch sight of Caitlin and her little posse. I was just about to call her name when I finally saw her.

  She was standing at the far end of the street, where they had widened the thoroughfare a few years earlier. I knew it was Caitlin, even from that distance, because she had left the house that afternoon wearing a bright pink top, and that electric burst of colour stood out against the muted browns and oranges of the fall. I started toward her, lifting my hand and getting ready to wave, when Caitlin made a quick move towards the street.

  I’ll never know if she saw the car.

  It turned onto our street, moving faster than it should have, and its grille filled my vision, looming behind Caitlin like a ravenous silver mouth.

  My heart jumped.

  I froze, and for a long moment, time ceased.

  Then the driver slammed on his brakes and stopped a couple of feet from my child.

  Inches from crushing her.

  But Caitlin didn’t hesitate. She took one quick glance at the car, but despite its proximity to her body, she kept on walking across the street, into a yard, and around the back of the house, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I remained rooted to my spot, as dumb and still as stone, my mouth frozen in the process of forming the shout that never came.

  After a brief pause, the car moved forward again. It came down the street slowly, right past me. A couple about my age occupied the front seats; the man was driving. His wife or girlfriend waved her arms frantically, her face angry, no doubt chastising him for his carelessness. And the man held his right hand in a placating gesture as though asking for calm, for time to explain. They didn’t even notice me.