by David Bell
“Caitlin. .” Abby looked shocked, even hurt. “When the police ask you to do something, you have to do it. And I think it will be good for you. Don’t you, Tom?”
Caitlin held her gaze on mine, waiting for my help. But I’d promised only that I wouldn’t ask, not that I wouldn’t let a professional do it. “Right,” I said. “You should go tomorrow.”
“And I don’t think you should talk to us that way,” Abby said. “I know it’s been a long time. .” She stood up, gathered her composure. “Do you need something to sleep in? Clean clothes or anything?”
“This is fine,” Caitlin said. She kicked her shoes off, revealing gray, dirty socks, and flipped back the covers on her bed.
“Just call us if you need anything,” Abby said on her way out.
I lingered in the doorway, watching my daughter settle into bed.
“It must be weird being back,” I said.
She didn’t respond. She turned over on her side, showing me her back, and as far as I knew, closed her eyes and went to sleep.
An hour later, I slipped upstairs, moving carefully, stealthily, trying not to make any noise that might wake Caitlin. The door to her room was still cracked. I slipped up to the door and pressed my ear close, listening. It took me a minute to separate the sound of Caitlin’s breathing from the fuzzy background noise of our house. The hum of the refrigerator, the soft whoosh of the heat, the traffic noise outside, the wind. But I managed to hone in on Caitlin’s breath, and each exhalation and inhalation brought me a greater sense of ease. She was here. She was really here. She lived, she existed under our roof again.
Before I turned away, I heard a new sound, one that broke through the rhythmic breathing. At first, I thought she might be coughing, but as I listened, the sound crystallized and became recognizable as human speech. Caitlin’s voice, murmuring.
I leaned closer, bent down so my ear was level with the doorknob. She was saying the same thing over and over, almost like a chant or a mantra, but I couldn’t make it out. She stopped and, again, I thought of backing off, but then the words resumed, a little louder this time, a little clearer. I understood.
“Don’t send me away,” she said. “Don’t send me away.”
I reached out and peeled the door open a little. A narrow band of light leaked into Caitlin’s room from the hallway, crawling across the floor and stopping just short of her bed. She lay in the same position I left her in-facing the wall, back to the door. She was asleep. Dreaming. But her voice kept repeating the words in the dark.
“Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Abby dug through the refrigerator. One of the neighbors had brought us a dish of lasagna, and the oven ticked as it preheated.
“You don’t have any vegetables in here,” she said.
“I guess not.”
“Were you just upstairs?” she asked, closing the refrigerator door. “Is she okay?”
“Still sleeping.”
“Should we wake her to eat something?”
Don’t send me away. .
“No,” I said, still distracted by the words she’d spoken in her sleep. “Let’s just let her be.”
Abby frowned. “If you’re sure. .”
I went over to the lasagna pan and lifted the foil. Lots of cheese, just the way I liked it. I actually felt hungry for a change.
“Tom? Where do you think she was?”
I let the foil drop. “She was with that man.”
“You think I pushed her too hard upstairs.”
The oven beeped, indicating it had reached the right temperature. I opened the door and slid in the heavy pan of food. “I guess we can eat in thirty minutes or so,” I said.
Abby wore a distant look, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the ceiling.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Do you ever think you don’t want to know what happened to her?” she asked. “What if it’s too awful to hear? Those things they told us at the hospital, about the sex. . What if she’s been raped or abused? The way she’s been acting. . it’s like she’s been through something awful, something that stunned her. I would have been happy to have that psychiatrist come home with us.”
“We’re fine without that,” I said. Caitlin’s whispered sleep talk cycled through my brain, like a taunt. Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away. “The police are going to push her to tell. If there’s an arrest, she’ll have to talk about it.”
The back doorbell rang.
“Who is that?” Abby asked. “Could it be Ryan?”
I pressed my face against the glass.
“It’s Buster.”
“Oh.”
“Could he have heard?” I asked.
I opened the door, and he answered the question for me.
“What the fuck is going on up here?” His voice was loud, almost crazed. “What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? I mean, Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me?”
His voice rose and squealed with excitement, like a prepubescent boy.
“Yes, it’s amazing,” I said.
“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you call?”
I led him into the other room, away from Abby, who didn’t even look up or greet him. “It’s been kind of crazy here, you know? It’s been a long day.”
“I wanted to come visit. I want to see the girl. Shit.”
He was almost hysterical. Bizarrely so.
“We’re trying to get our bearings.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see. You need some family time and all that, try to put the pieces back together again.” He stood in the middle of the living room, rubbing his hands together and nodding. “I guess that makes sense. I’m family, too. I thought I could help.”
“You can. In a couple of days. In fact, I mentioned you to Caitlin, and her eyes lit up.”
“Really?”
“Really. She’ll want to see you.” I looked up at the ceiling, listening. Wondering. “But she’s asleep now. Really zonked out. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Goddamn.” Buster looked up at the ceiling too, his face curious. Then he cleared his throat. “I love that kid,” he said.
“Yeah. . Abby asked Caitlin about something, just before.”
“Did she ask about that guy? Did they arrest him?”
“No, there’s been no arrest.”
“I want to tell you, Tom, I want to go out and find this guy.” His voice sounded heavy, heated. He leaned in close to me with a caninelike ferocity. “I want to get in my car and go looking for him. What are the fucking cops doing? Sitting on their asses?”
“I don’t know. They’re taking it slow.”
“Fuck them.”
“Look, like I started to tell you. . Abby asked Caitlin something upstairs, something about you.”
“She did?”
“Yeah.” I moved slow. Cautious. “She asked Caitlin if she saw you during the four years she was gone.”
He fell quiet. I hesitated, wondering if I’d pushed too hard.
“I don’t understand what you’re asking me. .”
I kept my voice even lower. “It’s just that Caitlin didn’t answer the question exactly. She didn’t say no, so I wanted to ask you.”
“You’re asking me if I saw Caitlin during the last four years, right? Right? Is that what you’re saying, just so we’re clear on this?”
“Buster, just answer the question.”
“You’re a real motherfucker, Tom-you know that? You’re as bad as the fucking cops. Worse. I’m your brother. To ask me a question like that. .”
“Did you see her, Buster?” My voice rose. “Do you know what happened? Answer me.”
“Why don’t you ask Caitlin again? Oh, wait.” He thumped his hand against his forehead, an exaggerated gesture. “She probably can’t stand to talk to her fucked-up and crazy parents, can she?”
“Buster-”
He stormed to the front door and
tugged against the lock until it came open.
“Go to hell, Tom. Go straight to hell.”
Abby was waiting for me in the kitchen, her hands knitted together. “What were you two arguing about?” she asked.
“We weren’t arguing.” I distracted myself by picking at the salad she was making.
“I heard you raise your voice.”
“I asked him if he saw Caitlin during the last four years.”
“And?”
“What do you expect? He got pissed off and yelled at me. He acted like it hurt him.”
“What was his answer?”
“He didn’t really give me one.”
“Don’t you see?” She pointed at me. “That’s how Caitlin acted. I know he’s your stepbrother, but-”
“Half brother.”
“I think we need to talk to the police about all of this, don’t you?”
“It’s not that simple, Abby. He is my brother. We grew up together. He was always there for me when we were kids. No matter how bad our home life got, Buster was with me. He stood by me.”
I opened the oven door and looked in. The cheese on the lasagna was bubbling.
“This food is ready,” I said. “Have you heard anything from upstairs?”
“She was pretty sound asleep when I was up there, but I thought I just heard some footsteps.”
I closed the oven door, then looked up. “Probably going to the bathroom.”
“Tom, I need to know you’re taking this seriously. I’ve always been nervous about Buster, with the way he seemed so. . fascinated by Caitlin, you know? Like they were two kids with crushes on each other instead of uncle and niece.”
“Abby. .”
“You’ve seen it, too. You’ve commented on it. Don’t make this all about me, Tom. You can’t.”
She was right. I’d noticed Buster’s interest in Caitlin. I’d always managed to chalk up the closeness between them to the fact that she was his only niece, so he showered her with attention whenever he was around. But still. . an older man, a younger girl. Buster’s checkered past. His absences from our lives over the past four years.
Abby jerked up her head.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“She’s moving around up there again.”
“Okay, I’ll go tell her we’re ready to eat.”
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, Abby said my name. I stopped.
“This isn’t going to go away,” she said. “This Buster stuff.”
I nodded. I knew it wasn’t.
At the top of the stairs, I could see the bathroom light under the closed door. Caitlin’s bedroom door stood open. I didn’t want to stand around, hovering outside the bathroom door while she was inside, so I stuck my head in the bedroom. The covers were thrown back, the lights off. A thick, musty odor hung in the small space. I remembered Caitlin’s greasy hair at the police station, her dirty clothes. I listened for but didn’t hear water running in the bathroom. She needed to shower. She needed new things to wear. I looked at the floor. It was empty. No discarded clothes, no shoes or socks.
I went back to the bathroom door. I rapped lightly with my knuckles.
“Caitlin? Honey?”
Nothing. My heart started to thump. I knocked again, using more force.
I raised my hand to try the knob, but didn’t. I couldn’t just barge in on her, in whatever delicate state she might be in.
“Caitlin? If you don’t say anything, I’m going to open the door and check on you.”
Still nothing.
I tried the knob, expecting it to be locked, but it gave right away. I pushed in. The lights were on, gleaming off the polished surface of the vanity and mirror. The window was open too, wide open, the curtains swelling in the cold breeze. Caitlin wasn’t there. She was gone, out the window and into the night.
Abby stood at the bottom of the stairs.
“Tom?”
“Call the police. She went out the window.” I didn’t break stride. I went out the back door and into the yard, calling her name. “Caitlin! Caitlin!”
Nothing. No sign of her. The cars still sat at the end of the driveway. I looked in the windows, cupping my hands against the glass. Empty. An unbidden thought popped into my head-I didn’t know if Caitlin knew how to drive.
I turned away from the car. “Caitlin!”
I looked back at the house. She’d gone out the window and onto the porch overhang. From there, it was about a ten-foot drop to the ground. Hardly a challenge for someone young and in any kind of decent shape.
Abby came to the back door. “Tom? The police are coming.” “We should call Ryan.”
“They said they’d tell him.”
“I’m going to take the car and look,” I said, already moving. “She can’t have gone far. Jesus Christ, Abby. I should have seen this coming. The way she acted in the car. .”
“I think you should stay.”
“I’m going,” I said. “Around the neighborhood.”
“Tom, I want you to stay. Please. I don’t want to be here alone.”
I held my keys in my hand and moved toward the car. I looked back at Abby under the glow of the back porch light. Her face was full of pleading and fear.
Last time, I sat in the house, waiting. A fool. Not again, I thought. Not again. I couldn’t let Caitlin disappear this time without doing something. Immediately.
“I have the cell,” I said. “Call me if anything changes.”
“Tom.”
I didn’t look back. I got into the car and sped off.
Chapter Twenty-five
He took her.
As I made my way through the streets around our house, up one and down the other, peering into front yards and up driveways, trying my best to see through the darkness, one thought circled through my brain: He took her. Buster took her.
Televisions glowed blue behind drawn curtains, and regular people washed dishes or put out trash cans. They lived their lives, ignorant of and unaffected by my drama.
I didn’t see Caitlin anywhere.
The cell phone buzzed in my pocket. Abby. I answered.
“Tom, the police are here.”
My heart raced even more. “Did they find her?”
“No. They want to talk to you.”
“Tell them I’m looking.”
“They don’t want you to look,” Abby said. “They want you back here.”
“You want me back there,” I said. “The cops don’t care.”
“Tom-”
“Tell them to call Buster.”
“Do you really think-?”
“Tell them.”
Once I drove through our neighborhood, I headed toward campus and looked along the streets there. Students filled the sidewalks, shuffling to evening classes. I quickly felt like a man adrift, without hope. Engaging in a fool’s errand. Even in a town this size, what were the odds of finding one person, especially one person who apparently didn’t want to be found?
The phone buzzed again.
“Shit.” I checked the display, expecting to see Abby’s name. I was relieved to see it was Ryan. “Hello? Did you find her?”
“Tom, you should come back here. We have men looking.”
“Where? I’m over by campus, and I don’t see them.”
“Your wife needs you at home. If Caitlin comes back, you need to be here.”
“If, if, if, Ryan. I’m not going to be passive this time,” I said. “I should have seen this. I should have stopped it. I’m not going to sit at home while my daughter is lost, God knows where.”
“Listen to me, Tom-”
I hung up. I decided to head out toward the mall, to Williamstown Road, where they’d found Caitlin walking just that morning. It seemed like the next logical step. I backtracked through our neighborhood to get to Williamstown Road, but I avoided our street, figuring that if there was news, someone would call. And if there wasn’t, I didn’t want to get sidetracked. I took a l
onger way around and ended up abreast of the cemetery. I hit the turn signal and pulled in through the gate, heading toward the back to Caitlin’s headstone. I wasn’t supposed to be there. It closed at dark, but they didn’t always shut the entry gates. This was one such night.
The road through the cemetery was narrow and closely lined by trees. My headlights illuminated the gnarled trunks and bounced off the headstones, showing the names and dates in brief flashes. I took a fork in the road, one that bent to the left, and I knew I was getting close to the headstone.
Then I saw the girl.
First she was a white blur in the headlights, held in relief against the darkness. I hit a bump in the road, and the headlights jostled up and down. I lost sight of her for a moment, then picked her up again. She stood in front of Caitlin’s headstone, her hands resting on the top, as though she needed it for support. It was the same girl from the park that day, the one who ran off into the trees when I approached her.
Caitlin?
I hit the brakes, skidding to a stop. I pushed open the door.
“Hey!”
The girl turned and ran off, dashing into the darkness like a frightened animal. I went after her, dodging around the tombstones. But there was next to no light. As I ran, I saw the girl ahead of me, her light clothes showing up in the darkness, but in a short while she faded from my view, swallowed up by the night.
“Hey!”
I stopped running, my breath coming in short, huffing bursts. She was gone. I listened but didn’t hear the sound of twigs snapping or grass being trampled. If she was still out there, she was being stealthy and quiet, moving in the night like a guerrilla.
Beyond the edge of the cemetery were tracts of new and fairly expensive subdivisions. She could easily be from one of those homes, I reasoned, a kid who wandered out of her yard to play.
But what did she want from me? What did she have to do with Caitlin?
When my wind came back, I turned for the car. The headlights were angled toward Caitlin’s headstone and held it in a cone of light that carved through the darkness.
A fresh bouquet lay at the base of the stone, below Caitlin’s name and dates. It looked like the kind from the grocery store, fresh-cut flowers wrapped in cheap and crinkly cellophane.