Cemetery Girl

“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.”

 

I started to move, then noticed Buster wasn’t coming with me. I waved at him.

 

He shook his head. “I think you should go alone.”

 

“What? You brought me here.”

 

“I know,” he said. “You have to do this alone. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

 

I took a step back. “What if he has a gun or something?”

 

Buster shook his head. “You heard that stuff at the cemetery. You have something he wants. So go.”

 

I went toward the back of the house, leaving Buster behind.

 

 

 

 

 

When I reached the back of the house, no one was there. The wooden door, its paint cracked and blistering, stood closed, the single bulb above it dark. The door led into the kitchen, but the lights were off inside.

 

A light came on above the stove, and I saw Colter’s bulky form moving toward the door. The light above the door came on as well, and a few late-season moths and gnats appeared instantly, drawn to the light and warmth. I heard locks untumbling, then a chain, and with some effort he yanked the door open.

 

His body filled the doorway, lit by the faint light behind. He didn’t come out, but stood there on the step, his arms at his side.

 

“Does she ask about me?” he asked.

 

I still felt shaky. Something hot roiled in my chest. “You’re a pig,” I said.

 

He took two steps down so that we were on the same level. He was shorter than me, stockier, with a wrestler’s body gone to middle-aged fat. “What are you here for?” he asked. “Are you here to shoot me or beat me? Do you want to kill me?”

 

I moved forward. My mouth was dry, but I worked my tongue around. When I thought I was close enough to him, I spit. It wasn’t an impressive job, but some of it hit him in the face, making his head jerk back.

 

He kept his eyes on me while he brought his arm up and wiped his face.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Is that out of the way?”

 

My heart pumped like an overworked engine, but I also felt foolish, my anger abating. A grown man spitting on another grown man.

 

He went on. “Because I don’t think that’s what you really came here for, is it?”

 

“You called me back here.”

 

“And you showed up at my window. With reinforcements. So . . .” He spread his arms wide. “How’s she doing?”

 

“No, no. You don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to know anything about her.”

 

“I know one thing about her. She won’t testify against me.”

 

“Give it time.”

 

He shook his head. “I love her. And more importantly, she loves me. That’s why she’ll never testify. Ever.”

 

“Is that what Tracy Fairlawn thought about you?”

 

He made a quiet snorting noise, a form of a laugh. “I see she’s been running her mouth. She never did understand the value of keeping quiet.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“I don’t know. Probably run off. Partying somewhere.”

 

“If you love my daughter so much, why did you make her leave?”

 

He hesitated a moment, looking at the ground. Light from the bulb above the door spilled over his feet. He still wore the slippers. “I see you met little Jasmine. I guess that’s how you all ended up out here tonight.”

 

“Why did you send Caitlin away?”

 

“And what do I get out of talking to you?” he asked. “Are you going to forgive me? Grant me a pardon?”

 

“You . . . owe me.”