Cemetery Girl

“I don’t know the name. Should I?”

Ryan continued. “Loren Brooks was a small-time drug dealer around here. Cocaine and marijuana mostly. Also some petty crimes. Burglaries, car thefts. He was an all-around malcontent and noncontributing member of our society.”

“Did you arrest him?”

“Many times, but not for anything relating to this case. He died two years ago. Drug overdose. I can’t say the world is worse off without him. We did manage to locate his former girlfriend, a woman who’d lived with Brooks for several years. We asked her what she knew about John Colter. She told us that everybody knew one thing about John Colter.”

“What’s that?”

“That he liked little girls. And, sometimes, he liked to keep them in his basement.”

I felt the air go out of me, like I’d been hit between the shoulder blades.

Abby spoke up. “You can arrest him now. Rearrest him. You have a witness.”

“Buster. .” I said.

I couldn’t bring myself to say it all.

How does Buster fit into all this? What did Buster do?

“Your brother owed Loren Brooks money, the result of some drug transaction about five years back. This girlfriend of Brooks, she believes that your brother offered Caitlin to Brooks as some form of payment for the debt he owed.”

“But Buster never had Caitlin,” Abby said. “She was never his to give. She was never with him.”

“But he knew where she lived,” Ryan said. “He knew her routines. She trusted him and would have followed him if he asked her to. Right?”

The money Buster had borrowed from me. . his phone call and apology. . his appearance at the cemetery. .

“Are you saying Buster led Caitlin to Colter and this other guy? That he tricked her into going and sold her to them like-” The only word that came to my mind sounded ridiculous, but I said it anyway. “Like a concubine.”

“This girlfriend of Brooks picked Caitlin’s photo out of a group of photos. She says she’ll testify that she saw Caitlin in Colter’s house. She’s actually the kind of witness we’ve been waiting for. She’s going to help the case a great deal.”

“Is she reliable?” Abby asked.

“More reliable than the men she’ll be testifying against, despite whatever problems she’s had,” Ryan said. He turned his attention to me. “Tom,” he said, “I need to ask you something very important. Do you know where your brother is?”

“Did you check his house?” I asked.

Ryan nodded. “Of course. I need you to tell me other places we might find him.”

“I don’t know-”

“And I need to know if you’ve heard from him lately. Anything at all.”

Ryan held his gaze on mine, his eyes boring into me like an X-ray.

“Buster is. .” My voice trailed off. I tried again. “Look. .” I replayed the scene in the car early that morning. His words. He’d been right, I had to admit. He had always stood by me when we were children, and I couldn’t underestimate that. Even if he had been involved-which I doubted, I really doubted-I wanted to find that out for myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of handing him over to the police, to strangers. I drew the line there. “I don’t know where he is. We had a falling out. We often have them. I haven’t spoken to him in a few weeks. In fact, the last time I saw him was right here at this house. And you were here, too. Listen, Ryan, are you really telling me Buster was directly involved? Just because this woman said something about him?”

“Like I said, we’re moving forward on the case with the goal of placing Colter in custody again,” Ryan said. “We need to talk to William as well. If he comes in voluntarily, it can be easier on him. If not. .”

“Tom?” Abby asked. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I said I haven’t seen him.”

Ryan let out a little sigh. He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up out of the chair. He straightened his jacket by tugging on the lapels.

“You’ll let us know if anything else happens,” Abby said.

“I will.” Ryan pointed at my face. “And if I were you, I’d put some ice on that eye. Whoever you fell on was probably trying to hurt you.”

Chapter Forty-eight

Abby and I remained on opposite ends of the couch, not saying anything to each other. Not moving. I shifted a little, adjusting my position, trying to get comfortable.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, Tom?”

“What’s there to say?” I looked to the hallway, to the space where Caitlin’s pictures had been removed.

“I should have known it was him,” she said. “I should have known it would be someone in the family, someone close to us. It always is. Statistically, you know, it’s always a family member involved. And considering Buster’s past, his record. And you defended him. You said he wouldn’t hurt Caitlin.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs. Asleep. At least she was when Ryan called.”

I brought my hand up and touched my cheek. It felt tender and a little puffy. Ryan was right. It needed ice.

“Where were you?” she asked. “Really. Where were you?”

“I thought I heard someone trying to get into the house. I came downstairs and looked. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I took a walk.”

“Someone tried to get into the house and you left us?”

“I thought someone tried to get into the house.”

“Did you really fall?”

I looked toward the stairs. “It was wet. The dew. I was wearing these shoes.” I pointed at my feet distractedly. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“About what?”

“I’m going to ask her about Buster.”

“Good. Bring her down here.”

“No. I think it would be better if I went alone. She’ll listen to me.”

Abby made a bitter, dismissive noise. It sounded like Hut. “She hasn’t listened to you for four years, Tom. She never listened to you. You were more like friends. That’s why she liked you. She didn’t have to hear or obey anything you said.”

I stood up. Slowly, gingerly, taking one step at a time, I went up the stairs.

I knocked on the door of the master bedroom and didn’t wait for a response before I pushed the door open. Caitlin was sitting on the floor, her back against the bed frame, the bulk of a sleeping bag spread underneath her. She was wearing long underwear-tops and bottoms-and she looked wide awake, her eyes alert.

I moved over to the bed and eased myself down. A stitch of pain poked me in the side, and I winced. Caitlin showed no concern.

I pointed to my puffy cheek. “Do you know who did this to me? Buster. Your Uncle Buster. We haven’t fought like that since we were kids. It used to be more even then. But last night, he kicked my ass.”

Her eyes widened.

“Was he there, Caitlin? With Colter? Was Buster ever there?”

She looked down at her hands and started picking at the cuticles. Her nails were short, the skin around them red and scabbed, as though she’d picked them over more than once.