Michael Koryta - Last Words

“F’ing A,” Mark echoed. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have trespassed. You the owner?”

“One worse or one better, depending on your perspective. I’m the caretaker. Cecil Buckner.”

“Were you around when the cave was in operation?”

“I’m the only caretaker she’s ever had. Was here then, and I’m here now.”

Mark nodded. “You’ve always lived in the castle.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. My name’s Mark Novak. I came up from Florida.”

He held his hand out and Buckner looked at it suspiciously and then chose to ignore it. “Came up for what?”

“To have a look around.”

“Well, that was ignorant. Cave’s closed.”

“How long?”

“Indefinitely. A damn shame, you ask me. If you aren’t going to use it, then why in the hell not sell it, right? I can tell you for a fact there was two million dollars on the table from the state for this place. Had eyes on turning it into a park. That’s from the government, mister, and you’d have to be a damn fool if you didn’t realize they don’t tend to pay top dollar. But instead, it sits empty, with those bars over the entrance and more locks than a prison ward. If you’re hoping to make an offer, good luck and good-bye. Because Pershing ain’t selling.”

“He has no plans for it at all?”

“If he does, he hasn’t shared them with me.” Cecil Buckner pointed at the big log home above the creek. “That house was built in 2002 as a summer home for Pershing when the cave was about to open for tours. You ought to see the place; it’s a gem. Now it just sits empty. Am I allowed to stay in it? Hell, no. I get the apartment above the garage. ’Course, I’m allowed to go in there and clean now and then. That’s it.” He shook his head. “Waste. All this place is now is a waste.”

Mark looked at the huge house that Cecil was allowed to enter only to clean or repair, and he felt a surge of distaste for the owners. Cecil’s was the first black face Mark had seen in town, and Cecil felt too much like a servant for comfort.

“How big is the cave?” Mark said, just to move the conversation away from Cecil’s living quarters.

“Ask Ridley Barnes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the only one who knows for sure. Most new caves, they have exploration teams. Trapdoor had Ridley Barnes.”

“Why just him?”

“Because Pershing MacAlister, bless his kindly soul for my employment, did not and does not understand caves. In his business world, the fewer partners you had, the better. So he said the hell with safety, the hell with experience, the hell with everyone, and he brought in Ridley to map what wasn’t obvious. That didn’t go so well. Cave was discovered in 2000, opened for tours in 2003, and closed for good by the end of 2004. Ridley Barnes was hired in the spring of 2004. No, that didn’t go so well at all.” Cecil’s face wrinkled with distaste. “What’s your interest in the cave anyhow?”

“I have no interest in the cave. I’m an investigator. Here for the Sarah Martin case.”

Buckner looked away from Mark and out over the fields as if in search of an oasis in a vast desert. “You have got to be shittin’ me.”

“Afraid not.”

Buckner shook his head, overcome by disgust. “Don’t go botherin’ folks with that. What’s the gain? If they could have convicted him back then, they would have.”

“There are some people who disagree.”

“Those people can go to hell. They have no stake in what happened here or what will happen here. They just like to gossip.”

“I’d argue that Sarah Martin’s mother does have some stake in what happened here. An emotional one but still worthy of respect.”

For the first time, Cecil Buckner seemed knocked off his stride. He blinked at Mark as if trying to clear clouded vision. “What?”

“Her mother thinks it’s worthwhile. Her mother is the one who told me to come down here and look around.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday.”

Buckner looked at him in disbelief.

“Does that surprise you for some reason?” Mark said. “You think she’d have lost interest in finding her daughter’s killer just because so much time has passed?”

“I thought she’d lost interest in most earthly pursuits.”

“What in the hell does that mean?”

“Let me be real clear here: You say you spoke to Diane yesterday? ”

“Last night.”

“Then you’re a very special man.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I certainly do, and I’m not going to be alone in that assessment, trust me. Not if you believe that you coaxed any thoughts or feelings out of Diane Martin.”

“She’s usually that tight-lipped?”

“To most of us,” Cecil Buckner said, “the dead are mighty tight-lipped, yes.”

Mark stared at him, waiting on a punch line that he was sure would be delivered, just had to be. Cecil Buckner took a shuffling step back. You never wanted to be too close to a lunatic.

“You believe Diane Martin is dead?” Mark said.

“It ain’t a matter of opinion!”

Mark parted his lips but then closed them. His mind was swirling with images of the previous night: the woman’s relentless stare, the way she’d put her hand on his arm and told him that he needed to go to Trapdoor Caverns.

“Someone played quite a trick on you, brother,” Cecil said.

Quite a trick. Sure. It was one hell of a trick. Mark could see the intensity of those eyes, could hear her near-musical voice answering questions with such deep emotion.

“Sarah Martin’s mother is dead,” Mark repeated. His voice was numb. “The only mother she had? I mean, there were no stepparents, nobody who might have—”

“I’m quite sure of it. Can you hang tight for a minute? Ah, what the hell, follow me.”

Cecil Buckner led Mark back up the drive and to the garage. As soon as Cecil opened the door, smells of gasoline and diesel fuel and sawdust filled the air. They went up a narrow flight of unfinished wooden steps and entered a small apartment with a galley kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, and a bedroom. A gun cabinet was squeezed in a tight space between a television and the wall, two shotguns and a small-caliber rifle inside. There was soft blues music coming from the bedroom, something with mournful horns and subtle drums.

Cecil stepped away from him, said, “Hang on a minute,” and then walked down the hall. The music was silenced and replaced by the sound of drawers opening and closing. When Cecil returned, he held a folder that he was twisting in his hands as if he couldn’t decide what to do with it. “Would you like to make sure?”

“Make sure? Either she’s dead or she isn’t. You told me there’s no doubt.”

“Yes, but... well, I don’t know what you saw.”

“I don’t see things. I’m not having visions, all right? I’m not a crazy man with hallucinations. Someone impersonated her, and—”

Cecil opened the folder and shoved it at him and said, “Just tell me it didn’t look like her.”

Inside the folder was a copy of a newspaper story: “Diane Martin Dies with Questions About Her Daughter Still Unanswered.” Tucked below the headline was a picture of the woman. She was tall and broad-shouldered with brown hair and dark eyes. She was nothing like the woman who’d put her hand on Mark’s arm and told him that maybe this was the right case for him.

“Not her?” Cecil said.

“Of course not,” Mark said.

Cecil shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. There’s some folks see ghosts, some folks see—”

“Stop that bullshit. The woman was real, she was a fraud, and she set me up. I wish I’d taken her picture so I could ask you who she was.”