He was good at it too. Better than anyone had expected, certainly better than he’d expected. The investigative work came naturally. He could be both patient and instinctive, Jeff said, a magical blend. Mark didn’t know about that, but he knew he enjoyed the work. The idea that someone was waiting to die for the sins of another and that one piece of undiscovered evidence might free him was not a job you could tire of. It had seemed righteous to him. Back then.
The land of palm trees and blue water had treated him well indeed. It had been the paradise he’d known it would be, full of warm welcomes and soft edges, a place where cold pain and shame would never find him. He’d almost come to believe that before Lauren made the drive to Cassadaga.
“Hey! Closed property, pal! Can you not read the signs or do you just not give a shit what they say?”
The Florida memories were gone then and ice-covered Indiana was back and Mark turned and saw a tall black man in a knit hat and an untucked, half-buttoned shirt rushing toward him from the garage.
“Signs hang on that gate for a reason, you know. Hell, the gate is there for a reason! But you folks don’t care, the world’s your damned oyster, you just do as you please...”
He was walking nearly as fast as he was bitching, but it was a tight race. Mark waited until the man pulled up close and then he said, “I walked down for a look. I’m sorry.”
“That’s just the thing! That is just the thing that I mean. The signs and the gate are supposed to tell you that you can’t have a look! But people just do whatever the hell it is they please anymore. I don’t know when it became that way, I honest to God don’t. But there was a shift. There was a change.”
“Manners are lacking,” Mark said. “Common courtesy is a thing of the past.”
“You are f’ing-A right about that,” the man said. He seemed to be softening now that Mark had agreed with him that the world was in social decline, and he paused to finish buttoning his shirt. He was knotted with muscle and had thick wrists and a mechanic’s forearms. His face was hawkish and angular, like it had been built for cutting through the wind, and a perpetual squint added to the effect.
“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.”
8
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.