“You might want to take it out.”
“You don’t think…?”
Newt shrugged. “Do it, just in case.”
Maggie removed the gun from her purse and released the safety. Then they walked toward the front of the house and climbed the stairs. As expected, the door was locked.
“I’ll bet you dollars to donuts this is Judd Coker’s house,” Newt said.
“What does that even mean, ‘dollars to donuts’?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I’m right,” Newt said. “Let’s check the back.”
When they reached the rear of the house, Maggie stopped dead in her tracks.
“What?”
“The window,” Maggie said. Newt looked where Maggie was pointing and saw the broken windowpane in the kitchen door. “Jesus, is it really possible he was here?”
Newt shrugged. “It looks like someone was.”
When they reached the door, Newt slid his hand in through the window, found the lock, and opened it.
“The glass is all on the inside,” Maggie said.
Newt nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
“Bullshit,” Maggie said, sliding in front of him. “I’m the one with the gun. I go in first.”
“Good thinking,” Newt said.
There was nothing extraordinary inside the house, except everything was old. Old refrigerator. Old furniture. Old wallpaper. Like an abandoned Hollywood TV set for Father Knows Best.
Newt and Maggie reached the top of the stairs and looked inside each room as they went until they reached the final door at the end of the hall. Newt grabbed the knob with his gloved hand and pulled the door open.
The room was almost empty.
Across the room on the far wall, next to a partially open window, there was a sheet of notebook paper tacked to the wall:
“SLM,” Maggie said. “Stanton Lee Mungehr. He’s not trying to hide his identity anymore.”
“He knew that if we found the house, then we already knew who he was,” Newt said.
“You’ve got to admit, it’s not a half-bad poem,” Maggie said.
“Yeah, if you’re into rip-offs,” Newt said. “The poem is a rewritten version of the song “Richard Cory” by Simon and Garfunkel. From the ‘60s. About a rich man who had everything but shot himself because he was miserable.”
“Huh,” Maggie said.
“But the Simon and Garfunkel song wasn’t entirely original either,” Newt said. “They took the idea from a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson published in 1897.”
“Okay,” Maggie said. “What does it mean? Something to do with being a copy of a copy maybe?”
Newt shrugged. “Could be. Then again it might not mean anything—other than letting us know killing Declan Mulvaney wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. “He watched him for thirty years before he did it.”
“And he’s a smoker,” Maggie said. “Did we know that already?”
“There were a couple of ashtrays in the house,” Newt said.
“That’s right,” Maggie said.
Newt squatted down and looked at the cigarette butts on the wooden floor. “Two brands,” Newt said.
“What, you think he’s traveling with someone?”
“Yes and no,” Newt said. “Yes and no.”
“Maybe we should put out a BOLO,” Maggie said. “I don’t see what it can hurt.”
Newt nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
JANUARY 27, 2011
CLAY TURNED THE police cruiser between the trees and drove down the narrow dirt road toward the lighthouse and was surprised to see Noah outside chopping wood.
Clay pulled to a stop, turned off the engine, and grabbed a paper bag off the passenger seat and got out of the car. “You don’t look very sick to me,” Clay called out.
Noah reached down and grabbed a piece of wood and stood it up on its end. “Who said I was?” he said, pulling the ax back and swinging it with his arms straight, the blade hitting the wood with a loud crack and splitting it down the center.
“Ellen said you’d called out the last few days.”
“What’s that?” Noah said, motioning to the paper bag in Clay’s hand.
“Chicken soup,” Clay said. “From Ellen.”
Noah shook his head and grabbed another piece of wood.
“I’ve never chopped wood. Can you believe it?” Clay said. “Never even crossed my mind. Too much work.”
Noah brought the ax down again, tossed it into the grass, and wiped his forehead. “Why are you here, Clay? And don’t tell me it’s to bring me soup.”
“I thought you were sick. That’s all, really,” Clay said. “Where’s Onyx?”
Noah shook his head and snorted. “Come inside. Have a beer.”
Clay followed Noah into the caretaker’s house and down the hallway to the kitchen. Noah pulled two cans of Widmer Brothers from the fridge and handed one to Clay.
Clay popped the top and took a sip of the beer. “So are you going to tell me where—?”
“She left,” Noah said.
“What do you mean, she left?” Clay asked. “Left for where?”
“She’s gone, Clay,” Noah said, picking up a letter from the kitchen counter and handing it to Clay. “Here, see for yourself.”
Clay held the letter in his hand and began to read:
Dear Noah,
By now you have probably figured out that I have gone. This letter is to explain why.
Quite simply, I have decided it is time to stop clinging to a life that isn’t a life at all. Not really.
The best part of my existence on earth was the years I spent alive, breathing air into my lungs and feeling rain upon my skin, watching the multi-hued colors of the sun turn from blue to purple to orange and then red, before being devoured by the night. Climbing into a warm bed beneath a soft blanket in anticipation of yet another day to come.
For seventy years there has been none of that. No breathing of the air. No sensation of feeling. Only a few detectable scents and one recognizable color. There has been no going to bed at night, no waking up in the morning—every day little more than a shadowy memory of the life I once had and would never have again.
Now, even with you, I know the life I’m living is a lie because it’s not really a life at all.
I am nothing more than a ghostly shell of the person I once was, housing a heartbroken spirit that has spent the past seventy years dreaming of what life was—and what it can never be again.
To be a ghost is to be in a constant state of remembering all the things you wished you could forget, and reaching out to touch the things you thought you’d never let get away—but then they got away anyway.
My existence has become harder to understand with each passing day. The amount of time available to me is endless—yet no matter what, there will never be enough—and the emptiness inside of me takes up more and more space, weighing down what remains of me. So how do I explain my reluctance to release my grasp on what holds me here? It can only be that life is such a precious thing that one finds it difficult to let go—even after you are dead.
I have long wondered if there was a meaning to life—and, if so, what that meaning was. I believe I found it while looking through my books one last time this morning. It was a quote by Kafka. He said: ‘The meaning of life is that it stops.’ I think perhaps Kafka was right. Maybe the most meaningful thing a person can do after walking the planet so long is to simply stop.
Please know this:
Every person is a ghost to some degree, each of us haunted by the idea that we have wasted our time on people and things that didn’t matter.
That was never the case with a single minute spent with you.
I wish you could have been my first love, Noah. If you had, maybe things would have worked out differently.
I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t speak up earlier. And that’s fair. I know I should have. But I wanted to
believe you were my soul mate so badly that I let myself go forward with the wedding against my better judgment. I now know I will never find a soul mate because soul mates are people who make each other feel alive. But what if one of you is dead? What then?
Goodbye, Noah.
Find someone else.
Someone better.
Someone alive.
Love forever,
Onyx
P.S. Somewhere in the woods my bones lay scattered. Perhaps you can find it in your heart to bury what is left of me with my father, Katherine, and Poe. I know it is a lot to ask, especially under the circumstances, but ghosts are not allowed to bury their own remains.
If not, I understand.
“Ouch,” Clay said finally, handing the letter back to Noah. “What, you just woke up and she was gone?”
Noah shook his head. “No, I saw her leaving.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She just walked into the trees and disappeared,” Noah said. “The letter was on her easel at the top of the lighthouse.”
Clay remained silent.
“Onyx didn’t say anything to you, did she, Clay?” Noah asked.
Clay shook his head. “No, she surely didn’t.”
“I just don’t get it,” Noah said. “She seemed happy. I can’t imagine what came over her.”
Clay looked away, a sinking feeling coming over him. It was the stupid thing Tara said. Tara had told Clay about the comments she’d made about Noah’s sacrifice and giving up his chance at having a normal life.
“I think I might have an idea,” Clay said.
“Jesus, Clay,” Noah said when Clay finished telling him what Tara said. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Clay shrugged. “I guess I just kind of hoped it wasn’t going to become a problem.”
“Well, it was,” Noah said. “Shit, I feel like hopping in the car and giving Tara a piece of—”
“Please, Noah, don’t,” Clay said. “She feels horrible already. Chewing out Tara for an honest slip of the tongue isn’t going to make the situation any better.”
Noah shook his head and remained silent.
“So, are you going to do it?” Clay asked finally.
“Do what?”
“The P.S. at the end of the letter.”
“Bury her? Why should I?” Noah said, downing the last of his beer.
“I don’t know,” Clay said. “Just seems like the decent thing to do. Can’t imagine someone I love scattered about like that.”
“How about running out on someone you vowed to stay with forever?” Noah said. “Is that a decent thing to do?”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Clay said, walking to the door. “Well, if you decide to go looking for her, it won’t be easy. My great-great grandfather, Hell Daniels, searched for Onyx’s remains back in the 1940s. Never found them. I looked once too. It won’t be easy.”
OGALLALA, NEBRASKA
JANUARY 29, 2011
STAN LEE HEARD the whirring of a siren behind him and assumed it was a passing ambulance or a police vehicle chasing a speeder. It couldn’t possibly be him since he always used cruise control, and never set it for more than five miles an hour over the speed limit.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the black-and-white Nebraska State Patrol vehicle directly on his tail, its red and blue lights flashing.
Son of a bitch.
Stan Lee tapped the brakes, flipped the turn signal, and cautiously pulled to the right, the Honda Pilot’s tires crunching on the snow-covered gravel.
Slow, deep breaths, Stan Lee thought as he placed his hands in the ten and two o’clock positions on the steering wheel the way police liked. Whatever it is, you can talk your way out of it.
Stan Lee watched as a uniformed officer exited the patrol car and sauntered slowly toward the driver’s side door. “Lower your window, please,” the officer said.
Stan Lee did as he was told and felt the freezing air rush into the car. “How can I help you, Officer?”
“Driver’s license and registration, please,” the officer said. Stan Lee lowered the overhead visor, grateful he’d taken the time to ensure the vehicle registration was there and to have memorized the information.
Stan Lee handed the registration to the officer. “Sadly, I seem to have left my wallet somewhere along the way. Maybe at the last hotel. I have no identification.”
The officer did not respond and studied the registration. “I assume you are not Grace Kubileski?” the officer said.
“That is correct,” Stan Lee said. “Grace is my sister. I live with her at her house in Chicago. She was kind enough to let me borrow her car.”
“And you have no ID?”
“As I said, it’s in my wallet, which I—”
“Lost,” the officer said. The officer pulled out a small notepad and pen. “Name and address, please.”
“Robert Kubileski,” Stan Lee said.
The officer wrote the name on the pad. “Wait here.”
The officer walked back toward the patrol car, and Stan Lee rolled the window up.
Five minutes passed, and Stan Lee watched in the rearview mirror as the officer looked at the computer screen in the patrol vehicle and spoke to someone on his radio, probably dispatch.
When five minutes became ten, Stan Lee finally started to panic. What in the hell was taking so long? Had the FBI issued a BOLO with his description? Just because he hadn’t seen himself mentioned on TV didn’t mean they hadn’t done it behind the scenes.
“Just go,” Kara said from the passenger seat.
“Be quiet. I’m thinking,” Stan Lee said.
“They know,” Kara said. “You’ve got to run.”
“I said to be—”
The patrol officer rapped his baton on the driver’s window, and Stan Lee jumped, his heart in his throat. He rolled down the window.
“We were unable to reach your sister, Mr. Kubileski, but your plates are up to date and the registration is valid, so you’re free to go,” the officer said, handing the registration card to Stan Lee. “But you better get ID as soon as possible. Oh, yeah, and your left taillight is out. Consider this a warning.”
“Well, thank you so much,” Stan Lee said. “I’ll get it handled immediately.”
“There are a couple auto places up ahead in Ogallala,” the cop said. “If you don’t take care of it, you will get pulled over again.”
“You’ve got to ditch the legs,” Kara said once they were driving down the road again. “It’s a miracle he didn’t notice them.”
The glass container with Juniper Cole’s legs was too tall to stand up in the trunk of the Honda, so he’d placed them on the rear floor of the vehicle, covered in a blanket.
“No, the legs stay.”
“Well, I want to go on the record that having a pair of severed legs in the back of your car is a bad idea,” Kara said.
Stan Lee got off I-80 on Route 26 North and headed toward the main business district in Ogallala. He pulled out his cell phone and searched for nearby storage rentals. There was a Store-It-Cheap not more than two minutes away.
As much as he wanted to keep the legs, Kara was right. Keeping the legs with him was a terrible idea. What if someone broke into the car? Besides, he could come back whenever he wanted to retrieve them.
“Well, if you don’t have much stuff to store, a five-by-five- unit ought to do it,” the man behind the counter said. “I’ve got a temperature-controlled unit with interior access on the first floor for forty-one dollars per month, and if you do a year, I’ll throw in a month for free.”
“That’s okay,” Stan Lee said. “Six months is plenty.”
The total, including the lock and sales tax, came to $249.82.
Stan Lee paid cash.
Five minutes later, the glass container with Juniper Cole’s legs was sitting on the concrete floor in storage locker B122, covered in the blanket.
Stan Lee thought he’d feel bad leaving the leg
s behind. But he was surprised to feel nothing but relief.
Like a load had been lifted.
Like he’d just detached from his past somehow.
He had no house.
No job.
No car—other than Grace’s stolen Honda, which wasn’t his.
No belongings to speak of.
Nothing.
He was truly free.
An hour later, exhausted from dealing with the cop and the legs, Stan Lee decided it was time to stop and get a room.
“Are you going out to see the lighthouse?” the girl at the motel check-in desk asked.
“There’s a lighthouse in Nebraska?” Stan Lee asked.
“Yep, there sure is. Up at Lake Minatare in the wildlife refuge near Scottsbluff. Fifty-five-foot tall. Best-kept secret in the state. Head up the 385 another twenty miles, and you can go see Carhenge too.”
“Carhenge?”
“Yeah, like Stonehenge but with cars,” the girl said. “It’s about two miles north of Alliance out in a big field. Not much to look at really. Just a bunch of old junkers painted gray, and stuck in the ground in a big circle like that place in France or wherever. They got some other scrap metal sculptures out there too.”
Stan Lee was no longer listening. His mind was on the lighthouse. Not the one in Lake Minatare. The one in Crimson Cove. If ever there was a remote place to hide out for a while, Crimson Cove was it.
And he really wanted to talk with Onyx Webb.
Assuming she was still alive.
ORLANDO, FLORIDA
JANUARY 30, 2011 – 9:42 P.M.
HOW LONG DO we plan to stay here?” Robyn asked from her position on the sofa, lying with her head on a pillow in Koda’s lap.
Koda laid his book on the coffee table. “You want to go out? We can. It’s early. I can get the plane, and we can be in Miami before ten. Nothing gets going there before midnight.”
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