Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham)

by Sheffield, Jamie

  I was surprised, for a second, to see the back of a shower stall, but then it made sense to me; the oubliette had been made to have no visible door. The occupant might have woken up inside, and never had an idea how they had gotten inside (or more importantly, how they could possibly get out). I reached out to touch the back of the shower stall, and felt the solidity of the thing; this was heavy-duty fiberglass that I wouldn’t be able to kick my way through ... I went back upstairs.

  Without shining my light directly on Bobby, I ascertained that he was still in position, and looked around at the tools on the walls of the workshop/garage, finding what I needed in seconds. I took the Sawzall, along with the biggest extension cord that I could find back down into the dungeon, and plugged it into one of the numerous sockets in the room between/outside the cells, and went back to the door I’d unlocked a minute ago. The Sawzall made a lot of noise, but I’d closed the soundproof doors, and was pretty sure that nobody up in the world would hear me. I was able to cut a me-sized entry hole in the back of the shower in a bit under two minutes, and after kicking the cut door into the cell, I stuck my head in.

  “Hello. Is anyone there?” I asked. “I’m a good guy.” It was stupid, and lame, but I didn’t have anything else on tap, having never entered an oubliette before.

  There was a single bed on the far side of the room with a lump under the blanket, so I repeated my greeting; a tiny pale face poked out from underneath the blanket and goggled at me through red-rimmed eyes.

  “Is this it? Are you here to kill me, finally?” she asked with a dry and raspy voice. She was as pale as any human I’ve ever seen, and thin, and wouldn’t look at me … she looked at a spot on the floor two feet in front of where I was leaning into her room.

  “My name is Tyler Cunningham, and I came here tonight to take you away from this place. If you’re able to walk, we can leave as soon as I open up the other cell.”

  She raised her eyes slowly, blinking as if the light coming from behind me hurt her eyes (as, in fact, it might, given how dim the light was in her room/cell) and spoke again, this time with a bit more confidence, along with a interestingly proper tone in her voice, “I have always thought that there might be another. My name is Samantha Gotham, young man. Could you please tell me if it is day or night, and what time of year it is?” She paused for a second, and then continued, her voice getting faster and louder and edging towards/into hysteria.

  “I have missed the seasons. It’s always the same in here. I remember leaves turning orange and red in the fall, and snow on my tongue, and the smell of ocean, and ….”

  “Samantha. It’s a summer night outside, and I’ll take you out in a minute, but I have to open the other cell first,” I said.

  “Don’t leave!” she shrieked, “Let me come with you … please.” She sounded embarrassed by the fervency with which she had spoken, but I waved her plea off.

  “Of course you can come with me. Do you need or want to bring anything with you? Will you be warm enough outside? It’s a cool night,” I said.

  She got up off the bed, and without any modesty, climbed out of a nightshirt, and into a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt (which looked cheap and Walmart-y) in seconds, and then seemed to remember that I was there.

  “My goodness, I’m sorry. I’ve been dressing and undressing and everything else by myself for so long, it didn’t occur to me to ask you to turn around. To answer your questions, I want nothing from this place, and I will indeed be warm enough … it will be nice to feel cold or wet or sun or leaves.” She was wandering away from the conversation again, but could certainly be forgiven for that, given the givens.

  “Okay. Come with me then, Samatha, but stay behind me, and cover your ears, while I open the door for your neighbor.” She looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then understood, and nodded.

  I cut open the other shower after unlocking and opening the door on the opposite wall, and the room inside was quite similar, although the occupant was an old man. I tried to short-circuit the routine this second time around, as I could feel time ticking away, and wondered about how badly Robert or Bobby might want to get loose, and if they could tear themselves free given enough time and the desire to do so.

  “Hello. My Name is Tyler Cunningham, and I’m here to take you away from this place.” Samantha, who had been behind me, now popped her face in next to mine, taking the time to touch my shoulder and then face (as if to make sure that I was real). When she did so, I continued, “Samantha was in the cell across the hall from you. If you’re able, I would like to get all of us out of here as soon as is possible.”

  The old man had been sitting at a small round table at the far end of the room when I poked my head in through the newly cut door, and seemed to hear me, but did not answer. He stood up and looked around the room, and walked over to me and held out a piece of paper, pointing to a line of laser-printed text about halfway down the sheet that said, ‘Good behavior will be rewarded. Bad behavior will be punished.’

  Samantha leaned in and said to me (perhaps speaking for the old man), “If you make noise or try to escape, they turn the lights off. Mine were off for so long once, that I forgot what colors were.” The old man nodded, and looked around nervously, then went back to sit at his table.

  “I can take you away from this place, and they cannot stop us from leaving. I’ve incapacitated them, and as soon as we get aboveground, I can call my friend, a policeman to come and get us … but we need to leave now,” I said.

  The old man wouldn’t look at me this time, and he remained sitting at the table. Samantha went over and spoke to him in a low voice, and I waited, wanting to scream at him to come with me (but assuming that it wouldn’t help anything if I were to do so). Long minutes crawled by, with their whispers scratching at my nerves (mostly Samantha’s and then finally his deeper/harsher ones joined hers) seeming to take forever, and I could feel the pressure of the Reinegers’ potential escapes wearing at my tattered facade of calm. Eventually, Samantha came over, and winked at me from the side the old man could not see.

  “He agreed that he will come with us if you will write a note telling them that you forced us both to go with you.” She held out a pencil and a piece of paper for me, smiling a bit. Behind her, I could see the old man looking eagerly at me, and making a writing-on-paper gesture.

  I nodded at him and turned to find a kitchen-y counter next to the shower, bent over and wrote, (saying aloud as I went), “To whom it may concern: I, Tyler Cunningham, forced both people living under Camp Juniper Bay to break the rules, against their wishes, and leave their rooms (I almost wrote cells, but veered away from that word at the last second). Any blame or punishment as a consequence of their leaving should be mine and mine alone. – Tyler Cunningham.”

  I looked up and the old man nodded with a banker’s precision at my words/wording, grabbed a marbled notebook from underneath his mattress, and followed Samantha and I out of his cell. We climbed the stairs, then the ladder, and I took one of each of their hands in the dark of the garage/workshop, making a point not to shine my headlamp on Bobby, and we walked out a side-door and into the starry night, with a nearly full moon overhead.

  They both shivered, at the stars or moon or breeze I don’t know, and gripped my hands more tightly than ever as we walked away from their prison. The sounds behind us as we walked into the woods seemed to indicate that the firefighters had put out the fire, and some of them were getting ready to leave … and in fact a few fire-vehicles passed our hiding place behind a big stump in the woods just before we crossed Route 30 and made our way back to the Porsche.

  I had calls to make, and Frank Gibson was the first.

  “Frank, you need to make some calls, wake up all of the suits that you have numbers for, and get over to the Edelman camp, Camp Juniper Bay, tonight with everyone you can manage. The Edelmans and Reinegers have been kidnapping and imprisoning people for more than 50 years, starting with Dee Crocker.”

  “Tyler, what
are you talking about? That’s crazy!” he said.

  “I agree, but if you look under the oil-changing pit in their garage, you’ll find an honest to God dungeon, and if you can sneak away to the Crocker camp in a few hours, you’ll find me there with two people who have been living in that dungeon for who knows how long.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” he shouted, and was chastised by Meg in the background. “Tyler, are you messing with me? I can’t un-call the people I’m gonna have to call once we get off the phone.”

  “I’m 100 percent serious, and I’m going to need a lawyer by the time this all gets sorted out. The term ‘exigent circumstances’ would be worthwhile for you and the DA, and maybe the FBI, to look up and/or think about before you arrest me tonight … or hopefully tomorrow.” I stopped, waiting for him to interrupt, but he just breathed/sighed on the other end of the phone connection. “I was reasonably certain that the Reinegers knew about me investigating them, and that they were going to kill any prisoners/hostages they had in the oubliette (Frank tried to break in with ‘the what?’, but I ran right over him), the dungeon, before you could legally search the place. So I tied up all three Reinegers in the house and garage before I could rescue their prisoners. I don’t know if there are any here, but you might want to detain any male Edelmans you find on-site as well … just sayin’.”

  “Well ... Meg did say that Robert was acting crazy an hour or so ago. He took off before I got home, but it shook her and the Mullanes up … they said he seemed manic.”

  I was wired/bored now, and had to get off the phone with Frank, “Okay. Well, you know where I’ll be. When you come, it might be nice to bring a couple of ambulances as well, Samantha and the old man seem mostly fine, but they should get checked out.” I hung up before he could start the next thing … whatever it was, and called Dot.

  “Dorothy! I’m only going to be on the phone for a minute. I’m fine, and two people, three if you include me, are alive because of you. You did a great job tonight, but from this point until we all die, the fire was just a lucky coincidence. Got it? I assume that you got in and out clean. Nobody will be looking this gift horse too hard in the mouth, I hope, but we need to make it easy for them to accept the coincidence … distraught and crazy caretaker is sloppy with dangerous supplies near where a spark could occur … tragedy ensues. Right?”

  “Shut up, Tyler!” Dot shouted into her phone (and subsequently, through the miracle of cellular phone technology, mine).

  “Sorry,” I said

  “As long as you’re okay, it’s not a problem. There were two people, and they’re okay? Is one of them Kitty’s daughter?”

  “No, Dee probably died a long time ago, but these two are okay … ish,” I replied. “I’ll be by later tonight if you’re going to be up, and we can talk.”

  “I’ll be here and awake no matter what time it is, and thanks for letting me help you and Kitty. Do you want me to come with you when you talk with her?”

  “I’m heading there tonight with the two people we were able to save. It’s not her daughter, but she needs to hear about it now, and she deserves to know that she made all the difference in the world to these two,” I said.

  “You’re less of a robot than you’d like to think you are, Tyler. Hope will be happy to see you when you get here. Bye.”

  “Bye Dot,” I said, hit the button to disconnect, and then dialed Anthony’s cell-phone.

  “Anthony, it’s Tyler Cunningham. I need to come by and see Mrs. Crocker and Mike tonight … right now in fact. I’ll be there in three minutes,” I said.

  “Wait, what?” he said (it’s possible that I was being overtaken by the adrenaline in my system by this point, and either not making sense, or speaking too fast).

  “I know almost everything about what happened to Dee Crocker in 1958, and it can’t wait until tomorrow. Also, could you have the cook make some food and drink for a couple of extra guests, neither of them Deirdre, for while we’re all talking?” I asked.

  Anthony was likely used to dealing with difficult people and/or strange requests, so he seemed to just roll with it now that he could understand me, “I’ll arrange it, and we’ll be in the main lodge, or getting there, when you get to Topsail.”

  “Thanks. It would also be a good idea to have Mrs. Crocker’s nurse on hand … the news is shocking, and will be a mix of both good and bad,” I said, and hung up.

  We piled into the Porsche, Samantha sitting on the old man’s lap for the short ride. I drove slowly (glacially slowly compared to my previous driving this evening) to Camp Topsail and the Crockers.

  Camp Topsail, Upper Saranac Lake, 7/19/2013, 11:17 p.m.

  We rolled and crunched into the driveway at Camp Topsail, not so very far, or different, from Camp Juniper Bay, at least not for me, but for my passengers it was a different story. Less than two minutes after leaving my parking spot in the woods near Juniper Bay, I could see lights and hear voices/noises in the great room and adjoining buildings. Anthony was waiting, and if he was surprised by the appearance of Samantha or the old man in the harsh glare of the lights mounted all around the parking area, than he had the courtesy/presence of mind not to show it. I could see the faces of the younger Crockers peering out from their cabin … even little Deirdre, but they had not been invited to the great room by Kitty, so they would have to wait and guess and wonder.

  “Tyler, Mr. Cunningham, come inside. Kitty and Mike will join us in a minute,” Anthony said.

  We all hustled inside, Samantha holding my arm the whole time … either to keep her footing while she watched the sky and moon and stars, or from fear at being so far from her home/prison/oubliette for the first time in who knows how long.

  The old man walked quietly behind us, glum and silent until he yelped and pounced at the night-dark ground and came up with something cupped in his hands, and a smile on his face; he walked less tentatively after that, as if whatever he had found/grabbed gave him strength/confidence/power in his new situation. He saw me watching, and looked scared/guilty for a second until I formed my best #2 smile, which I’ve been told is the gentlest and also my least fake-looking. Once he ascertained that I wasn’t going to punish him, he worked his face around, and eventually formed a shy/sly smile and leaned towards me conspiratorially.

  “Bufo Americanus, a tiny one. It’s the fourth living thing I’ve seen in … what’s the date?” he asked.

  “July 19th … of 2013,” I answered.

  “ … four and a quarter years. I suppose that I should leave him out here if we’re all going inside,” he asked, with a hesitancy and wistfulness in his tone that even I could pick up.

  “I bet that Anthony can find a Tupperware container for your toad while we talk with Kitty.” I was intentionally keeping everything on a first name, and casual/friendly basis for both the old man and Samantha. I waited for an indignant, ‘Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor not a herpetologist!’ type speech from Anthony, but he nodded quietly, perhaps having figured something out, a bit, waved us into the great room, and then sped off in another direction

  “For my money, you shouldn’t have to do a thing that you don’t want to do for the rest of your life, and certainly not tonight,” I said, and led the way into Topsail’s Great Room.

  We walked into the huge, dimly lit, and empty room, all of us unsure of how to proceed (or even sit) until the cook shuffled in with a huge plate of hot/fresh chocolate chip cookies that filled the room with their scent … comforting and seductive and surprising (since I had only called minutes ago).

  “It’s a Topsail tradition,” the cook, (Gwen, I remembered), said. “Every night there’s a baked treat made and delivered to each guest before bedtime; been doing it for 60 years or more, I’d say (Since before Deirdre was taken, I couldn’t help thinking).”

  As she set the tray down, a younger version of the cook came in behind her (not Sarah, who I’d met before, perhaps some other kitchen help, specific to nights), with a tray of glasses and mugs, “Hot and cold milk,
but I can make coffee or tea if you’d prefer,” she said.

  “I think this will be fine, we’re already causing enough trouble for you,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  Without further discussion or direction, we sat down at the end of the long table with the food and drink ... I grabbed a cookie, and poured myself a glass of cold milk. Samantha and the old man were waiting, either unsure of what to do, or more polite than me in someone else’s home (or both). Anthony came in with a salvaged ice-cream container from Donnelly’s, and set it down in front of the old man … I noticed that it had a handful of grass and moss and a sprinkling of water in the bottom (something I’d done dozens of times as a boy), and I found that I liked Anthony 7.3 times more than I had when he was just Kitty’s efficient minion. The old man gently pushed his hand into the damp moss, and opened his hand; leaned over, and seemed satisfied when his toad hopped and burrowed underneath.

  At that moment, Mike came in from the outside, and Kitty crashed through the kitchen door, with the help of both her walker, and her nurse (who I was happy to see had a medical gear bag over one shoulder). Both Samantha and the old man started at the noise and motion from two directions, looked at me for a flee/stay cue, and thankfully took my calming hand-gesture to heart.

  “Kitty, Mike, this is Samantha and…” I stopped here, hoping that he would speak up, and, surprisingly, he did.

  “Morris. Morris Browning. Pleased to meet you,” he said in a voice that grated and squeaked like a rusty door-hinge. “Thank you so much for the cookies. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in years.”

  “My grandmother liked her sweets, and when she became the Grand-Dame of Camp Topsail, she set up a rotation of cookies and little pies to be placed on everyone’s pillow every night. When my great grandmother ran the camp and kitchen, there was a bowl of fruit on this table (she thumped a spot at our end with a frail hand) after supper, and nothing else allowed until breakfast for anyone … for any reason,” Kitty said. “She was a bear (and Kitty smiled at the thought of the long dead food fascist).”