Stephen King - Duma Key

I shook my head. “Don’t know.”

“ Why don’t you know?”

“Because the rest of the answers are on the south end of the island,” I said. “At whatever’s left of the original Heron’s Roost. And I think that’s where Perse is, too.”

“All right, then,” Wireman said. “Unless we’re prepared to vacate Duma posthaste, it seems to me that we ought to go there.”

“Based on what happened to Tom, we don’t even have that choice,” I said. “I sold a lot of paintings, and the guys at the Scoto won’t hold them forever.”

“Buy them back,” Jack suggested. Not that I hadn’t already thought of that myself.

Wireman shook his head. “Plenty of the owners won’t want to sell, not even at twice the price. And a story like this wouldn’t convince them.”

To this, no one said anything.

“But she’s not quite as strong in daylight,” I said. “I’d suggest nine o’clock.”

“Fine by me,” Jack said, and stood up. “I’ll be here at quarter of. Right now I’m going back across the bridge to Sarasota.” The bridge . That started an idea knocking around in my head.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Wireman said.

“After this conversation?” Jack raised his eyebrows. “With all due respect, dude, no way. But I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Long pants and boots are the order of the day,” Wireman said. “It’ll be overgrown down there, and there could be snakes.” He scrubbed a hand up the side of his face. “Looks like I might be missing tomorrow’s viewing at Abbot-Wexler. Miss Eastlake’s relatives will have to bare their teeth at each other. What a pity… hey, Jack.”

Jack had started for the door. Now he turned back.

“You don’t happen to have any of Edgar’s art, do you?”

“Mmm… well…”

“Fess up. Confession’s good for the soul, compañero .”

“One sketch,” Jack said. He shuffled his feet, and I thought he was blushing. “Pen and ink. On the back of an envelope. A palm tree. I… ah… I fished it out of the trash basket one day. Sorry, Edgar. My bad.”

“S’okay, but burn it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be able to give you another one when all this is over.” If it ever is, I thought but didn’t add.

Jack nodded. “Okay. You want a ride back to Big Pink?”

“I’ll stay here with Wireman,” I said, “but I do want to go back to Big Pink first.”

“Don’t tell me,” Jack said. “Jammies and a toothbrush.”

“No,” I said. “Picnic basket and those silver har—”

The telephone rang, and we all looked at each other. I think I knew right away that it was bad news; I felt that sinking as my stomach turned into an elevator. It rang again. I looked at Wireman, but Wireman just looked at me. He knew, too. I picked it up.

“It’s me.” Pam, heavy-voiced. “Brace yourself, Edgar.”

When someone says something like that, you always try to fasten some kind of mental safety belt. But it rarely works. Most people don’t have one.

“Spill it.”

“I got Bozie at home and told him what you said. He started asking questions, which was no surprise, but I told him I was in a hurry and didn’t have any answers anyway, so — short form — he agreed to do as you asked. ‘For old times’ sake,’ he said.”

That sinking sensation was getting worse.

“After that I tried Ilse. I wasn’t sure I’d reach her, but she just got in. She sounded tired, but she’s back, and she’s okay. I’ll check on Linnie tomorrow, when—”

“ Pam —”

“I’m getting to it. After Illy I called Kamen. Someone answered on the second or third ring, and I started my spiel. I thought I was talking to him.” She paused. “It was his brother. He said Kamen stopped in Starbucks for a latte on his way back from the airport. Had a heart attack while he was waiting in line. The EMTs transported him to the hospital, but it was only a formality. The brother said Kamen was DRT — dead right there. He asked me why I was calling, and I said it didn’t matter now. Was that all right?”

“Yes.” I didn’t think Kamen’s sketch would have any effect on the brother, or anyone else; I thought its work was done. “Thank you.”

“If it’s any consolation, it could have been a coincidence — he was a hell of a nice guy, but he was also packing a lot of extra pounds. Anyone who looked at him could see that.”

“You could be right.” Although I knew she wasn’t. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“All right.” She hesitated. “Take care of yourself, Eddie.”

“You too. Lock your doors tonight, and set the alarm.”

“I always do.”

She broke the connection. On the other side of the house, the surf was disputing with the night. My right arm was itching. I thought: If I could get at you, I believe I’d cut you off all over again. Partly to stop the damage you can do, but mostly just to shut you up.

But of course it wasn’t my gone arm, or the hand which had once lived at the end of it, that was the problem; the problem was the woman-thing in the red robe, using me like some kind of fucked-up Ouija board.

“What?” Wireman asked. “Don’t keep us in suspense, muchacho, what?”

“Kamen,” I said. “Heart attack. Dead.”

I thought of all the pictures stored at the Scoto, pictures that were sold. They’d be safe for a little while where they were, but in the end, money talks and bullshit walks. That wasn’t even a man-law, it was the motherfucking American way.

“Come on, Edgar,” Jack said. “I’ll run you to your place, then drive you back here.”

I won’t say our trip upstairs to Little Pink was exactly serene (I had the silver candlestick, and carried it at port arms all the time we were inside), but it was uneventful. The only spirits in the place were the agitated voices of the shells. I put the drawings back in the red picnic basket. Jack snagged the handles and carried it downstairs. I had his back the whole way, and locked Big Pink’s door behind us. Much good that would do.

While we were riding back to El Palacio, a thought occurred to me… or recurred. I’d left my digital Nikon behind and didn’t want to go back for it, but—

“Jack, do you have a Polaroid camera?”

“Sure,” he said. “A One-Shot. It’s what my Dad calls ‘old but serviceable.’ Why?”

“When you come tomorrow, I want you to stop for awhile on the Casey Key side of the drawbridge. Take a few Polaroids of the birds and the boats, okay?”

“Okay…”

“And sneak in a couple of the drawbridge itself, especially the lifting machinery.”

“Why? What do you want them for?”

“I’m going to sketch the drawbridge with the machinery gone,” I said. “And I’m going to do it when I hear the horn that means it’s up to let a boat go through. I don’t think the motor and the hydraulics will really disappear, but with luck I can fuck it up badly enough to keep everybody off for awhile. Car-traffic, anyway.”

“Are you serious? You really think you can sabotage the bridge?”

“Given how often it breaks down on its own, that should be easy.” I looked again at the dark water and thought of Tom Riley, who should have been fixed. Who had been fixed, dammit. “I only wish I could draw myself a good night’s sleep.”

Look for the picture inside the picture. It’s not always easy to see, but it’s always there. And if you miss it, you can miss the world. I know that better than anyone, because when I looked at the picture of Carson Jones and my daughter — of Smiley and his Punkin — I thought I knew what I was looking for and missed the truth. Because I didn’t trust him? Yes, but that’s almost funny. The truth was, I wouldn’t have trusted any man who presumed to claim my darling, my favored one, my Ilse.