Stephen King - Duma Key

I took a final handful of cereal, crammed it into my mouth, and swallowed. It stuck in my throat, and that was good. That was fine. I hoped it would choke me. I deserved to choke. Then it slid down. I went shuffle-limping back into the living room. Wireman was standing beside the answering machine, wide-eyed.

“Edgar… muchacho … what in God’s name —?”

“One of the paintings,” I said, and kept on shuffling. Now that I had something in my stomach, I wanted some more oblivion. If only for a little while. Only it was more than wanting, actually; it was needing. I had broken the broomhandle… then Wireman came along. What was in the ellipsis? I didn’t know.

I decided I didn’t want to know.

“The paintings…?”

“Mary Ire bought one. I’m sure it was one from the Girl and Ship series. And she took it with her. We should have known. I should have known. Wireman, I need to lie down. I need to sleep. Two hours, okay? Then wake me and we’ll go to the south end.”

“Edgar, you can’t… I don’t expect you to after…”

I stopped to look at him. It felt as though my head weighed a hundred pounds, but I managed. “ She doesn’t expect me to, either, but this ends today. Two hours.”

Big Pink’s open door faced east, and the morning sun struck brightly across Wireman’s face, lighting a compassion so strong I could barely look at it. “Okay, muchacho . Two hours.”

“In the meantime, try to keep everyone clear.” I don’t know if he heard that last part or not. I was facing into my bedroom by then, and the words were trailing away. I fell onto my bed, and there was Reba. For a moment I considered throwing her across the room, as I had considered throwing the phone. Instead I gathered her to me and pressed my face against her boneless body and began to cry. I was still crying when I fell asleep.

“Wake up.” Someone was shaking me. “Wake up, Edgar. If we’re going to do this, we have to get rolling.”

“I dunno — I’m not sure he’s going to come around.” That voice was Jack’s.

“Edgar!” Wireman slapped first one side of my face, then the other. Not gently, either. Bright light struck my closed eyes, flooding my world with red. I tried to get away from all these stimuli — there were bad things waiting on the other side of my eyelids — but Wireman wouldn’t let me. “ Muchacho! Wake up! It’s ten past eleven!”

That got through. I sat up and looked at him. He was holding the bedside lamp in front of my face, so close I could feel the heat from the bulb. Jack was standing behind him. The realization that Ilse was dead — my Illy — struck at my heart, but I pushed it away. “ Eleven! Wireman, I told you two hours! What if some of Elizabeth’s relatives decide to—”

“Easy, muchacho . I called the funeral home and told them to keep everyone off Duma. I said that all three of us had come down with German measles. Very contagious. I also called Dario and told him about your daughter. Everything with the pictures is on hold, at least for now. I doubt if that’s a priority with you, but—”

“Of course it is.” I got to my feet and rubbed my hand over my face. “Perse doesn’t get to do any more damage than she already has.”

“I’m sorry, Edgar,” Jack said. “So damn sorry for your loss. I know that doesn’t carry much water, but—”

“It does,” I said, and maybe in time it would. If I kept saying it; if I kept reaching out. My accident really taught me just one thing: the only way to go on is to go on. To say I can do this even when you know you can’t.

I saw that one of them had brought the rest of my clothes, but for today’s work I’d want the boots in the closet instead of the sneakers at the foot of the bed. Jack was wearing Georgia Giants and a long-sleeved shirt; that was good.

“Wireman, will you put on coffee?” I asked.

“Do we have time?”

“We’ll have to make time. There’s stuff I need, but what I need first is to wake up. You guys can use a little fuel, too, maybe. Jack, help me with my boots, would you?”

Wireman left for the kitchen. Jack knelt, eased on my boots, and tied them for me. “How much do you know?” I asked him.

“More than I want to,” he said. “But I don’t understand any of it. I talked to that woman — Mary Ire? — at your show. I liked her.”

“I did, too.”

“Wireman called your wife while you were sleeping. She wouldn’t talk to him very long, so then he called some guy he met at your show — Mr. Bozeman?”

“Tell me.”

“Edgar, are you sure—”

“Tell me.” Pam’s version had been broken and fragmentary, and even that was no longer clear in my mind — the details were obscured by an image of Ilse’s hair floating on the surface of an overflowing bathtub. That might or might not be accurate, but it was hellishly bright, hellishly particular, and it had blotted out almost everything else.

“Mr. Bozeman said the police found no sign of forced entry, so they think your daughter must have let her in, even though it was the middle of the night—”

“Or Mary just hit buzzers until somebody else let her in.” My missing arm itched. It was a deep itch. Sleepy. Dreamy, almost. “Then she walked up to Illy’s apartment and rang the bell. Let’s say that she pretended to be someone else.”

“Edgar, are you guessing, or—”

“Let’s say she pretended to be from a gospel group called The Hummingbirds, and let’s say she called through the door that something bad had happened to Carson Jones.”

“Who’s—”

“Only she calls him Smiley, and that’s the convincer.”

Wireman was back. So was the floating Edgar. Edgar-down-below saw all the mundane things of a sunshiny Florida morning on Duma Key. Edgar-over-my-head saw more. Not everything; just enough to be too much.

“What happened then, Edgar?” Wireman asked. He spoke very softly. “What do you think?”

“Let’s say that Illy opens the door, and when she does, she finds a woman pointing a gun at her. She knows this woman from somewhere, but she’s been through one bad scare already that night, she’s disoriented, and she can’t place her — her memory chokes. Maybe it’s just as well. Mary tells her to turn around, and when she does… when she does that…” I began to cry again.

“Edgar, man, don’t,” Jack said. He was almost crying himself. “This is just guesswork.”

“It’s not guesswork,” Wireman said. “Let him talk.”

“But why do we need to know—”

“Jack… muchacho … we don’t know what we need to know. So let the man talk.”

I heard their voices, but from far away.

“Let’s say Mary hit her with the gun when she turned around.” I wiped my cheeks with the heel of my hand. “Let’s say she hit her several times, four or five. In the movies, you get clopped once and you’re out like a light. In real life, I doubt if it’s like that.”

“No,” Wireman murmured, and of course this game of let’s-say turned out to be all too accurate. My If-So-Girl’s skull had been fractured in three places from repeated overhand blows, and she bled a great deal.

Mary dragged her. The blood-trail led across the living room/kitchen (the smell of the burnt sketch very likely still hanging in the air) and down the short hallway between the bedroom and the nook that served as Illy’s study. In the bathroom at the end of the hall, Mary filled the tub and in it she drowned my unconscious daughter like an orphan kitten. When the job was done, Mary went into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and shot herself in the mouth. The bullet exited the top of her skull, splattering her ideas about art, along with a good deal of her hair, on the living room wall behind her. It was then just shy of four AM. The man downstairs was an insomniac who knew the gunshot for what it was and called the police.