Stephen King - Duma Key

“All right, Daddy.”

She came closer, moving in a queer shamble-drift that wasn’t walking, and up close the illusion collapsed entirely. It was like bringing a painting close to your eyes and watching as the scene — portrait, landscape, still life — collapses into nothing but strokes of color, most with the marks of the brush still embedded in them. Ilse’s features disappeared. What I saw where they had been was nothing but a furious cyclone of sand and tiny bits of shell. What I smelled wasn’t skin and hair but only salt water.

Pallid arms reached for me. Membranes of sand smoked off them in the wind. The moon shone through them. I held up the flashlight. It was short. And its barrel was plastic rather than stainless steel.

“You might want a look at this before you go giving away kisses, though,” I said. “It came from the glove compartment of Jack Cantori’s car. The one with Perse inside is locked in Elizabeth’s safe.”

The thing froze, and when it did, the wind off the Gulf tore away the last semblance of humanity. In that moment I was confronting nothing but a whirling sand-devil. I took no chances, however; it had been a long day, and I had no intention of taking chances, especially if my daughter were somewhere… well, somewhere else… and waiting for her final rest. I swung my arm as hard as I could, the flashlight clamped in my fist and Nan Melda’s silver bracelets sliding down my arm to my wrist. I had cleaned them carefully in the kitchen sink at El Palacio, and they jingled.

I had one of the silver-tipped harpoons stuck in my belt, behind my left hip, for good measure, but I didn’t need it. The sand-devil exploded outward and upward. A scream of rage and pain went through my head. Thank God it was brief, or I think it would have torn me apart. Then there was nothing but the sound of the shells under Big Pink and a brief dimming of the stars over the dunes to my right as the last of the sand blew away in a disorganized flurry. The Gulf was once more empty except for the moon-gilded rollers, marching in toward shore. The Perse had gone, if it had ever been there.

The strength ran out of my legs and I sat down with a thump. Maybe I’d end up doing the Crawly-Gator the rest of the way, after all. If so, Big Pink wasn’t far. Right now I thought I’d just sit here and listen to the shells. Rest a little. Then maybe I’d be able to get up and walk those last twenty yards or so, go in, and call Wireman. Tell him I was all right. Tell him it was done, that Jack could come and pick me up.

But for now I would just sit here and listen to the shells, which no longer seemed to be talking in my voice, or anyone else’s. Now I would just sit here by myself on the sand, and look out at the Gulf, and think about my daughter, Ilse Marie Freemantle, who had weighed six pounds and four ounces at birth, whose first word had been dog, who had once brought home a large brown balloon crayoned on a piece of construction paper, shouting exultantly, “I drawed a pitcher of you, Daddy!”

Ilse Marie Freemantle.

I remember her well.

I piloted the skiff out to the middle of Lake Phalen and killed the motor. We drifted toward the little orange marker I’d left there. A few pleasure boats buzzed back and forth on the glass-smooth surface, but no sailboats; the day was perfectly still. There were a few kids in the playground area, a few people in the picnic area, and a few on the nearest hiking trail skirting the water. On the whole, though, for a lake that’s actually within the city limits, the area was almost empty.

Wireman — looking strangely un-Florida in a fisherman’s hat and a Vikings pullover — commented on this.

“School’s still in,” I said. “Give it another couple of weeks and there’ll be boats buzzing everywhere.”

He looked uneasy. “Does that make this the right place for her, muchacho ? I mean, if a fisherman should net her up—”

“No nets allowed on Lake Phalen,” I said, “and there are few rods and reels. This lake is pretty much for pleasure-boaters. And swimmers, in close to shore.” I bent and picked up the cylinder the Sarasota silversmith had made. It was three feet long, with a screw-down top at one end. It was filled with fresh water, and the water-filled flashlight was inside that. Perse was sealed in double darkness, and sleeping in a double blanket of fresh water. Soon she would be sleeping even deeper.

“This is a beautiful thing,” I said.

“That it is,” Wireman agreed, watching the afternoon sun flash from the cylinder as I turned it over in my hand. “And nothing on it to catch a hook. Although I’d still feel easier about dumping it in a lake up around the Canadian border.”

“Where someone really might come along dragging a net,” I said. “Hide in plain sight — it’s not a bad policy.”

Three young women in a sportabout went buzzing by. They waved. We waved back. One of them yelled, “We love cute guys!” and all three of them laughed.

Wireman tipped them a smiling salute, then turned back to me. “How deep is it out here? Do you know? That little orange flag suggests you do.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I did a little research on Lake Phalen — probably overdue, since Pam and I have owned the place on Aster Lane going on twenty-five years. The average depth is ninety-one feet… except out here, where there’s a fissure.”

Wireman relaxed and pushed his cap back a little from his brow. “Ah, Edgar. Wireman thinks you’re still el zorro — still the fox.”

“Maybe sí, maybe no, but there’s three hundred and eighty feet of water under that little orange flag. Three hundred and eighty at least. A hell of a lot better than a twelve-foot cistern thumbed into a coral splinter on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Amen.”

“You look well, Wireman. Rested.”

He shrugged. “That Gulfstream’s the way to fly. No standing in line at security, no one pawing through your carry-on to make sure you didn’t turn your little shitass can of Foamy into a bomb. And for once in my life I managed to fly north without a stop at fucking Atlanta. Thanks… although I could have afforded it myself, it looks like.”

“You settled with Elizabeth’s relatives, I take it?”

“Yep. Took your suggestion. Offered them the house and the north end of the Key in exchange for the cash and securities. They thought that was a hell of a deal, and I could see their lawyers thinking, ‘Wireman is a lawyer, and today he has a fool for a client.’”

“Guess I ain’t the only zorro in this boat.”

“I’ll end up with over eighty million bucks in liquid assets. Plus various keepsakes from the house. Including Miss Eastlake’s Sweet Owen cookie-tin. Think she was trying to tell me something with that, ’chacho ?”

I thought of Elizabeth popping various china figures into the tin and then insisting Wireman throw it in the goldfish pond. Of course she had been trying to tell him something.

“The rels got the north end of Duma Key, development value… well, sky’s the limit. Ninety million?”

“Or so they think.”

“Yes,” he agreed, turning somber. “So they think.” We sat in silence for a little while. He took the cylinder from me. I could see my face in its side, but distorted by the curve. I didn’t mind looking at it that way, but I very rarely look at myself in a mirror anymore. It’s not that I’ve aged; I don’t care for the Freemantle fellow’s eyes these days. They have seen too much.

“How’s your wife and daughter?”

“Pam’s out in California with her mother. Melinda’s back in France. She stayed with Pam for awhile after Illy’s funeral, but then she went back. I think it was the right call. She’s getting on with it.”