Duma Key

by Stephen King

  "Jesus," Jack said, "if I'm as cynical as you two when I get old, I think I'll turn in my badge."

  "That's Jesus-Krispies to you, son," Wireman said, and actually laughed. It was a stunned sound, but there. And that was good.

  "Everyone's interest began to wane," I said. "And that was probably true for Elizabeth, as well. I mean, who gets bored quicker than a three-year-old?"

  "Only puppies and parakeets," Wireman said.

  "A creative burn at three," Jack said, bemused. "Fucking awesome concept."

  "So she started to . . . to . . ." I stopped, for a moment unable to go on.

  "Edgar?" Wireman asked quietly. "All right?"

  I wasn't, but I had to be. If I wasn't, Tom would only be the beginning. "It's just that he looked good at the gallery. Good, you know? Like he'd put it all together again. If not for her meddling--"

  "I know," Wireman said. "Drink some of your water, muchacho."

  I drank some of my water, and forced myself back to the business at hand. "She started to experiment. She went from pencils to fingerpaints to watercolors in--I think--a period of weeks. Plus some of the pictures in the picnic basket were done in fountain-pen, and I'm pretty sure some were done with house-paint, which I'd been meaning to try myself. It has a look when it dries--"

  "Save it for your art-class, muchacho," Wireman said.

  "Yeah. Yeah." I drank some more water. I was starting to get back on track. "She started to experiment with different media, too. If that's the right word; I think it is. Chalk on brick. Sand-drawings on the beach. One day she painted Tessie's face on the kitchen counter in melted ice cream."

  Jack was leaning forward, hands clasped between his muscular thighs, frowning. "Edgar . . . this isn't just blue-sky? You saw this?"

  "In a way. Sometimes it was actual seeing. Sometimes it was more like a . . . a wave that came out of her pictures, and from using her pencils."

  "But you know it's true."

  "I know."

  "She didn't care if the pictures lasted or not?" Wireman asked.

  "No. The doing mattered more. She experimented with media, and then she started to experiment with reality. To change it. And that's when Perse heard her, I think, when she started messing with reality. Heard her and woke up. Woke up and started calling."

  "Perse was with the rest of that junk Eastlake found, wasn't she?" Wireman asked.

  "Elizabeth thought it was a doll. The best doll ever. But they couldn't be together until she was strong enough."

  "Which she are you talking about?" Jack asked. "Perse or the little girl?"

  "Probably both. Elizabeth was just a kid. And Perse . . . Perse had been asleep for a long time. Sleeping under the sand, full fathom five."

  "Very poetic," Jack said, "but I don't know exactly what you're talking about."

  "Neither do I," I said. "Because her I don't see. If Elizabeth drew pictures of Perse, she destroyed them. I find it suggestive that she turned to collecting china figures in her old age, but maybe that's just a coincidence. What I know is that Perse established a line of communication with the child, first through her drawings, then through her up-to-then favorite doll, Noveen. And Perse instituted a kind of . . . well, exercise program. I don't know what else you'd call it. She persuaded Elizabeth to draw things, and those things would happen in the real world."

  "She's been playing the same game with you, then," Jack said. "Candy Brown."

  "And my eye," Wireman said. "Don't forget fixing my eye."

  "I'd like to think that was all me," I said . . . but had it been? "There have been other things, though. Small things, mostly . . . using some of my pictures as a crystal ball . . ." I trailed off. I didn't really want to go there, because that road led back to Tom. Tom who should have been fixed.

  "Tell us the rest of what you found out from her pictures," Wireman said.

  "All right. Start with that out-of-season hurricane. Elizabeth summoned it up, probably with help from Perse."

  "You've got to be shitting me," Jack said.

  "Perse told Elizabeth where the debris was, and Elizabeth told her father. Among the litter was a . . . let's say there was a china figure, maybe a foot high, of a beautiful woman." Yes, I could see that. Not the details, but the figure. And the empty, pupil-less pearls that were her eyes. "It was Elizabeth's prize, her fair salvage, and once it was out of the water, it really went to work."

  Jack spoke very softly. "Where would a thing like that have come from to begin with, Edgar?"

  A phrase rose to my lips, from where I don't know, only that it wasn't my own: There were elder gods in those days; kings and queens they were. I didn't say it. I didn't want to hear it, not even in that well-lighted room, so I only shook my head.

  "I don't know. And I don't know what country's flag that ship might have been flying when it blew in here, maybe scraping its hull open on the top of Kitt Reef and spilling some of its cargo. I don't know much of anything for sure . . . but I think that Perse has a ship of her own, and once she was free of the water and completely welded to Elizabeth Eastlake's powerful child's mind, she was able to call it."

  "A ship of the dead," Wireman said. His face was childlike with fear and wonder. Outside, a wind shook the massed foliage in the courtyard; the rhododendrons nodded their heads and we could hear the steady, sleepy sound of the waves pounding the shore. I had loved that sound ever since coming to Duma Key, and I still loved it, but now it frightened me, too. "A ship called . . . what? Persephone?"

  "If you like," I said. "It's certainly crossed my mind that Perse was Elizabeth's way of trying to say that. It doesn't matter; we're not talking Greek mythology here. We're talking about something far older and more monstrous. Hungry, too. That much it does have in common with vampires. Only hungry for souls, not blood. At least that's what I think. Elizabeth had her new 'doll' for no more than a month, and God knows what life was like at the first Heron's Roost during that time, but it couldn't have been good."

  "Did Eastlake have the silver harpoons made then?" Wireman asked.

  "I can't tell you. There's so much I don't know, because what I do know comes from Elizabeth, and she was little more than an infant. I have no sense of what happened in her other life, because by then she'd quit drawing. And if she remembered the time when she did--"

  "She was doing her best to forget it," Jack finished.

  Wireman looked glum. "By the end, she was well on her way to forgetting everything."

  I said, "Remember the pictures where everybody seems to be wearing these big, loopy drug-addict grins? That was Elizabeth, trying to re-make the world she remembered. The pre-Perse world. A happier one. In the days before her twin sisters drowned, she was one scared kid, but she was afraid to say anything, because she felt that the things going wrong were all her fault."

  "What things?" It was Jack.

  "I don't know exactly, but there's one picture of an old-timey Negro lawn jockey standing on his head, and I think that stands for everything. I think that for Elizabeth, in those last days, everything seemed to be standing on its head." There was more than that to the lawn jockey--I was almost positive--but I didn't know what, and this probably wasn't the time to chase after it, anyway. "I think in the days before and just after Tessie and Laura drowned, the family might almost have been prisoners at Heron's Roost."

  "And only Elizabeth would have known why?" Wireman asked.

  "I don't know." I shrugged. "Nan Melda might have known some of it. Probably knew some of it."

  "Who was at that house during the period after the treasure-find and before the drownings?" Jack asked.

  I thought about it. "I suppose Maria and Hannah might have come home from school for a weekend or two, and Eastlake could have been away on business for part of March and April. The ones who were surely there that whole time were Elizabeth, Tessie, Laura, and Nan Melda. And Elizabeth tried to draw her new 'friend' out of existence." I licked my lips. They were very dry. "She did it with her colored pencils, t
he ones in the basket. This was just before Tessie and Laura drowned. Maybe the night before. Because their drownings were punishment, right? The way Tom killing Pam was supposed to be my punishment, for prying. I mean, you see that?"

  "Christ almighty," Jack whispered. Wireman was very pale.

  "Until then, I don't think Elizabeth understood." I thought about this, then shrugged. "Hell, I can't remember how much I understood when I was four. But until then probably the worst thing that had ever happened to her in her life--other than falling out of that pony-trap, and I'll bet she didn't even remember that--was getting turned over her Daddy's knee and paddled or having her hand slapped for trying to take one of Nan Melda's jam tarts before they were cooled. What did she know about the nature of evil? All she knew was that Perse was naughty, Perse was a bad doll instead of a good doll, she was out of control and getting out-of-controller all the time, she had to be sent away. So Libbit sat down with her pencils and some drawing paper and told herself, 'I can do this. If I go slow and do my best work, I can do this.' " I stopped and passed my hand over my eyes. "I think that's right, but you have to take it with a grain of salt. It could be mixed up with what I remember about myself. My mind playing more tricks. More stupid fucking pet tricks."

  "Take it easy, muchacho," Wireman said. "Go slow. She tried to draw Perse out of existence. How does one do a thing like that?"

  "Draw and then erase."

  "Perse didn't let her?"

  "Perse didn't know, I'm almost sure of it. Because Elizabeth was able to hide what she meant to do. If you ask me how, I can't tell you. If you ask me if it was her own idea--something she thought up by herself at the age of four--"

  "Not beyond belief," Wireman said. "In a way, it's four-year-old thinking."

  "I don't understand how she could have kept it from this Perse," Jack said. "I mean . . . a little kid?"

  "I don't know, either," I said.

  "In any case, it didn't work," Wireman said.

  "No. It didn't. I think she made the drawing, and I'm sure she did it in pencil, and I think when she was done, she erased the whole thing. It probably would have killed a human being the way I killed Candy Brown, but Perse wasn't human. All it did was make her angry. She paid Elizabeth back by taking the twins, whom she idolized. Tessie and Laura didn't go down that path to the Shade Beach to look for more treasure. They were driven. They ended up in the water, and they were lost."

  "Only not for good," Wireman said, and I knew he was thinking of certain small footprints. Not to mention the thing that had been in my kitchen.

  "No," I agreed. "Not for good."

  The wind blew again, this time hard enough to send something thudding against the Gulf side of the house. We all jumped.

  "How did it get this Emery Paulson?" Jack asked.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "And Adriana," Wireman said. "Did Perse get her, too?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Maybe." Reluctantly I added: "Probably."

  "We haven't seen Adriana," Wireman said. "There's that."

  "Not yet," I said.

  "But the little girls drowned," Jack said. Like he was trying to get it straight. "This Perse-thing lured them into the water. Or something."

  "Yes," I said. "Or something."

  "But then there was a search. Outsiders."

  "There had to be, Jack," Wireman said. "People knew they were gone. Shannington, for one."

  "I know that," Jack said. "It's what I'm saying. So Elizabeth and her Dad and the housekeeper just dummied up?"

  "What other choice?" I asked. "Was John Eastlake going to tell forty or fifty volunteers 'The boogeylady took my daughters, look for the boogeylady?' He might not even have known. Although he must have found out at some point." I was thinking of the picture of him screaming. Screaming and bleeding.

  "What other choice covers it for me," Wireman said. "I want to know what happened after the search was over. Just before she died, Miss Eastlake said something about drowning her back to sleep. Did she mean Perse? And if she did, how does a thing like that work?"

  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, companero."

  "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."

  xiv

  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."