Duma Key (64 page)

The drowned thing and I were chained together. It dragged me toward the door.

viii

Wireman was back just before the dead man could pull me over the threshold. He had something in his hand that looked like a blunt dagger. For a moment I thought it must be one of the silver harpoons, but that was only a powerful bit of wishful thinking; the
silver harpoons were upstairs with the red picnic basket. “Hey!” he said. “Hey, you! Yeah, I'm talking to you!
Cojudo de puta madre!
”

Its head snapped around as fast as the head of a snake about to strike. Wireman was almost as fast. Holding the blunt object in both hands, he drove it into the thing's face, striking home just above the right eye-socket. The thing shrieked, a sound that went through my head like shards of glass. I saw Wireman wince and stagger back; saw him struggle to hold onto his weapon and drop it to the sandy floor of the entryway. It didn't matter. The man-thing which had seemed so solid spun into insubstantiality, clothes and all. I felt the manacle around my wrist also lose its solidity. For a moment I could still see it and then it was only water, dripping onto my sneakers and the carpet. There was a larger wet patch where the demon sailor had been only a moment before.

I felt thicker warmth on my face and wiped blood from my nose and off my upper lip. Wireman had fallen over a hassock. I helped him up and saw his nose was bleeding, too. A line of blood also ran down the side of his throat from his left ear. It rose and fell with the rapid beat of his heart.

“Christ, that
scream,
” he said. “My eyes are watering and my ears are ringing like a motherfucker. Can you hear me, Edgar?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Other than thinking I just saw a dead guy disappear in fucking front of me? I guess so.” He bent down, picked the blunt cylinder off the floor, and kissed it. “Glory be to God for dappled things,” he said, then barked laughter. “Even when they're not dappled.”

It was a candlestick. The tip, where you were supposed to stick your candle, looked dark, as if it had touched something very hot instead of something cold and wet.

“There are candles in all Miss Eastlake's rentals, because we lose the power out here all the time,” Wireman said. “We have a gennie at the big house, but the other places don't, not even this one. But unlike the smaller houses, this one
does
have candlesticks from the big house, and they just happen to be silver.”

“And you remembered that,” I said. Marveled, really.

He shrugged, then looked at the Gulf. So did I. There was nothing there but moonlight and starlight on the water. For now, at least.

Wireman gripped my wrist. His fingers closed over it where the manacle had been, and my heart jumped. “What?” I said, not liking the new fear I saw in his face.

“Jack,” he said. “Jack's alone at
El Palacio.
”

We took Wireman's car. In my terror, I'd never noticed the headlights or heard it pull in beside my own.

ix

Jack was okay. There had been a few calls from old friends of Elizabeth's, but the last one had come at quarter of nine, an hour and a half before we came bursting in, bloody and wide-eyed, Wireman still waving the candlestick. There had been no intruders at
El Palacio,
and Jack hadn't seen the ship that had been anchored for awhile in the Gulf off Big Pink.
Jack had been eating microwave popcorn and watching
Beverly Hills Cop
on an old videotape.

He listened to our story with mounting amazement, but no real disbelief; this was a young man, I had to remind myself, that had been raised on shows like
The X-Files
and
Lost
. Besides, it fit with what he'd been told earlier. When we were done, he took the candlestick from Wireman and examined the tip, which looked like the burnt filament in a dead lightbulb.

“Why didn't it come for me?” he asked. “I was alone, and totally unprepared.”

“I don't want to bruise your self-esteem,” I said, “but I don't think you're exactly a priority to whoever's running this show.”

Jack was looking at the narrow red mark on my wrist. “Edgar, is that where—”

I nodded.

“Fuck,” Jack said in a low voice.

“Have you figured out what's going on?” Wireman asked me. “If she sent that thing after you, she must think you have, or that you're close.”

“I don't think anyone will ever know all of it,” I said, “but I know who that thing was when it was alive.”

“Who?” Jack was staring at me with wide eyes. We were standing in the kitchen and Jack was still holding the candlestick. Now he put it aside on the counter.

“Emery Paulson. Adriana Eastlake's husband. They came back from Atlanta to help with the search after Tessie and Laura went missing, that much is true, but they never left Duma Key again. Perse saw to that.”

x

We went into the parlor where I had first met Elizabeth Eastlake. The long, low table was still there, but now it was empty. Its polished surface struck me as a pitch-perfect mockery of life.

“Where are they?” I asked Wireman. “Where are her chinas? Where's the Village?”

“I boxed everything up and put it in the summer-kitchen,” he said, pointing vaguely. “No real reason, I just . . . I just couldn't . . . 
muchacho,
would you like some green tea? Or a beer?”

I asked for water. Jack said he'd take a beer, if that was all right. Wireman set off to get them. He made it as far as the hallway before starting to cry. They were big, noisy sobs, the kind you can't stifle no matter how hard you try.

Jack and I looked at each other, then looked away. We said nothing.

xi

He was gone a lot longer than it usually takes to get two cans of beer and a glass of water, but when he came back, he had regained his composure.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don't usually lose someone I love and poke a candlestick in a vampire's face in the same week. Usually it's one or the other.” He shrugged his shoulders in an effort at insouciance. It was unsuccessful, but I had to give him points for trying.

“They're not vampires,” I said.

“Then what are they?” he asked. “Expatiate.”

“I can only tell you what her pictures told me. You
have to remember that, no matter how talented she might have been, she was still only a child.” I hesitated, then shook my head. “Not even that. Hardly more than a baby. Perse was . . . I guess you'd say Perse was her spirit-guide.”

Wireman cracked his beer, sipped it, then leaned forward. “And what about you? Is Perse your spirit-guide, as well? Has she been intensifying what
you
do?”

“Of course she has,” I said. “She's been testing the limits of my ability and extending them—I'm sure that's what Candy Brown was about. And she's been picking my material. That's what the
Girl and Ship
paintings were about.”

“And the rest of your stuff?” Jack asked.

“Mostly mine, I think. But some of it—” I stopped, suddenly struck by a terrible idea. I put my glass aside and almost knocked it over. “Oh Christ.”

“What?” Wireman asked. “For God's sake, what?”

“You need to get your little red book of phone numbers. Right now.”

He went and got it, then handed me the cordless telephone. I sat for a moment with it in my lap, not sure who to call first. Then I knew. But there is one rule of modern life even more ironclad than the one which states that there's never a cop around when you need one: when you really need a human being, you always get the answering machine.

That's what I got at Dario Nannuzzi's home, at Jimmy Yoshida's, at Alice Aucoin's.

“
Fuck!
” I cried, slamming the disconnect button with my thumb when Alice's recorded voice started in with “I'm sorry I'm not here to take your call right now, but—”

“They're probably still celebrating,” Wireman said. “Give it time,
amigo,
and it'll all quiet down.”

“I don't
have
time!” I said. “Fuck! Shit!
Fuck!
”

He put a hand on mine, and spoke soothingly. “What is it, Edgar? What's wrong?”

“The pictures are dangerous! Maybe not all, but some, for sure!”

He thought about it, then nodded. “Okay. Let's think about this. The most dangerous ones are probably the
Girl and Ship
series, right?”

“Yes. I'm sure that's the case.”

“They're almost certainly still at the gallery, waiting to be framed and shipped.”

Shipped. Dear God,
shipped
. Even the word was scary. “I can't let that happen.”

“
Muchacho,
getting sidetracked is what you can't let happen.”

He didn't understand this wasn't a sidetrack. Perse could whistle up a great wind when she wanted to.

But she needed help.

I found the number of the Scoto and dialed it. I thought it was just possible that someone might be there, even at quarter of eleven on the night after the big shindig. But the ironclad rule held, and I got the machine. I waited impatiently, then pressed 9 to leave a general message.

“Listen, you guys,” I said, “this is Edgar. I don't want you to send
any
of the paintings or drawings out until I tell you, okay?
Not a single one
. Just put a hold on em for a few days. Use any excuse you have to, but do it. Please. It's very important.”

I broke the connection and looked at Wireman. “Will they?”

“Considering your demonstrated earning power?
You bet. And you just spared yourself a long, involved conversation. Now can we get back to—”

“Not yet.” My family and friends would be the most vulnerable, and the fact that they'd gone their separate ways afforded me no comfort. Perse had already demonstrated that her reach was long. And I had started meddling. I thought she was angry with me, or frightened of me, or both.

My first impulse was to call Pam, but then I remembered what Wireman had said about sparing myself a long, involved conversation. I consulted my own untrustworthy memory instead of Wireman's little book . . . and for once, under pressure, it came through.

But I'll get his answering machine,
I thought. And I did, but at first I didn't know it.

“Hello, Edgar.” Tom Riley's voice, but not Tom's voice. It was dead of emotion.
It's the drugs he takes,
I thought . . . although that deadness hadn't been there at the Scoto.

“Tom, listen and don't say anyth—”

But the voice went on. That dead voice. “She'll kill you, you know. You and all your friends. The way she's killed me. Only I'm still alive.”

I staggered on my feet.

“
Edgar!
” Wireman said sharply. “Edgar, what's wrong?”

“Shut up,” I said. “I need to hear.”

The message seemed to be over, but I could still hear him breathing. Slow, shallow respiration coming from Minnesota. Then he resumed.

“Being dead is better,” he said. “Now I have to go and kill Pam.”

“Tom!” I shouted at the message. “Tom,
wake up
!”

“After we're dead we're going to be married. It's to be a shipboard wedding.
She
promised.”

“Tom!”
Wireman and Jack crowding in, one gripping my arm, the other gripping my stump. I hardly noticed.

And then:

“Leave a message at the beep.”

The beep came and then the line went silent.

I didn't hang up the phone; I dropped it. I turned to Wireman. “Tom Riley's gone to kill my wife,” I said. And then went on, although the words didn't feel like mine: “He may have done it already.”

xii

Wireman didn't ask for an explanation, just told me to call her. I put the telephone back to my ear, but couldn't remember the number. Wireman read it to me, but I couldn't punch it in; the bad side of my vision had, for the first time in weeks, come over all red.

Jack did it for me.

I stood listening to the phone ring in Mendota Heights, waiting for Pam's bright, impersonal voice on the answering machine—a message saying she was in Florida but would return calls soon. Pam who was no longer in Florida, but who might be lying dead on her kitchen floor, with Tom Riley next to her, just as dead. This vision was so clear I could see blood on the cabinets, and on the knife in Tom's stiffening hand.

One ring . . . two . . . three . . . the next would kick the answering machine into life . . .

“Hello?” It was Pam. She sounded breathless.

“Pam!” I shouted. “Jesus Christ, is it actually you? Answer me!”

“Edgar? Who told you?” She sounded totally bewildered. And still breathless. Or maybe not. That was a Pam-voice I knew: slightly foggy, the way she sounded when she had a cold, or when she was . . .

“Pam, are you crying?” And then, belatedly: “Told me what?”

“About Tom Riley,” she said. “I thought you might be his brother. Or—please, God, no—his mother.”

“What about Tom?”

“He was fine on the trip back,” she said, “laughing and showing off his new sketch, playing cards in the back of the plane with Kamen and some of the others.” Now she
did
start to cry, big sobs like static, her words coming in between. It was an ugly sound, but it was also beautiful. Because it was alive. “He was
fine
. And then, tonight, he killed himself. The papers will probably call it an accident, but it was suicide. That's what Bozie says. Bozie has a friend on the cops who called and told him, and then he called me. Tom drove into a retaining wall at seventy miles an hour or more. No skid-marks. This was on Route 23, which means he was probably on his way here.”