Duma Key (66 page)

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, the 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,
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.”

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.”

“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.