Duma Key (83 page)

These are the dreams from which I wake up screaming, thrashing at the dark with a hand that is no longer there.

xiv

Wireman and Jack slid the cap into position again, and then we went back to Elizabeth's Mercedes. That was a slow, painful walk, and by the end of it I really wasn't walking at all; I was lurching. It was as if the clock had been rolled back to the previous October. I was already thinking of the few Oxycontin tablets I had waiting for me back at Big Pink. I would have three, I decided. Three would do more than kill the pain; with luck they would also pound me into at least a few hours of sleep.

Both of my friends asked if I didn't want to sling an arm around them. I refused. This wasn't going to be my last walk tonight; I had made up my mind about that. I still didn't have the last piece of the puzzle, but I had an idea. What had Elizabeth told Wireman?
You will want to but you
mustn't
.

Too late, too late, too late.

The idea wasn't clear. What was clear was the sound of the shells. You could hear that sound from anywhere inside Big Pink, but to get the full effect, you really had to come up on the place from outside. That was when they sounded the most like voices. So many nights I had wasted painting when I could have been listening.

Tonight I would listen.

Outside the pillars, Wireman paused. “Abyssus abyssum invocat,” he said.

“Hell invokes Hell,” Jack said, and sighed.

Wireman looked at me. “Think we'll have any trouble negotiating the road home?”

“Now? No.”

“And are we done here?”

“We are.”

“Will we ever come again?”

“No,” I said. I looked at the ruined house, dreaming in the moonlight. Its secrets were out. I realized we'd left little Libbit's heart-shaped box behind, but maybe that was for the best. Let it stay here. “No one will come here anymore.”

Jack looked at me, curious and a little afraid. “How can you know that?”

“I know,” I said.

i

We had no trouble negotiating the road home. The smell was still there, but it was better now—partly because a good wind was getting up, blowing in off the Gulf, and partly because it was just . . . better now.

The courtyard lights of
El Palacio
were on a timer, and they looked wonderful, twinkling out of the dark. Inside the house, Wireman went methodically from room to room, turning on more lights. Turning on
all
the lights, until the house where Elizabeth had spent most of her life glowed like an ocean-liner coming into port at midnight.

When
El Palacio
was lit to the max, we took turns in the shower, passing the water-filled flashlight from hand to hand like a baton as we did so. Someone was always holding it. Wireman went first, then Jack, then me. After showering, each of us was inspected by the other two, then scrubbed with hydrogen peroxide where any skin was broken. I was the worst, and when I finally put my clothes back on, I stung all over.

I was finishing with my boots, laboriously tying them one-handed, when Wireman came into the guest bedroom looking grave. “There's a message you need to hear on the machine downstairs. From the Tampa Police. Here, let me help you.”

He went down on one knee before me and began
tightening my laces. I saw without surprise that the gray in his hair had advanced . . . and suddenly a bolt of alarm went through me. I reached out and grabbed his meaty shoulder. “The flashlight! Does Jack—”

“Relax. He's sitting in Miss Eastlake's old China Parlor, and he's got it on his lap.”

I hurried, nevertheless. I don't know what I expected to find—the room empty, the unscrewed flashlight lying on the rug in a puddle of dampness, maybe, or Jack sex-changed into the three-eyed, claw-handed bitch that had come falling out of the old cracked keg—but he was only sitting there with the flashlight, looking troubled. I asked if he was all right. And I took a good look at his eyes. If he was going . . . wrong . . . I thought I'd see it in his eyes.

“I'm fine. But that message from the cop . . .” He shook his head.

“Well, let's hear it.”

A man identifying himself as Detective Samson said that he was trying to reach both Edgar Freemantle and Jerome Wireman, to ask some questions about Mary Ire. He particularly wanted to speak to Mr. Freemantle, if he had not left for Rhode Island or Minnesota—where, Samson understood, the body of his daughter was being transported for burial.

“I'm sure Mr. Freemantle is in a state of bereavement,” Samson said, “and I'm sure these are really Providence P.D.'s questions, but we know Mr. Freemantle did a newspaper interview with the Ire woman recently, and I volunteered to talk with him and yourself, Mr. Wireman, if possible. I can tell you over the phone what Providence is most curious about, if this message tape doesn't run out . . .” It didn't. And the last piece fell into place.

ii

“Edgar, this is crazy,” Jack said. It was the third time he'd said it, and he was beginning to sound desperate. “Totally nuts.” He turned to Wireman. “You tell him!”

“Un poco loco,”
Wireman agreed, but I knew the difference between
poco
and
muy
even if Jack didn't.

We were standing in the courtyard, between Jack's sedan and Elizabeth's old Mercedes. The moon had risen higher; so had the wind. The surf was pounding the shore, and a mile away, the shells under Big Pink would be discussing all sorts of strange things:
muy asustador
. “But I think I could talk all night and still not change his mind.”

“Because you know I'm right,” I said.

“
Tu perdón, amigo,
you
might
be right,” he said. “I'll tell you one thing: Wireman intends to get down on his fat and aging knees and pray you are.”

Jack looked at the flashlight in my hand. “At least don't take
that,
” he said. “Excuse my French, boss, but you're fucking crazy to take that!”

“I know what I'm doing,” I said, hoping to God it was true. “And stay here, both of you. Don't try to follow me.” I raised the flashlight and pointed it at Wireman. “You're on your honor.”

“All right, Edgar. My honor's a tattered thing, but I swear on it. One practical question: are you sure two Tylenol will be enough to get you down the beach to your house on your feet, or are you going to wind up doing the Crawly-Gator?”

“I'll get there upright.”

“And you'll call when you do.”

“I'll call.”

He opened his arms then, and I stepped into them. He kissed me on both cheeks. “I love you, Edgar,” he said. “You're a hell of a man.
Sano como una manzana.
”

“What does that one mean?”

He shrugged. “Stay healthy. I think.”

Jack offered his hand—the left one, the boy was a learner—and then decided a hug was in order, after all. In my ear he whispered, “Give me the flashlight, boss.”

In his I whispered back: “Can't. Sorry.”

I started along the path to the back of the house, the one that would take me to the boardwalk. At the end of that boardwalk, a thousand or so years ago, I'd met the big man I was now leaving behind. He had been sitting under a striped umbrella. He had offered me iced green tea, very cooling. And he had said,
So
—
the limping stranger arriveth at last
.

And now he goeth,
I thought.

I turned back. They were watching me.

“Muchacho!”
Wireman called.

I thought he was going to ask me to come back so we could think about this a little more, talk it over a little more. But I had underestimated him.

“Vaya con Dios, mi hombre
.”

I gave him a final wave and walked around the corner of the house.

iii

So then I took my last Great Beach Walk, as limping and painful as my first ones along that shell-littered shore. Only those had been by the rosy light of early
morning, when the world was at its most still, the only things moving the mild lap of the waves and the brown clouds of peeps that fled before me. This was different. Tonight the wind roared and the waves raged, not alighting on the shore but committing suicide on it. The rollers farther out were painted chrome, and several times I thought I saw the
Perse
from the corner of my eye, but each time I turned to look, there was nothing. Tonight there was nothing on my part of the Gulf but moonlight.

I lurched along, flashlight gripped in my hand, thinking of the day I had walked here with Ilse. She had asked me if this was the most beautiful place on earth and I had assured her that no, there were at least three others that were more beautiful . . . but I couldn't remember what I'd told her those others were, only that they were hard to spell. What I remembered most clearly was her saying I deserved a beautiful place, and time to rest. Time to heal.

Tears started to come then, and I let them. I had the flashlight in the hand I could have used to wipe them away, so I just let them come.

iv

I heard Big Pink before I actually saw it. The shells under the house had never been so loud. I walked a little farther, then stopped. It was just ahead of me now, a black shape where the stars were blotted out. Another forty or fifty slow, limping paces, and moonlight began to fill in the details. All the lights were out, even the ones I almost always left on in the kitchen and Florida room. That could have been a
power outage caused by the wind, but I didn't think that was it.

I realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it was my own. Had I always known that? I suppose I had. On some level, unless we're mad, I think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations.

And of our memories, of course. They have voices, too. Ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. Ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant (an instant that is most commonly
red
). Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.

I walked on, leaving tracks behind me that featured one dragging foot. The blacked-out hulk of Big Pink grew closer. It wasn't ruined like Heron's Roost, but tonight it was haunted. Tonight there was a ghost waiting. Or maybe something a little more solid.

The wind gusted and I looked left, into its pushing force. The ship was out there now, all right, lightless and silent, its sails so many flapping rags in the wind, waiting.

Might as well go,
the shells said as I stood in the moonlight, now less than twenty yards from my house.
Wipe the blackboard clean
—
it can be done, no one knows it better than you
—
and just sail away. Leave this sadness behind. If you want to play you gotta pay. And the best part?

“The best part is I don't have to go alone,” I said.

The wind gusted. The shells murmured. And from the blackness under the house, where that bony bed lay six feet deep, a darker shadow slipped free and stepped into the moonlight. It stood bent over for a
moment, as if considering, and then began to come toward me.

She
began to come toward me. But not Perse; Perse had been drowned to sleep.

Ilse.

v

She didn't walk; I didn't expect her to walk. She shambled. It was a miracle—a black one—that she could move at all.

After that last phone call with Pam (you couldn't call it a conversation, exactly), I'd gone out Big Pink's back door and snapped the handle off the broom I used to sweep sand from the walk leading to the mailbox. Then I'd gone around to the beach, down to where the sand was wet and shining. I hadn't remembered what came after that, because I didn't want to. Obviously. Only now I did, now I had to, because now my handiwork was standing in front of me. It was Ilse, yet not Ilse. Her face was there, then it blurred and it wasn't. Her form was there, then it slipped toward shapelessness before firming up again. Little pieces of dead sea oats and bits of shell dropped from her cheeks and chest and hips and legs as she moved. The moonlight picked out an eye that was heartbreakingly clear, heartbreakingly
hers,
and then it was gone, only to reappear again, shining in the moonlight.

The Ilse shambling toward me was made of sand.

“Daddy,” she said. Her voice was dry, with a grating undertone—as if there were shells caught in there somewhere. I supposed there were.

You will want to, but you mustn't,
Elizabeth had said . . . but sometimes we can't help ourselves.

The sand-girl held out her arm. The wind gusted and the fingers at the end of the hand blurred as fine grains blew off them and thinned them to bones. More sand skirled up from around her and the hand fattened again. Her features shifted like a landscape under rapidly passing summer clouds. It was fascinating . . . hypnotic.

“Give me the flashlight,” she said. “Then we'll go on board together. On the ship I can be the way you remember me. Or . . . you don't have to remember anything.”

The waves were on the march. Under the stars they roared in, one after the other. Under the moon. Under Big Pink, the shells spoke loudly: my voice, arguing with itself. Bring the buddy. I win. Sit in the chum. You win. Here in front of me stood Ilse made of sand, a shifting houri by the light of a three-quarter moon, her features never the same from one second to the next. Now she was Illy at nine; now she was Illy at fifteen, headed out on her first real date; now she was Illy as she'd looked getting off the plane in December, Illy the college girl with an engagement ring on her finger. Here stood the one I'd always loved the best—wasn't that why Perse had killed her?—with her hand held out for the flashlight. The flashlight was my boarding pass for a long cruise on forgetful seas. Of course that part might be a lie . . . but sometimes we have to take a chance. And usually we do. As Wireman says, we fool ourselves so much we could do it for a living.