Duma Key

"I wish I had known her in her prime."

"Can I do anything for your family?"

"No," I said. "They're having dinner with Dario and Jimmy and the whole state of Minnesota. I'll join them later if I can - maybe for dessert - and I'm booked into the Ritz, where they're all staying. If nothing else, I'll see them in the morning."

"That's nice. They seemed nice. And understanding."

Pam actually seemed more understanding now than before the divorce. Of course now I was down here painting and not up there yelling at her. Or trying to staff her with a butter-fife.

"I'm going to praise your show to the skies, Edgar. I doubt if that means much to you tonight, but perhaps it will later on. The paintings are just extraordinary."

"Thank you."

Ahead, the lights of the hospital were twinkling in the dark. There was a Waffle House right next door. It was probably good business for the cardiac unit.

"Will you give Libby my love, if she's in any condition to take note of such things?"

"Sure."

"And I have something for you. It's in the glove compartment. Manila envelope. I was going to use it to bait the hook for a follow-up interview, but fuck it."

I had some problems with the old car's glove compartment button, but finally the little door fell open like a corpse's mouth. There was a lot more than a manila envelope in there - a geologist could have taken core-samples probably going back to 1965 - but the envelope was in front, and it had my name printed on it.

As she pulled up in front of the hospital, in a spot marked 5 MINUTES PICK-UP AND DROP-OFF, Mary said: "Prepare to be amazed. I was. An old copy-editor friend of mine chased that down for me - she's older than Libby, but still sharp."

I bent back the clasps and slid out two Xeroxed sheets of an ancient newspaper story. "That," Mary said, "is from the Port Charlotte Weekly Echo. June of 1925. It's got to be the story my friend Aggie saw, and the reason I could never find it is because I never looked as far south as Port Charlotte. Also, the Weekly Echo gave up the ghost in 1931."

The streetlight beneath which she'd parked wasn't good enough for the fine print, but I could read the headline and see the picture. I looked for a long time.

"It means something to you, doesn't it?" she asked.

"Yes. I just don't know what."

"If you figure it out, will you tell me?"

"All right," I said. "You might even believe it. But Mary... this is one story you'll never print. Thanks for the ride. And thanks for coming to my show."

"Both my pleasure. Remember to give Libby my love."

"I will."

But I never did. I had seen Elizabeth Eastlake for the last time.

ix

The ICU nurse on duty told me that Elizabeth was in surgery. When I asked for what, she told me she wasn't sure. I looked around the waiting room.

"If you're looking for Mr. Wireman, I believe he went to the cafeteria for coffee," the nurse said. "That's on the fourth floor."

"Thanks." I started away, then turned back. "Is Dr. Hadlock part of the surgical team?"

"I don't think so," she said, "but he's observing."

I thanked her again and went in search of Wireman. I found him in a far corner of the caff, sitting in front of a paper cup about the size of a World War II mortar shell. Except for a scattering of nurses and orderlies and one tense-looking family group in another corner of the room, we had the place to ourselves. Most of the chairs were upended on the tables, and a tired-looking lady in red rayon was working out with a mop. An iPod hung in a sling between her breasts.

"Hola, mi vato," Wireman said, and gave me a wan smile. His hair, neatly combed back when he made his entrance with Elizabeth and Jack, had fallen down around his ears, and there were dark circles around his eyes. "Why don't you grab yourself a cup of coffee? It tastes like factory-made shit, but it do prop up a person's eyelids."

"No, thanks. Just let me borrow a sip of yours." I had three aspirin in my pants pocket. I fished them out and swallowed them with some of Wireman's coffee.

He wrinkled his nose. "In with all your germy change. That's nasty."

"I have a strong immune system. How is she?"

"Not good." He looked at me bleakly.

"Did she come around at all in the ambulance? Say anything else?"

"She did."

"What?"

From the pocket of his linen shirt, Wireman took an invitation to my show, with THE VIEW FROM DUMA printed on one side. On the other he'd scrawled three notes. They jagged up and down - from the motion of the ambulance, I assumed - but I could read them:

"The table is leaking."

"You will want to but you mustn't."

"Drown her back to sleep."

They were all spooky, but that last one made the flesh on my arms prickle.

"Nothing else?" I asked, handing the invitation back.

"She said my name a couple of times. She knew me. And she said yours, Edgar."

"Have a look at this," I said, and slid the manila envelope across the table.