Duma Key by Stephen King Page A

instead. I muttered “Fuck” under my breath. Beneath me, the shells seemed to grate a name. Was it Connor? No. And something was wrong here. I didn’t know where that sense of wrongness was coming from, but all at once the phantom itch in my right arm became a cold ache.
    I tossed back the top sheet on the pad and sketched again, this time using just the red pencil. Red, red, itwas RED! The pencil raced, spilling out a human figure like blood from a cut. It was back-to, dressed in a red robe with a kind of scalloped collar. I colored the hair red, too, because it looked like blood and this person felt like blood. Like danger. Not for me but—
    â€œFor Ilse,” I muttered. “Danger for Ilse. Is it the guy? The special-news guy?”
    There was something not right about the special-news guy, but I didn’t think that was what was creeping me out. For one thing, the figure in the red robe didn’t look like a guy. It was hard to tell for sure, but yes—I thought . . . female. So maybe not a robe at all. Maybe a dress? A long red dress?
    I flipped back to the first figure and looked at the book the special-news guy was holding. I threw my red pencil on the floor and colored the book black. Then I looked at the guy again, and suddenly printed
    HUMMINGBIRDS
    in scripty-looking letters above him. Then I threw my black pencil on the floor. I raised my shaking hands and covered my face with them. I called out my daughter’s name, the way you’d call out if you saw someone too close to a steep drop or busy street.
    Maybe I was just crazy. Probably I was crazy.
    Eventually I became aware that there was—of course—only one hand over my eyes. The phantom ache and itching had departed. The idea that I might be going crazy—hell, that I might have already gone—remained. One thing was beyond doubt: I was hungry. Ravenous.
    ix
    Ilse’s plane arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule. She was radiant in faded jeans and a Brown University tee-shirt, and I didn’t see how Jack could keep from falling in love with her right there in Terminal B. She threw herself into my arms, covered my face with kisses, then laughed and grabbed me when I started listing to port on my crutch. I introduced her to Jack and pretended not to see the small diamond (purchased at Zales, I had no doubt) flashing on the third finger of her left hand when they shook.
    â€œYou look wonderful, Daddy,” she said as we stepped out into the balmy December evening. “You’ve got a tan. First time since you built that rec center in Lilydale Park. And you’ve put on weight. At least ten pounds. Don’t you think so, Jack?”
    â€œYou’d be the best judge of that,” Jack said, smiling. “I’ll go get the car. You okay to stand, boss? This may take awhile.”
    â€œI’m good.”
    We waited on the curb with her two carry-ons and her computer. She was smiling into my eyes.
    â€œYou saw it, didn’t you?” she asked. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
    â€œIf you mean the ring, I saw. Unless you won it in one of those quarter drop-the-claw games, I’d say congratulations are in order. Does Lin know?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œYour mother?”
    â€œWhat do you think, Daddy? Best guess.”
    â€œMy best guess is . . . not. Because she’s so concerned about Grampy right now.”
    â€œGrampy wasn’t the only reason I kept the ring inmy purse the whole time I was in California—except to show Lin, that is. Mostly I just wanted to tell you first. Is that evil?”
    â€œNo, honey. I’m touched.”
    I was, too. But I was also afraid for her, and not just because she wouldn’t be twenty for another three months.
    â€œHis name’s Carson Jones, and he’s a divinity student, of all things—do you believe it? I love him, Daddy, I just love him so