Duma Key by Stephen King Page A

talks.”
    â€œDon’t be so cynical. Sometimes it’s just a matter of friendship. Your builders, your contractors, your building-code inspectors, even your OSHA guys . . . they usually drink in the same bars, and they all went to the same schools.” I laughed. “Reform schools, in some cases.”
    Jack said, “They condemned a couple beach houses at the north end of Casey Key when the erosion there sped up. One of em actually did fall into the drink.”
    â€œWell, as you say, I’ll probably hear it groaning, and it looks safe enough for the time being. Let’s get my stuff inside.”
    I opened my door, got out, then staggered as my bad hip locked up. If I hadn’t gotten my crutch planted in time, I would have said hello to Big Pink by sprawling on her stone doorstep.
    â€œ I’ll get the stuff in,” Jack said. “You better go in and sit down, Mr. Freemantle. A cold drink wouldn’t hurt, either. You look really tired.”
    iv
    The traveling had caught up with me, and I was more than tired. By the time I eased into a living room armchair (listing to the left, as usual, and trying to keep my right leg as straight as possible), I was willing to admit to myself that I was exhausted.
    Yet not homesick, at least not yet. As Jack went back and forth, stowing my bags in the bigger of the two bedrooms and putting the laptop on the deskin the smaller one, my eye kept being drawn to the living room’s western wall, which was all glass, and the Florida room beyond it, and the Gulf of Mexico beyond that. It was a vast blue expanse, flat as a plate on that hot November afternoon, and even with the sliding glass window-wall shut, I could hear its mild and steady sighing. I thought, It has no memory . It was an odd thought, and strangely optimistic. When it came to memory—and anger—I still had my issues.
    Jack came back from the guest room and sat on the arm of the couch—the perch, I thought, of a young man who wants to be gone. “You’ve got all your basic staples,” he said, “plus salad-in-a-bag, hamburger, and one of those cooked chickens in a plastic capsule—we call em Astronaut Chickens at my house. I hope that’s okay with you.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œTwo per cent milk—”
    â€œAlso fine.”
    â€œâ€”and Half-n-Half. I can get you real cream next time, if you want it.”
    â€œYou want to clog my one remaining artery?”
    He laughed. “There’s a little pantry with all kinds of canned shi . . . stuff. The cable’s hooked up, the computer’s Internet-ready—I got you Wi-Fi, costs a little extra, but it’s way cool—and I can get satellite installed if you want it.”
    I shook my head. He was a good kid, but I wanted to listen to the Gulf, sweet-talking me with words it wouldn’t remember a minute later. And I wanted to listen to the house, see if it had anything to say. I had an idea maybe it did.
    â€œThe keys’re in an envelope on the kitchen table—car keys, too—and a list of numbers you might needare on the fridge. I’ve got classes at FSU in Sarasota every day except Monday, but I’ll be carrying my cell, and I’ll be coming by Tuesdays and Thursdays at five unless we make a different arrangement. Is that okay?”
    â€œYes.” I reached in my pocket and brought out my money-clip. “I want to give you a little extra. You’ve been great.”
    He waved it away. “Nah. This is a sweet gig, Mr. Freemantle. Good pay and good hours. I’d feel like a hound taking any extra.”
    That made me laugh, and I put my dough back in my pocket. “Okay.”
    â€œMaybe you ought to take a nap,” he said, getting up.
    â€œMaybe I will.” It was odd to be treated like Grandpa Walton, but I supposed I’d better get used to it. “What happened to the other house at the north end