Chapter One
Not a very nice man.
One afternoon not long after July became August, Deke Hollis told her she
had company on the island. He called it the island, never the key.
Deke was a weathered fifty, or maybe seventy. He was tall and rangy and
wore a battered old straw hat that looked like an inverted soup bowl. From
seven in the morning until seven at night, he ran the drawbridge between
Vermillion and the mainland. This was Monday to Friday. On weekends, “the
kid” took over (said kid being about thirty). Some days when Em ran up to
the drawbridge and saw the kid instead of Deke in the old cane chair
outside the gatehouse, reading Maxim or Popular Mechanics rather than The
New York Times, she was startled to realize that Saturday had come around
again.
This afternoon, though, it was Deke. The channel between Vermillion and
the mainland – which Deke called the thrut (throat, she assumed) – was
deserted and dark under a dark sky. A heron stood on the drawbridge’s
Gulf-side rail, either meditating or looking for fish.
“Company?” Em said. “I don’t have any company.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Pickering’s back. At 366? Brought one of his
‘nieces.'” The punctuation for nieces was provided by a roll of Deke’s
eyes, of a blue so faded they were nearly colorless.
“I didn’t see anyone,” Em said.
“No,” he agreed. “Crossed over in that big red M’cedes of his about an
hour ago, while you were probably still lacin’ up your tennies.” He leaned
forward over his newspaper; it crackled against his flat belly. She saw he
had the crossword about half completed. “Different niece every summer.
Always young.” He paused. “Sometimes two nieces, one in August and one in
September.”
“I don’t know him,” Em said. “And I didn’t see any red Mercedes.” Nor did
she know which house belonged to 366. She noticed the houses themselves,
but rarely paid attention to the mailboxes. Except, of course, for 219.
That was the one with the little line of carved birds on top of it. (The
house behind it was, of course, Birdland.)
“Just as well,” Deke said. This time instead of rolling his eyes, he
twitched down the corners of his mouth, as if he had something bad tasting
in there. “He brings ’em down in the M’cedes, then takes ’em back to St.
Petersburg in his boat. Big white yacht. The Playpen. Went through this
morning.” The corners of his mouth did that thing again. In the far
distance, thunder mumbled. “So the nieces get a tour of the house, then a
nice little cruise up the coast, and we don’t see Pickering again until
January, when it gets cold up in Chicagoland.”
Em thought she might have seen a moored white pleasure craft on her
morning beach run but wasn’t sure.
“Day or two from now – maybe a week – he’ll send out a couple of fellas,
and one will drive the M’cedes back to wherever he keeps it stored away.
Near the private airport in Naples, I imagine.”
“He must be very rich,” Em said. This was the longest conversation she’d
ever had with Deke, and it was interesting, but she started jogging in
place just the same. Partly because she didn’t want to stiffen up, mostly
because her body was calling on her to run.
“Rich as Scrooge McDuck, but I got an idea Pickering actually spends his.
Probably in ways Uncle Scrooge never imagined. Made it off some kind of
computer thing, I heard.” The eye roll. “Don’t they all?”
“I guess,” she said, still jogging in place. The thunder cleared its
throat with a little more authority this time.
“I know you’re anxious to be off, but I’m talking to you for a reason,”
Deke said. He folded up his newspaper, put it beside the old cane chair,
and stuck his coffee cup on top of it as a paperweight. “I don’t
ordinarily talk out of school about folks on the island – a lot of ’em’s
rich and I wouldn’t last long if I did – but I like you, Emmy. You keep
yourself to yourself, but you ain’t a bit snooty. Also, I like your
father. Him and me’s lifted a beer, time to time.”
“Thanks,” she said. She was touched. And as a thought occurred to her, she
smiled. “Did my dad ask you to keep an eye on me?”
Deke shook his head. “Never did. Never would. Not R. J.’s style. He’d tell
you the same as I am, though – Jim Pickering’s not a very nice man. I’d
steer clear of him. If he invites you in for a drink or even just a cup of
coffee with him and his new ‘niece,’ I’d say no. And if he were to ask you
to go cruising with him, I would definitely say no.”
“I have no interest in cruising anywhere,” she said. What she was
interested in was finishing her work on Vermillion Key. She felt it was
almost done. “And I better get back before the rain starts.”
“Don’t think it’s coming until five, at least,” Deke said. “Although if
I’m wrong, I think you’ll still be okay.”
She smiled again. “Me too. Contrary to popular opinion, women don’t melt
in the rain. I’ll tell my dad you said hello.”
“You do that.” He bent down to get his paper, then paused, looking at her
from beneath that ridiculous hat. “How’re you doing, anyway?”
“Better,” she said. “Better every day.” She turned and began her road run
back to the Little Grass Shack. She raised her hand as she went, and as
she did, the heron that had been perched on the drawbridge rail flapped
past her with a fish in its long bill.
Three sixty-six turned out to be the Pillbox, and for the first time since
she’d come to Vermillion, the gate was standing ajar. Or had it been ajar
when she ran past it toward the bridge? She couldn’t remember – but of
course she had taken up wearing a watch, a clunky thing with a big digital
readout, so she could time herself. She had probably been looking at that
when she went by.
She almost passed without slowing – the thunder was closer now – but she
wasn’t exactly wearing a thousand-dollar suede skirt from Jill Anderson,
only an ensemble from the Athletic Attic: shorts and a T-shirt with the
Nike swoosh on it. Besides, what had she said to Deke? Women don’t melt in
the rain. So she slowed, swerved, and had a peek. It was simple curiosity.
She thought the Mercedes parked in the courtyard was a 450 SL, because her
father had one like it, although his was pretty old now and this one
looked brand-new. It was candy-apple red, its body brilliant even under
the darkening sky. The trunk was open. A sheaf of long blond hair hung
from it. There was blood in the hair.
Had Deke said the girl with Pickering was a blond? That was her first
question, and she was so shocked, so fucking amazed, that there was no
surprise in it. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, and the
answer was Deke hadn’t said. Only that she was young. And a niece. With
the eye roll.
Thunder rumbled. Almost directly overhead now. The courtyard was empty
except for the car (and the blond in the trunk, there was her). The house
looked deserted, too: buttoned up and more like a pillbox than ever. Even
the palms swaying around it couldn’t soften it. It was too big, too stark,
too gray. It was an ugly house.
Em thought she heard a moan. She ran through the gate and across the yard
to the open trunk without even thinking about it. She looked in. The girl
in the trunk hadn’t moaned. Her eyes were open, but she had been stabbed
in what looked like dozens of places, and her throat was cut ear to ear.
Em stood looking in, too shocked to move, too shocked to even breathe.
Then it occurred to her that this was a fake dead girl, a movie prop. Even
as her rational mind was telling her that was bullshit, the part of her
that specialized in rationalization was nodding frantically. Even making
up a story to backstop the idea. Deke didn’t like Pickering, and
Pickering’s choice of female companionship? Well guess what, Pickering
didn’t like Deke, either! This was nothing but an elaborate practical
joke. Pickering would go back across the bridge with the trunk
deliberately ajar, that fake blond hair fluttering, and –
But there were smells rising out of the trunk now. They were the smells of
shit and blood. Em reached forward and touched the cheek below one of
those staring eyes. It was cold, but it was skin. Oh God, it was human
skin.
There was a sound behind her. A footstep. She started to turn, and
something came down on her head. There was no pain, but brilliant white
seemed to leap across the world. Then the world went dark.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Just After Sunset
by Stephen King
Copyright © 2008 by Stephen King.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Scribner
Copyright © 2008
Stephen King
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4391-1530-5
