Stuart Woods - Palindrome

"Where is she?" the voice said.

"What?" Al managedz to reply. The arm tightened again, and the hand went over his mouth and nose. Half a minute passed as he struggled, then he was allowed to breathe again.

"I'm going to ask you just once more, and unless I like the answer…"

"What do you want to know?" Al managed. He was becoming very frightened; he tried to think of a way to stall. Jesus, he was in a busy hotel; somebody had to come.

"Where is the bitch? Tell me where she is, and I'll let you go. Otherwise…" He put the hand over Al's mouth and nose again. Al, in spite of his terror, was beginning to think; he had enough air to hold his breath for a few seconds. This guy had a hundred pounds on him, but there was one place he might be vulnerable. Al couldn't get to his crotch the way he was being held, but there was one place. He felt backward with his feet, ran his heels up the other man's legs. Then he brought his right knee up nearly to his chest and drove his heel down hard into Ramsey's knee. This time, it was Ramsey who made the noise, an angry grunt, followed by a low, continuous growl. Al became a little tiger, squirming, reaching back for his captor's eyes, driving elbows backward, anything he could do to hurt the man. The hand left his face, and he was able to get a breath. Then, suddenly, the arm went from around his neck, and Al tried desperately to run, but a hand grabbed his suit collar and spun him around. He was facing Ramsey now, and he went for the eyes again. Then Ramsey hit him. Al took the punch in the upper abdomen, just below the solar plexus. He folded in half and fell to the tile poolside, clutching his belly, gasping for air. He might have been paralyzed, so difficult was it for him to move. Ramsey stood, looking down at him. "Now, you're going to tell me where she is," he said, and he was smiling. Al had just managed to get a tiny breath, when he found himself hoisted by his feet, facing Ramsey. He tried to shout, tried to move, but the pain in his middle was too much. Now he was being carried toward the pool. Knowing what was coming, he struggled wildly; then he was in the pool to his waist, upside down. He had precious little air in his lungs, and, with his failing strength, he tried to stop himself from inhaling water. He was ten years old again, drowning at the neighborhood pool, held under by two bigger boys. It was his worst nightmare. Then he was out of the pool, hanging upside down, just over the water. "One last time," Ramsey said. "Tell me."

Al was terrified, but his response to fear was to fight. "Fuck you," he sputtered. Ramsey wouldn't kill him here, not in this place. "Fuck you," he repeated. "You don't have the guts to kill me, you muscle freak faggot!"

Then Baker Ramsey put Al Schaefer back into the pool.

Liz was driving through the woods south of Lake Whitney when the road crossed an earthen dike, and something caught her eye. She stopped the Jeep and walked quietly, slowly, back onto the dike. The creatures had not moved. On a mud bank below the dike were arrayed at least a dozen baby alligators, none longer than about fifteen inches, she reckoned.

She returned to the Jeep and started unloading equipment. She chose the 4 X 5 Deardorff field camera and a heavy, wooden tripod, then grabbed her big bag, full of lenses and sheet film. She practically tiptoed back onto the dike and started looking for the best vantage point, which involved edging slowly down the bank of the dike toward the water. She stopped. A large log floated in the water a few feet from where she stood. Where there are little alligators, she told herself, there are big alligators, and alligators look like logs in the water. She examined it closely. It was a log. Heaving a sigh of relief, she began to set up her equipment. Soon, she had set up the tripod with one leg in the water and was fixing a 305-mm lens to the boxy camera. She wanted a tight shot. She heard an odd, high-pitched, guttural sound coming from the direction of the young reptiles; she peeked at them from under the cloth. The little alligators sat motionless, seeming to ignore her. The log was drifting slowly away, moved by the ripples when she disturbed the water. Her position was awkward. She was at the bottom of the bank, having a hard time setting up her shot. She shook off a moccasin and gingerly put a foot into the water, looking carefully about for snakes.

The water was cool to the touch; she felt for the bottom and, wrinkling her nose, pushed down through the ooze until she met firm resistance.

Now she was in a sitting position behind the camera; she got her head under the black cloth and began framing and focusing. It was a good shot. She squeezed the cable release, hoping the click would not frighten the little creatures. They kept perfectly still, and she loaded another sheet of film, rechecking her exposure meter; she went under the cloth for a second shot. Then the log came to life. Under the cloth, she was aware of a heavy splashing, combined with a hiss that quickly became a roar. From her awkward position, she wrenched her foot from the sticky bottom and started crawling, backward, up the dike, giving a fine view of what was coming after her. Time slowed to nothing; everything seemed to move in the slowest of motion. The enormous alligator seemed to walk on the water as it came toward her, jaws agape, making its awful noise. Instinctively, she tried to put the camera between her and the gator as she moved backward on her hands, pushing with her feet. There was screaming coming from somewhere, and she realized it was from her. On the gator came, starting up the bank after her. The camera fell toward it, and a leg of the seasoned hardwood tripod went into the beast's mouth, immediately becoming splinters. On she traveled, backward in this slow-motion nightmare that would never end. She reached the roadbed at the top of the dike, the gator in pursuit, and began trying to get her feet under her, stumbling, scraping her knuckles until she was running, running, afraid to look back. Then, when she thought she could spare a look back, she ran into something that held on to her. "Easy, easy," he was saying, "just come over here to the Jeep. It's all right, now, he's gone." Liz was gulping great lungsful of air, sobbing, whimpering. "Just calm down, now, you're all right," Keir Drummond was saying, repeating himself in a soothing, rhythmic voice. He took her under the arms and sat her on the passenger seat of the Jeep.

"Where… did you… come from?" she gasped.

"I wasn't spying on you, if that's what you mean. I was just here."

"Spying is okay," she said, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "Just as long as you're here."

"I didn't save your life or anything, you know. You did that. I was just here to keep you from running all the way to Greyfield."

"I would have, too," she said, nearly laughing, shaking as she said it. Keir reached out and pulled her into his arms. He said nothing, just held her head in one hand while he rubbed her back with the other. Liz could feel her heart pounding against her rib cage, against him. She held on to him tightly and cried. He was warm and safe and she just wanted to hold on to him for five or six weeks. He kissed her ear and made shushing noises.

Gradually, she got control of herself and gently pushed herself away from him. "My camera," she said, finally. "Did the sonofabitch get my camera?"

"You stay here, and I'll have a look," he said. She watched him as he walked onto the dike and edged cautiously down to the water, looking around him. She was astonished at how close to her the spot was; she felt as if she'd run at least half a mile. He came back with the camera, the splintered tripod still attached, and, in the other hand, her shoe. "The camera looks okay," he said. "I don't think it got into the water." He returned to the spot and brought back her bag.