Stuart Woods - Palindrome

"You're kidding," Liz said.

"Nope. The first year or two I ran the inn, I nearly went nuts I was so horny-we almost never get a single man as a guest here. Then I discovered the pleasures of young flesh. They come here to work for the summer. It's perfect."

"Well, I'll be damned," Liz said.

"Me too, probably, but it's worth it. The funny thing is, they love it, being with an older woman. At that age they've maybe screwed a cheerleader or two, but that isn't much experience. I send 'em away ready for anything."

She leaned close. "Ol' Ron, there, will be the hottest thing on campus when he gets back to school. And the nice thing is, I'm having to make him go back. He wants to stay on for the winter!"

"You salty old thing, you!"

"Damn right. I'll be forty next month, and I'm still nuts about young flesh!"

The two women dissolved into laughter, so much so that Ron turned and looked questioningly at them. "Girl talk, sweetheart," Germaine called to him. "Don't mind us." Ron gave her a broad wink and went back to his mopping. "To tell you the truth," Germaine said, "I was thinking of offering him to you, you seemed so lonely, but I guess that's all taken care of, and I can't say I blame you. I've always thought my baby brothers were the dishiest things around."

"Well, I don't know where this is going. He seems pretty slippery, your brother."

"That's true enough. He might just get up and go; you should take that into account."

"I'm not looking for anything permanent," Liz said truthfully, then she grinned. "But I do hope he sticks around for a little longer."

They burst out laughing again. When they had recovered themselves, Germaine looked at her more seriously. "It's been awhile, has it?"

"Awhile."

"How long you been divorced?"

"It was final after I arrived here."

"It ended badly?"

"He put me in the hospital."

"Shit," Germaine said. "My ex slapped me once, and I broke his nose with my fist."

Liz laughed in spite of herself. "I was outclassed in the muscle department, believe me."

"I hope you stuck him for a lot."

"I did, but if he ever gets his hands on me…"

"Jesus, no wonder you wanted to come someplace like this."

"Well, when Ray made the offer, it did seem the answer to a prayer."

Germaine grinned. "And Keir was the answer to another prayer?"

"Well, let's just say he's awfully nice to have around."

"I'm glad to hear it. I've been worried about both of you. Just don't get too involved; he really is capable of vanishing into thin air. Does it all the time."

"I'd thought as much." Germaine slapped her palms on the table and rose. "Well, I've got a grocery order to make up and phone in. You finish your coffee, and we'll talk some more another time."

"Thanks, I'd like that." Germaine headed for her desk, and Liz idly turned her attention to the newspaper that Hamish had left behind.

A banner above the masthead read, BOBCATS' HOPES DASHED AS RAMSEY BASHES KNEE IN L.A. OPENER. Once again, she pushed Baker Ramsey out of her mind. She scanned the front page and stopped at the bottom. ATLANTA LAWYER FOUND DEAD IN BEVERLY HILLS POOL. She read on: Albert Schaefer, a prominent Atlanta trial attorney, was found dead on Sunday morning in the swimming pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel by a lifeguard who arrived for work. His body was fully clothed when found. A Beverly Hills Police Department spokesman confirmed that death was by drowning and stated further that the alcohol content of Schaefer's bloodstream was elevated.

The investigating detectives surmised that Schaefer had fallen into the pool while drunk, during the early hours of Sunday morning, and had been unable to save himself. The lawyer's ex-wife confirmed that Schaefer was a nonswimmer with a fear of water, and the spokesman said that foul play was not suspected. Liz had known Al Schaefer only briefly, but she was shocked and immensely sad at the news of his death. Then she looked again at the headline. L.A., she thought. No, it was a coincidence. But if it was a coincidence, why was she suddenly so frightened?

Baker Ramsey looked through half-closed eyes at the nurse on top of him.

Her name was Mary Alice, and she rose and fell upon his body, making little whimpering noises, her starched skirts pushed up around her waist, the front of her uniform unbuttoned to allow her large breasts to spill out into Ramsey's kneading hands. "Oh, you, you, you…" she whispered as an orgasmic shudder ripped through her. Ramsey came, too, but more quietly. This one was good. He'd see some more of her. He held her off him as she tried to collapse onto his chest. "No, baby, you can't go to sleep," he cooed at her. "You've got to get back down the hall. If you get caught, we can't fuck again, right?" She ran her fingers down his huge arms. "God, what muscles!" she said. "You jocks are really something!" Ramsey placed his hands under her buttocks and, as easily as a normal man would hoist a doll, lifted her off him and onto her feet beside the hospital bed, careful not to bump her against his knee.

She giggled as she looked for her panty hose under the bed. "You're the only man I ever knew who could pick me up like that."

"We'll do it again," he said.

"How long do you need?" she asked, kissing him lightly. "Shall I come back in an hour?"

"Not tonight, baby," he replied. "I've got surgery at seven; I need some sleep. You wore me out, anyway."

"Sure, I'll bet," she said lasciviously, rubbing her hand over his penis. "I'll check on you during the night, anyway."

"Don't do that," he said. "I'm a light sleeper; you'll wake me up. Just put down on your clipboard that you looked in. Don't worry, I won't die in the night."

"Whatever you say, Bake," she cooed. She gave his limp penis a final kiss and swung out of the room, smoothing her skirt as she went. Ramsey waited until her footsteps had receded before he gingerly removed the ice pack from his knee and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clock on the night table read just after 2:00 A.M. As he stood he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Automatically, he flexed his biceps, then struck a bodybuilder's pose. Right, he said to himself. That's what turned the girl on-all that muscle. He'd seen the look in her eyes when he'd checked in to the hospital that afternoon, and he hadn't been the least surprised when she came to his room after midnight. He took one more look at himself in the mirror. Women loved him like this. Except Liz, the bitch. She'd started to go off him when he began to put on the heavy muscle. Ramsey moved across the room, limping; he had used crutches, for effect, when he had checked in to the hospital, but he could walk without them, especially with another kind of help. He took a small bag from the closet; from that he removed a small leather case, unzipped it, and chose from the row of bottles. He held it up in the moonlight and read its label: XYLOCAINE. He took a disposable syringe from the little case, tore off the wrapping, and plunged it into the rubber neck of the bottle, sucking some of the contents into the plastic implement. He returned the bottle to the case, limped back to the bed, and sat down, crossing his legs, the injured knee on top. Carefully, he began injecting the painkiller, choosing the soft tissue, varying the depth of his stabs. He massaged the knee gently. Damn that little prick, Schaefer. The bastard had done this to him with one kick. Who'd have thought he could have ruined the knee so easily? He'd used his little medical kit to hold off the pain until he could get into the game with the Rams. Then, one tackle, and he had had an excuse for his injury. Now the pain began to ebb away, and Ramsey could walk back to the closet without limping. What the hell did it matter if he made it a little worse? They would fix it in the morning, anyway. He got into some jeans, moccasins, and a shirt; then he took the spare pillows from the closet and arranged them under the sheets. He cracked the door and looked down the hall; the nurse was at her station, her back to him. He tiptoed across the hall and headed down the fire stairs; they ended in the main lobby, which was deserted at this time of night. In a moment, he was out of the hospital and into the empty street, avoiding the emergency exit. Looking carefully both ways, he limped across the street and disappeared into the Brookwood Hills neighborhood, a quiet, old subdivision of medium-sized houses that had, in recent years, become expensive. Soon, when the Xylocaine had taken full effect, he no longer had to limp. It took him twenty minutes, moving in the shadows, to find the place. He passed through the backyard of the house next door and spent a moment taking a length of rope from a child's swing. Ray Ferguson opened his eyes, alert, unsure about the sound he had heard. He looked at his sleeping wife, then got out of bed, listening. The back door opening, that was what the sound had been; he often forgot to lock it. He sat very still, straining to hear. Another sound, this one from his study. The publisher got slowly up from the bed, so as not to disturb his wife, and went to the closet for his shotgun. He had bought the weapon years before from a small-town hardware store, a short-barreled pump twelve-gauge that had belonged to the local police force, the man had said. There had been some burglaries in the neighborhood that year, and he had been worried. He had loaded the weapon with number-nine bird shot, the smallest available. He didn't want to kill anybody; he'd have bought buckshot for that. He just wanted something to frighten somebody away, if it came to that. Now, he thought, it has come to that. He walked quietly to the stairs in his bare feet and started slowly down them, listening.