Stuart Woods - Palindrome

Keir held up a hand to indicate that she should still not move. They sat still for another two minutes, then he motioned for her to follow and walked back toward the car. Liz followed, silently stretching her limbs, trying not to whimper with relief. When they reached the track, Keir spoke. "Well, how did you like that?"

"It was wonderful," she said, grateful to be able to speak again. "I would never have gotten that shot if you hadn't taken me there and made me shut up. I wouldn't ordinarily have had the patience."

"Patience is everything," he said, a trace of sadness in his voice. Then he brightened. "How about a swim?"

"In Lake Whitney? Not on your life!"

"How about the Atlantic Ocean? That safe enough for you?"

"Does it have giant alligators?"

"Not usually."

"You're on." They drove back to the beach, and Keir shed the loincloth and ran into the water. After a look up and down the beach, she stripped and followed him. They had to go out some distance before the water became deep. They swam idly for a few minutes and engaged in some banter and play that reminded her of college, then they ran out of the water toward the Jeep. They ducked into the shade of the car, for the sun was becoming hot, and he kissed her and pulled her to him. "You ever made love on a beach?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, "and once was enough; too much sand." She looked up at him. Was she going to tumble into the sack with him, just like that?

He looked at her carefully. "Am I pushing you?" She thought about that for a moment, just for a moment.

What did she really want? She took a deep breath. "A bed is better than a beach. How about your place?"

"It better be yours," he said.

They had made love for an hour that morning before Liz went into the kitchen and found the note from Germaine.

When she turned around he was gone. She had crossed the room to pick up a book; he had been staring out the window. She was becoming accustomed to this trait of his, and she thought she even liked it. If he could come and go as he pleased, so could she. She thought of him running, half-naked, through the woods, to some warren, some hideaway where he curled up and slept until he was hungry. He was a wild animal, and she liked him that way; he seemed disinclined to make any civilized demands upon her-fidelity, fixed abode, fashion. Baker, on the other hand, had demanded all those things, even when their marriage was at its worst.

Keir seemed to have no expectations of her at all, except to make love when he wanted her, and, so far, she was willing to meet that one. She remembered Germaine's note: "I need to talk to you." By "need" did she mean 'I want"? Did "talk to you" mean she wanted to pour out her heart about some problem? No, Liz thought, finally, it was a southern sentence; it meant: I have important information to impart. God, she was getting analytical, and just when she felt most free from the need to analyze. She had money, time, and work to do. She was safe, there was breakfast in her belly, and she had been fucked to a pleasant soreness, to put it crudely, and she felt crude, elemental. Everything in her life had been reduced to the essential; there was no worry, no plan outside purposeful work and the satisfaction of appetites. She glowed with the simplicity of it all. In this context, Germaine's information could not be important. Still, her curiosity got the better of her. She dressed and drove to the inn. She passed through the front gate, and as she approached the house there was a clatter from above, and a helicopter sat down on the wide front lawn. As the rotors slowed, Germaine and Ron appeared on the front porch and watched. Three men spilled from the machine, which was marked as belonging to the National Park Service. One of the men was dressed in the summer uniform of a ranger; the others wore suits; one carried a briefcase. Liz parked the Jeep and met Germaine at the bottom of the inn's front steps as the chopper's turbine wound down. "It's Grandpapa's lawyer," she said, anticipating Liz's question. "Ward Cheatham. Cheatham's his name, cheat 'em's his game," she muttered. "The other guy's our congressman; I can't remember his name. I don't know who the Smoky is." She grabbed Liz's arm. "You stay right here; I've got to talk to you." Germaine walked out to meet the men, shook their hands, exchanged a few words, then said something to Ron. The boy led the others to the inn's van, and they drove away. Germaine returned and led Liz up the steps to the broad front porch and one of the large swings. "What was that all about?" Liz asked, as they sat down. "Who knows? Grandpapa asked me to call Cheatham for him; my guess is, he wants to make a will. I don't know why the hell he brought the feds along. Ron's driving them to Dungeness." Germaine settled herself and looked Liz in the eye. "Bad news, buddy," she said. She reached over to the table alongside the swing and picked up a newspaper. "I'll tell you flat out, then you can read the details, and you'll know as much as I do." She cleared her throat, as if looking for an excuse not to talk. "Ray and Eleanor Ferguson are both dead-night before last, I think."

Liz felt as if she had been struck hard in the chest. Without speaking she reached for the newspaper. ATLANTA PUBLISHER AND WIFE IN APPARENT MURDER/SUICIDE The bodies of Raymond E. Ferguson, head of his own publishing house, Buckhead Press, and his wife, Eleanor, were found in their home by a cleaning lady early yesterday. Mrs. Ferguson had been shot, and her husband hanged. A federal form found in Mr. Ferguson's desk indicated that he had purchased a shotgun in 1982, and the weapon was found near Mrs. Ferguson's body. A source in the Atlanta Police Department theorized that the Fergusons had quarreled, and that, in a rage, Mr. Ferguson had turned the shotgun on his wife. He then, apparently, went next door and took a rope from a child's swing and hanged himself from a beam in his study. Neighbors said the couple had lived quietly in the Brookwood Hills house for more than twenty years and were well-liked. "No one can believe that this has happened," said their next-door neighbor, Mrs. James Thready. "They were tremendously kind people, and it is impossible for me to believe that they weren't kind to each other as well." Homicide Detective Sergeant Lee Williams, in charge of the case, said that there would be no official statement until a thorough investigation had been conducted. Liz began to cry.

Germaine gathered her to her breast and stroked her head. "You go right ahead, sugar; you're entitled." Liz wept for Ray and for the circumstances. She wept out of anger, and, as she did, a cold fear came to her, and she suddenly stopped crying.

"What?" Germaine asked.

"I have to use your telephone," Liz said, sniffling.

"Of course, Liz, go right ahead." Liz took the newspaper and walked downstairs to Germaine's office. When Al Schaefer had died she had put it down I to an accident, but now the only other person she had been close to since she had been released from the hospital was dead, too. It could be a coincidence, of course, but she had to know. She dialed Atlanta information and got the number of the Homicide Bureau of the Atlanta Police Department. It took only a moment to be connected to Detective Sergeant Lee Williams.

"Sergeant Williams," he said, and the voice was rich and deep, with African-American intonation.

"Sergeant, my name is Elizabeth Barwick; I'm calling about the murder of Raymond Ferguson and his wife."

"Murder? Do you know something I don't, Ms. Barwick?"

"I think they were murdered."

"First things first," Williams said. "May I have your address and phone number, please?"

"I'm outside Atlanta, and I don't have a phone. Please just listen to me."

"Just a minute, please," he said. He covered the phone with his hand and spoke to somebody else.