Stuart Woods - Palindrome

"Wait here, and I'll find him," Mary Alice said. She left them in the waiting room and edged her way around the press conference. Martin went and stood, goggle eyed, at the door, taking in the proceedings. Williams took a chair next to an office door, which was ajar, and a moment later he heard voices. "Now you listen to me, you little sonofabitch," a familiar voice said. "You jack up the price on me again, and I'll break your arms for you."

"Listen, Bake," another voice said, "it's what it cost me; I'm not making out on this. You don't want the stuff, say so, and we'll forget it." Williams turned to his right in time to see, through the open door, Bake Ramsey holding the shirtfront of a smaller man dressed as an assistant coach. Ramsey let go of the shirt and took a small package from the man. "All right, as long as you're not sticking it to me." He took a wad of money from a pocket and peeled off some bills. "I'll want the same next week."

"Okay, but don't give me a hard time if the price goes up. Williams got up and moved away from the door, toward the next room and the press conference. He knew a drug buy when he saw one, but he wasn't busting anybody today, especially Bake Ramsey, in the team's dressing rooms, with the press standing by and his son dying to meet the guy.

A moment later, he saw Ramsey ease himself into the press room on his crutches and start answering questions. When it was over, Mary Alice led him into the waiting room. "Bake, I want you to meet Martin," she said. "He's your biggest fan, I think." Ramsey's personality had undergone a major change. "Hi, Martin," he said, bathing the boy in a big smile. "Did you like the game today?"

"I'd have liked it better if you'd been playing, Bake," the boy replied.

Ramsey looked up and saw Williams. "Oh, hi, there. This is your boy, huh?"

"It sure is," Williams said, trying to smile.

"Well, Martin, you come on with me a minute," Ramsey said. He took the boy and left the room. Mary Alice turned to Williams, all smiles. "He just loves kids," she said. "I knew he'd want to meet Martin."

"I sure appreciate the thought," Williams replied.

"He'll remember this day forever."

He nodded. "You hurt your face?"

She became unsettled. "Oh, uh, yes, I had a fall. Stupid thing; fell over my own feet."

"Sure," Williams said. "I do it myself all the time."

Sure. Ramsey returned, leading Martin, who was clutching a Bobcats jersey to his breast, grinning madly.

"Well, Martin, if you and your dad will excuse us, Mary Alice and I have to be somewhere." He stuck out his hand, enveloping the boy's.

"Sure, sure, thanks, Bake, I really appreciate it."

Mary Alice gave them directions to the parking lot, and they left.

"Dad, look at this," Martin said, holding up the jersey.

"It's his own jersey, the one he was wearing when he got hurt playing against the Rams; see the grass stains?"

"That's really something, boy. You got lucky today, huh?"

All the way home, the boy jumped up and down on the car seat, hugging the jersey. Williams was thrilled with his son's joy over his day, but there was a sick feeling in his own belly.

The day had lent weight to at least some of Elizabeth Barwick's allegations: Bake Ramsey was probably violent with women, and he was very likely using drugs. If those things were possible, then what else might be? He was beginning to feel snookered, and he didn't like it.

James Moses gripped the wheel of the jeep tightly and concentrated on carefully following Angus Drummond's instructions. "Now, see the H on the gear knob? That shows you where the gears are. You push in the clutch and put it in first gear." James did as he was told. "Now, give it some gas and let out on the clutch gradually." James tried, and the jeep gave a jerk and stopped running. Angus sighed deeply. "Try it once again; you'll get the hang of it." James tried again and got the jeep going. Clutching the wheel, he aimed down the beach. The tide was out, and his road was wide. He got through the gears and began to enjoy himself. "This is fun!" he shouted over the wind. Angus laughed aloud.

"I'd forgotten how much fun it was when I learned to drive," he said. "That was in a car not all that different from this one, about eighty years ago. It was an old Model T Ford pickup truck that was missing just about everything but four wheels and a steering wheel and some seats. All right, stop the car, and we'll try shifting again."

When an hour had passed, James was driving smoothly and was a little more relaxed. "Is it any harder on a road, Mr. Angus?"

"Not much, and there isn't much in the way of traffic to worry about on the island."

"Granddaddy wouldn't ever let me drive his truck," James said.

"I don't know why not," Angus replied. "That old heap was just about done for when I gave it to him, and that was a long time ago." He pointed at a track through the dunes. "All right, let's try it in four-wheel drive."

James worked the levers as instructed and powered up the track and over the crest of the dunes. "Now, when we get a good-sized storm, or maybe a hurrycane, somebody has to come out here with the tractor and open up these tracks again, or they'll just disappear," Angus said. "You remember that. When I'm gone, there's nobody on this island who'll think about things like that. Germaine and the twins think this island just maintains itself, that it's a wild place. Well, it's wild all right, but somebody has to make sure the maintenance crew keeps the roads repaired, and the grass on the landing strip cut, and a roof on all the buildings, or it'll just go to hell."

"Yessir," James said. He wondered why he was being told all this. Then they began a tour of the island, and Angus showed him more of what had to be done-the bridges over the creeks, the traps for the wild hogs that rooted up things, the transformers that managed the electricity brought from the mainland, the piers and pilings on the landward side of the island, the wells that supplied fresh water. They finished up at Dungeness. In the study, Angus brought down a cardboard box and took out of it a cloth-bound book measuring about nine by twelve inches and an inch thick. Angus opened it and began turning pages. "I've been working on this for two years," he said, "and I just got the bound copies from New York last week. This book tells the history of this island from the time the Indians were the only settlers; it covers the Drummond family history, and there are maps from a survey that I did about twenty years ago. I drew them myself. There are descriptions and plans of every structure on the island that I built, and drawings of the others. Everything I could think of about this island is in this book, and I've had one bound for every living member of my family. Everyone except Jimmy Weathers, that is. In his hands, this might be dangerous information." He closed the book and handed it to James. "This copy is for you, son," he said. James took the book and noticed that at the bottom, stamped in gold, was JAMES MOSES DRUMMOND.

He ran his finger over the stamping. "If it's for me, why does it have this name on it?" he asked.

"Because that's your rightful name, James," Angus said.

James didn't know what to say. This was the only time Angus had ever mentioned this, and he was speechless.

"You take that book and you read it," Angus said softly, "and then you read it again. You need to know the things in that book, and I've been too long telling them to you."

"Yessir," James said. "Go on about your business, now, and come see me tomorrow. We'll look around the island some more."

James did not go to sleep that night until he had finished the book. He would read it again the following day, he knew, and the day after that.