Stuart Woods: Palindrome

Irritably, "I don't know, Al, fifteen years?"

"Do you know me to be a serious person, Henry?"

Near exasperation, "Yes, Al, you're a serious person." Hoyt had good reason to know, Schaefer reflected; he had carved the man, his forty-eight partners, and his two hundred associates into a pretzel shape seven years before, in a huge personal-injury verdict against the firm's biggest client. The case had tripled his billings.

"Well, I'm serious now, Henry. Last night, one of your most expensive ball players tried to murder his wife, whom I now represent."

Weakly, "What?"

"I won't keep you in suspense, Henry. It was Bake Ramsey."

Involuntarily, "Jesus Christ."

"He very nearly succeeded in the attempt. I've just seen the woman; she will never be the same again, physically or mentally."

"Who knows about this, Al?" Hoyt was recovering.

"I know about it, Henry; everybody wants to know. I'm not sure how long I can keep a lid on it."

"It's a little early in the game for threats, isn't it, Al? You and I have to talk."

"You and I and Bake Ramsey, tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock in my office. Not a minute later. I don't want any team management there. I'll expect you to be authorized to act."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, you've got plenty of time to explain it to them, Henry. If they balk, tell them that this attack probably took place because the team has been shooting old Bake up with steroids since well before last season."

"That's very dangerous talk, Al."

"It certainly is, Henry. Just two more things, then I'll say good night: I want you to tell Baker Ramsey who I am, just in case he doesn't know; then I want you to tell him that if he goes anywhere near his wife, I'll make sure he doesn't see the light of day for the next twenty years."

"Al…"

"Yes, Henry, I know; that's a threat. You just make sure Ramsey understands I can make good on it. I'll see you tomorrow at two. Schaefer hung up and gripped the steering wheel. Sweat from his palms seeped into the soft leather. Once in maybe three or four years, he got to talk like that to a senior partner in an establishment law firm. It was better than sex. Al Schaefer winged his way home.

Raymond Ferguson sat next to the bed and looked at the sleeping Elizabeth Barwick. He was glad she was asleep; it gave him a moment to accustom himself to the transformation of the loveliest woman he knew into a swollen, discolored lump of flesh. He willed himself to stop feeling sorry for her-she would know it in a minute if he did, and she would hate him for it. He took a deep breath and touched her hand. "Lizzie? It's Ray."

She opened her eyes as much as she could. "Hey, Ray," she said. She sounded as if she were smiling. He fixed his eyes on hers as she pressed the button that raised the bed.

"I hear you're going to live."

"You bet. Have you got something for me?"

Ferguson smiled and produced a package wrapped in expensive paper. "First copy," he said.

She took the package and ripped it open, ignoring the beautiful paper.

"The Beauty of Sport," she read, "Photographs of Athletes by Elizabeth Barwick." She turned the pages rapidly, bringing the book close to her face. "The printing is gorgeous," she said excitedly. "You were right to take a chance on those people."

"I'll use them again and again,"

Ferguson said. "Are you happy with it?"

"Ray, it's just wonderful; you've made me look great."

"You've made yourself look great. By the way, good news: the Bobcats have bought ten thousand copies. They're offering them as a premium for season ticket buyers."

"That is good news," she said. "Maybe after today they won't want them."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I've got them nailed for the order." He looked around the room. "They said you didn't want flowers; is there anything else I can get you?"

"Not at the moment. I'll let you know."

"Listen, Liz, have you given any thought to what you're going to do next?"

"Crawl into a hole for a while, I think."

"I've had an idea I was going to talk with you about, and maybe this is as good a time as any."

"Shoot."

"You know Cumberland Island?"

"Only the name. It's near Sapelo Island, isn't it?"

"No, farther south. It's the southernmost of the barrier islands off Georgia, just north of the Florida line. An amazing place."

"What makes it amazing?"

"Well, most of the barrier islands have been developed, often overdeveloped, like Hilton Head and St. Simons, but Cumberland has been in the hands of one family, the Drummonds, since the late eighteenth century. It's probably not a hell of a lot different than it was when the Spaniards discovered it. Old Aldred Drummond, the patriarch, built several big houses for his children, one of which is now an inn. Apart from those, there are only a dozen or so houses on the island. A limited number of people are allowed to visit the island every day, and the inn sleeps only eighteen. There's all sorts of wildlife and about eighteen miles of the most glorious beach you ever saw, with nobody on it."

"Sounds like heaven."

"If it ain't, it's close.I want a book of photographs of the place. I'd like to do the text myself. You want to take a crack at it?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I don't know. I used to have the urge to do nature stuff-I've always been a big fan of Ansel Adams and Eliot Porter. I envy Adams the chance to photograph the West before it got really tamed."

"Well, maybe this is like that. The island is in the hands of one old man, now, and he's over ninety. He lives in a sort of isolated grandeur in the main house, a giant of a place called Dungeness. When he goes, nobody knows what's going to happen. The developers are sniffing around, of course, and I hear the Parks Service has some ambitions. It's unlikely to be the same place in a very few years. I'd like it captured as it is before it goes to hell. I want a big book."

"That's interesting, Ray. God knows I'll need to get away when I get out of here."

"When will that be?"

"Surgery's tomorrow. I'll be out a few days after that, depending on how things go. I'll want some time entirely to myself after that, to get well."

"Think about the autumn, then. It's a beautiful time of the year at Cumberland. We have a cottage down there; it came from my wife's side of the family-she's a distant cousin to the Drummonds. It's not fancy, but it's comfortable, and you're welcome to it for as long as you like. There's even a storage room that might make a good darkroom."

"Mmmmm."

Ferguson shifted his weight. "I think, with the probable success of this book"-he tapped the book in her lap-"I could probably manage a bit more money for a Cumberland volume. It'll sell for years to come."

"You certainly know what tempts a girl. Let's call it a definite maybe. We'll talk about it in a couple of weeks, when I'm settled somewhere, all right?"

"All right." Ferguson seemed to be searching for words. "Listen, kid, I'm sorry this happened…

"Don't, Ray," she said, squeezing his hand. "I'll start feeling sorry for myself. I just want to accept things as they are and make the best of them."

"Sure, I understand." He stood. "You think about Cumberland Island."

"I'll hardly be able to think of anything else," she said.

He gave her a little wave, and closed the door behind him.

Elizabeth Barwick gazed adoringly at the book in her lap. She tried to hug it to her breast, but the pain stopped her.

Schaefer walked into the smaller of his two conference rooms and looked it over. It was done in Art Deco style, the antithesis of what a conference room at LHT would look like. Henry Hoyt would be immediately uncomfortable. Hoyt, Schaefer knew, was no fool, and he would have recovered himself after having been caught off guard by Schaefer's phone call the evening before. Never mind, Schaefer thought. I'll have him rattled again inside of five minutes. He moved all but three chairs back to the wall and arranged the remaining three with two on one side of the table and one on the other. On the table in front of the single chair he placed a large brown envelope and a manila file folder, squaring them neatly. Unbuttoning the jacket of his silk Armani suit, he removed a Colt Cobra.357 magnum revolver from his waistband, popped the cylinder to be sure it was loaded, opened a slender drawer in front of the single chair, and placed the pistol there. He closed the drawer and stood back to survey the scene. Perfect. Schaefer looked at his wristwatch; one minute past two. The phone on the conference table rang. "Mr. Schaefer, Mr. Henry Hoyt and Mr. Baker Ramsey are here."