Stuart Woods: Palindrome

Germaine smiled. "Somehow, Bob, brandy doesn't seem to satisfy you. Is there anything else I can do for you?" He smiled, revealing large, even teeth.

"Where do you lay your head, Germaine?"

"In a cottage just across the lawn."

"Why don't you show it to me?"

"I'd love to," Germaine said. "Bring your drink." She picked up the cognac bottle, grabbed a large umbrella from the stand by the front door, and led him out into the night.

The first thing he saw was the darkness; the first thing he heard was the silence. Then there was a beeping-dim, regular-and then another sound.

"Shhh," a female voice said. "Don't try to talk; I'll get the doctor."

There was a rustling of clothes, the squeak of rubber soles on vinyl, and then only the beeping. A long time seemed to pass, and he tried to orient himself. Before he could do so, there was a male voice close by.

"Don't try to talk," the voice said. "Open your eyes. He opened his eyes. The man was so close he was fuzzy. He tried to speak, but his mouth and throat were too dry to make a sound. Someone put a glass straw in his mouth, and when he sucked, wonderful, sweet water flowed. He rinsed his mouth, then swallowed. He tried to speak again.

"What?" the man asked. "Say again?"

"Haynes," Williams managed to say.

"Right here, Lee," Haynes's voice came back. "Your wife's here, too."

"Hey, baby," she said.

"Just hold your horses, Captain, Mrs. Williams," the other man said. There was a sharp pain in his foot. "Did you feel anything, Lee?" the doctor asked.

"My foot," Williams said. "See if you can wiggle your toes." Williams wiggled.

"Take my hand and squeeze." He squeezed. "Now the other hand." He squeezed again.

"Watch my finger. Without trying to turn your head, follow it with your eyes." He followed the finger.

"Good, very good. Lee, you came out of surgery a little over an hour ago, and you're in a pretty elaborate neck brace. You have some broken vertebrae in your neck, but the surgery was successful, and you have no, repeat, no paralysis. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Williams replied. "Ed?"

"I'm right here, Lee," Haynes said.

"Doctor, may I have a moment alone with him, please." It was not a question.

"A moment, no more," the doctor replied, and left.

"Lee, was it Ramsey?"

"Yes."

"I think I know what you were doing there. Don't worry about the gun; it's gone."

"Thanks. Cap, the woman is at a place called…" He tried to remember; it wasn't a familiar name. "An island somewhere."

"In Georgia?"

"I think so."

"Lake Lanier?"

"No, the coast."

"Jekyll? Sea Island? Cumberland?"

"That's it, Cumberland."

"Anything else? Do you know where on the island?"

"No. How long have I been out?"

"Three days. It's Friday evening."

"You better move fast; he's there by now."

"Okay. Anything else to tell me?"

"Just get him." Haynes hit the ground running.

"I want a map of the state," he said to a detective. "See if you can find one in the hospital."

"Right over there, Captain," the cop said, pointing to a wall. A framed map of Georgia hung there.

"Okay," Haynes said, tapping the glass with a finger. "It's right here, just north of Jacksonville. You call headquarters and get hold of a chopper-the big one. I'll get hold of the sheriff down there."

"Right," the detective said, and ran for a pay phone. Haynes commandeered the night nurse's desk. A couple of calls later, he found the sheriff at home. "This is Captain Haynes, Sheriff, chief of the Homicide Bureau, Atlanta PD. There's a murderer loose on your turf, and I'm coming down there just as fast as I can."

"Who and where?" the sheriff asked. "His name is Bake Ramsey."

"Football player?"

"That's the one. He's on Cumberland Island, and he's going to kill a woman named Elizabeth Barwick, unless we can stop him."

"I was on the island yesterday, and I saw Miss Barwick. She's among friends there, and it's just as well, because neither one of us is going to light on that island for a while."

"What do you mean? How far offshore is it?"

"Less than a mile, but that's a mighty long mile tonight. We got ourselves a hurricane that's going to come ashore somewhere around here, maybe tonight, and we've already got fifty knots of wind. That means no chopper can fly, and no man I know is going to try to cross the Inland Waterway in a boat. There's probably a seven-or eight-foot sea running in the waterway, and that's sheltered water."

"Shit," Haynes said. "Excuse my French, Sheriff; are there any phones on the island?"

"One, at Greyfield Inn. Hang on, I'll give you the number." He came back shortly and recited the digits. "It's one of those cellular jobs. There's no phone lines running to the island."

"Thanks for your help, Sheriff." Haynes gave his own phone numbers. "Will you call me the minute the weather lets up?"

"I sure will, and I'll get over there myself just as soon as I can." Haynes hung up and dialed the number the sheriff had given him. It rang a few times, then a recorded message said, "The BellSouth customer whose number you are calling has left the vehicle. Please try later."

He tried half a dozen times more and got the same reply. The detective approached the night nurse's desk. "The flight department tells me nothing is flying tonight, unless it's going north or west. There's a hurricane off the coast, all of southeast Georgia is bad news, and they expect it to be for at least twenty-four hours."

"I heard already," the captain said. "The sheriff down there says no boat could make it, either. We've got to think of something else." The two men stood mute at the desk and thought.

"I can't think of anything," the detective said after a while.

"Neither can I, except to keep trying to telephone the inn down there. There's been no answer."

The detective's face brightened. "Maybe we could…" He frowned again. "No, it's got to be a chopper or a boat, hasn't it?"

"That's right."

"I can't think of anything." The captain picked up the phone and dialed again. "Hello, honey, it's me," he said. "Don't wait up. I may not be back until tomorrow night. Business. You, too." He hung up and turned to the detective. "You got a wife?"

"No, sir."

"Then come on, we've got a long drive ahead of us." They headed south out of Atlanta, on Interstate 75, the red light on the dashboard clearing the way. An hour south of Macon, heavy rain began to hammer against the windshield, and Ed Haynes had to slow to eighty.

James Moses Drummond was wakened by a huge sighing noise, followed by a groaning crash. It took him a moment to figure out what it could be: a tree, and a big one. The wind and the cabin itself were making so much noise, he was surprised he had heard it at all. There was no clock, but it felt like the dead of night. He glanced at his grandfather's bed; it had not been slept in. A glow from the other room of the former slave house told him that the fire had been built up. James got out of bed and, shivering, pulled on his jeans. He went into the other room and found Buck Moses sitting in front of a roaring driftwood fire, rocking in his chair, staring at the flames, and making a tuneless humming noise. "Granddaddy, what you doing up this time of night?" he asked.

Buck Moses noticed his grandson for the first time. "Big wind done come," he said.

"You right about that," James agreed. "I never heard so much wind." A gigantic gust came, and the house seemed to move. The noise from the rafters was frightening. James moved closer to the fire to warm himself.

"You be a good boy," Buck said, looking fondly up at his grandson. "You keep on bein' good."