Stuart Woods: Palindrome

"I will granddaddy," James replied.

It had been a long time since his grandfather had said anything to him about his behavior. "You got a good life before you," Buck said. "You going' to see places, see the whole world."

"I am?"

Buck nodded. "But you don' forget about this island, you hear? You got some roots here; don' you forget about em."

"I won't, Grandaddy."

"My peoples is calling to me," Buck said, looking into the fire again. "It's 'bout time I be going'." A chill ran through James, in spite of the hot fire. He couldn't think of anything to say. A squall of heavy rain pounded on the tin roof; the noise was terrific.

"Granddaddy," he shouted, to be heard over the din. As he spoke, the wind rose to a howl that drowned out even the rain on the roof. The little house groaned, and James looked up at the rafters. He went to a window to look out, and, as he did, the cabin moved with the wind. This time, it kept moving. There was a loud groaning and the splintering of timber, and, more slowly than James could have believed, the house began to come down. Not knowing which way to run, he stood and looked at his grandfather. As the house came down, the brick chimney came with it, falling like a tree onto the spot where Buck Moses sat rocking.

When James woke, it seemed that only moments had passed. He lay under a pile of boards, and broken glass was all around him. The wind was louder than ever now, and the rain came in torrents. The remains of the driftwood fire sputtered out. James found that he could move, could shove the debris aside and free himself. He struggled to his feet and immediately was blown off them by the wind. No man could stand up to that, he realized. He crawled to where his grandfather lay under a pile of bricks and, keeping low, began tossing them aside. As the last of the fire went, he felt for Buck under the debris. Then, taking a good half hour to do it, he dragged the old man, inch by inch, out of the ruin of the cabin and across the ten yards to the tiny church, which, given some shelter by two old live oaks, still stood up to the hurricane. Finally, when he had managed to shut the door during a momentary lull in the wind, he got a candle and matches from the altar and brought them to where he had dragged his grandfather. The light showed blood on the old man's head.

James felt at his throat for a pulse but could find none. He leaned against the church door and pulled his grandfather's tiny frame into his arms. Buck Moses was dead, and all James could do was wait for the hurricane to pass. His crying mingled with the roar of the wind and rain.

Ed Haynes sat braced in the passenger seat of the patrol car and tried to see beyond the headlights. "I'm going to have to pull over until it lets up," the detective said, steering the car onto the shoulder.

"How much farther is it?" Haynes switched on the interior light and looked at the road map.

"About twenty-five miles, I reckon. To tell you the truth, I'm amazed we've gotten this far."

"I've never seen anything like this in my life," the detective said. "There must be six inches of water on the road; it's like driving down a river."

Haynes turned on the radio and searched for a Jacksonville station. "Here's the latest on Hurricane Lago," a voice said. "The storm made a sudden forty-five-degree turn about four hours ago, and made a landfall a hundred miles south and hours earlier than had been expected. The eye is expected to hit the coast north of Jacksonville around dawn, and the Weather Service tells us that the worst should be over by midmorning."

"Well, that's something, I guess," the detective said.

"I'm glad we drove," Haynes said. "At least we'll be able to get onto the island at the earliest possible moment. If this would just let up, we could make the sheriff's office in half an hour."

"It's not letting up, yet," the detective said. "If it's any consolation, Ramsey's got to be pinned down just like everybody else."

"Christ, I hope so," Haynes replied, watching the windshield wipers swim over the glass.

Liz sat bolt upright in bed, groggy and disoriented. She was dressed in nothing but a T-shirt, and Keir was not in bed with her. The wind howled around the house, bellowing, like some prehistoric animal in heat. What was going on? What had awakened her? It was pitch dark-no moon, not even the light of the stars-and incredibly heavy rain was thundering on the tin roof of the cottage. The alarm clock at the bedside glowed green, reading just after 6:00 A.M. Above the sound of the wind and rain came another noise, a banging, crashing, shattering noise. The front door, she thought; less wind than this had blown it open before. She stumbled out of bed, hating to give up the warm covers; she groped her way toward the door to the living room, and she had reached it before she remembered that she had forgotten the chef's knife. Then the memory came flooding over her: Baker was on the island.

She was about to go back for the knife, when a protracted flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the room. Standing in the middle of the living room, locked together in silent combat, were Baker Ramsey and Keir Drummond. Baker was striking Keir on the back of the head, while Keir had a handful of Baker's short hair in one hand and was clawing at his eyes with the other. Liz stood, transfixed, as the flash of lightning faded and, a moment later, was replaced by another. The attitudes of the two men had changed; Baker now had both arms around Keir's slender body and was hauling the smaller man to him in a powerful bear hug. Just before the light went away again, Liz saw Keir lean into Baker's head and come away with an ear in his teeth. A scream rent the darkness. She had seen something else in the flash of light: a wine rack on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Finding her way from memory, she reached it and moved toward where the two struggling men had been. When the lightning came again, she was in position. She held the neck of the wine bottle in both hands and swung it with all her strength at the back of Baker's head.

The bottle exploded, showering red wine everywhere. Baker let go of Keir and fell to one knee, momentarily stunned. The light winked out, and, rushing at where Baker had been, Liz raised the jagged neck of the wine bottle and brought it down. The lightning returned, showing the glass embedded in the top of Baker's shoulder. Bringing all her weight to bear, she drew the broken bottle down his back, shredding his white shirt and leaving a bloody track along his spine. Baker screamed more loudly than Liz would have believed a human being could, and, in the momentary darkness, she threw herself sideways as he wheeled to strike her. As she did, she caught a glimpse of a crumpled and unconscious Keir on the floor. She was Baker's goal, and she knew he would come for her, not Keir. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed her car keys from the table before the lightning flashed again, showing Baker her path of retreat. She fled the house, tripping over a light ax on the back porch, knowing he would be after her, and flung herself from the landing. She struck the ground in the darkness and rolled; then the lightning came again and showed her the Jeep.

The wind gusted, throwing her off balance, and she had to correct her course, leaning against the gust as she ran as if it were a wall.

She reached the Jeep and got the door open. The lights came on inside the vehicle, blinding her when she closed the door and they went out.

Searching for the keyhole, she was vaguely aware of a large tree branch landing on the hood of the Jeep, then blowing away. She yanked on the gear lever and stomped on the accelerator, forgetting the headlights. By the time she remembered and got them on, she was heading directly for Germaine's pickup truck, which lay across the road. She swerved, but still struck a front fender of the truck, moving it sideways as if had been kicked by a giant, then she was on the road and moving fast. How had Baker got hold of Germaine's truck? Not too fast, she kept telling herself. He couldn't catch the Jeep on foot, and she had hurt the pickup. Anyway, there were no headlights behind her. Still, she drove faster than she had ever driven on the island, along the side of the airstrip, headed for the main, north-south road. Not the inn, she thought; Baker would find her there. Where could she find shelter? A place that Baker didn't know? Plum Orchard. At the T-junction, she swung right and bore down, sending the Jeep hurtling through the wild night. Suddenly, the Jeep left the ground entirely, then landed, skidding. She whipped it back onto the road and thanked her stars. These roads, which had seemed quite all right at twenty miles an hour, were something else at sixty. Squinting at the road ahead of her through the driving rain, she forced herself to slow to forty and thought about Keir. Would Baker hurt him? No, he was single-minded; he would come after her, if he could. His back was cut, and he was missing an ear, but that wouldn't slow him; he would come, eventually. She thought about help. The sheriff was only a few miles away and had a helicopter, but she had no means of summoning him, and, even if she could, he could never reach the island in this awful storm. A fork in the road was approaching, and suddenly she slammed on the brakes with all the force she could muster. A huge pine tree lay across the road at the turning for Plum Orchard. She swung right without stopping and bore down again. Wherever this road went, she was going. She was still in the full flight of panic, and simply putting distance between herself and Baker was all she wanted. She worked hard at calming herself, to slow her heartbeat and her breathing. Nothing worked. A part of her mind marveled that she could sustain this level of raw fear for such a long time. The Jeep hurtled on through the night, its headlights boring a tunnel through the trees. Then, very suddenly, there were no trees, and the headlamps illuminated nothing but rain and flying debris. She had broken into some sort of clearing. At the moment she moved to stop, something more powerful than brakes dragged the car to a halt. She lurched forward, struck the steering column with her chest, then fell back against the seat. Blinking, she peered out of the car and saw blue sky above, and the light was improving by the second. There was water all around her, but the car had not sunk. Confused, she tried to orient herself, then she realized how she could be in water and still be on the road. The dike that stretched across the lower end of Lake Whitney was underwater, inundated by the downpour. She glanced out the passenger window, then back out the driver's side. As she did, an obstruction appeared between her and the lake. It was a face, a familiar face, upside down. Baker Ramsey was on top of the Jeep.