Stuart Woods: Palindrome

"Sugar, it's about time. All your friends think so."

"It had to be done."

"Let's get together."

"I'd love to, but everything is so hectic. I'm going to be traveling for a while, and I've got so much to do."

"Around the world?"

"Maybe. I haven't decided."

"Send us a postcard."

"Sure thing. I'm sending you a copy of my book; it's out next month."

"Can't wait to see it. Can't wait to see you."

"When you least expect it."

"Take care."

"Bye."

Liz Barwick leaned over the rail and let the wind blow in her face. It was the day after Labor Day, and it seemed a very long time since she had performed such a pleasurable act. She was aboard the Aldred Drummond, formerly a naval landing craft, which had departed Fernandina Beach, Florida, twenty minutes before. Cumberland Island loomed ahead.

This was all very strange to her and, in a way, frightening. At this moment in her life, she had no connection with any human being, other than her publisher and her lawyer. Since birth, there had always been someone to tell her what to do-her parents, teachers, professors, her boss at the paper; and, in recent years, an increasingly volatile husband. Now she was independent-well-off, too. She was also alone. Her new car, a black Jeep Cherokee, shared the craft with a van from the island's Greyfield Inn. She leaned back inboard and caught her reflection in the Cherokee's window. She had been avoiding her reflection for the past two months, but now she studied the vaguely different face that stared back at her from under a floppy, broad-brimmed straw hat. It was remarkably free from apparent damage; indeed, a stranger might think the face quite normal. Teeth were fine, the jaw realigned; there was a splotchiness of the skin where scars had been cleverly removed. A lingering puffiness of the forehead and cheeks gave her a nearly Indian look, made her eyes seem unusually deep set.

Under the straw hat were two inches of thick, dark hair-the same length all over, newly grown from a once-shaven scalp. The new hair already hid a thin, red scar which ran, from ear to ear, over the top of her head. Harry Estes had made the incision, then pulled her scalp forward, baring the skull, until he could see the orbs of her eyes from above, then he had reattached her facial structure to her skull, using four small titanium plates. The weight on her five-foot, eight-inch frame was down from one hundred and thirty to one hundred and three pounds.

Liz opened the car door and stood on the doorsill, the better to see the island. They were in Cumberland Sound, part of the Inland Waterway, and the island was showing its narrow southern tip, the bone end of the typical legoflamb shape of an Atlantic Seaboard barrier island. The mouth of the St. Marys River opened to her left, and the sinister, black silhouette of a United States submarine could be glimpsed as it made its way upstream toward its new base at St. Marys. To her right, the Atlantic Ocean began to slip from view behind the low-lying island.

Beyond a small sea of waving marsh grass and a stand of trees, a gaggle of chimneys rose, hinting at something imposing under them. That would be Dungeness, the main house, Liz thought, remembering the map in her pocket, and, as they made their way up the sound, Dungeness Dock appeared in the distance.

Liz felt thirsty, and she moved toward the rear of the Cherokee, where a cooler rested. As she reached the back of the car and started around it, a shaft of timber appeared, rushing toward her face. She spun out of the way, suddenly terrified, holding her fragile new visage in her hands, trying not to tremble. "Hey, I'm sorry, didn't see you," a pleasant-looking young man said, hefting the two-by-four onto his other shoulder.

"It's all right," she replied, leaning against the Jeep for support, trying to slow her heartbeat.

"You must be Liz Barwick," a woman's husky voice said. Liz dropped her hands and looked at a fortyish, statuesque woman wearing a cotton shift, her salt-and-pepper hair falling loose about her shoulders.

"Yes," she said, feeling somehow cornered. "I'm Germaine Drummond," the woman said, sticking out a hand. "I run Greyfield Inn."

"Hi," Liz replied, struggling to smile.

"Ray Ferguson told me you were coming, asked me to look out for you." Her brow furrowed. "You seem a little shaky."

"I'm okay; just a near collision with a piece of lumber." She nodded at the young man, who was making his way aft. "Oh, that's Ron; he's a summer waiter at the inn. I'm sorry he scared you."

"It wasn't his fault." Liz moved to the rear of the Jeep again and opened the tailgate. "Would you like something to drink?"

"You could force a beer on me, I guess," the woman replied.

Liz opened two beers and handed Germaine one. "Ray told me about the inn. It sounds like a nice place."

Germaine nodded. "We try. Sometimes I wish it was in a populated place, so we wouldn't have to do things like run a daily ferry to Fernandina, and go over there once a week for groceries. By the way, give me a list the middle of every week, and I'll add it to our trip; charge you ten percent for the service."

"More than fair," Liz said. "How long have you owned the place?"

"I don't own it," Germaine said. "My grandfather does; charges me rent. I've been running the place since I kicked my husband off the island ten years ago."

"Your grandfather is quite old, isn't he?"

"Ninety-one. Still drives a jeep all over his island. We had to make him stop riding horses awhile back." She nodded at the chimneys above the trees. "There's his house."

"It looks big."

"Forty rooms. I know, we counted them once, when I was a little girl. My two brothers and I spread out and each took a chunk, then compared notes. The place had a staff of three hundred in the old days, toward the end of the last century."

"Three hundred?"

"They grew their own vegetables, raised and slaughtered their own cattle and hogs and chickens, did their own building and blacksmithing, ran a school, had a doctor and a dentist in once a week-had an office and equipment for them. It was a working settlement. Grandpapa still grows most of his own food. Say, I know you won't feel like cooking after moving all your gear into the cottage. Why don't you join me for dinner at the inn tonight?"

Liz hesitated for a moment. During the past two months she had become accustomed to refusing contact with anybody, hiding away while she healed. "Thanks," she said finally. "I'd like that." It was time she came out of hiding.

"There's Greyfield Dock," Germaine said. "We'll be ashore in a few minutes. How long you down for?"

"I don't know," Liz said honestly. "Ray wants a collection of photographs for a book about the island. As long as it takes, I guess."

"It's about time he did that book; he's been talking about it long enough. I reckon I'll sell a ton of them at the inn." A single-engine airplane appeared, low in the sky, and flew in two tight circles over the island. "We've got a grass strip on the island," Germaine said. "The odd guest flies in, buzzes the inn, and we meet him."

The Aldred Drummond began a turn toward the slip. "Better saddle up, I guess," Germaine said. "Come for a drink about six. Dinner's at seven-thirty."

"See you then," Liz replied, climbing into the Jeep. The barge eased up to the bank and dropped her gate. Germaine drove the van ashore, and Liz followed in her vehicle. Greyfield Inn appeared on her left, a graceful mansion in the colonial style, with a broad, high front porch. Giant live oaks spread their long limbs over the lawn before it, dipping to the ground, their Spanish moss dripping from every branch. Germaine stopped the van and waved Liz alongside. "You know the way?"

"Not exactly."