Palindrome (11 page)

She giggled as she looked for her panty hose under the bed. "You're the only man I ever knew who could pick me up like that."

"We'll do it again," he said.

"How long do you need?" she asked, kissing him lightly. "Shall I come back in an hour?"

"Not tonight, baby," he replied. "I've got surgery at seven; I need some sleep. You wore me out, anyway."

"Sure, I'll bet," she said lasciviously, rubbing her hand over his penis. "I'll check on you during the night, anyway."

"Don't do that," he said. "I'm a light sleeper; you'll wake me up. Just put down on your clipboard that you looked in. Don't worry, I won't die in the night."

"Whatever you say, Bake," she cooed. She gave his limp penis a final kiss and swung out of the room, smoothing her skirt as she went. Ramsey waited until her footsteps had receded before he gingerly removed the ice pack from his knee and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clock on the night table read just after 2:00 A.M. As he stood he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Automatically, he flexed his biceps, then struck a bodybuilder's pose. Right, he said to himself. That's what turned the girl on—all that muscle. He'd seen the look in her eyes when he'd checked in to the hospital that afternoon, and he hadn't been the least surprised when she came to his room after midnight. He took one more look at himself in the mirror. Women loved him like this. Except Liz, the bitch. She'd started to go off him when he began to put on the heavy muscle. Ramsey moved across the room, limping; he had used crutches, for effect, when he had checked in to the hospital, but he could walk without them, especially with another kind of help. He took a small bag from the closet; from that he removed a small leather case, unzipped it, and chose from the row of bottles. He held it up in the moonlight and read its label: XYLOCAINE. He took a disposable syringe from the little case, tore off the wrapping, and plunged it into the rubber neck of the bottle, sucking some of the contents into the plastic implement. He returned the bottle to the case, limped back to the bed, and sat down, crossing his legs, the injured knee on top. Carefully, he began injecting the painkiller, choosing the soft tissue, varying the depth of his stabs. He massaged the knee gently. Damn that little prick, Schaefer. The bastard had done this to him with one kick. Who'd have thought he could have ruined the knee so easily? He'd used his little medical kit to hold off the pain until he could get into the game with the Rams. Then, one tackle, and he had had an excuse for his injury. Now the pain began to ebb away, and Ramsey could walk back to the closet without limping. What the hell did it matter if he made it a little worse? They would fix it in the morning, anyway. He got into some jeans, moccasins, and a shirt; then he took the spare pillows from the closet and arranged them under the sheets. He cracked the door and looked down the hall; the nurse was at her station, her back to him. He tiptoed across the hall and headed down the fire stairs; they ended in the main lobby, which was deserted at this time of night. In a moment, he was out of the hospital and into the empty street, avoiding the emergency exit. Looking carefully both ways, he limped across the street and disappeared into the Brookwood Hills neighborhood, a quiet, old subdivision of medium-sized houses that had, in recent years, become expensive. Soon, when the Xylocaine had taken full effect, he no longer had to limp. It took him twenty minutes, moving in the shadows, to find the place. He passed through the backyard of the house next door and spent a moment taking a length of rope from a child's swing. Ray Ferguson opened his eyes, alert, unsure about the sound he had heard. He looked at his sleeping wife, then got out of bed, listening. The back door opening, that was what the sound had been; he often forgot to lock it. He sat very still, straining to hear. Another sound, this one from his study. The publisher got slowly up from the bed, so as not to disturb his wife, and went to the closet for his shotgun. He had bought the weapon years before from a small-town hardware store, a short-barreled pump twelve-gauge that had belonged to the local police force, the man had said. There had been some burglaries in the neighborhood that year, and he had been worried. He had loaded the weapon with number-nine bird shot, the smallest available. He didn't want to kill anybody; he'd have bought buckshot for that. He just wanted something to frighten somebody away, if it came to that. Now, he thought, it has come to that. He walked quietly to the stairs in his bare feet and started slowly down them, listening.

He stopped at the bottom and turned toward the study. That was where the sound had come from. At the door he stopped, afraid. "All right, you in there," he said, surprised at how strong his voice sounded, "I've got a shotgun. There's an outside door in there, and you'd better be out of it in five seconds. Now, get going!" He listened hard again.

"Ray?" It was his wife's voice, sleepy, upstairs. He ignored her.

There was absolute silence from the study. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness now, and the moon was sending slatted rays through the venetian blinds in the room. It was a big room, with a vaulted ceiling and exposed beams. He released the safety on the shotgun and pumped it noisily. "You'd better get moving, buddy," he said loudly, "unless you want a snoot full of double-aught buckshot!"

Still, only silence. "Ray?" his wife called again. "What's happening?"

"Stay there," Ferguson said to her. He stepped cautiously into the study, the shotgun at port arms. A board squeaked under his bare foot.

Something soft brushed against his face, and, suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He was swept up, off his feet, then lowered to his tiptoes. In panic, he dropped the shotgun and clawed at the rope around his neck.

"Where is she?" a voice said, close to his ear, hot breath on his neck.

The rope slacked minutely. He pushed with his toes, trying to lessen the tension. "What?" he managed to croak. The rope went tight again, before Ferguson could get his fingers under it. 

"Just once more, and if you don't tell me the truth, I'll tear your head off. Where is Elizabeth?" The rope stayed tight until Ferguson was at the brink of unconsciousness, then it slackened. He bit at the air, sucking it in. "Last chance, Ferguson; the very last chance." Ferguson began to weep. 

"Ray?" The voice was startlingly loud. She was standing in the door to the study. "Oh, my God!" she screamed. Ferguson went limp. He knew he would tell Ramsey anything, now. "Please don't hurt my wife, Baker," he said.

CHAPTER 16

Liz dreamt the dream about Baker Ramsey. He was stalking her through a house, their old house. She slipped from room to room, hiding under beds, behind draperies, but he always found her. She would run, but he always caught up, following her in a leisurely fashion, playing with her, tomcat and mouse. Finally she was cornered; it was a room with no furniture, no place to hide. She cowered, crying, "Don't hit me, Bake, please."

Smiling, he put a huge hand to her cheek. As his flesh touched hers she screamed. "Christ, it's only me, take it easy! No one's going to hurt you." Keir held her shoulders, then put a hand to her cheek again. "Easy, now, you must have been dreaming. I'm sorry I frightened you. She stared at him, having trouble shaking the dream.

"Try knocking next time," she said coldly.

"I really am sorry," he said meekly. "I thought you'd be awake at this hour."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly six."

"Swell," she said, swinging her feet off the bed. God, I sound like an awful bitch, she thought. "I didn't mean to be cranky. Want some coffee?"

"I'll make you some while you dress."

"Okay, give me ten minutes for a quick shower." He disappeared toward the kitchen; he was wearing the loincloth again, with the knife at the belt. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and brushed her teeth; five minutes in a warm shower relaxed her, made the dream recede.

You can't start treating him as if he were Baker, she reminded herself as she toweled her hair dry. It was getting longer; soon it would benefit from the attentions of a good hairdresser. She got into some khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and her usual boat moccasins, then headed for the kitchen, where the smell of coffee greeted her.

"No kidding, I thought everybody got up this early," Keir said as he poured her coffee.

"Only to take pictures." She sipped the strong, black liquid gratefully.

"Okay, I'll get you some pictures today." He grinned.

"Where?"

"Trust me." Ten minutes later they were in her Jeep, headed up the beach. A huge red sun hung just above the horizon.

"So, are you ready to tell me where you're living?" she asked.

"In a secret place," he said, smiling slightly.

"And how do you get around the island?"

"In secret ways." There was something mischievous in his speech; there was, too, something different about him, something looser, freer. She wondered if he knew Hamish had left the island.

"How come you're wearing the loincloth today?" she asked. "It's the first I've seen you wear it since the first time I saw you."

He grinned. "This is how we dressed as kids on the island. Dad handed that down."

"We?" she asked. It was the first reference ever to his twin.

"We?" he asked back, puzzled.

"You said, 'the way we dressed as kids.'"

"I said the way I dressed. You're deaf." He seemed perfectly serious. But that slip meant something, she thought; she just wasn't sure what.

"Turn here," he said, pointing at a narrow track through the dunes. "You'd better put it in four-wheel drive, too."

She did as he said, and soon they were through the dunes and into thick woods, following what seemed to be a disused road. A moment later the water of Lake Whitney flashed through the trees. "I'm not going anywhere near that lake," she said firmly, shuddering at the memory of her encounter with Goliath.

"Don't worry, we won't get that close. Stop anywhere here, and bring the Hasselblad. The view camera might be a little tough to handle in here." She followed him straight into the trees, along an overgrown path that she wouldn't have noticed without him. They came to the edge of a clearing on the shore of the lake, and he stopped. "We'll take up a position in a moment," he said, "and then there'll be no talking or moving. That means no moving, not even to scratch an itch or swat a mosquito, so get comfortable. We may be here for a while."

She followed him along the edge of the clearing, still in the trees, until he motioned for her to set up her tripod. He sat down and watched her, then nodded at the spot next to him. She focused the wide-angle lens on the clearing and sat down crosslegged, holding the cable release. He held up a hand as if to say, Don't talk, don't move. They sat for more than an hour. She knew, because she could see her wristwatch. She could see him, too, since she was sitting slightly behind him. He sat, completely motionless, as if he were in a trance; an occasional blink of the eyes was his only movement. She tried to follow suit, and, as the time passed, she became more and more uncomfortable. Still, she did not move, not wishing to earn his disapproval. After more time had passed a sort of numbness set in, and her mind drifted. Then she snapped back. A large blue heron appeared and sat in a tree forty feet away. It was in her camera frame, but too far away for a good shot with the wide-angle. Still, she thought, if this is what he brought me to see, I'd better shoot something. She raised her hand slightly to press the shutter, but he looked at her sideways and shook his head almost imperceptibly. This annoyed her; she was not cut out for sitting still this long. She wasn't a goddamned Indian, after all. Then there was a movement on the opposite side of the clearing. She concentrated her attention there, and her aches seemed to dissolve. As she watched, a small deer, a doe, moved cautiously into the clearing, ears twitching, then stopped, as if assessing the situation. Then, just as Liz was about to fire the shutter, the doe was followed by a pair of fawns, identical, and so young they were still awkward in their movements. The doe walked to the center of the clearing and began to lick something in the grass. The fawns followed her and imitated her action. Keir nodded slightly, and Liz fired the shutter. The doe jerked her head up at the tiny, muffled click of the shutter, froze in that position for a minute or so, then returned to her licking. Liz was torn between advancing the film and taking a chance on spooking the doe, or just sitting and enjoying the sight. Slowly, she moved her hands toward the camera. It took her half a minute, but she managed to wind the film without betraying her presence. Then, just as she was ready to shoot again, the doe left her spot, walked to the lakeside, followed by the fawns, and drank. Liz fired one more shot, then the three animals walked slowly across the clearing and departed the way they had come.

Keir held up a hand to indicate that she should still not move. They sat still for another two minutes, then he motioned for her to follow and walked back toward the car. Liz followed, silently stretching her limbs, trying not to whimper with relief. When they reached the track, Keir spoke. "Well, how did you like that?"

"It was wonderful," she said, grateful to be able to speak again. "I would never have gotten that shot if you hadn't taken me there and made me shut up. I wouldn't ordinarily have had the patience."

"Patience is everything," he said, a trace of sadness in his voice. Then he brightened. "How about a swim?"

"In Lake Whitney? Not on your life!"

"How about the Atlantic Ocean? That safe enough for you?"

"Does it have giant alligators?"

"Not usually."

"You're on." They drove back to the beach, and Keir shed the loincloth and ran into the water. After a look up and down the beach, she stripped and followed him. They had to go out some distance before the water became deep. They swam idly for a few minutes and engaged in some banter and play that reminded her of college, then they ran out of the water toward the Jeep. They ducked into the shade of the car, for the sun was becoming hot, and he kissed her and pulled her to him. "You ever made love on a beach?" he asked.