Palindrome (5 page)

"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."

"Go out through the main gate and follow the road north. A couple of miles along, you'll come to a big, open field—that's the airstrip. A big house called Stafford is right next to it. Just past the strip, you turn right and, after about a quarter mile, bear right at the fork. Stafford Beach Cottage is at the end of the road."

"Thanks," Liz said, and drove toward the gates. She edged over to allow a beat-up old pickup truck to pass, headed toward the inn. The driver was a tiny, very black, old man with a fuzz of white hair. His chin was tilted up so that he could see over the wheel, and that and his intense concentration gave him an arrogant look. She started north on a good dirt road, flat and straight. Palmettos occasionally brushed the Jeep's doors, and a forest of pines and live oaks occupied both sides of the road. She had gone less than a mile when, suddenly, a buck deer sprang out of a thick bunch of palmettos on her left, cleared the road with a single bound, and disappeared into equally thick palmettos on the other side. She had come within an ace of hitting it. She drove on, a hand clasped to her breast. The open field appeared as advertised, and she was in time to see a Cessna rolling down the runway, using less than half of it to get off the ground. The airplane turned north over the beach, gaining altitude. Liz had always wanted to learn to do that. One of these days, she thought.

She passed Stafford House, found the road to her right, then bore right again at the fork. She came around a corner, and the house sat before her, under a huge live oak, nearly in the dunes. The single-story cottage was covered with weathered cedar shingles, and the trim was a freshly painted white. The beach must be only yards away, she thought; she could see birds wheeling low in the sky, just beyond the dunes. She turned the Jeep around and backed it up to the steps to the house.

Anxious to see her new home, she trotted up the front steps and emerged onto a wide deck. From here she could see across the dunes to the sea.

The beach stretched away into the distance, north and south, not a soul on it. She tore herself from the view, fumbled for the key, and slipped it into the lock. To her surprise, the door swung open at her touch.

Well, she supposed, maybe people leave their doors unlocked on Cumberland Island. She stepped in and stopped in her tracks. The faint aroma of fresh coffee was in the air. "Hello?" she called. "Hello?" this time louder. Silence greeted her. She looked around her. She was in the living room. An assortment of old furniture was scattered around the sunny room; everything was neat and orderly. She moved straight ahead to the kitchen; it was just as neat. She walked to a countertop and placed her hand on the electric coffeepot. Still warm. A single cup sat, upside down in the draining rack. She opened the refrigerator.

There was little there—three bottles of beer and an open can of condensed milk, still sweet smelling. She went and looked into both bedrooms. No one there, beds stripped, neat as a pin. Wondering, she returned to the Jeep and began to unload. An hour later, she was unpacked, except for the darkroom equipment. That could wait until tomorrow. She put away her groceries and found some tonic water and a lime. Drink in hand, she wandered toward the deck. As she emerged into the late afternoon sunshine, a sound met her ears—a series of high cracks. She saw a figure on the beach and went back for her binoculars.

She trained the ten-power glasses on the beach, and the figure became more visible, though still far away. A man—tall, slender, blond-stood in the light surf, a rifle at his shoulder, firing out over the water.

His attitude was relaxed, yet concentrated. He wore only a sort of Tarzanian loincloth, and a knife hung in its sheath from his belt. He went on, monotonously firing at nothing Liz could see. She hurried back into the house, found a camera case, and dug out a 35-mm body and a 300-mm lens. There was something odd, almost otherworldly about the man and what he was doing.

She wanted a photograph. She walked outside, stepped up to the deck's railing, camera ready, and looked toward the beach. He was gone, vanished from the scene. How long had she been in the house? Half a minute? She estimated the distance from the surf to the dunes. It didn't seem possible that he could have vanished so quickly. She picked up the field glasses again and swept the area. Nothing. Liz glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She was due at the inn at six. She abandoned the deck and got into the shower, then slipped into a cotton dress, applied light makeup, and fixed a silk scarf over her short hair, pinning it behind her head. When she left the cottage, she carefully locked the front door.

CHAPTER 6

Liz climbed the broad steps of the inn and stopped on the front porch. A young couple was lounging in a swing at one end of the veranda, her head on his shoulder. Liz felt a moment of longing, even envy. She reflected that it was the first emotion besides rage that she could remember for the past couple of months. She entered the house and found it quiet. To her right, she discovered a small room with a bar, deserted. A sign said MIX YOUR OWN, so she did, pouring herself a small bourbon. She wandered out of the bar, exploring. A library next door held many volumes, most of them dusty and old. She walked back down the hallway and found a large sitting room, dominated by a full-length portrait of a beautiful young woman and filled with odd objects and bric-a-brac. On the opposite wall, facing the picture of the young woman, was a portrait of a rakishly handsome man of about thirty, wearing riding clothes, a plaited crop in his hand. On a windowsill nearby was the skull of a loggerhead turtle, as big as a football. She tried to imagine the size of the whole turtle and failed. She browsed further around the room, and, with a shock, stopped in front of a framed photograph.

It was obviously old; the print was faded and yellowing. It was of a man, tall, blond, and slender; he stood in a light surf, firing a rifle toward the sea; he wore only a loincloth,and a knife hung from his belt. She had the irrational feeling that she had taken the photograph less than an hour before.

"That's my father," said a voice behind her, making her jump. She turned to find Germaine, a drink in her hand. She sipped the drink and smiled; revealing large, square, white teeth. "That was taken in the early fifties by my mother. They were both killed in nineteen sixty, taking off from the airstrip in an old Stearman biplane. A wire strut snapped and they lost a wing. We never knew which one of them was flying—they were both pilots."

Liz stared, speechless, at the photograph. "But—" she began to say.

"This is my grandmother, when she was nineteen," Germaine interrupted. "She died before I was born." She turned and nodded at the opposite wall.

"That's Grandpapa, when he was in his late twenties. I'm sorry, were you about to say something?"

Liz shook her head. "No," she said, feeling foolish.

"This is my favorite room in the house," Germaine said.

"It's full of family things—pictures, portraits, stuff my brothers and I collected when we were children. We found the turtle skull on the beach."

"It's huge," Liz said.

"After dinner, when it's dark, we'll take a drive and see if we can find a loggerhead or two laying their eggs."

Liz turned to ask about the turtles, then froze. Standing in the doorway was the man in the photograph, the man on the beach with the rifle. Germaine, who was still talking, stopped and looked at her, then turned and followed her gaze. She smiled broadly. "Look who's here!"

She crossed the room, and he met her halfway. They embraced. "Hello, baby brother!" Germaine said.

"Hey, big Germaine," the man replied, hugging her and laughing.

Well, thought Liz, at least she can see him, too; he must be real.

"Come here and meet somebody," Germaine called to Liz. Liz walked over.

The man stuck out a hand. "I'm Hamish Drummond," he said, smiling, revealing what were obviously the family teeth, big and white against his tanned skin. His blond hair was neatly combed—not like that afternoon—and he seemed so... clean, Liz thought.

"I'm Liz Barwick," she said.

"Hi, Liz," he replied, still holding the handshake. "You down for the week?"

"She's down for longer than that," Germaine said. "Ray Ferguson sent her to do that book of photographs on the island he's been promising us."

"I'm glad to hear it," Hamish said, finally releasing her hand.

"I'm looking forward to getting started," Liz said, finding it impossible to take her eyes off him. He was not quite handsome; he was closer to beautiful. "It's a lovely island."

"It is that," he said.

"You haven't got a drink," Germaine said, tugging him toward the bar.

Liz followed them and found two couples there, drinking. "This is my cousin, Jimmy Weathers, and his wife, Martha," Germaine said, introducing a short, balding man and a plump, pretty woman. "This is Liz Barwick, who's down here photographing things."

"We saw Grandpapa this afternoon," Jimmy said. "You seen him yet, Hamish?"

"No, I only got in this afternoon. I'll see him tomorrow."

Another couple entered the bar, then another, and the conversation turned to the island, its wildlife, and its beauty. "I nearly hit a buck this afternoon," Liz said.

"You nearly hit Buck?" Jimmy asked.

"A buck, not Buck, Jimmy," Germaine pitched in.

"Pity you missed him, then," Jimmy said. "We could have had some of Germaine's venison for dinner."

Liz found a moment to turn to Hamish Drummond. "I saw you up at Stafford Beach this afternoon."

Hamish turned and looked at her, puzzled, then his eyes narrowed. "Did you? Did you really?" he said, more to himself than to her.

At dinner in the basement dining room, Liz found herself seated between Germaine and Hamish at a large table with half a dozen other people. As the remnants of a pate were taken away and fat trout were served, the talk turned to work. "What do you do?" a man across the table asked Hamish.

"Financial consulting."

"Who consults you?"

"Right now, a merchant bank in London. Everybody's getting ready for the big move in the Common Market in 'ninety-two. What do you do?"

"I'm a psychiatrist," the man said. "So is Ann my wife. We practice in Savannah." Hamish nodded, as if he had little interest in the subject.

"I develop resort property," Jimmy said, as if it were his turn.

"Well," the doctor said, "I hope you never get your hands on this place."

Hamish smiled slightly. "I wish I'd said that."

"Now, you'd be surprised what enlightened development could do for this island," Jimmy said. "Make it available for a lot more people to enjoy. It would have to be done right, of course. Elegantly."

"Like Hilton Head?" the doctor said.

"Beautiful development, Hilton Head," Jimmy said, looking dreamy about it, missing the sarcasm.

"Wall-to-wall development," Germaine chipped in. The table fell silent.

Liz turned to the psychiatrist. "What sort of practice do you and your wife have, Doctor?" She really didn't want to know; she had seen enough of psychiatrists over the past few weeks, but she felt the need for a change of subject.

"Well," the man said, "I was teaching at Duke University Medical School, and I retired last year. We moved to Savannah, and we both felt the need for some activity, so we started a part-time practice."

"We're working on a book, too," the man's wife said.

"A book on psychiatry?" Germaine asked.

"Not exactly," the man replied.

"We're conducting a major study on identical twins, and the results will form a book on the subject."

"Hamish has a twin," Jimmy chimed in. "You ought to study those boys."

There was something malicious in his tone. Hamish suddenly stood up. "Excuse me, please."

He left the table. There was a silence in his wake, and, again, Liz tried to keep the conversation going. "Are twins particularly interesting to study?" she asked the doctor.

The doctor smiled. "Fascinating. Identical twins have the closest of all human relationships—closer than mother and child. They enjoy a high degree of empathy, often are telepathic, know what each other is thinking. Sometimes during our work, I've had the eerie feeling that a pair of twins were the same person—or, rather, different halves of the same person."

"Is that just because they grow up together, spend so much time together? Or do you read something more into it?" Liz asked, interested.

"Something more, though I'm not quite sure what. We've studied twins who were separated shortly after birth, who didn't even know they had a twin, and there were remarkable similarities in how they had lived their lives, the choices they had made—even though they were brought up in families that were very different. I've interviewed one such pair who seemed to choose the same brands of clothes and even had identical haircuts. They both had had a fantasy twin for as long as they could remember, played with him, talked with him. Neither was much surprised when he discovered that he had an actual"

"Boy, that's spooky," Jimmy's wife, Martha, said.

"That's not exactly a psychiatric term," the doctor said, "but it's properly descriptive."

"Do twins always get along with each other?" Martha asked.

"Always," the doctor said, "at least in our study. Their mothers seem to regard them as one person, so they don't have to compete for her affection. In fact, generally speaking, they don't compete with each other over anything; instead, they seem to form a unit and compete with others, as one person."

"I've always wondered why their mothers dress them alike," Martha said. "Couldn't that warp them in some way? Screw up their individuality?"