Palindrome (4 page)

"Al, I'm going to have to consult—"

"Henry," Schaefer interrupted, "you and I both know that you already have your client's authority to settle. Now let's get this over with."

Hoyt's shoulders slumped. He picked up the pen, signed the document, and the trusty Hilda notarized it. Schaefer retrieved the documents and stood up. "Thank you, Henry. I'll expect the funds on my desk by noon tomorrow, as our agreement stipulates. A check on your firm's trust account will be fine. I'll return a copy of the agreement with Ms. Barwick's signature when she's out of surgery."

"All right," Hoyt said dispiritedly.

"Hilda, will you show these gentlemen to the freight elevator? I think they'll want to avoid some people at the main entrance to the building. And tell Furman Bisher and the gentleman from the AP that I won't be available today." Schaefer followed them as far as the reception room. When they had gone, he peeled off two hundred-dollar bills and gave them to the detectives. "Thanks, fellas," he said, shaking hands with both of them. "I'll see you next time." As Schaefer returned, smiling, to his desk, he reflected that he had just paid his office rent for the next several years.

CHAPTER 4

Schaefer arrived at Piedmont Hospital carrying a small suitcase, his briefcase, a shopping bag from the fancy grocer across the street, and two dozen yellow roses. He found Elizabeth Barwick sitting up in bed, sipping orange juice through a glass straw. He took it away from her and set it on the bedside table. "You shouldn't be drinking straight orange juice," he said, opening half a bottle of champagne and adding some to her glass. "It should be diluted." He handed her the glass.

She did not immediately drink. "Al, I've been thinking about my demands since we last talked. I think I overreached, and I don't want you to feel badly if you get less. I've figured out how to do what I want to do for about a hundred thousand."

Schaefer wagged a finger. "Business later, first roses." He laid the flowers across her lap. "This room needs a little more color."

"Thank you, Al, they're very nice."

"I want you to know that I would have been here sooner, but Harry Estes wanted me to wait until you were a day away from the surgery. How are you feeling?"

He looked closely at her. All he could see was her eyes and a strip of face where the mouth was. It was obvious that her long hair had been cut. A tight cap of gauze was wrapped around her head. "I'm feeling well, if a little anxious. Harry says it went extremely well. I'm leaving the hospital tomorrow."

"About that,"

Schaefer said, "I have some news." He handed her a key. "That's to your new apartment. It's a sublet—the owner is traveling for the next three months. It's on a nice street in the Virginia-Highland area. It's roomy, sunny, and it has a grand piano, if that makes any difference."

She smiled. "Not much. I haven't played since high school."

He knocked on the suitcase. "Hilda took charge of the clothes; she said you'd look funny if I chose them, so she got you a couple of changes—some underthings, too."

"Thank Hilda for me."

"I sold your car to a friend of mine, got fifty-two thousand for it. That was halfway between the wholesale and retail price." He handed her a deposit slip. "I put it in your account."

"I'm very pleased with that."

"Now, about your settlement. First of all, we didn't talk about what you'd have to give in the arrangement. I had to promise them you'd never talk about what happened with the press, and that you wouldn't press any criminal charges against Ramsey."

"That's reasonable, I guess."

"How much did you say you could get by on?"

"A hundred thousand or so. Less, since you got such a good price for the car."

"Well, you're going to have to get by on"—he looked at the deposit slip in his hand—"six hundred sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six dollars and sixty-six cents." He handed her the slip.

"What?"

"I hit Ramsey and the team for half a million each. I figured that if the steroids have affected him the way you say, the team's as liable as he is. Your medical bills will come to me; I'll see that the team's insurance company settles them."

She stared at the deposit receipt. "You mean, I have over seven hundred thousand dollars in cash in my bank account right this minute?"

"That's right. My standard fee in these situations is a third of the settlement. The car money is in checking; the rest is in your savings account. Your banker likes you a lot." He handed her a card. "I think you should call Bill Schwartz at the Private Banking Division of the First National Bank just as soon as you're able. He'll help you maximize your earnings."

She took a long swallow of her orange juice and champagne. "Could I have some straight champagne, please?"

Schaefer produced two glasses and poured for them both. "What are your plans, Liz?"

"Healing and work. I'll tell you more about my plans later." She sipped her champagne. "Can I ask for one more favor?"

"Shoot."

"Will you buy a gun for me?"

"When I said 'shoot,' I didn't mean it literally."

"Will you?"

"No. And I don't want you to buy one for yourself. Don't worry, sweetheart, he isn't going to bother you; he's too afraid of me. I hosed him down pretty good. By the way, there's an exhibition game in New York this weekend; you can get into the house."

"Good. I'm anxious to wipe the slate clean."

"Baby, it's about as clean as it's ever going to get. Not many people get this kind of a fresh start. Make the most of it, but don't blow the money."

"Don't worry, my needs are going to be very simple for a while."

"Harry wants you to see a shrink. I think it's a good idea. You've got to be a very angry lady at the moment, whether you know it or not."

"I've got an appointment on Monday."

Schaefer set down his glass and stood up. "You finish the bubbly for me. I've got to be in court in an hour."

"Give 'em hell."

"You know it."

"Thank you, Al."

"Don't thank me; I did pretty good for myself."

"I'm glad."

"Something else; I had a good time doing it."

"That's always important."

"You remember that, kid. Whatever you're going to do, have a good time doing it."

Schaefer left the room and whistled his way down the hall. Doing well by doing good. He loved it. The following day, Elizabeth Barwick checked out of Piedmont Hospital and vanished. The following weekend, her mother's furniture, her cameras and darkroom equipment, and everything else that belonged to her disappeared from the house she had shared with Baker Ramsey. Over the next several weeks, one by one, her friends received a phone call. The conversations were much the same:

"Hi, it's Liz."

"Well, hi! Where you been keeping yourself?"

"I've been on the move. Bake and I called it a day."

"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."

CHAPTER 5

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."