Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page A

“Before I welcome you to my island I’ll ask what you are doing on it.”
    “I am photographing it,” Liz replied. “I hope in such a way that no one who sees the book I make from the photographs will ever forget how beautiful a place it is.”
    “Ah, um …, ” Angus muttered, put off balance by the flattery.
    “I’m a guest of the Fergusons,” she said, nodding toward Stafford Beach Cottage. “Mr. Ferguson is my publisher.”
    “Ah, yes,” Angus said. “He’s not a bad sort. Doesn’t come down here often.”
    Liz wondered whether Drummond’s favorable assessment of Ray Ferguson was connected with the infrequency of his visits. “I arrived yesterday, so I haven’t had a chance to see much of the island, but I couldn’t resist the morning light. I had to get a shot of the beach.”
    “Well,” he said, “I guess I’d better show you around a bit. Get in.”
    Liz folded the tripod and tucked it into the rear of the jeep, releasing the 4 × 5 field camera and nestling it in her lap. “I’m all yours, Mr. Drummond,” she said.
    Angus released the clutch pedal, and the jeep lurched forward. Liz sat back and enjoyed the morning. The jeep rolled north along the beach, and the sun beat down on them. “Where are you from?” Angus asked, and by the time they had come to the end of the beach, he knew everything about her that she was willing to tell him.
    Angus slowed the jeep as they approached a band of water that lay ahead. Before them on the sand rested a flock of brown pelicans that Liz quickly estimated at five hundred.
    “Do you mind if I take a photograph?” she asked.
    “Don’t be long,” he said. “You’ve a lot of island to see.”
    She had the camera set up and her shot made in five minutes. “Thank you,” she said, climbing back into the jeep.
    Angus pointed at the land on the other side of the water. “That’s Little Cumberland Island; I don’t own that. An oversight of my ancestors. Don’t ever try to swim across there. It’s not far, but the current is strong.” He put the jeep into gear and swung around. A moment later, he was following a faint track through the dunes, headed toward the interior of the island.
    They drove along quietly, Angus occasionally pointing out some place of interest. They passed black workmen running an old road scraper and doing other maintenance jobs. Shortly, they pulled to a stop among a group of deserted-looking wooden houses.
    “The old slave settlement,” Angus said. “I built some more modern houses at Dungeness a long time ago for the workmen and their families, but I never pulled down the old slave settlement.” He nodded at an elderly black man who was coming out of a tiny church. “And here comes its only resident.” He raised his voice. “Good morning, Buck,” he called. “Come over here and meet somebody.”
    The old man shuffled across the few yards that separated them. “Hey, Mist’ Angus,” he said. “How you doin'?”
    “Pretty good. Buck, this is Miz Barwick. She’s staying down to Stafford Beach. Miz Barwick, this is Buck Moses, who worked for my daddy and me for most of the past century. Buck is our only officially retired citizen. I still work.”
    Liz remembered having seen him in his truck. “Hello, Mr. Moses,” she said.
    “Now, you call me Buck, just like everybody else,” the old man said, with a toothless grin.
    “Buck is the only man alive who knows more about this island than I do,” Angus said. “He taught me what I know, but he kept a few secrets to himself, didn’t you, Buck?”
    “Now, Mist’ Angus, you know I can’t hide nothing from you. You see right through me.”
    “That’s a laugh.” Angus snorted. “Well, Buck, we’ve got some territory to cover. We’ll be on our way.” With a wave, he drove on.
    “How old is he?” Liz asked.
    “Nobody knows; not even Buck,” Angus replied. “I’m ninety-one my last birthday, and the first time I remember Buck he must have been twelve or