Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page B

thirteen. That’d make him at least a hundred and five, but he might be older. He was my best friend when I was a boy; taught me everything. My son, too, and my grandsons. My daddy spent most of his time in New York, so I didn’t see much of him. Buck took up the slack. Then, when my boy was killed in that plane crash in ‘sixty, old Buck was right there with the twins, too. I expect Buck believes
he
owns Cumberland Island, and in a way I suppose he’s right. He’s going to outlive me, I know it.”
    Angus drove on in silence for a while, then pulled off the road and drove along a track for a way, ducking tree branches. Finally, he stopped and waved an arm. “Lake Whitney,” he said.
    Liz saw a lake nearly covered with water lilies. As she watched, a doe waded into the water on the other side, a hundred and fifty yards away.
    “We’re downwind,” Angus said. “Go ahead and take your picture.”
    Liz quietly got set up and had the deer framed when a commotion broke out in the water on the other side of the lake. She snatched her head from under the black cloth, away from the upsidedown image, and looked. The deer was screaming, thrashing about in the water. Then it went down and disappeared, while the water continued to churn.
    “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Angus said, wonderingly, almost to himself.
    “What happened?” Liz asked weakly, too stunned to move.
    “It’s Goliath,” Angus said. “Miz Barwick, you’re a lucky girl. You could live on this island for nearly a hundred years, like I have, and not see a thing like that.”
    “Who’s Goliath?” Liz asked.
    “He’s the biggest alligator I ever saw, and the last time I saw him was a good fifteen years ago. He was a twelve-footer then; God knows how big he is now.”
    Liz stood, looking at the spot where the doe had disappeared. The water was glassy smooth again. She suddenly realized that she had not pressed the shutter release.
    “Let’s get going,” Angus said.
    “The poor deer,” Liz said, climbing into the jeep.
    “Gators got to eat, too,” Angus said with a shrug. He got the jeep going again and pointed it away from the lake. “See you don’t take any swims in Lake Whitney, nor any place around it. Gators can walk, too.”
    They were on what passed for a main road now. Angus swung around a sharp bend and drove down a straight stretch. They passed through a gate and came to a flat lawn. Ahead of them sat a gracefully designed Palladian mansion, gleaming white in the sun, framed by giant live oaks. Angus stopped the jeep. “That’s Plum Orchard,” he said. “I built it for my boy, Evan, after the last war.”
    “It’s beautiful,” Liz said. “Who lives there now?”
    “Nobody,” Angus said, swinging the jeep around. “I keep a roof on it, keep it painted. I wouldn’t want to see it fall down. Maybe one of my grandsons will come back and live in it one day. I’ll be gone by then.” For a moment the old man looked stricken; then he looked up and paid attention to his driving. For the remainder of their drive they talked about the island and its history and how Angus Drummond had shaped it.
    It seemed to Liz that, in a couple of hours, they had covered more ground than most new acquaintances did in weeks. They warmed to each other.
    When the jeep pulled up at Stafford Beach Cottage, Liz climbed out and retrieved her tripod. “That was a wonderful tour,” she said. “I hope I’ll get to see Dungeness one of these days, too.”
    “I’d be honored to show it to you,” he said. “You’re a young woman of some substance, Miz Barwick.” He grinned. “If I were fifty years younger, I’d do something about it.”
    “Thank you for that,” she said. “Call me Liz.”
    “I’ll call you Elizabeth,” he said. Then he put the jeep in gear and drove away. Liz watched him go, then trudged into the house with her gear. It occurred to her that Angus Drummond, at ninety-one, was the most attractive man she had met in