Palindrome by Stuart Woods

there seemed to be no one on it that morning but Angus Drummond. He liked it that way. The wind was out of the southeast, as it often was, and, as he drove north, the jeep's speed made the day seem nearly windless. Angus saluted the two shrimp boats fishing barely a hundred yards off the beach and got a wave back from men on both. A pair of brown pelicans kept pace with the jeep, skimming the water near its edge, hunting breakfast. Angus took some satisfaction in seeing them; a few years back they had been an endangered species. Now hundreds of them flocked on the island, where he protected them from their only enemy: Man. From his perch in the jeep, Angus spotted the tracks of deer, wild horses, raccoons, and a dozen different birds in the damp sand at the edge of the dunes. There were few people on his island, but he was not short of company. In the distance ahead he saw a black speck.
    He watched it as it grew larger, his prescription sunglasses bringing the image sharp. There were two people—no, one and some sort of apparatus. He slowed the jeep and pulled up next to a young woman standing beside a large camera on a tripod. Liz smiled at the old man in the jeep, the wind mussing his thick, gray hair. "Mister Angus Drummond, I presume," she said.
    He regarded her with suspicion. "You have me at a disadvantage, Miss, ah, Mrs.-"
    "Ms.," she interrupted. "Elizabeth Barwick."
    "Miz Barwick," he said. "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 X 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