Free Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page B

had seen it.
    "Grandpapa's jeep is gone," Hamish said. "He's out there prowling around his island. One of these days we're going to find him dead in that jeep."
    "There are worse ways to go," she said.
    They passed through the arched gateway and onto the main north-south road.
    "Can you drop me at the inn?" he asked.
    "Sure." They drove on in silence until the turn for the inn appeared. She dropped him at the back door. As he got out of the Jeep, Germaine appeared. "Some mail for you, Liz," she said, handing over a thick envelope.
    "Thanks," she replied, glancing at the envelope. It was from Al Schaefer. "Thanks for the tour," she said to Hamish. "Come up to Stafford Beach Cottage for a drink sometime."
    "Sure," he replied, waving as he passed through the screen door into the kitchen. He won't come, she thought as she drove away. She wasn't sure why, but she knew he wouldn't. Back at the cottage, she opened the letter from her lawyer. "Dear Liz," Al had scrawled on a notepad, "I thought you might like to have this. Hope all is going well. Let me hear from you if there's anything you need." She unfolded the attached document. It was her final divorce decree. For the first time in weeks she laughed aloud.

CHAPTER 11
    Angus Drummond sat in his jeep and munched a sandwich, now and then washing it down with a sip of mineral water. He used to like a beer with his lunch, he reflected, but lately it made him sleepy. He was parked at the old wharf at Plum Orchard, the house he had built for his late son, Evan. He gazed west over the marshes toward the mainland and tried to remember the last time he had been off the island. Four or five years, anyway. He finished his sandwich and got out to stretch his legs, strolling slowly down to the dock. A fish jumped well clear of the water, delighting him and scaring up a bird from the long marsh grass.
    When he turned back toward the jeep, his grandson was standing there, bare chested, wearing an old pair of jeans, leaning against the hood, grinning at him. "Good morning, Ha-" He stopped and looked closely at the man. "Good God, Keir!" They met halfway and embraced. He held the younger man back from him and looked at him closely.
    "Hello, Grandpapa,"
    Keir said. "Did you think I was dead?"
    "No, no, they couldn't kill you, but I swear I thought I wouldn't see you again before I die."
    Keir laughed. "You, die? You'll outlive us all."
    "Not much chance of that, boy," Angus said with some feeling. "Come on, take a drive with me." He pulled his grandson toward the jeep, and in a moment they were driving north through the woods. "Well, tell me what you've been doing with yourself. It's been how long?"
    "Too long. I'm sorry I was away for such a time."
    "Where have you been?"
    "I've been in Europe, mostly. I spent quite a lot of time in Rome. Wrote a few stories, sold one to Harper's. I'llsend you a copy when it comes out."
    "You do that. I want to read it."
    "I thought I'd write something about the island, but I hear somebody's beat me to it."
    "You mean the Barwick girl?" Angus grated the gears as he shifted down for a deep rut in the road. "I'd better send the scraper up here for that one," he muttered, half to himself. "Yes, she's taking pictures for a book; don't know if she's writing anything. Have you seen your sister?"
    "Not yet. I'll get down to the inn soon, don't worry."
    "When did you get in? Your brother's here, you know." 
    Keir pointed into the woods. "You know, I think the armadillo population has increased since I was last home." The little armored creature scurried under some dead palmetto leaves. 
    Angus sighed. Somehow, he'd hoped that something might have changed between his twin grandsons. "How long will you be with us?"
    "Oh, a few days, at least. We'll see. I need to stop in New York and cement a few magazine contacts before I cross the water again."
    "You know," Angus said, "I would have thought Cumberland would be a good place to write your stories. I'm not going to be