Palindrome

CHAPTER 17

When she turned around he was gone. She had crossed the room to pick up a book; he had been staring out the window. She was becoming accustomed to this trait of his, and she thought she even liked it. If he could come and go as he pleased, so could she. She thought of him running, half-naked, through the woods, to some warren, some hideaway where he curled up and slept until he was hungry. He was a wild animal, and she liked him that way; he seemed disinclined to make any civilized demands upon her-fidelity, fixed abode, fashion. Baker, on the other hand, had demanded all those things, even when their marriage was at its worst.

Keir seemed to have no expectations of her at all, except to make love when he wanted her, and, so far, she was willing to meet that one. She remembered Germaine's note: "I need to talk to you." By "need" did she mean 'I want"? Did "talk to you" mean she wanted to pour out her heart about some problem? No, Liz thought, finally, it was a southern sentence; it meant: I have important information to impart. God, she was getting analytical, and just when she felt most free from the need to analyze. She had money, time, and work to do. She was safe, there was breakfast in her belly, and she had been fucked to a pleasant soreness, to put it crudely, and she felt crude, elemental. Everything in her life had been reduced to the essential; there was no worry, no plan outside purposeful work and the satisfaction of appetites. She glowed with the simplicity of it all. In this context, Germaine's information could not be important. Still, her curiosity got the better of her. She dressed and drove to the inn. She passed through the front gate, and as she approached the house there was a clatter from above, and a helicopter sat down on the wide front lawn. As the rotors slowed, Germaine and Ron appeared on the front porch and watched. Three men spilled from the machine, which was marked as belonging to the National Park Service. One of the men was dressed in the summer uniform of a ranger; the others wore suits; one carried a briefcase. Liz parked the Jeep and met Germaine at the bottom of the inn's front steps as the chopper's turbine wound down. "It's Grandpapa's lawyer," she said, anticipating Liz's question. "Ward Cheatham. Cheatham's his name, cheat 'em's his game," she muttered. "The other guy's our congressman; I can't remember his name. I don't know who the Smoky is." She grabbed Liz's arm. "You stay right here; I've got to talk to you." Germaine walked out to meet the men, shook their hands, exchanged a few words, then said something to Ron. The boy led the others to the inn's van, and they drove away. Germaine returned and led Liz up the steps to the broad front porch and one of the large swings. "What was that all about?" Liz asked, as they sat down. "Who knows? Grandpapa asked me to call Cheatham for him; my guess is, he wants to make a will. I don't know why the hell he brought the feds along. Ron's driving them to Dungeness." Germaine settled herself and looked Liz in the eye. "Bad news, buddy," she said. She reached over to the table alongside the swing and picked up a newspaper. "I'll tell you flat out, then you can read the details, and you'll know as much as I do." She cleared her throat, as if looking for an excuse not to talk. "Ray and Eleanor Ferguson are both dead-night before last, I think."

Liz felt as if she had been struck hard in the chest. Without speaking she reached for the newspaper. ATLANTA PUBLISHER AND WIFE IN APPARENT MURDER/SUICIDE The bodies of Raymond E. Ferguson, head of his own publishing house, Buckhead Press, and his wife, Eleanor, were found in their home by a cleaning lady early yesterday. Mrs. Ferguson had been shot, and her husband hanged. A federal form found in Mr. Ferguson's desk indicated that he had purchased a shotgun in 1982, and the weapon was found near Mrs. Ferguson's body. A source in the Atlanta Police Department theorized that the Fergusons had quarreled, and that, in a rage, Mr. Ferguson had turned the shotgun on his wife. He then, apparently, went next door and took a rope from a child's swing and hanged himself from a beam in his study. Neighbors said the couple had lived quietly in the Brookwood Hills house for more than twenty years and were well-liked. "No one can believe that this has happened," said their next-door neighbor, Mrs. James Thready. "They were tremendously kind people, and it is impossible for me to believe that they weren't kind to each other as well." Homicide Detective Sergeant Lee Williams, in charge of the case, said that there would be no official statement until a thorough investigation had been conducted. Liz began to cry.

Germaine gathered her to her breast and stroked her head. "You go right ahead, sugar; you're entitled." Liz wept for Ray and for the circumstances. She wept out of anger, and, as she did, a cold fear came to her, and she suddenly stopped crying.

"What?" Germaine asked.

"I have to use your telephone," Liz said, sniffling.

"Of course, Liz, go right ahead." Liz took the newspaper and walked downstairs to Germaine's office. When Al Schaefer had died she had put it down I to an accident, but now the only other person she had been close to since she had been released from the hospital was dead, too. It could be a coincidence, of course, but she had to know. She dialed Atlanta information and got the number of the Homicide Bureau of the Atlanta Police Department. It took only a moment to be connected to Detective Sergeant Lee Williams.

"Sergeant Williams," he said, and the voice was rich and deep, with African-American intonation.

"Sergeant, my name is Elizabeth Barwick; I'm calling about the murder of Raymond Ferguson and his wife."

"Murder? Do you know something I don't, Ms. Barwick?"

"I think they were murdered."

"First things first," Williams said. "May I have your address and phone number, please?"

"I'm outside Atlanta, and I don't have a phone. Please just listen to me."

"Just a minute, please," he said. He covered the phone with his hand and spoke to somebody else.

"All right, go ahead, tell me everything." There was an electronic beep on the line.

"I believe the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson may be connected to the death of Al Schaefer, a couple of weeks ago."

"Schaefer, the lawyer? Was he acquainted with the Fergusons?"

"He met Ray through me. They didn't know each other well."

"So why do you think their deaths were connected?" Liz's resolve began to weaken. She was at the point of committing herself to accusation, now, and she knew that if she did, there would be no turning back. The beep sounded again;

Williams was obviously recording her. She took a deep breath. "They ere both connected with me. I think my ex-husband may have killed them both."

"What is your ex-husband's name?"

"Baker Ramsey." There, it was out. There was a brief silence.

"The running back for the Bobcats?"

"That's right."

The detective took a deep breath. "Could you spell your name for me, please?" She did so. "And you were married to Bake Ramsey?"

"Yes. Our divorce became final less than a month ago. Al Schaefer was my lawyer; Ray Ferguson was my publisher. He published a book of my photographs, and I've been working on another one for him."

"And why do you think Ramsey would want to kill both these men-and Ferguson's wife, too?"

"Sergeant, can I just begin at the beginning?"

"Go ahead, I've got plenty of time."

Liz began with the night Baker Ramsey nearly killed her, and brought the policeman up to date.

"I see," Williams said finally. "You've been the victim of domestic violence at the hands of Ramsey, but why would he want to kill Schaefer and the Fergusons?"

"I know it isn't rational," she said, exasperated, "but Baker is completely crazy. He's stoked up on all sorts of steroids; he's capable of anything. Look, he was in Los Angeles the night Al Schaefer drowned; the Bobcats were playing the Rams the following day. Why don't you just check on his whereabouts on the night the Fergusons died. I'll give you odds he was in Atlanta."

"So were half a million other people, Ms. Barwick, but I'll look into this, I promise. Now how can I get in touch with you?"

"You can't."

"Be reasonable, Ms. Barwick. If you really believe Ramsey did this, and you really want to help me, then I've got to be able to get in touch with you."

"You know everything I know; there's nothing else I can tell you. I can call you back later, if you like. I have to borrow a phone."

Williams sighed. "All right, call me back this time tomorrow, and we'll see where we are then."

"All right. And, Sergeant?"

"Yes?"

"It is very important that Baker Ramsey not know that I've spoken to you, I hope you can understand that. He's already come close to killing me once, and I don't want him any madder at me than he already is."

"I understand, Ms. Barwick. I won't tell him I've spoken to you."

"Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow."

Williams gave her another phone number. "That's my cellular phone; if I'm out of the office, you can reach me at that number." Liz wrote down the number, then hung up and put her head down on Germaine's desk. She hoped she hadn't sounded hysterical; she knew the whole business must sound improbable to the detective, but she knew in her bones that Baker had done this, even if she couldn't explain to herself exactly why.