Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page A

had known Al Schaefer only briefly, but she was shocked and immensely sad at the news of his death. Then she looked again at the headline. L.A., she thought. No, it was a coincidence. But if it was a coincidence, why was she suddenly so frightened?

CHAPTER 15
    Baker Ramsey looked through half-closed eyes at the nurse on top of him.
    Her name was Mary Alice, and she rose and fell upon his body, making little whimpering noises, her starched skirts pushed up around her waist, the front of her uniform unbuttoned to allow her large breasts to spill out into Ramsey's kneading hands. "Oh, you, you, you ..." she whispered as an orgasmic shudder ripped through her. Ramsey came, too, but more quietly. This one was good. He'd see some more of her. He held her off him as she tried to collapse onto his chest. "No, baby, you can't go to sleep," he cooed at her. "You've got to get back down the hall. If you get caught, we can't fuck again, right?" She ran her fingers down his huge arms. "God, what muscles!" she said. "You jocks are really something!" Ramsey placed his hands under her buttocks and, as easily as a normal man would hoist a doll, lifted her off him and onto her feet beside the hospital bed, careful not to bump her against his knee.
    She giggled as she looked for her panty hose under the bed. "You're the only man I ever knew who could pick me up like that."
    "We'll do it again," he said.
    "How long do you need?" she asked, kissing him lightly. "Shall I come back in an hour?"
    "Not tonight, baby," he replied. "I've got surgery at seven; I need some sleep. You wore me out, anyway."
    "Sure, I'll bet," she said lasciviously, rubbing her hand over his penis. "I'll check on you during the night, anyway."
    "Don't do that," he said. "I'm a light sleeper; you'll wake me up. Just put down on your clipboard that you looked in. Don't worry, I won't die in the night."
    "Whatever you say, Bake," she cooed. She gave his limp penis a final kiss and swung out of the room, smoothing her skirt as she went. Ramsey waited until her footsteps had receded before he gingerly removed the ice pack from his knee and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clock on the night table read just after 2:00 A.M. As he stood he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Automatically, he flexed his biceps, then struck a bodybuilder's pose. Right, he said to himself. That's what turned the girl on—all that muscle. He'd seen the look in her eyes when he'd checked in to the hospital that afternoon, and he hadn't been the least surprised when she came to his room after midnight. He took one more look at himself in the mirror. Women loved him like this. Except Liz, the bitch. She'd started to go off him when he began to put on the heavy muscle. Ramsey moved across the room, limping; he had used crutches, for effect, when he had checked in to the hospital, but he could walk without them, especially with another kind of help. He took a small bag from the closet; from that he removed a small leather case, unzipped it, and chose from the row of bottles. He held it up in the moonlight and read its label: XYLOCAINE. He took a disposable syringe from the little case, tore off the wrapping, and plunged it into the rubber neck of the bottle, sucking some of the contents into the plastic implement. He returned the bottle to the case, limped back to the bed, and sat down, crossing his legs, the injured knee on top. Carefully, he began injecting the painkiller, choosing the soft tissue, varying the depth of his stabs. He massaged the knee gently. Damn that little prick, Schaefer. The bastard had done this to him with one kick. Who'd have thought he could have ruined the knee so easily? He'd used his little medical kit to hold off the pain until he could get into the game with the Rams. Then, one tackle, and he had had an excuse for his injury. Now the pain began to ebb away, and Ramsey could walk back to the closet without limping. What the hell did