Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page B

it matter if he made it a little worse? They would fix it in the morning, anyway. He got into some jeans, moccasins, and a shirt; then he took the spare pillows from the closet and arranged them under the sheets. He cracked the door and looked down the hall; the nurse was at her station, her back to him. He tiptoed across the hall and headed down the fire stairs; they ended in the main lobby, which was deserted at this time of night. In a moment, he was out of the hospital and into the empty street, avoiding the emergency exit. Looking carefully both ways, he limped across the street and disappeared into the Brookwood Hills neighborhood, a quiet, old subdivision of medium-sized houses that had, in recent years, become expensive. Soon, when the Xylocaine had taken full effect, he no longer had to limp. It took him twenty minutes, moving in the shadows, to find the place. He passed through the backyard of the house next door and spent a moment taking a length of rope from a child's swing. Ray Ferguson opened his eyes, alert, unsure about the sound he had heard. He looked at his sleeping wife, then got out of bed, listening. The back door opening, that was what the sound had been; he often forgot to lock it. He sat very still, straining to hear. Another sound, this one from his study. The publisher got slowly up from the bed, so as not to disturb his wife, and went to the closet for his shotgun. He had bought the weapon years before from a small-town hardware store, a short-barreled pump twelve-gauge that had belonged to the local police force, the man had said. There had been some burglaries in the neighborhood that year, and he had been worried. He had loaded the weapon with number-nine bird shot, the smallest available. He didn't want to kill anybody; he'd have bought buckshot for that. He just wanted something to frighten somebody away, if it came to that. Now, he thought, it has come to that. He walked quietly to the stairs in his bare feet and started slowly down them, listening.
    He stopped at the bottom and turned toward the study. That was where the sound had come from. At the door he stopped, afraid. "All right, you in there," he said, surprised at how strong his voice sounded, "I've got a shotgun. There's an outside door in there, and you'd better be out of it in five seconds. Now, get going!" He listened hard again.
    "Ray?" It was his wife's voice, sleepy, upstairs. He ignored her.
    There was absolute silence from the study. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness now, and the moon was sending slatted rays through the venetian blinds in the room. It was a big room, with a vaulted ceiling and exposed beams. He released the safety on the shotgun and pumped it noisily. "You'd better get moving, buddy," he said loudly, "unless you want a snoot full of double-aught buckshot!"
    Still, only silence. "Ray?" his wife called again. "What's happening?"
    "Stay there," Ferguson said to her. He stepped cautiously into the study, the shotgun at port arms. A board squeaked under his bare foot.
    Something soft brushed against his face, and, suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He was swept up, off his feet, then lowered to his tiptoes. In panic, he dropped the shotgun and clawed at the rope around his neck.
    "Where is she?" a voice said, close to his ear, hot breath on his neck.
    The rope slacked minutely. He pushed with his toes, trying to lessen the tension. "What?" he managed to croak. The rope went tight again, before Ferguson could get his fingers under it. 
    "Just once more, and if you don't tell me the truth, I'll tear your head off. Where is Elizabeth?" The rope stayed tight until Ferguson was at the brink of unconsciousness, then it slackened. He bit at the air, sucking it in. "Last chance, Ferguson; the very last chance." Ferguson began to weep. 
    "Ray?" The voice was startlingly loud. She was standing in the door to the study. "Oh, my God!" she screamed. Ferguson went limp. He knew he would tell Ramsey anything, now.