Hunter's moon df-14 Page 15

The man was shaking his head. “No one knew. Morse code had been our secret language since we were children. Let me show you something.” He slid the telegraph key to the middle of the galley table. “In the first movement of ‘Moonlight Sonata,’ the left hand plays three notes over and over. The notes are C-sharp, E, and G-sharp. Do you perceive the significance?”

  He’d asked the same question about Wray Wilson’s plane catching fire in a rain forest.

  “I’m not a musician, sir.”

  “You don’t need to be. You know the piece. Try humming those three notes.”

  I felt ridiculous but I made an attempt. “Bumm bum-bum. Bumm bum-bum. Bumm bum-bum.”

  He was nodding, conducting with his right hand while his left hand moved to the telegraph key. He resumed drumming out Dot dash-dash.. . Dot dash-dash… Dot dash-dash as I hummed.

  I finally figured it out.

  “In Morse code,” I said, “the sonata plays the letter W over and over.”

  “That’s right. W, as in Wilson. When we were children, the sonata was our distress signal. The way the little deaf girl summoned the kid who’d become her protector. Me, the jock hero and Boy Scout.

  “As we got older, it meant more. Beethoven was deaf when he wrote the piece. He was also in love with a women he knew he could never have. Because of her handicaps, Wray had felt the same was true of a guy like me. Unattainable. WW stood for Wray Wilson-her name once we were married.”

  I nodded, not sure how to respond, so I asked, “And ‘Clair de Lune’?”

  Wilson chuckled. “I’ll do us both a favor by not asking you to hum it but listen.” The telegraph key clattered with a series of dots and dashes too fast for me to read, but the rhythm was similar to the beginning of the Debussy classic.

  “In Morse code, the first few bars of ‘Clair de Lune’ spell out I-L-U. Several times. Think about the melody.” He began tapping the key. “Hear it?”

  I said, “Yes. But you lost me. What does I-L-U stand for?”

  The president shook his head, a wry expression. “No one will ever accuse you of being a romantic, Dr. Ford. I’ll let you figure it out. But how did Mr. Tomlinson know? That’s what I’m asking you.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “He has uncanny intuition, I’ll admit. He observes details, I think, that most of us miss, and his subconscious processes the data in a way that may seem mystical. But it’s not.”

  “I think you’re wrong. He had nothing to observe regarding those two pieces of music. Yet he knew. My wife was the same way. You didn’t want him to come on this trip, did you?”

  “No. I’m afraid he’ll get in the way-for what you have in mind.”

  “Once again, I think you’re wrong. He knows things. That’s why I chose him.”

  “But you never met Tomlinson before. And the only time we met-”

  “Cartagena, Colombia,” the president interrupted. “My motorcade was coming from the airport, on the road by the sea. Secret Service had done its usual superb job. We had Blackhawk helicopters, more than a hundred agents working the streets. But the only one who noticed something odd about that little gray fishing boat was you, a vacationing tourist-or so I believed at the time.”

  The gray boat was made for pulling crab traps yet the men aboard were fishing. They were also holding their rods upside down. I’d been in a fourteen-foot Boston Whaler watching the motorcade. I’d rammed the boat just as they fired the rocket. A SAM.

  The president continued, “You both know things. But in different ways. That’s why I chose you. One of the reasons, anyway.”

  “There are other reasons?”

  “Yes. That’s something else I’m going to let you figure out for yourself. It’ll come to you. The significance.”

  That word again.

  I started to get up from the galley table, but the president held up an index finger: Wait a minute.

  He was removing wires from the telegraph key, boxing it again. “Before you go topside, there’s one more thing I want to show you. I said the top TV people were either decent professionals or thugs? The same’s true of politicians.”

  When I started to speak, he held up the finger again. “I’m making a point.”

  He reached into his pocket and placed a palm-sized digital recorder on the table. It was silver.

  “Look familiar?”

  “It’s Shana Waters’s. Danson said he gave it to her as a present.”

  “That’s right. I dumped her purse intentionally. She stuck the recorder in there when she helped us get Danson on the bed.” The president removed his glasses and looked at me with his farmer’s eyes, telling me something. “My wife was the good and decent half of our presidency. I was the other half. I have a lot more in common with that shark that was cruising the drop-off. I want you to know that.”

  He seemed to think that would reassure me.

  I touched the recorder. Digital. Expensive. “What’s she going to think when she finds it missing?”

  “That Danson took it, of course. Those two are in a kind of occupational death dance. You didn’t pick up on that? They despise each other, but they also get some kind of perverse satisfaction out of their secret battle. Who can outdo the other. He gives her a fancy recorder, she uses it to blackmail him, he steals it back. Like chess.”

  “You could ruin Danson with what’s on here.”

  The president nodded. “But I won’t. I may use it, but not to ruin him.” In reply to my expression, he explained, “My life’s evolved to a point where I trust old enemies more than new friends. At least I know what they want. You’d have to spend four years in the White House to understand what I mean.” He paused, suddenly alert. “Do you feel that?”

  He meant the way No Mas was taking the sea. The wind was off our port side now.

  I said, “We’ve tacked. Tomlinson’s turned west toward Mexico.”

  Wilson stood, lost his balance, then steadied himself. His face was pale in the cabin’s light, his skin looked as fragile as paper. He found the chart, saying, “That man needs to establish a priority list. I told him to steer south until he heard from me. Here’s where I want to go.” He rapped his finger on an island that was only a few miles up the road from Key West. Big Torch Key.

  It made no sense. Why would he want to remain in Florida when the feds were looking for him? I said, “Are you sure?

  “Very sure.” With a pencil, he circled a smaller island off Kemp Channel. “This is our destination. There’s a private estate, with a good anchorage.”

  “Is someone expecting us?”

  Wilson said, “Let’s hope not,” handing me the chart.

  Above deck, I slid in next to Tomlinson, put the chart in his lap, and said, “He believes you’re psychic. Even though you’re a hundred eighty degrees off course. He says you need a priority list.”

  Tomlinson flicked on a little red lamp as I pointed to the island Wilson had circled. “I tried making a priority list once but it came out more like triage.”

  He checked the compass, then the horizon: fragmented moon in the west, navigational markers flashing in the early morning darkness. “I’m not off course. My route’s just twenty-five thousand miles longer.” He touched the chart. “You’re serious?”

  “That’s what he wants. Turn us around.”

  “Why?”

  “Go below and ask him.”

  Tomlinson shook his head. “No, thanks. Let the man have his space.”

  It had been the same way on the sail from Cayo Costa to Key West. Kal Wilson was not an individual who invited familiarity, so Tomlinson and I spent most of the time topside while he slept or read below. If the president wanted conversation, we waited until he engaged us. But even idle talk with the man consumed an inordinate amount of energy. I wasn’t sure why, nor was Tomlinson. Wilson had a presence that was tangible, like heat or cold, and required total attention. So we kept our distance-not easily done on a thirty-five-foot sailboat.

  Another factor: The man was ill.
It was apparent only when he didn’t know we were watching.

  Tomlinson asked, “You ready to come about?”

  “Let ’er go.” I slid beneath the boom as No Mas pointed into the wind, stalled, then fell toward the lights of Key West. When Tomlinson gave me the word, I cranked the mainsheet trim, feeling the starboard side lift beneath me. The sailboat began to accelerate southeast as canvas leveraged wind.

  “You still pissed off at me?”

  “That’s a hard one to answer. I’ve got so many reasons.”

  He reached into the cooler he keeps on deck and opened a Corona for me, saying, “I’m talking about Marlissa.”

  As if surprised, I said, “Oh… her. I’m not mad.”

  “Which means, you’re majorly pissed-off.”

  “Damn right. We’ve always had a gentlemen’s agreement that we don’t date the same women at the same time and we don’t discuss details if it happens later.”

  “I didn’t break the agreement, man. It was her. Marlissa’s no gentleman. Like that TV woman, Shana what’s her name. Very hot. But poison.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Two of a kind. But I’m like a kid at Christmas when it comes to women. I can’t wait to unwrap them, even if I don’t like what’s inside. At the marina, Joann, Rhonda, and the other woman said I should warn you. In a way, I guess, maybe I did.”

  “Don’t expect me to thank you.”

  Tomlinson said, “I won’t. But you’re welcome,” as he hunched over the chart. I watched him put a thumb between our position and the nearest obstruction. Then I watched him hold his arm out, sighting over three fingers held parallel. They were old sailor’s tricks for measuring distance.

  After a while, he asked, “When we were in Key West, did you call Marlissa?”

  “Never crossed my mind,” I lied. “Why would I bother?”

  “To find out the truth. She would’ve denied it.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yep. Hell, Doc, I wanted to call her-I don’t have your willpower. Know why I didn’t? Because I couldn’t remember her damn number. I had it on speed dial so I never memorized it. Pathetic, huh?”

  I smiled. “Yeah. Pathetic.” Then we both sat back, drinking beer and laughing… after I’d told him the truth.

  15

  The significance of a plane catching fire after it had landed in a Nicaraguan rain forest? The answer came to me in a dream. I was not the same man when I awoke.

  We found the island. We found the estate, with its sheltered harbor. When No Mas was anchored and secure, I made a bed on the bow. Last time I checked my watch, it was 3:30 a.m.

  It returns sometimes. My dream. It is a nightmare played in the flames of a long-gone blaze, my index finger twitching on a trigger as young men nearby, alive but terrified, lay frozen in their innocence, eyes fresh with homecoming, haylofts, ghettos. They are not yet scarred by the darkness that frees them to admonish their killers by killing in return.

  Shooting a human being in a fit of temper is one thing. To do it professionally, when you are exhausted, filthy, and afraid, half a planet from home, is another.

  The brain, undirected as we sleep, organizes random thoughts into patterns. Synapses are gaps between cells. Like sparks, neurotransmitters arc between. Dreams are the chemical-electric by-product, and they are meaningless-with rare exceptions.

  For the last few days, my subconscious had been struggling to connect random phrases and events. They became fragmented as I ascended into sleep:

  “Wray’s plane caught fire after it landed. No survivors. Suggestive?”

  “You know more than you realize…”

  Significance…?

  “… one of them a brilliant plastic surgeon, near a volcano in Nicaragua…”

  “You’ve been following events in Panama…”

  “Thomas Farrish is the most dangerous man on earth…”

  “Not the only reason I chose you. You’ll figure it out…”

  Nicaragua… fire… Managua… fire.

  Nicaragua… burn scars…

  “You are the perfect man for the job, Dr. Ford. When I visit you at the lab, I’ll sign a photograph for your son…”

  Fire. My son.

  How does the president know I have a son?

  As I slept, random data sparked until it catalyzed the old, familiar dream. Once again, I was returned to that place, suffocating with dread, and the stink of flames fueled by innocence.

  Fire.

  I sat up, sweating in the chill, gray light of a November morning, seeing water, the sailboat’s mast, relieved to know it was only that damn dream. Again. But the relief was soon replaced by a sickening awareness.

  After landing safely, a chartered plane caught fire in the jungles of Nicaragua.

  I now understood the significance.

  Seven people had been burned alive, one of them a plastic surgeon. I knew their murderer.

  Praxcedes Lourdes.

  It was the sociopath who had kidnapped my son, who maintained contact with Laken even after being extradited to Nicaragua. Writing letters or e-mails, describing his “symptoms,” and discussing behavioral anomalies caused by injury and birth defects. A predator’s ruse to keep the prey within grasp.

  Prax was out. The Man Burner was free. He was killing again.

  Tomlinson was in the aft bunk, asleep, but the president was gone.

  I felt a moment of panic but then took stock. It was an hour before sunrise. The world was shades of charcoal and pearl, a few stars showing. But there were dock lights and sodium security lights on the island. I could see that our dinghy was tied next to a boathouse a hundred yards away. I stuffed my shoes in the back of my fishing shorts, jumped from the stern, and swam.

  The main house and outbuildings were Mediterranean-style salmon stucco with roofs of red tiles. The lawn hadn’t been tended in weeks and the pool was clogged with palm fronds. I assumed the place was empty but banged on the back door, anyway. No response. The door was locked.

  I pressed my face to the window and saw furniture covered with white sheets and a television that had to be twenty years old. The island was a multimillion-dollar property, but seldom used.

  “Ford. I’m in here.” Wilson was outside the boathouse, wiping his hands on a mechanic’s rag. Behind him, the horizon was banded silver, silhouetting the tops of trees. He turned and disappeared, closing the door behind.

  Unlike the other buildings, the boathouse was a remnant of Old Florida: cypress-shingled, built on low stilts, barn-sized, large enough to house one of the elaborate wooden yachts from that period.

  But there was no yacht. Instead, when I stepped through the door I found the president standing on the pontoon of a single-engine airplane. Amphibious-it could land on water or a runway. He had the engine cowling open.

  Hoping I was wrong, I said, “Praxcedes Lourdes-was it him? Is he the one who… attacked Mrs. Wilson’s plane?”

  The president turned in my direction, holding an oil dipstick, then returned his attention to the engine. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure of my sources.”

  “Then that explains why you came to me. You know what Lourdes did to my son.”

  “Motivation is important.” Wilson turned again, briefly. His expression had changed, as if a mask had slipped. “I want that son of a bitch. And you’re going to help me get him.”

  “Then you were right. I’m the perfect man for the job.”

  “I told you you’d get used to it.”

  “But my son-”

  “He’s in no danger. He’s still in California with his mother-I confirmed that before I met you at the party on Useppa Island. And Lourdes, hopefully, is still in Central America.”

  “Where?”

  “On the run. That’s all I know. He escaped-or so they say.”

  “Bullshit.” I was shaking, I realized. My clothes were soaked on this cool morning, but it wasn’t just that.<
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  “I agree. Someone bought his freedom. There are powerful people who don’t want him caught. Elections are coming up in Nicaragua and Panama. You know what that means.”

  Yes, I knew. Lourdes had been raised by Miskito Indians in Nicaragua. In his early teens, he’d murdered his adopted family by torching their hut.

  It was the beginning of a lifelong fetish even though he, too, was badly burned.

  An element of Lourdes’s fetish was his fantasy of harvesting an attractive face from a victim. That’s why he’d kidnapped my son. Lourdes’s face was a horror of scars and plastic surgery gone wrong.

  Threaten a village with a visit from the “Man Burner” and the vote was guaranteed. Among the superstitious, he was believed to be a monster with inhuman powers. They were right.

  “Who has the most to benefit from using someone like him?”

  “The determined or the depraved. Or both.”

  An evasion.

  “No matter who’s paying him, sir, it’s possible he wasn’t after you. There was a plastic surgeon aboard.”

  “Yes. Dr. David Miller. A good friend. Brilliant.”

  I said, “Lourdes could have been after him,” and explained why.

  “I don’t see how he could have known David was on the trip.”

  “The Wilson Center has a Web page. Could it have been mentioned there?”

  The president hadn’t considered it. I could tell. “Possibly.”

  “Are you certain all seven people aboard that plane died?”

  The subject was painful and it made him impatient. “ Yes. You’re getting off track-my contacts are convinced Lourdes was hired to assassinate me.”

  “Because of the elections? But you no longer have any influence-” I stopped myself.

  I watched him check and recheck the dipstick, then close the engine cowling, before responding. “You’re right. I no longer have the political influence I once had. But I told you before that events don’t change world history. Events as symbols change history. I’m a symbol. A far more powerful symbol than an Austrian archduke. There are religious zealots, as I’ve said, who are determined to start a world war. Armageddon. They long for it.”