Hunter's Moon Read online

  In the chiding manner of a football coach, Wilson said, “You’re an expert navigator who ignores shortcuts and a marine biologist who makes assumptions. I’m worried about you. Those are unexpected flaws in a man of your accomplishments.”

  “Huh?”

  “You made an assumption, Dr. Ford. When I said we were meeting a friend, you assumed it was my friend.”

  He began to snub his backpack, getting ready to land, communicating the obvious through his aloof silence. It was worse than him saying it.

  You assumed wrong.

  EVEN THOUGH HE WAS DOWN THE BEACH, I RECOGNIZED Tomlinson’s scarecrow dancing as he juked his way to the center of the circle and took a seat on a log—Ray Bolger from The Wizard of Oz. He was barefoot, shirtless, wearing a pirate’s bandanna. The muscle cordage of his arms moved at languid angles as he slapped at an ebony drum angled between his knees.

  A couple dozen people danced free-form around the fire to the beat of tambourines, cowbells, congas, Jamaican steel drums, water bottles, a surfboard, beer bottles, and at least one frying pan.

  The former president seemed fascinated. “The reason they’re dressed like that . . . it’s because of Halloween?”

  I said, “They’re Tomlinson’s friends, so I don’t think it would matter.”

  Some wore full body paint: jaguars with breasts for eyes, or flowers, rainbow streaks, and bizarre tribal designs. A few were naked, others wore shorts and bikini tops. Those who weren’t painted wore costumes. It was a popular year for angels, demons, and Gilligan’s Island.

  “I expected the place to be deserted. When he told me about Cayo Costa, I got the impression it hadn’t changed much in the last forty years. That it was still unpopulated.”

  It was Tomlinson who’d also told the former president that he had friends who owned a cabin, that the cabin was empty, and where the keys were hidden.

  “This isn’t typical. Except for weekends, Cayo Costa’s quiet.” Because Wilson had said still unpopulated, I thought about it for a moment. “You’ve been on this island before, sir?”

  We were carrying our bags from the canoe to the cabin. He slowed. “A long time ago. Our first trip together, Wray and me. I’d graduated from the Academy the previous spring. We took the train from Maryland to Tampa, borrowed a buddy’s car, and drove to the Naval air base in Key West. Sanibel was on the way, so we spent a couple nights on the islands. We honeymooned on Useppa, the Barron Collier Room.”

  That explained why he’d attended a party there.

  It was too dark in the shadows to read his watch, but he glanced at it, anyway. “It was exactly forty-one years ago to the day that Wray and I came ashore here. Cayo Costa Island . . . only, back then, I’m certain it was called ‘La Costa.’ Palm trees and sand; not a human soul for miles. Pretty exciting for two hick kids just starting out. It was forty-one years ago, and”—he looked at his watch again—“forty-one years, plus . . . plus about an hour, that I . . . that we . . .” He caught himself; his pace quickened—getting too personal.

  I let him move ahead. He was about to tell me that something important had occurred on this island between him and his late wife. They’d made a sunrise visit, probably shelling or picnicking. Today, November 1st, was their fortieth wedding anniversary, he’d told Agent Wren. Perhaps Wilson had chosen the same date, a year earlier, to propose. Here. On this island.

  While he waited on the porch, I pushed the door open, then used my flashlight to hunt for lanterns and matches. “Did you tell Tomlinson you’d be arriving this morning?” I was as uncomfortable discussing personal matters as the former president. I was also anticipating being pissed off at Tomlinson for not having the cabin ready. I saw no food, no ice, and the generator wasn’t running. Typical.

  But I was premature.

  Wilson said, “No, he’ll be surprised. When he told me he knew of a secluded place, that it was available, I told him if I did show up it would be around the first of the month. He said his sailboat’s anchored somewhere nearby. We’d been discussing Zen meditation. I suggested that if things worked out, maybe we could go for a cruise.”

  I’d seen Tomlinson’s old Morgan, No Más, anchored off the beach, its hull pale as a mushroom in the moonlight, bow pointing water light into the tide.

  “A cruise,” I said. “Meaning his boat’s ready, provisioned with food and supplies.”

  “I assume so.”

  “You told me to do the same thing. Have my truck ready.”

  Wilson placed his duffel bag on a table as I filled a Coleman lantern with fuel. “It’s good to have options. We may need your truck before we’re done.”

  “Did you tell him to bring a passport and block out a week or two, just in case?”

  The president said, “Tomlinson doesn’t strike me as the type who keeps a calendar.”

  “I think you know what I’m getting at, sir. You said you knew things about Tomlinson that would surprise me. Did you offer him the same deal you offered me?”

  Wilson was unpacking a shaving kit, a towel, a photograph in a brass frame, positioning them neatly. He didn’t reply.

  I struck a match. The lantern hissed, filling the room with stark light. “Am I allowed to read between the lines, Mr. President? Or maybe it would be easier if you just came out and told me what’s going on.”

  “You’re supposed to call me ‘Sam.’ A slip like that with people around could cause problems.”

  “Sorry, Sam. We’re taking Tomlinson’s boat, aren’t we? That’s not hard to figure out. But where? Tampa? Key West? You mentioned both. Is this some kind of farewell, sentimental journey? If it is, I understand. I’ll stick with you. But why involve Tomlinson?”

  “You’re a perceptive man, Ford. I would like to revisit some places important to my wife and me. But I don’t have time. In fact, if we could press on right now”—he looked at the exposed beach, the falling water, his expression impatient—“I’d say let’s get going. Wray and I loved this part of Florida. It’s true. We had a lot of fun here. But you say the word ‘sentimental’ like it’s sweet. There is nothing sweet about what I intend to do”—he looked at me sharply—“or what I intend to ask you to do.”

  “Then this is about your wife’s death. You believe she was murdered.”

  “I believe it’s probable. Wray and six other good and decent people. One of her best friends was aboard that plane. A fellow we’d known since grade school who became a very fine plastic surgeon.”

  “Do you have evidence?”

  “It’s my opinion. My wife’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  There was an intensity to his silence and something suggestive about the way he busied himself neatening his gear. Customs agents and cops learn to watch the hands. People who feel guilty use busywork to dissemble.

  “You were supposed to be on that plane, weren’t you, sir?”

  His hand came to rest on the photograph. It was facedown on the table. “That’s right.”

  “It wasn’t mentioned in the news accounts.”

  “No one knew. No one was supposed to know, anyway, and the media still hasn’t found out. I told the FBI, of course. They’re working on the investigation with an international team. It’s important for them to understand there was a motive.”

  “Why would someone in your position risk traveling to Central America in a small plane?”

  “It was a private plane, but it wasn’t a small plane. It was a Cessna Conquest. A dream to fly; we used it several times. It was part of what we did—help people. Anonymously. There’d been an earthquake that wiped out a village in western Nicaragua. They are common in that part of the world. We were taking supplies and a medical team. Our friend was a gifted surgeon.”

  I had personal experience with the earthquakes and volcanoes of the region but said nothing.

  Flying supplies to people in trouble, the president explained, wasn’t an unusual thing for him and his wife to do.

  “When we began work on the Wilson Library, w
e also created the Wilson Center to stay involved with issues important to Wray and me. It was her idea to establish a response team that could get help to disaster victims fast. We are small, we’re privately funded, so we’re already on scene while the big bureaucracies are still dealing with red tape. It’s a hands-on project. We work hard, and always anonymously.”

  Because of his schedule, the president said, he could only occasionally join the Wilson Center’s volunteers. He’d cleared the decks, though, for Nicaragua.

  “But Secret Service talked me into canceling because of that damn death threat. The day after my wife was killed, I told my security people, and the director, that I would never again allow them to overrule me.”

  “Someone targeted the plane because they thought you were aboard.”

  His finger tapped at the back of the photo. “I’m convinced that’s true.”

  “An incendiary rocket?”

  He shrugged. His finger, I noticed, was tapping in synch with the distant drums.

  “How many people knew you planned to make the trip?”

  “Dozens. The Wilson Center has a full-time staff, plus many volunteers who have administrative responsibilities.”

  “How many knew you canceled?”

  “Fewer, but still a sizeable number.”

  “You told me the plane made a scheduled landing. But newspaper accounts said the plane crashed while making an emergency landing. Are you sure you’re right?”

  He nodded. “Wray and her group got a message that a pregnant woman was in desperate need of medical attention. The woman and her son were to meet the plane at the airstrip.”

  “You must have someone feeding you solid information.”

  “Smart executives put together first-rate intelligence networks or they’re not smart executives. Even nine years after leaving office, it’s not an exaggeration to say that my sources are beyond the comprehension of most. Many of the world leaders I dealt with have also retired, but we stay in contact, advise each other, and share information—even some of my old adversaries. No one in power wants our input anymore. In a strange way, we’re like a secret and exclusive little club.”

  “Are you telling me you know who did it.” I waited through a long silence. “I would assume it was the same group that came after you tonight. Muslim fanatics.”

  The former president’s hand stilled. “Islamicists, you mean? It’s true they’d love to have my head on a platter. Literally.” Abruptly, he resumed neatening his gear. I had the feeling I’d missed something.

  “Maybe Hal Harrington can provide more information,” he said. Wilson was good at that—dodging questions by putting you on the defensive. “Or are you still pretending you don’t know the man?”

  Why was he asking about the covert intelligence guru again? Harrington was a member of the deep-cover operations team the president had discovered: Negotiating and Systems Analysis. To give members legitimate cover while operating in foreign lands, the agency provided them legitimate and mobile professions.

  Harrington, trained as a computer software programmer, later founded his own company. He’s now listed among the wealthiest men in the country. Did that have something to do with it?

  I had no choice but to reply, “You’ve mentioned Harrington before. Sorry, I don’t know the man.”

  “You didn’t contact him after our meeting in your laboratory?”

  “Even if I knew who you’re talking about, the answer would be no.” True. Harrington was still with the team. The head of it now. But I no longer trusted him.

  “You’re good, Ford. If you’re proving you can keep a secret, it’s working. But I’m tired. We can talk about this later. Otherwise, I’ll give you information as you need to know.”

  He sounded tired. My eyes had adjusted to the light and I saw that his face was the same mushroom gray as No Más’s hull. His hair had been shaved boot camp close but he looked monkish, not military. In every photo I’d ever seen, he had the silver, sculpted hair typical of politicians and anchormen. The change in his appearance was remarkable.

  I said, “There’s something that can’t wait. You told me to pack a passport and enough clothes for a week. But if we’re going after Mrs. Wilson’s killers”—I made eye contact, trying to communicate my meaning without risking details—“I need more than socks and a shaving kit. There are some items at my lab that might be useful.”

  He was unaccustomed to being pushed. It was in his face.

  “That’s something we’ll discuss. But not now.” Blinking, Wilson leaned forward, removed his contact lenses. Then he pulled a bottle of pills from his backpack, and tapped two into his hand. “Is there water around here?”

  I wanted more answers. If we were hunting professional killers, I had to stop at the lab. And there was no reason to bring Tomlinson. It wasn’t coincidental that he’d been at the party on Useppa and was now on this remote island.

  Tomlinson is my trusted friend, a solid travel partner, and possibly the most intelligent person I know—when he’s not stoned or word-slurring drunk. But the man doesn’t have the skills or the stomach for the variety of violence Wilson was hinting at. On this trip, he would be a liability.

  But I didn’t push because the former president was a sick man—for the first time, I could see the disease in his hollow, knowing eyes.

  I hurried to the canoe and returned with water.

  9

  The former president was asleep. Finally. And Tomlinson still didn’t know we were on the island. As I headed down the beach to say hello, I realized that I, too, was moving in rhythm with the drums.

  I’d changed into a khaki shirt and shorts and was carrying a Sage fly rod I’d found in a storage room. I’d broken the angler’s rule about borrowing equipment, rationalizing that I would return it in better shape than I found it. The reel needed oiling, and its sink-tip line was moldy.

  As I walked, I made a hasty leader using spider hitches and surgeon’s knots, then tied on a streamer fly of chartreuse and silver. Still walking, I began false casting, stripping out line. It was the last hour of a falling tide. The beach was stained pink at the high-water mark. Below was exposed sand, sculpted by current, smooth as wind-blown snow. Its surface was crusted. It collapsed beneath my weight.

  I made a cast uptide, waited until the line matched the speed of the current, then began to strip the lure toward the beach. Water was freighting out faster than I could walk. Whirlpools formed at my feet, and swirled over dark water at the drop-off’s edge. It was an intersection where predators would lie—saltwater snipers, awaiting bait that was overpowered by the lunar draw.

  As I fished, I noted a buoyant darkness to the east separating itself from a velvet horizon. Soon, the sun would begin diluting shadow with rays of color. The moon had disappeared behind the tree line, but it would be visible from the island’s southern point, where Tomlinson and his painted friends were drumming and dancing.

  They hadn’t noticed us land. I was now close enough to feel the percussion of the drums through my ribs, but there was still no indication they saw me. Fishermen, like joggers, are invisible to the uninitiated. And to the un-sober, in this case.

  Drum circles attract mystic types, big on celestial rhythms. On full moons, sunrise and moonset are simultaneous, balancing for a moment on opposite horizons. My guess was, they’d keep playing until the moon disappeared into the sea. Especially if Tomlinson was in charge. The man sought balance in everything but the excesses of his own life.

  In that way, at least, Tomlinson and Kal Wilson had something in common. The president had refused to lie down until he’d gone exploring. The place we were staying wasn’t just one cabin, it was a camp comprised of several one-room buildings—a kitchen and eating area in one, shower and toilet in another, and a bunkhouse set beneath trees next to the storage shed where I found a little Honda generator.

  Nice place. Friendly, too, with its laid-back touches. DON AND JOAN WELCOME YOU, read a sign above the outdoor shower.


  The former president insisted on helping me get the generator running before he settled himself in the bunkhouse. He was snoring when I checked a few minutes later. The photograph he carried was on the nightstand, its glass panel flickering with the reflection of ceiling fans overhead.

  The last thing he said was, “If the fish are hitting, call me. I haven’t had a morning alone with a rod in my hand since I ran for the Senate.”

  Stories I read described him as an “avid angler”—a term used so often that I’d dismissed it as the invention of some PR firm. “Image management,” political consultants call it. The ideal presidential candidate attends church, fishes, wears a rubber watch, and owns a retriever. But there is no contriving the authentic inflections of fishermen. I hear them every morning around the docks at the marina.

  Wilson had had almost no sleep, though, so I wasn’t going to disturb the man even if fish were hitting. Which they were. My third cast, I hooked an immature snook. As I led it ashore, a pod of larger snook surfaced behind, including a couple of yardlong females.

  Next cast, I came up tight on what felt like a snag’s deadweight, but then I discerned the muscular ruddering of a fish as it turned laterally to the current. I locked fingers over the line, lifted . . . then lifted again before the fish reacted, accelerating cross-tide so fast that line sizzled as it ruptured the water’s surface.

  As the fish moved, I glanced at my feet—the line was clearing while the reel ratcheted. The handle banged skin off my knuckles as I slipped my hand beneath the spool, fingertips creating heat as they touched the line experimentally: too much pressure, the leader would break; too little, the fish might take all my line.

  The fish was fifty yards into the backing before it turned, then stripped another fifty yards, running seaward. I began following it down the beach, trying to recover line. I was almost to the drum circle—they still hadn’t noticed me, Tomlinson included—when the fish turned and angled cross-tide again . . . then began to fight its way uptide.