Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  Wilson looked at him sharply. He said, “If you committed a crime. You really don’t remember—?”

  “I do remember. That’s what I’m saying. I helped build a bomb. A man died and I’m guilty. For me, there’s no such thing as a pardon. It doesn’t matter that it happened twenty years ago.”

  The former president was paying attention, no longer impatient. “Then why did you say if?”

  Tomlinson was lounging shirtless, using his toes to steady the wheel. He straightened, thinking about it. He’d been institutionalized after the bombing. Weeks of electroshock therapy had scrambled his memory synapses. “I . . . don’t know. You’re right. I’ve admitted that I’m guilty. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t expect the cops to come banging on my door”—he glanced at me—“or worse. A bullet through the old coconut, maybe.” He reflected for a few seconds more. “I don’t know why I said ‘if.’ It just came out.”

  Wilson was studying him, nodding, as he took a seat beside me on the starboard side and unrolled the chart. “Think about it. If you don’t care about a pardon, maybe you care about the truth.”

  Tomlinson sat back and his toes found the ship’s wheel. “The truth, man, absolutely.”

  I was tempted to say the definition of “truth” is even trickier than the definition of “coercion,” but the former president had taken charge. I listened to him say, “The truth is part of our bargain, too. I’ll give you the information I have. You two have a lot in common. I think you’ll find it . . . interesting.”

  “When?”

  “When it’s time, Doc. That’ll have to do.” He had the chart on his lap, holding it with both hands so the breeze didn’t take it. “There’s a more pressing matter. Our destination.”

  “I’ve been wondering, man. For the last half hour, I’ve been taking it slow, just like you told me. Letting No Más have her head.”

  Wilson touched an index finger to the bridge of his glasses. “Then let’s make a decision.”

  IT WAS ONE OF THE BIG NOAA CHARTS THAT SHOWED the Gulf of Mexico and bordering land regions. The former president unfolded it, then folded it to narrow the aspect. He placed it on his lap so we both could see, before asking, “How long would it take us to sail to Tampa Bay?”

  Tomlinson answered, “Depends on where in Tampa Bay you want to go. It’s ten or twelve hours to the sea channel—that’s the easy part. After that, it’s twenty-five miles or so to the port. But lots of narrow channels.”

  Wilson nodded. “The Bahamas?”

  “Two full days at least, no matter which way we go.”

  “What about Key West?”

  “Twenty-four hours, plus an hour or two—if this breeze holds.”

  “You’ve made the trip?”

  Tomlinson removed his toe from the wheel and knocked a knuckle on the oiled teak. “If this lady leaked asphalt, there’d be a highway between Dinkin’s Bay and the patio bar at Louie’s Backyard.”

  “What about Big Torch Key?”

  Big Torch Key was only a few miles from Key West, but Tomlinson said, “Add a couple more hours, because we draw too much water to go in through Florida Bay. There’s a good anchorage at Key West, then we’d sail out and around. Come in from the Atlantic side.”

  “I see.” The president moved his hand west, across the chart. “What about Mexico? How long to sail to the Yucatán?”

  The Yucatán Peninsula extends almost to Cuba, forming the southwestern rim of the Gulf basin.

  Tomlinson looked at me, his expression saying Far out as he replied, “Cozumel’s three hundred ninety nautical miles from Sanibel. From Key West, it’s three hundred ten miles. That’s on a rhomb line, of course. So . . . depending on weather, it would takes us about three days.”

  “You’re very quick with the data. I take it you’ve made that crossing, too.”

  I wondered if Tomlinson would change the asphalt analogy to bales of marijuana.

  “Sure. Usually from Key West, but I’ve done both. It can be a dream trip, or a nightmare. Depends on how hilly it gets. Either way, we’d have lots of time for private study. We can start your introduction to meditation.”

  Tomlinson had referred to the former president’s interest in Zen Buddhism a couple of times since we’d been aboard. Now, as before, Wilson ignored him.

  The president rolled the chart. “Take us to Key West, Mr. Tomlinson.” He went down the steps into the cabin.

  I was putting the destinations together; events, too. Thinking: We’re going to Panama . . .

  ONLY A FEW MINUTES LATER, THOUGH, WILSON REAPPEARED, his face stern. “Gentlemen, we had an agreement. No electronic devices except for the things I personally okayed. Not on this boat. Not on your person at any time during the trip.”

  Why was Wilson looking at me?

  I said quickly, “I had a cell phone and a little GPS. Your guy, Vue, took both. I wasn’t happy about it. And I expect to get them back—but those were the only electronics I had.”

  Wilson said, “Then this is just an oversight.” He held out his hand to show me one of the two small flashlights I had left. “I didn’t go through your gear. That’s your job. I found this hanging on one of the lockers forward.”

  I was confused. “It’s a flashlight, Mr. President. It’s not a radio.”

  He looked at me until I realized I’d slipped again. “Sorry . . . Sam. But you’ve lost me. Are you saying we can’t carry anything that uses batteries?”

  He shook his head. “Not batteries. Computer components.” He handed me the light. “Those little buttons—that thing’s programmable, isn’t it?”

  The man was right. The new generation of LED lights used Intel chips; a few had memory cards. I hadn’t even thought about it.

  “I’ve got to be tough about this. You men are aware of my . . . timetable. There are things I want to accomplish. And I only have two or three weeks. I can’t risk an interruption. That flashlight could have a tracking chip in it. Turn on the light, it sends a locator signal.”

  Tomlinson said, “Whoa, man. I’ve got a personal relationship with paranoia. We go way back. But the three of us are shipmates now, and you’ve got to trust Doc and me—”

  I interrupted, “No, he doesn’t. And he shouldn’t. He’s right.” I had the cap off the flashlight, inspecting it. “There’s no transmitter chip—not that I know of, anyway. But there doesn’t have to be. Some computer components have their own electronic signature.” I looked at Tomlinson. “If one of us wanted to signal our location, this is the sort of thing we’d use. There’re GPS tracking sticks smaller than this. It’s not my field, and I don’t know how sophisticated the tracking equipment is—”

  “It’s the most sophisticated on earth. If people get serious about finding us, they’ll pull out the stops.” Wilson touched his thumb to an index finger, then his middle finger. “There are two ways to defeat superior technology. One, change the objectives of engagement. Two, change the arena of engagement. Do both and your chances improve.

  “We’re changing arenas. The technology they’ll use is twenty-first century. But aboard this boat”—Wilson looked at the sail: a sanded wing transecting a tropic sky—“we’ve moved back in time a hundred years. Modern tracking systems are programmed to monitor modern threats. Not the stuff we’re using.”

  Because Wilson had insisted, we’d stripped No Más of her VHF radios, EPRB emergency transmitters, GPS, and SONAR gear and left them with friends on Cayo Costa.

  Tomlinson said, “I’ve done astral projection, soul travel—you’ll learn that meditation is the vehicle of spiritual experience. But this is cool. We’ve shifted centuries.”

  “In terms of electronic signature. Yes. The National Security Agency has amazing monitoring technology. Details are classified, but I know their capabilities. Use a cell phone in the Afghan mountains and our people can triangulate the position within a minute. With prior authorization, we can have a laser-guided missile under way within ninety seconds. The technology is brill
iant, but it’s also very specialized. And that makes it vulnerable.”

  During our canoe trip from Ligarto Island to Cayo Costa, he’d asked if I’d brought a draft of the paper Tomlinson and I were writing. But this was the first time he’d mentioned the subject.

  “An early indicator of overspecialization is when a technology no longer addresses the problem that made it necessary in the first place. Intercepting an adversary’s communications dates back thousands of years. Our monitoring systems can track a cell phone on the other side of the earth. But they’re not equipped to monitor the primitive transmitters you and your friends were using this morning.” Wilson was looking at Tomlinson, expecting him to be confused, and maybe a little disappointed because he wasn’t.

  “The drums, man,” Tomlinson said. “Yeah—transmitters. A communication system so old that our brains can’t translate the language. But our hearts still understand.”

  Wilson said, “You could set up a network, send messages back and forth, and the finest surveillance systems in the world would never record a beat. Lots of noise but zero signature. Drums. When you’re up against the National Security Agency, you’re much safer living in the Stone Age.”

  DRUMS?

  During the last year, I’d spent time in the Stony Desert, between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where domes of ancient mosques turn to pearl in moonlight. Was that how they avoided spy satellites—hammering out messages on rocks and goatskins?

  Wilson caught my eye. “ ‘Zero signature’—it’s an interesting term. I came across it in my reading a year ago. When you think about it—zero signature—it has philosophical implications. People who accomplish nothing. People who stand for nothing. But it also describes someone who is very good at what they do. Brilliant reconstructive surgeons. Architects, petroleum engineers. And . . . other professions. Were you guys Boy Scouts?”

  Tomlinson’s expression read Are you serious? as I replied, “No. I’ve never been much of a joiner.”

  “Too bad. One of the founders was a great naturalist. He had a theory that every living thing leaves an uninterrupted track, from birth to death, that’s readable to a skilled tracker. And he believed the converse was true: A skilled tracker knows how to cover his tracks. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  “How, Sam?” Tomlinson was into the conversation, loved the idea that we’d switched centuries, I could see. I could also see that he was getting twitchy, tugging at his salt-bleached Willie Nelson braids. It was after six—beer time—but Wilson had ordered him to limit his alcohol intake and banned marijuana.

  Wilson replied, “By the way we communicate. I’m going to use your drum technique tonight. Sort of.” Meaning we’d find out. “But right now, we need to finish this electronics issue.” He pointed at the flashlight. “Is that all you’re carrying?”

  “I’ve got another flashlight in my bag, but it’s a simple penlight. I’ll show you—”

  Wilson put his hand on my shoulder when I tried to stand. “No need. Your word’s good enough.” His sincerity somehow added to my sense of indebtedness. “The question now is, what should we do with it—your light, and any other items aboard this boat that might compromise us?”

  I was holding the little LED. A fine piece of equipment. Machined aluminum body and a dazzling beam. It wasn’t as nice as the Blackhawk I’d left with Wilson’s would-be assassins, but it was nice.

  I said, “How about I take the light apart? You can stow it with your gear. These things are a lot more expensive then you might think—”

  The former president was shaking his head even before I finished. “On a trip that’s so personally important, is that our most secure option? I don’t think Tomlinson’s going to be shocked to hear that, in certain circles, you’re considered a security expert of sorts. So I’ll leave the decision up to you, Doc. Your call.”

  In only a couple of sentences, the man had voiced his unquestioned respect for my integrity and deferred to my superior knowledge and judgment.

  Damn.

  “Marion, your behavior is so predictable.” Tomlinson said. “You’re clinging, man. Material objects. Money. The sutras tell us that all suffering is rooted in selfish grasping. To experience reality, we must first divest ourselves of delusion.” He was using his Buddha voice—the gentle, all-knowing tone he uses with his students, and, at times, to intentionally piss me off.

  I held up a warning hand. “Okay. Enough. No more of your ping-pong Zen speeches. I’d rather throw the damn thing overboard than have to listen.” And I did—flipped the flashlight over my shoulder. Didn’t even turn to see it hit the water.

  Tomlinson had both feet on the wheel, hands folded behind his head. He leaned and gave me a brotherly rap on the arm. “Sam? Doc’s the sort of guy who, if I pointed at a meteorite, he’d study my finger. Seriously. Meditation frees us.”

  Wilson said, “Really? You’re free of greed and delusion, huh? We’ll see.” He had returned to the companionway, talking to Tomlinson as he went down the steps.

  WHEN THE PRESIDENT REAPPEARED, HE WAS CARRYING Tomlinson’s leather briefcase, timing the sailboat’s movement before he took his seat. The man was careful about getting banged around, I’d noticed.

  “You stowed this in the bulkhead locker. The briefcase was open, so you’re obviously not trying to conceal anything.” Wilson removed a laptop computer, then a palm-sized wafer of white plastic—an iPod.

  Tomlinson was suddenly sitting up straight, watching. “Careful there, man. If we take some spray, salt water could ruin the circuitry.”

  “I’m aware of that. Question is, why are these things aboard?”

  “Because this is my home, man. Don’t you have a computer at home? Everybody has a computer at home. Where else would I keep it?”

  “I told you several times that I had to personally okay all electronics.”

  “Yeah. But you meant navigational gear. Radios, radar, my sonar—that kinda stuff. The bullshit twenty-first-century baggage no real sailor needs. I got rid of that crap. We’re simpatico on the subject—”

  Wilson was shaking his head. “Apparently not. I hate to force the issue, but this equipment has to go.”

  Tomlinson was twitching, tugging at his hair. “My computer? Sam . . . you can’t be serious.”

  “I’ll give you time to back up your files.”

  “You mean . . . throw it overboard?”

  Wilson nodded.

  “But it’s a MacBook, Sam! It’s not some IBM clone piece of garbage. We’re discussing an engineering work of art.”

  Wilson remained stoic.

  “And my iPod?” The president didn’t resist when Tomlinson reached, took the device, and held it lovingly. “This is my personal music system. I’ve got, like, my entire vinyl collection stored here. Jimi Hendrix outtakes from the Berkeley rally. Cream’s last concert. The actual tape from the Rolling Stone interview with Timothy Leary!

  “Sam, please”—I’d never heard Tomlinson beg before—“this is history, man. Think of what you’re doing. You . . . you need to shallow up, Sam.”

  The president said, “Sorry,” his voice flat.

  Tomlinson leaned forward and touched my sleeve. “Doc—talk to him. Aren’t there some basic safety issues involved here? He’s asking me to sail to Key West without music or smoking a joint? Why, it’s . . . insane. I’ve never tried anything so crazy. Say something, compadre.”

  I was watching Wilson open the laptop—surprise, surprise. Tomlinson’s screen saver was a photo of Marlissa Kay Engle, actress and musician. She was wearing a red bikini bottom, nothing else, smiling at the camera from a familiar setting. The woman I’d been dating was topless on the sun-drenched foredeck of my best friend’s boat.

  Wilson said, “I admire your taste, but your judgment is questionable.”

  “But it’s only two months old. A MacBook with a SuperDrive, four gigs of memory, and the built-in video eye. You can’t be serious!”

  I studied the computer screen long
enough to be sure of what I was seeing, then looked at Tomlinson, whose expression had changed. “Doc. I can explain.”

  I interrupted. “You’re clinging, man. Don’t grasp—it’s the root of all suffering. You’re hung up on possessions . . . man.” To Wilson I said, “Give me the goddamn computer. I’ll throw it over.”

  Wilson closed the laptop, cutting us both off. “You take the helm, Dr. Ford. Mr. Tomlinson, go below and back up your data. Then deep-six this contraband.”

  As the president went down the companionway steps, Tomlinson sounded near tears. “But these are Apple products, Sam.”

  I nudged him away from the sailboat’s wheel, saying, “You need to deepen up, pal.”

  12

  Two hours before midnight, the president said, “I didn’t anticipate our friend Tomlinson disappearing. So I’ve got to confide in you. We have to be in Central America in three days. By the afternoon of November fifth.”

  Tomlinson hadn’t disappeared. As I had explained to Wilson, we were in Key West. The man was out having fun, not hiding.

  Even so, we were walking the streets, searching.

  I said, “By ‘Central America,’ you mean Panama? Or Nicaragua?” He didn’t reply for several seconds, so I made another guess. “You’re going there to kill the person who murdered your wife.”

  He walked half a block before saying, “No. You’re going to kill him.” His voice low. “If you have moral reservations, tell me now.”

  I turned my attention to the tangled limbs of a ficus tree, where bats dragged a fluttering light into shadows. “November’s nice in Central America. Rainy season’s ending, but tarpon are still in the rivers.”

  “Is that an answer?”

  I looked at the man long enough for him to know it was.

  “Then we don’t have time to waste. Why the hell would he do something so crazy?”

  “There’s nothing crazy about Tomlinson disappearing in Key West,” I said again. “The only reason he doesn’t live here is because he knows it would kill him.”