Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  Since then, Tomlinson and I had been left on our own. A relief for all three of us, probably. I got the plane secured while Tomlinson carried our gear to the door of the shack. Part of my duty was to tie the aircraft fast near overhanging trees, then cover it with camouflage netting Wilson had packed.

  The man was good at details.

  When I was finished, I returned to the hut. Presumably, we would sleep here. Wilson had an ally in the region who had a lot of power—that was apparent. The Solentiname Islands are isolated, but not all of the islands are uninhabited. About a hundred people, mostly fishermen and artists, live in the area. Yet someone had arranged for these huts to be vacated for our use.

  It was now only 6 p.m. but volcanoes to the west were already silhouetted, mushroom clouds tethered to their rims. The Pacific Ocean would be visible from those craters.

  “Do you think we should interrupt them to ask which hut we should use?” Tomlinson meant Wilson and Vue, who were standing near the lake’s edge, focused on their discussion.

  I said, “The man doesn’t have any problem giving orders. He’ll tell us if we take the one he wants.”

  Spooked by the tableau, Tomlinson had stacked our gear outside the hut. I took a backpack, opened the door, peeked in, and saw beams of raw timber with hammocks strung between supports. Oil lanterns on a table.

  “Nice,” I said. “Smells like wood smoke.”

  I went inside, claimed a hammock, then searched until I found cans of Vienna sausages and an unopened bottle of Aguadiente hidden in a sack of rice. I opened the bottle, poured half a tumbler for myself, a tumbler three-quarters full for Tomlinson, then went outside to find him. He was leaning against a tree smoking a joint.

  “I guess you won’t be needing this,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It’s cheap cane rum.”

  He thrust his hand out and took the glass. “The hell I won’t.”

  We drank the warm liquor and talked about the things travelers talk about—home, mostly. Friends; what they were probably doing right now.

  “Vienna sausages,” Tomlinson smiled, “one of nature’s perfect foods. Drink the juice, then eat the little bastards. One of the few staples I miss since becoming a vegetarian.”

  Later, I went for a swim, then dozed off reading by lantern light. Moths found their way into the hut. Their wings threw gigantic shadows.

  Around nine, Wilson tapped on the door and poked his head in. “We can hike to the site from here. We’ll leave before first light. Six-thirty sharp.”

  I was half asleep and confused. After the door closed, I said, “Hiking where? What’s he talking about?”

  Tomlinson was in a hammock across the room. He had the Aguadiente bottle cradled beside him. Half empty.

  “The site where the plane burned,” he said, his voice monotone. “The man wants me to visit where his wife died.”

  I AWOKE TO THE RUMBLE OF THUNDER AND A RAIN-FRESH wind filtering through the thatched roof. It was 6 a.m. and Tomlinson was already up. He had a fire going outside, coffee steaming. I took a leak off the dock, went for a swim, and returned as storm clouds assembled in pale light to the east.

  “I dread this,” Tomlinson said, handing me a mug of coffee.

  I took a sip, then another, saying, “It’s bad. But it’s not that bad,” trying to get him to laugh.

  He did. But then said, “I mean visiting the crash site.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m pulling out today around noon. Sam gave me the news a little bit ago. Vue and I are driving to some hacienda near the Panamanian border, taking excess gear to lighten the load. It’s only a hundred twenty miles and he’s got a rented Land Rover. I’ll fly home from San José or Panama City tomorrow night.”

  I was surprised.

  “Visiting the wreck is the only reason he wanted me to come on the trip. He wants to know what his wife experienced when the plane caught fire. And any other details. He’s aware I have psychic powers.”

  I said, “So he’s told me. But I’m curious—what convinced him? He’s not what you would call a frivolous man.”

  “You can say that twice. He’s about as warm as a brass hemorrhoid tester. But . . . likeable, too, in a weird way.”

  You never met before the party on Useppa?”

  “No.”

  “Do you agree his interest in Buddhism was just an act?”

  “I’ve known that since we left for Key West.”

  “So you weren’t invited because of your book?”

  “I doubt if he read it.”

  I asked again. “Then what convinced him you have psychic powers? I assume he hasn’t told you the reason.”

  Tomlinson’s reaction was unexpected. I’ve known him so long, I can read his mannerisms nearly as well as he can read mine. There was guilt in his expression; confusion, too.

  “As a matter of fact, he did tell me. Not everything. But enough to jog the old memory banks. And to know what he said is true.” His laughter was forced. “Kind of a shocker. I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t tell you.”

  “You’ve known for a while?”

  “Since a few days after the party. We met privately for drinks on Cabbage Key. He rented the Cabbage Patch so we could talk confidentially.”

  I was looking beyond a hedge of banana plants, where stalks grew heavy-fingered like yellow fists. President Wilson and Vue were walking toward us as I said, “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. For the last couple of years, your memory’s been returning a little piece at a time, I know that. Electroshock therapy erases memory. It’s documented.”

  The gentle smile on his face told me he was aware I was being kind. “Well . . . truth is, I’ve remembered bits and pieces of what he told me for quite a while. I guess I was ashamed. You see”—he broke off several bananas and tossed one to me—“back when I was at Harvard I got involved in a research project. I needed money. Didn’t know what I was getting into—a secret sort of deal at the time. But it all came out later. A program called ‘Stargate.’ ”

  I did a bad job of hiding my surprise because then Tomlinson said, “So now you understand why I’m ashamed. I worked for those right-wing weirdoes more than a year.”

  I was familiar with the project. There was no right-wing association and only critics called it “Stargate.” The Pentagon referred to the project as “Asymmetrical Intelligence-Gathering Research.” It began in the 1970s when U.S. intelligence agencies learned that the Soviets were recruiting clairvoyants and telepathic savants to work as “psychic spies.”

  The CIA and U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency took it seriously enough to establish a similar program. The project was funded until the mid-’90s, and employed many dozens of “psychics” over a period of twenty years. Some in the intelligence community say it produced usable product, others say it was a waste of millions.

  I was smiling despite the implications. “You worked for the CIA?”

  “Isn’t that a kick in the pants?” Tomlinson said. “Somewhere, right now, Tim Leary is rolling over in his grave. But it’s not like the agency gave me a decoder ring and showed me the secret handshake. I sat in a room at a military base in Maryland while a guy in a lab coat asked me questions. I remember looking at a lot of maps and pointing at places. That particular extrasensory gift is called ‘Remote Viewing.’ ”

  “You convinced researchers you had the gift?”

  “They told me I had the highest score ever recorded on their test. A lot of what happened, though, is still foggy. Big chunks missing.”

  I said, “The highest score?”

  “Well, they said one of the highest scores. But I knew what they meant.”

  It was the way the agency would have couched it. He was telling the truth.

  Tomlinson, eating a banana, waved at Wilson and Vue, who were close now. “Sam found the classified records. That’s how he knew. He told me what he wanted before you showed up on Cayo Costa—quite a shock to see you, Doc.

  �
�No offense,” he added, “but I told Sam you were very negative about the whole psychic thing. You might get in the way. I love you like a brother, man. But I still can’t figure out why he asked you to come along.”

  THE WRECKAGE OF THE CESSNA HAD NOT BEEN REMOVED, as I expected. In isolated places worldwide, carcasses of planes are routinely abandoned where they fall. Their fragility makes a mockery of wealth and complexity. I’ve seen locals smile a little as they pass by.

  I wasn’t prepared, however, when Tomlinson told us, “They didn’t find all the bodies.”

  I translated for the guide as the president and Vue stared at my friend as if he were making a bad joke.

  “Bodies from the plane, you mean? There were only seven people aboard.” His face pale, Wilson was looking at the stone marker beyond the runway where trees thinned, and the lake, six hundred feet below, was a motionless blue. Next to the stone were five white crosses and two Stars of David.

  The Nicaraguan government’s way of honoring the First Lady and her group.

  Tomlinson, with eyes closed, facing the jungle opposite the marker repeated, “They didn’t find all the bodies.”

  The wreckage was a quarter mile from the huts, all uphill until we got near the top, where there was a natural terrace—ideal for the small runway. After lighting incense and candles, Tomlinson had walked around the perimeter, saying:

  Whatever beings are gathered here . . . of the land below or skies above. Listen respectfully to what is being uttered now . . .

  May all those beings develop loving-kindness toward human progeny. They that brought them offerings by day and by night, let extraterrestrial beings diligently keep watch over them . . .

  They were words from one of his favorite Buddhist sutras. He repeated them over and over, as a chant.

  But after half an hour, uncomfortable with religious ceremony, I slipped off alone. The rain forest on the north side of the volcano was dense. Beneath canopy shadows, the chirring of tree frogs was an oscillating chorus. I found several tiny frogs, three inches long, that were iridescent scarlet with black flecks at the dorsum. They were from the genus Dendrobate, which the indigenous people call “poison dart frogs.” Roasted, their skin secretes alkaloid poison that’s deadly—effective when arrows are dipped in it.

  Flora and fauna I saw were common to the region. It was the end of Central America’s rainy season. In this cloud forest, water had been converted into rivulets of vines, rivers of fern, and pools of green forest canopy, water’s flow slowed by absorption, then delayed by photosynthesis.

  I jotted details in my notebook.

  When I returned, Tomlinson and the president were alone near the stone monument talking. Tomlinson had his hand on the man’s shoulder, comforting him.

  When they rejoined our group, Wilson’s face had paled, but he was stone-jawed, in control. It was then that Tomlinson stopped abruptly, closed his eyes for a moment, and said it: They didn’t find all the bodies.

  When the president snapped, “Damn it, that’s impossible!,” Tomlinson touched a finger to his lips and waved for us to follow.

  He walked like a man using a stick to dowse for water, feeling his way. He led us through jungle, down the volcano, to a wall of vines that, when parted, revealed a stone cistern. It was ancient; the hieroglyphics on the outside were Maya-like.

  Tomlinson leaned over the cistern for a few seconds, then spun away, hands on hips. His chest was heaving as he asked, “You said the plane was supposed to pick up a sick woman and her child?”

  The president was moving toward the cistern. “That’s right. A pregnant woman. But she and her son left earlier in a boat. That’s what locals told our investigators.”

  “They never got to the boat.”

  “Oh no. Don’t tell me—”

  Tomlinson moved to slow Wilson as I stepped to the opening. I looked, turned away, cleaned my glasses, then looked again. There was an adipose stink about the place.

  “You don’t need to see this, sir.”

  The cistern was ten feet deep. At the bottom, among forest detritus, were two bodies, an adult and a child, judging from their sizes. The corpses were contorted by what may have been abrupt muscle contractions prior to death. Animals had been working on them for months. Two charred mummies. Their skulls were discernible, shrink-wrapped in skin.

  Both had been set ablaze, possibly after death, but, more likely, while they were alive.

  Their contracted poses were significant. But it wasn’t only that. The screams of seven people in a burning plane wouldn’t have been enough for Praxcedes Lourdes.

  He liked to watch his victims run.

  18

  Tomlinson and Vue left by boat before noon with some of our gear to lighten the plane. It would give us additional range and speed. But Vue had brought a couple of boxes for us—food, I was told—so the difference would not be striking.

  Once ashore, they would drive a rented Land Rover south to a safe place to overnight.

  As they said good-bye, I heard the president tell Tomlinson, “When you get back to Sanibel, you will receive an envelope containing the information I promised you.”

  I wondered if a similar envelope would be awaiting me.

  An hour later, a single-engine aircraft—another Cessna, Wilson said—circled the island once, showing an interest that made us both uneasy. The Maule was covered with camouflage netting, but that was no guarantee.

  It was rare to see a plane in this part of the world. The airstrip hadn’t been used in months. Locals still traveled by dugout canoe and fished with nets woven by hand.

  The plane banked as if to make another pass but turned south instead. Had the pilot lost interest? Or had thunderheads, stalled to the east, forced him onward?

  I’d been trying to buy time, hoping General Juan Rivera would show, but also thinking I don’t need a weapon. A bullet is not how Praxcedes Lourdes should die.

  No, I didn’t need a weapon. I knew what it was like to have the man by the throat; to feel reflex contractions caused by fear, not flames. Bullies are driven by cowardice. It was the only normal human characteristic I could assign to Lourdes.

  But Kal Wilson was an impatient man. This island was now poison to him.

  “We need to get under way.” Wilson had been worried about the weather, now there was a plane to think about.

  I said, “I really think you should cut me loose. He was here, I can pick up his trail. When the local police arrive, I can talk to them. Maybe they’ll know something.”

  Wilson’s expression said Why are we having this discussion again? “That was six months ago.”

  “But Lourdes grew up here. There’s a settlement of Miskito Indians not far, on the coast. They have a communications network better than any telegraph. They’ll know he’s out. They might know where he is. They’re terrified of him, so they keep track.”

  Wilson wouldn’t budge. “We have to be in Panama by tomorrow. Why are you stalling? You’re expecting someone, aren’t you?”

  I told him yes, that I’d e-mailed a man who might have the equipment I need.

  “Who?”

  Wilson had every reason to despise Juan Rivera, even though both men had been out of the political spotlight for years. But that’s not the reason I replied, “I’d rather not say, sir. He would expect me to keep his name confidential.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. But I would expect the same of him.”

  “Sorry. You said you need at least a day to get set up? This will give you extra time.”

  No, I had said I needed a week but didn’t correct him. The president was still shaken by what we’d found on the rim of the volcano and by what Tomlinson had told him.

  What that was, exactly, I didn’t know. I’d gotten Tomlinson off alone, but he was emotionally drained. I didn’t chide him when he opened the silver cigarette case he carries while traveling and lit another joint.

  “Bad?”

  He inhaled, waited for a
moment, attuned to his internal chemistry, before he exhaled. “Horrible.” Meaning, how Wray Wilson had died. “Praxcedes Lourdes was here. The evil one. He had three or four men with him.”

  Although the case was plea-bargained, Tomlinson had been deposed as a witness against Lourdes because he is friends with my son. Tomlinson had actually faced Lourdes once, in a courthouse hallway.

  Since that day, he has always referred to Lourdes as “The Evil One,” as if the term should be capitalized.

  There are times when I wrestle with the possibility that Tomlinson really does have extrasensory powers. But then I remind myself it is a mistake to confuse empathy with telepathy. For Tomlinson, the pain of others is as palpable as vapor, as contagious as a virus. It seeps into his brain, then his soul. He doesn’t just empathize, he absorbs. Tomlinson says he loves people for their flaws because flaws are the conduits of humanity.

  Like many who spend their lives outdoors, he also has a heightened awareness of sensory anomalies. The stink of charred adipose is uncommon at sea.

  I asked, “What did you tell the president?”

  “The truth. You can’t lie to a man like that. But I softened it as much as I could. There were details . . . details about those poor, poor people . . . what they went through before . . . before . . .”

  Tomlinson stopped as if waiting for pain to fade. He looked at me with his wise, sad Buddha eyes. “For Wray Wilson, the worst part was the silence of the flames. Water, wind, earth, and fire—all elemental. But combustion isn’t a substance, it’s a chain reaction. To a woman unable to hear? Fire is deafening.”

  I packed the camouflage netting as the president went through his preflight. We left the volcanoes of Lake Nicaragua behind, flying south.

  Less than two hours later, we landed at a place I hadn’t seen for many years—the Azuero Peninsula, on the Pacific coast of Panama. Rock, opal sea, jungle. There was a tuna research facility nearby operated by my friend Vern Scholey.