Hunter's Moon
Randy Wayne White
This book is for my mother,
Georgia Wilson White, of Richmond County, North Carolina
and for my aunts
Jewel, Johnsie, JoAnne, Della Sue. Vera, Lucille, Authorine, and Judy
and for my uncles
Levaugn, Thomas, Mitchell, Paul, Eugene, and Carl
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This book required extensive research, and the author is grate-ful to experts in many fields, while taking full blame, in advance, for any misunderstandings that have led to factual errors. Thanks to my dear friends, Dr. Brian Hummel, Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, Capt. Jimmy Johnson, David Thompson, Jerry Franks, Capt. Russ Mattson, Robert Macomber, Judge Tony Johnson, and all the folks at Cabbage Key, Useppa Island, and Doc Ford's Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille for their input, kindness, and forbearance.
Capt. Mark Futch, one of the world's finest amphib pilots, invested much time in helping me make the flight scene herein accurate, and not just by taking me on low-level flights. As I was finishing the book, Capt. Futch, with writer/filmmaker Krov Menuhin aboard, landed his Maule off the dock at Useppa Island, where I was holed up working. Even though they were returning from a two-week trip to Central America, these men sat patiently going over charts and answering questions.
The scenes in the Panama Canal Zone were carefully choreographed, and especially helpful was my friend Tom Pattison, although all of my Zonian friends contributed, because we have had so much fun in Panama over the years, so thanks to Capt. Bob Dollar and Mindy, Priscilla Hernandez, Legendary Vernon Scholey, Mimi and Lucho Azcarraga, Teresa Martinez, Priscilla and Jay Sieleman, now director of the Memphis-based Blues Foundation.
Thanks to my pal George Riggs, I had a solid table on which to write this book, and, thanks to my teammate Gary Terwilliger, my writing shed had electricity—useful for working after sunset.
Finally, I would like to thank my sons, Lee and Rogan White, for, once again, helping me finish a book.
Sanibel and Captiva are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals.
In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party web-sites or their content.
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke
It's easier to be a genuinely humane person if you can afford
to hire your own personal son of a bitch.
S. M. Tomlinson
1
On a misty, tropic Halloween Eve, an hour before midnight, I stopped paddling when coconut palms poked through the fog ceiling, blue fronds crystalline in the moonlight. An island lay ahead. Maybe the right island. Hard to be certain, because the fog had thickened as it stratified, and my sense of direction has never been great. If it was the wrong island, I was lost. If it was the right island, there was a chance I'd soon be detained, arrested, or shot, maybe killed.
I'm human. I was hoping it was the wrong island.
I checked the time as I reached into the pack at my feet and opened a pocket GPS. The navigational display was phosphorous green, like numerals on my watch. It was 11:17 p.m., I discovered, and I wasn't lost. I'd arrived at my destination, Ligarto Island.
As I drifted, the tree canopy floated closer. Slow-motion fog cordoned off water and palms became brontosaurus silhouettes grazing in moonlight.
Fitting. Ligarto is Spanish for "lizard."
I've spent years on Florida's Gulf coast, exploring above and below the water. It's what self-employed marine biologists do and I am a marine biologist. Usually. In all those years, I'd never had reason to set foot on Ligarto. Until tonight. I was here because a powerful man had demanded a favor. Doctors had told him he was in the final weeks of remission, with a month at most before leukemia immobilized him. Would I help him escape?
"Escape to where?" I'd asked. We were in my lab, standing amid the aerator hum of saltwater tanks, the smell of formalin and chemicals. He'd surprised me, tapping on my screen door after midnight.
The man had nodded his approval. "Perceptive. Most would've asked, 'Escape from what?' Which is romantic nonsense."
His confidence was misplaced because I didn't understand the reference. Death? Afterlife? Nonexistence?
"No sentimental baloney, Dr. Ford. You nailed it. The question is, where? I have about four weeks to live, really live, before they hook me up to the tubes and monitors. I want to spend part of that time traveling—but freely. Incognito."
"Travel anonymously in this country? You? "
"Yes, this country . . . and others."
His wording seemed intentionally vague.
"No specific destination?"
"When I left the Navy, I traveled everywhere. Followed my instincts. What was I, twenty-five? Hitchhiked, worked on a freighter, even hopped a train. That's the way I want it to be."
An evasion. He didn't bother to conceal it so I didn't pretend to be convinced.
"Relive your youth. Put on jeans, a T-shirt, and blend in. Is that the idea?"
"You're saying I'll be recognized. I don't think so. People expect to see me on television, not the street."
"Take it from a guy who's never owned a TV. People know who you are . . . especially after"—I caught myself—"after the recent controversy."
Annoyed, he said, "I don't have time for diplomacy. Are you talking about my wife's death? Or the million-dollar bounty on my head?"
I knew that his wife had been killed in a plane mishap. I'd also read that he'd infuriated religious fundamentalists, Muslim and Christian, but I was unaware that a reward had been offered. I remained diplomatic.
"Both."
"That was five months ago—eternity, to the American public. Please stop second-guessing. You're like the so-called media experts who gave me a ration of crap for being a concept guy, called me a dope when it came to details. Believe me, I'm no dope, and this has nothing to do with revisiting my youth. I'd love to stick it up their butts one last time."
The media, or the fundamentalists? Either way, his bitterness was unexpected.
I'd been hunched over a microscope studying a sea urchin embryo—it was liquid green, round, and clouded like a miniature planet.
I stood. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Sharing personal information? Because you've proven you can be trusted. You know the incident I'm talking about. You refused to discuss it."
He was referring to something that happened eleven years earlier, in Cartagena, Colombia.
I replied, "You're giving me credit for something I didn't do."
"Wrong. I'm giving you credit for keeping your mouth shut. Remember who you're talking to, Dr. Ford. I trust you with my secret because I know your secrets. Or should I say, I know enough. Surprised?"
&
nbsp; No, I wasn't surprised.
"Do the feds still call that 'coercion'?"
"Not in the executive branch. It's called 'doing business.' Something else that may interest you is information I have about a friend of yours. Mr. Tomlinson. Things I doubt even you are aware of."
Tomlinson is my neighbor at Dinkin's Bay Marina, Sanibel Island, Florida. He's part sailor, part saint, part goat. Picture a satyr, with salty dreadlocks, bony legs, wearing a sarong.Tomlinson and I are friends despite a convoluted history, and despite the fact that, as polar opposites, we sometimes clash. We'd clashed recently. I hadn't seen the man in two weeks.
I returned to the microscope and toyed with the focus.
"Tomlinson has secrets worth knowing? I'm shocked."
He wasn't misled by my careful indifference. "You may be. When you learn the truth."
I looked up involuntarily. The man's smile broadened.
"Yes. I can see you're interested."
***
Fog isn't mentioned in guidebooks about sunny Florida because tourists are seldom on the water at midnight, when a Caribbean low mingles with cool Gulf air.
The cloud now settling was as dense as any I'd seen. Gray whirlpools of vapor descended, condensed, then re-formed as moonlit veils. Water droplets created curtains of pearls, so visibility fluctuated. Each drifting cloud added to the illusion that the island was moving, not me, not the fog. Ligarto appeared to be a galleon adrift, floating on a random course and gaining speed. I had to start paddling soon if I hoped to keep up.
I did.
Took long, cautious strokes. Paddled so quietly I could hear water dripping from foliage, drops heavy as Gulf Stream rain. The reason I didn't want to make noise was because I knew a security team was guarding the island. Pros, the best in the world. They would be carrying rocket launchers, exotic weapons systems, electronic gizmos designed to debilitate or kill, no telling what else. Probably five or six men and women, all bored—a little pissed-off, too—forced to work on a favorite adult party night: Halloween. A dangerous combination for any misguided dimwit foolish enough to attempt to breach island security.
Dangerous for me, the occasional misguided dimwit.
Every few strokes, I paused. In fog, there's the illusion that sound is muffled. In fact, fog conducts sound more efficiently than air. If there was a boat patrolling the area, I would've heard it. Instead, I heard only an outboard motor far away—someone run aground, judging from the seesaw whine. I could also hear the turbo whistle of a jetliner settling into its landing approach, as invisible from sea level as I was invisible to passengers above.
Maybe the patrol boat was at anchor . . . or maybe a few yards away, hidden by mist.
If so, there was nothing I could do. I was alone, in a canoe, miles from my Sanibel home, in a chain of bays that links cities along the Gulf Coast. Tampa was somewhere out there in the gloom, a hundred miles north. Naples, Marco, and Key West were south. Maps in airline magazines show bays but not the smaller islands between beaches and mainland, islands the size of Ligarto.
There are hundreds. Most are deserted mangrove swamp, bird rookeries of guano and muck. A few are privately owned, havens for wealthy recluses. From a jetliner, on a clear day, passengers may spot cottages among groves of citrus and bananas. They may covet the isolation, the quiet swimming pools, the docks—compound-sized islands rimmed by water.
They won't find them mentioned in tourist brochures. Admission is by invitation. Wealth is requisite, power implicit.
Ligarto Island is private. An industrialist tycoon bought the place during Prohibition and built an elegant fishing retreat. The industrialist's heirs still own the compound.
That was the rumor, anyway, and rumor is all locals ever heard about Ligarto.
Visitors came and went without interacting with neighboring islands—Gasparilla, Siesta Key, Useppa, Palm Island, Captiva. Silence is not always passive. The silence associated with Ligarto Island was hostile. It discouraged contact.
Ligarto was a place where the powerful enjoyed anonymity. Software moguls, international entrepreneurs, American political icons used it as a retreat—another popular local rumor.
Tonight it wasn't rumor.
When the celebrated man surprised me in the lab, tapping on the screen door, I'd said to him, "When you say 'escape,' you mean from your security team. You're serious when you say you want to travel alone."
"Yes . . . at times, on my own."
Another evasion.
"A security detail is with me around the clock, three shifts a day, seven days a week. It's been that way for more than thirteen years, and it got tighter when the bounty was offered."
I'd glanced beyond an aquarium alive with sea urchins toward the dark porch where ninety feet of boardwalk connects my stilt house with shore. A question.
"Relax, Dr. Ford, no one can hear. You met my bodyguard. He's watching from a safe distance."
It was difficult to be alone with this man and relax. He was referring to the United States Secret Service.
"Why don't you tell your agents the truth: You want time to yourself. You're . . . ill. They should understand."
"The issue isn't illness," he snapped. "I have a measured amount of time to live. Surely you understand the difference."
I appreciated his insistence on precise language and nodded.
"Besides, they don't know the latest prognosis. Even if they did, it's not that simple. They're federal employees, with standing orders. I won't compromise them as professionals by asking their permission."
"The same agents have been with you a long time?"
"Several. I also have my staff to think about—secretaries, schedulers, travel assistants. More than a dozen. When my wife was killed, some of them wept like children. Wray had that effect on people. Her decency, her humor, her . . . her"—the man's voice caught, he swallowed—"Wray's intellect, and sense of grace. Which means they can never know. They're like family. When I say escape, I mean disappear."
I don't follow politics, but even I was aware that he and his wife had been childhood friends, partners for life. Wray Wilson had been an inspiration to many. Born deaf, she'd earned a master's degree before most kids her age—her future husband included—had graduated from high school. She'd been on a chartered flight, a humanitarian mission carrying medical supplies to Nicaragua. The plane had caught fire during an emergency landing near a volcano. Wray Wilson and six other people were killed.
Distraught, the great man had demanded an international investigation. Later, he made headlines by hinting that his wife's death wasn't accidental.
Grief is part of a complicated survival process, but it can also debilitate. I wondered if grief had unhinged the man. He was too young and vigorous to be senile. But mental illness might explain his behavior. What he was proposing was impractical, maybe irrational.
I became agreeable in the way people do when they are dealing with the impaired. "I can empathize, sir. If a doctor told me I had a month to live, I'd want to . . . well, escape. So I understand, and I'm honored, but—"
He interrupted. "Why makes you so damn certain you don't have a month to live? Or two weeks?"
"Well . . . I don't know. You're right, of course, but we all assume—"
"No, Dr. Ford, we don't all assume. Your time may be more limited than you realize—that's not necessarily a threat. It's true of everyone, everywhere. And please don't use that patronizing tone with me again. Do you read me, mister?"
Only Academy graduates and ex–fighter jocks can make the word "mister" ring like a slap in the face. He was both. The man might be nuts but he wasn't feeble.
I started over. "Look, I do empathize, but"—I gestured, indicating the room: wood ceiling, towels for curtains, rows of chemicals and specimen jars, books stacked on tables, fish magnified through aquarium glass—"but I'm a biologist. I don't see how I can help."
"I've done the research and I can't think of anyone more qualified."
"It's possi
ble, sir, that you have the wrong man—"
"No. Don't waste my time pretending . . . or maybe denial is a conditioned response in people like you. I know Hal Harrington. He's your handler, isn't he?"
Harrington was a high-level U.S. State Department official and covert intelligence guru. I'd known him for many years.
I replied, "Harrington? With an H ?" I pretended to think about it. "I'm not familiar with the name."
"Maybe if I remind you of a few details. Would that convince you?"
"I really don't know what you're—"
He held up a hand. "When I was in office, they said I had access to every classified document in the system. Baloney. After what happened in Cartagena, I asked for a dossier on you. Know what I got? Nothing. Or next to nothing. Later, I ran across other globe-trotting Ph.D.s with backgrounds just as murky as yours. Scientists, journalists, a couple of attorneys, even one or two politicians. That's when I began to suspect.
"I started digging. Insomniacs crave hobbies. I won't tell you how but I discovered documents that hinted at the existence of a secret organization. An illegal organization, funded by a previous administration. Something called the 'Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group.' Only thirteen plank members; very select. 'The Negotiators.' Sound familiar?"
I'd replaced the slide containing the sea urchin embryo with another—a blank slide, I realized, but I pretended to concentrate.
"It was deep-cover intelligence. Members were deployed worldwide as something called 'zero signature specialists.' An unusual phrase, don't you agree? Zero signature. It suggests they were more than a special operations team. Just the opposite. It suggests that each man worked alone."
They weren't killers in the military sense, he said. They had a specialty.
"Their targets disappeared."
The celebrated man studied me as if to confirm I wouldn't react.
I didn't.
***
To paddle a straight course, I focused on the canopy of palms that punctured the mist. Their trunks were curved. Fronds drooped like sodden parrot feathers.
The breeze was southwesterly, warm on my face and left arm—another directional indicator—but the mist was autumnal.
Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White Page 1
