The program director exchanged looks with the woman, his expression saying Simpletons. Then his eyes moved from me to Wilson, who'd turned his back to the elevator and was returning to the car. "Excuse me—sir? Don't leave. I'm talking to you. Hey— old man!"
Wilson froze. Thought about it for a moment before turning to face the elevator. He wore the expression of a convict who expected to be identified.
I watched the TV people closely. No flinch of interest or recognition. Just impatience. They'd been drinking, they were tired, and they were now dealing with interchangeable objects—hotel staff. They didn't notice Wilson stiffen when the program director asked, "Are you deaf? Or don't you understand English?"
"I understand English just fine, sir," Wilson answered, sounding passive with his Southern accent, under control.
"Then listen to me. We need all four of you men. We'll pay you—but only if you can keep your mouth shut. Agreed?"
Without waiting for an answer, the man stabbed a finger at me.
"Same goes for you." He paused."You wait tables here?" His tone saying I didn't look like a waiter.
"Mostly maintenance." I had a white jacket over my arm. "I only wear the monkey suit when there's a convention. Either way, we don't need you to lecture us about hotel etiquette."
Piss him off, maybe he'd tell us to go away.
Instead he said, "Smart-ass, huh? Okay. You're in charge. Make sure the two stoners and the old man don't do anything stupid."
Tomlinson and Tim were already on the elevator, bracing Danson so he wouldn't fall over. Wilson came up behind me, touched his hand to my back, and gave me a little push. He wanted to do it. When I didn't move, he pushed again.
I said, "After you . . . Sam," and followed the president to the corner of the elevator, then stood in front of him.
Harry's cell phone began to ring as he said, "Shana, why don't you go back to the bar? I can handle it from here."
The program director was checking caller ID as the woman stepped into the elevator. "Get real, Harry. Leave Walt when he needs me? The man's been like a father."
Danson opened his eyes long enough to roll them. "A father, huh? I'm the only network suit you haven't fucked, so that explains it." Funny. He was still laughing as his head clunked against the wall.
"Dear old Walt Danson," the woman said fondly, touching the back of her fingers to man's head. "Why don't you tell me what you really think," showing she could take it—there was something odd, though, about the way her hand lingered by Danson's face.
She was palming a digital camera, I realized . . . no, a tape recorder.
Danson mumbled, "Women correspondents? Chorus girls, is more like it. Kick your legs high enough and the network hacks think you got something between your ears . . ."
Ugly. Impossible to ignore, but not for Harry, who was on the cell phone as he pushed the button for the top floor, talking loudly.
His words blurred as the old anchorman rambled . . . until I heard Harry say, "Repeat that. Who disappeared? WHO disappeared?" There was a long pause. "You're shitting me!"
I stiffened. Tomlinson started to turn toward the president but caught himself. The doors had closed. It felt as if the oxygen had been sucked from the elevator.
The program director's voice became strident. "Are you sure? Did he disappear or was he kidnapped? Yes . . . I know . . . I know. Jesus Christ, find out!"
A cable clanked. The elevator began its ascent. We listened to Harry say, "Are you still there? Hello . . . Can you hear me?"
Kept repeating it until he gave up. He'd lost reception.
***
The Flagler's penthouse floor was restricted access so there was no one in the hall as Tomlinson, the Gnome, the president, and I guided Danson to his door, then waited while the woman tried to get the plastic key to work.
On the elevator, she'd asked Harry, "Who disappeared?"
Harry tried redialing a couple of times before he answered, saying, "Nothing's confirmed yet," looking from me to Tomlinson, meaning he couldn't talk.
Or maybe he didn't want her to know . . .
The program director was first off the elevator, walking fast toward the stairs, phone to his ear, saying, "Workman? Jesus Christ, I was just talking to Bentley. Go get him!"
The woman called, "Harry! What the hell's going on?"
The program director turned long enough to make a calming motion— No big deal—then pointed down the hall, mouthing the words Be right there.
So far, though, it was just the five us, plus the drunken anchorman. Danson had been babbling most of the way as Shana patted his head, and fed leading questions.
"Who's the stupidest network anchor, Walt? Any of them ever accept sex for favors, Walt?"
Danson was drunk, but he was also cagey. I noticed he began softening his replies, throwing some compliments in—his reporter's bullshit alarm going off, maybe, sobering the receptors. Did he know what she was doing?
"My darling girl, don't you wish you had that beautiful little tape recorder I gave you for Christmas? Why . . . you could try to blackmail me with some of those questions."
Yes, he knew.
Then, as we dumped him on the bed, Danson turned it around on the woman, saying, "Shana, you fool—you really think Harry's coming back? We work for different networks, sweetie.
New York calls a program director this late? There's something big going on. He wants you to play nursemaid. But the son of a bitch doesn't fool me." Suddenly, the old anchorman was sitting, not sounding so drunk now, as he picked up the phone.
I said, "If that's all you need, we'd better get going," nudging Tomlinson, then Wilson, toward the door. But Tim, the Gnome, didn't move.
"Hey," he said, "what about a little something for the cause?"
He put his huge hand out, palm up.
The woman was concentrating on the anchorman, who was saying into the phone, "Yes, the Walt Danson, young lady. And if you care about your career, you'd better get Bentley on the line immediately." Weaving, eyes glassy, he used his TV voice to mitigate the slurring—an old pro used to rallying from a whiskey haze.
The Gnome cleared his throat. "Has the service been satisfactory, ma'am?"
The woman ignored him until he cleared his throat again.
"Stop that disgusting noise! What do you want?"
Gnome said, "The mean guy promised us money," as the anchorman snapped, "Hello . . . Baker? Yes, I know Harry's on the other line. But I'm still managing editor, so he will take my call. Jesus . . . I'll wait . . . but not very goddamn long!"
The woman started to say to the Gnome, "Yeah? Well, I didn't promise to pay you—" but then gave up, whispering 'That jerk' as she pointed at her purse, which was on the bed near Wilson.
"Hand that to me."
Wilson leaned to get the purse but fumbled it and the purse fell. He knelt to retrieve what spilled onto the floor.
The woman was coming around the bed, saying "Clumsy old fool," as I moved between her and the president, telling everyone, "Forget about the tip. We're leaving now."
In the abrupt silence that followed, I realized I'd just said something that no waiter would ever say. The woman was oblivious. But Danson noticed. As he waited for Bentley, he put his hand over the phone and stared at me.
After a moment, he said, "You work hotel maintenance?"
Even drunk, he'd caught that.
Before I could answer, the president replied, "Yes, sir, he does," sounding smooth and Southern. "Personally, I'd be very happy to accept any gratuity you kind people might offer."
Head down, Wilson handed the purse to the woman with a slight bow—the compliant servant. Danson was still staring, thinking about it. Interested but drunk, having trouble focusing as he turned his attention from me to Wilson. "How long have you been in Key West?"
"Longer than I planned to be, sir."
"You're from Georgia. No . . . the Carolinas." The anchorman stumbled over Carolinas, but he got it out.
; "You have an educated ear, sir."
"Your face—is that a birthmark?"
The woman snapped, "Walt! Why the hell do you care?" as Wilson touched his cheek. "No, a fire. Not so long ago."
"You look familiar."
"Maybe so. We often remember people by their scars."
"It's not that. You remind me of someone." Danson turned to the woman who was handing a wad of bills to the Gnome.
"Who's that actor? On the HBO series? He looks a little like him," but then Danson's attention suddenly returned to the phone. New York was on the line.
"It's about time, Bentley! Tell me everything you told that asshole Harry. Who's missing?"
I took the Gnome by the wrist and pulled him along, trailing Wilson and Tomlinson across the room.
The president had his hand on the doorknob as the old anchorman said "My God" in a whisper before gathering himself.
"Yes. I would say it's one hell of a story."
The Gnome said, "Call if we can be of assistance," to the woman who paid no attention because she was sitting on the bed now, eyes eager, listening to Danson say, "Yes, well . . . that's the question. Kidnapped or did he just take off ? Where was he last seen?"
I held the door, waiting to file out, staying calm, hearing Danson say, "Florida? We're in Florida. Check his bio—wasn't he stationed in Key West for a while? Christ, for all we know, he's someplace around here."
I was imagining the anchorman's eyes boring into my back as I stepped into the hall.
As the door swung closed, Danson was saying, "That's what I'm saying. For a wimp like Kal Wilson to do something so crazy? It means he's gone insane."
14
Twenty minutes after midnight, under sail aboard No Más, President Wilson dropped his headphones on the galley table and pushed the telegraph key away. "Damn. He's either not receiving or he's afraid to send."
"Your contact on the mainland?"
"It's Vue. I can tell you that now. He has a similar setup on Ligarto Island." Meaning, the shortwave transmitter.
The reason the president could tell us was that we'd pulled anchor and were under way. Five hours ahead of schedule. Presumably, we'd be together for the next three days, on our way to Mexico. No risk of security breaches.
Tomlinson was at the wheel. As we talked, the sailboat's engine cavitated, the hull shuddered. No Más rolled, cookware rattling, then resumed her beam–sea rhythm. He was steering south toward the sea channel, the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
"I knew the Secret Service would figure out I was gone. But I was hoping to have at least a couple of days head start." Wilson had said variations of the same over the last hour.
I was wondering about the man's timing. Would being discovered endanger whatever it was he had planned? I decided the subject was taboo for now. Instead, I asked, "What will the Secret Service do to Vue?"
"Hopefully, he saw it coming and got off the island. He works for me, not the Secret Service. But he's good at anticipating what the agents are thinking.
"I left a letter in my cabin, handwritten, exonerating him. I said I was leaving because I wanted time alone. That Vue didn't know I'd left until it was too late to stop me."
"If he didn't see it coming?"
"Taken by surprise? They'd put Vue in a room and question him for a long, long time—pointless, because he won't tell them anything."
Even so, Wilson was troubled by the prospect of his friend being detained. His hands disseminated, boxing the transmitter, coiling the antenna. My guess: He had been counting on Vue's help throughout the trip.
Wilson straightened for a moment, alert to a change in the sea.
He'd taken off the goatee but not the synthetic scar. I watched him cross the cabin and press his face to the porthole. "We're passing Fort Taylor, the old Key West sub base. Wray and I spent a few nights at the Truman Summer White House; his personal quarters—another perk of being president. You'd be amazed at how simple the furnishings are. Politicians weren't treated like royalty in those days."
He returned to the table, something on his mind. I waited, not surprised when he said, "I'm more worried about Tomlinson's friend, sitting in a room right now being questioned. Tim. He's a nice man, different . . . but he has no reason to protect me. The FBI's good at asking the right questions."
"Tim has no idea who you are."
"But what if Danson or Shana Waters recognized me?"
"They didn't."
I wasn't as confident as I tried to sound.
Wilson said, "I wish I'd have gotten a better read. Any new impressions come to mind?"
He'd asked variations of that question as well. I said, "Like Tomlinson said, the timing was more like fate. I'm still puzzled by Danson. One minute, he's nearly unconscious; next, he's a functioning drunk. Was it because he figured out the woman was trying to entrap him? Or because his radar sensed a big story?"
Wilson said, "You obviously haven't spent much time with the White House press corps. The answer's both. Wait . . . that's unfair. Not to the press corps but to people like Danson who make it to the top.
"The ones who excel tend to be either decent professionals or they're ruthless thugs. Both types appear nonthreatening; both are shrewd, but they are types. Tonight, you met one of the worst."
"Danson," I said.
"No. The woman, Shana Waters. She was an intern at CBS our last year in office. My wife was at the first press conference Shana attended. The two never exchanged words, but Wray took me aside afterward and told me to never let her get me alone.
"Danson is a borderline thug. He's heavy-handed, biased as hell. But the man can cry on cue, and he looks like everyone's favorite uncle. Shana, though, is a jackal. She's after the anchor job and he knows it. So maybe he was trying to trap her by pretending to be drunker than he really was. The man's not stupid. None of the top dogs are."
"Your wife had good instincts."
"Yes, but she had more than just instincts. She knew things about people. Wray sometimes saw events before they happened. In that way, Tomlinson's like her." Wilson smiled as he removed the telegraph key from the box. "Extrasensory perception. You don't believe in that sort of thing, do you, Dr. Ford?"
"Mystic visions, no."
"You seem uneasy."
"I am. I'm surprised you do believe. It worries me—there's a lot on the line."
"More than you know—as I've said." He was reattaching wires to the telegraph key for some reason. He began to tap the key, not sending, playing. "What if I called it 'telepathy' instead? The physics are similar to the telegraph. Our brains are chemical-electric transmitters. So is this key when it's connected to a battery." He drummed out a series of letters. No . . . it was the same letter over and over, I realized.
Dot-dash-dash. Dot-dash-dash. W . . .W . . .W.
"Wray spent her life in the kind of silence you and I will never know. But she could hear music through the bones of her face.
If she laid her head on a piano or touched her teeth to the wood.
That's how she learned to play. It's also how she learned Morse code.
"When we were in the White House. I'm sure you heard all the cynical jokes. Always holding hands, like we were pretending. We weren't.
"In all the years we were in politics, no one ever figured out the truth. When we held hands, Wray could tap out signals to me with her finger. Morse code. Warning me. Coaching me. Reminding me of a name; sometimes telling me to shut the hell up when I was midway through some idiotic remark."
The president laughed as he continued to send and resend the same letter. Dot-dash-dash. I sat, fascinated, sensing the weight of the sea through the sailboat's skin, and also the weight of Kal Wilson's despair. He had lost his partner.
"You tell me," he said. "How did Tomlinson know the importance of the two songs? 'Moonlight Sonata' and 'Clair de Lune'. "
"Maybe he heard you mention them in an interview."
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."
Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White Page 14
