Hunter's moon

21

Fifty yards from the burning Land Rover, I saw why I hadn’t been confronted as I approached the adobe ranch house, with its garden corrals, and horses grazing in the outfield of Rivera’s homemade baseball diamond.

Shana Waters had the full attention of the men sent to assassinate Kal Wilson. Three of the men, anyway.

Maybe there were others out there in the darkness, decoyed to the helicopter’s first or second landing spots. Or inside the house, where another fire was burning, judging from the strobing windows.

But I doubted it.

The men recognized Shana. It was in the familiar, leering way they said her name: Shaaa-nah!

It was not unexpected. People in remote villages worldwide who five years ago didn’t have telephones now watch satellite television by the light of cooking fires, indifferent to the diesel hammering of a generator.

An American TV star alone in the jungle? A fantasy opportunity they were not going to miss.

Or maybe the men had already gotten to her and were back again. The expensive blouse that Rivera had found fascinating was torn at the shoulder and her hair was a mess. She’d been carrying a backpack and its contents were scattered on the ground.

But the woman was not yielding without a fight.

Waters had her back to the burning car, holding a pitchfork. It was three-tonged, the kind used for lobbing hay to cattle. As the men circled, she jabbed the pitchfork at them. Each time she lunged, the men dodged out of danger, laughing and chanting her name. Shaaa-nah!

When they laughed, she swore. The woman had a New Yorker’s command of profanity.

It only made them laugh harder, and they conversed among themselves in languages I’d heard recently-Halloween night; the men who paddled to Ligarto Island to kill Kal Wilson.

Indonesian and Arabic.

These weren’t the same men, but, like the others, all three had automatic rifles slung over they shoulders. They’d come to kill.

Had they?

I’d hoped to hear Tomlinson’s voice call from the house. Or Vue. Instead, there was only the snap of flames as the SUV’s interior and tires burned. And the leering laughter of the men as they taunted the famous broadcaster.

But the woman was tiring. Pack behavior is choreographed to exhaust prey, not overpower it. It is the saddest dance in nature. Shana’s eyes were glassy; her slacks mud-stained… or bloodstained.

She was nearly done. The men knew it. They had not shot her for a reason.

The wind stirred… then shifted.

I was crouched, watching from the shadows, but then stood taller, testing with my nose. The garbage-dump smell of burning rubber was replaced, for a moment, by the scent of burning meat.

The stink of scorched adipose tissue is distinctive. The stink was coming from the open windows of the house.

I looked from the house, to the men.

I, too, was carrying weapons. I holstered my pistol, slipped the rifle off my shoulder, and slammed the bolt back, shucking a round into the chamber.

Certain sounds are also distinctive.

The laughter stopped. The men turned to look. So did Shana Waters.

I drew the pistol and walked toward the fire.

I was holding the rifle at waist level in my left hand, the pistol in my right.

In English, I said, “What happened here?”

The woman’s expression was a mix of shock and rage. “They burned Walt Danson alive! For no reason! They killed everyone!”

“The president’s bodyguard?” I had trouble assembling the next sentence. “And a friend of mine-Tomlinson?”

“Everyone!”

I felt a slow, chemical chill in the back of my head. It radiated through the brain stem, to my chest.

Tomlinson dead, Vue dead, and three more, including Danson. Shana Waters had her story. If she lived to report it.

As I stepped closer, the men began to drift apart, widening the circle-a typical pack response. Their hands also moved to the slings that held their assault rifles.

“Where’re the bodies?”

“In the house. It’s horrible.”

I indicated the three men. “Are there more?”

“There were five, but two must have left with the pilot in the helicopter. I didn’t see. That’s the reason I’m still alive-”

I interrupted. “I’ll get details later.”

My eyes moved from man to man. “Do you speak English?”

They stared at me blankly, one of them shaking his head, as Waters said, “Yes, they speak English. They’re a bunch of fucking liars.” She was pointing the pitchfork at them as she backed free of the circle.

In Spanish, I said to the men, “There was a man here. A yanqui with long hair. His name is Tomlinson. Where is he?”

I could see that they understood. They didn’t answer.

“She says you killed him. Why?”

One of the men spoke. Maybe he interpreted the expression on my face accurately. “The woman lies. We have only just arrived. We have no knowledge of what has happened here.”

“That’s difficult to believe. Why are you carrying weapons?”

“It is a dangerous world.”

I replied, “I’ve heard the rumor. I will give you one more chance. Did you kill him? Or was it Praxcedes Lourdes?”

They knew Lourdes. I could tell by their reaction. The man said, “We know nothing.”

“You know how to lie, that’s clear.”

“Believe what you want. We saw the fire and came to help this silly puta. Call the police, if you like. We will only speak to the police or our attorney. And stop pointing those ridiculous guns at us or we will have you arrested.”

Attack your accuser-an old gambit.

One of the men managed to laugh. The third man appeared terrified. Of the three, he was the only one with good instincts.

I thumbed the pistol’s hammer as I said to Waters, “Do you understand Spanish?”

“A little.”

She hadn’t understood.

“They want us to call the police. They want their attorney.”

“They’re a bunch of murderers, for God’s sake-”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Of course, but there’s no signal. I tried while they were-”

“Walk toward the house. Maybe you’ll get a signal there. These men know their rights.”

“But I tried to call a dozen times!”

“Try again. I’ll stay here.”

“But why?”

“Do it.”

When Waters was a dozen yards away, I shot the first man in the chest, the second man in the side of the head, and the third man in the back. Two shots each. Stop-action. Like film frames of a man attempting to turn and run.

It’s not like in the old westerns. No matter where you shoot a man, he continues to function until the hydraulics or the electrical systems fail.

The man who told me he would only speak to the police or his lawyer was still moving. I stepped close enough so that the pistol was directly over his head. His eyes were open, looking up at me, and he lifted his chin, exposing his neck-a reflexive gesture of submission I have witnessed before in men about to die. It is a primitive request: Be quick, be painless.

Waters, I realized, was watching.

“Keep walking!”

The woman turned. I fired.