Hunter's moon

24

Sergeant Curtis Tyner told Shana Waters, “You should live with me in the jungle for a few months. Get to know the oil prospectors and headhunters-birds of a feather, really. Then you’d realize I’m considered a damn fine-looking man in this part of the world.”

Tyner had landed in his futuristic-looking, five-passenger Bell helicopter and immediately offended the woman by telling her that if she was as smart as she was good-looking she would have had an anchor job before she turned forty-a suave endearment, in Tyner’s strange mind.

“You have to live outside America to be an expert on the American media, and I am an expert,” he explained, attempting damage control. “I have seven satellite dishes in my compound and more TVs than a sports bar. What else am I going to do in my spare time, socialize with monkeys? New York should hire me as a consultant.”

Now, as we flew toward the Pacific coast of Panama at a hundred forty knots, Tyner had offended her once again by suggesting she return with him to the Amazon Valley of Colombia.

“You’re not for real,” Waters said, dismissing him.

Tyner turned and looked at her bosom. “Neither are those. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun getting to know you better.”

Curtis Tyner was unreal; among the most bizarre characters I’ve encountered. He’s about five feet tall, with amber-red hair and bristling orange muttonchops of a type that I associate with Scottish bagpipers from a previous century. Tyner would resemble an orangutan if it wasn’t for his handlebar mustache.

He had stepped out of the helicopter, extending his hand, saying “Damn glad to see you again, Commander Ford! Game’s afoot, huh?,” then ordered us aboard. His tiger-striped pants were bloused into jungle boots, a black beret angled low over his right eye, and he slapped a leather swagger stick into the palm of his left hand as he approached.

Pinned onto Tyner’s beret was a golden death’s-head and also the winged intelligence owl of the IDF. Most impressive was a green pyramid pierced by a stiletto-Delta Force. SEAL teams, Green Berets, and Rangers are in awe of Delta Force. For good reason. They are operators, the selected amalgam of the country’s special forces.

Delta personnel are the secret soldiers that Hollywood, and the American public, does not know about.

As a bounty hunter and special warfare consultant, Tyner had seen places and done things that even an experienced journalist like Waters could hardly guess at.

I found him interesting as a character, but also scary and offensive in a way that tickled the gag reflex. The man did collect shrunken heads for a hobby. Becoming expert in military tactics and killing had made him rich-a big man-and he had an unsettling mannerism that psychologists would find interesting: unconsciously rubbed his hands together as he talked, as if washing them.

I did not doubt Tyner’s expertise, nor his connections. Chiseled in stone over the entrance to his mansion was the watch phrase

BY WAY OF DECEPTION THOU SHALT DO WAR.

When it came to hunting down Praxcedes Lourdes, Tyner was my first choice. He would not have paused to consider beehives if he had a gun.

Tyner was not a purist. the helicopter’s control panel was aglow with GPS, radar, infrared imaging screens. Ten miles out from the cattle ranch, he asked, “Should we go in soft or go in hard, Commander?”

Meaning, should he make a combat ascent onto the property or should he do a few touch-and-goes a mile out to insert me and Vue? We could then approach the ranch in stealth.

It was 12:30 a.m. We had made up time in the fast Bell aircraft, but Lourdes had probably already been on the ground for twenty minutes or more. The image of Kal Wilson and Juan Rivera walking out to meet that helicopter only to be surprised by Lourdes and his men was sickening.

I said, “We don’t have time for soft.”

Tyner hummed his approval. “Lock and load, gentlemen. Safeties on until I give the word.”

In my headphones, I heard Shana demand, “Why the hell don’t you just radio the police?!”

Tyner said, “Because it kills the profit margin,” as he tilted us downward, a dive that left my stomach behind and the woman silent.

The Pacific Ocean was ahead, the waning moon a smear of orange behind rain clouds. I could see the lights of the cattle ranch.

Was that a fire burning?

Yes. But small, like a campfire.

“I don’t see a helicopter. Do you?” We’d leveled off, and shot past the ranch house and corrals at a hundred knots. Tyner banked around for another look.

No… no helicopter. Something else: Wilson’s plane was no longer moored in the lagoon.

“Are you sure we have the right spot?”

I was sure. I recognized the bay and the layout of the ranch. Even so, I checked the telemetry receiver. The flashing dot was steady: Danson’s wallet was somewhere on the ground below.

“Then there’s something wrong. I don’t like it.”

Nor did I.

Near the campfire, a couple of men were staring up at us. The men I’d seen cutting wood, possibly.

“Put me on the beach. I’ll check it out.”

Tyner said, “Okay, but I’m going airborne the moment your feet touch sand,” meaning he suspected a trap.

THE MEN WERE VAQUEROS. THEY WORKED ON THE RANCH with cattle and horses. But they were nervous as I approached. Shifting their weight from foot to foot, machetes within easy reach.

They were relieved when I told them I was a friend of Juan Rivera.

“You are the yanqui named Ford?” one asked.

“That’s right.”

“He told us you might return. The general was once a great caballero.” The vaquero smiled. “It is a shame we no longer have men like him.”

Men who work with horses and cattle are also sometimes called caballeros, the Spanish word for “knight.” The man was talking as if Rivera was dead.

“No,” the man explained, “the general is not dead. It is a way of speaking of people who lose their heart at a certain age.”

This was not a trap. These men knew Rivera.

The plane that floated on water, the vaquero said, had flown away more than an hour ago with Rivera and his yanqui friend aboard. Afterward, a helicopter landed. Men searched the house, and one of them tried to set the barn on fire. The man was very angry, the vaquero said, screaming profane words in a strange accent.

Lourdes.

“But we extinguished the fire. That is all we know.” Once again, the vaquero was shifting from foot to foot.

“Did the angry man ask you questions?”

“No. He did not see us. We… know who this man is. The stupid peasants in the mountains call him ‘Incendiario.’ A monster. We do not believe in monsters, but neither are we stupid.”

The two vaqueros, I realized, had watched from hiding until Lourdes was gone.

“How did you know it was Incendiario?”

“Because of the helicopter he uses. A yellow helicopter. The Indios speak of it. And also because”-the two men exchanged looks-“because one of his men fled and we could hear Incendiario ’s voice as he searched. He swore to burn the man alive if he found him. Even as his yellow helicopter left the ground, Incendiario was screaming.”

I said, “A man escaped? Where is he?”

The vaqueros exchanged looks once again. The man who had not spoken said, “Do you have a paper that proves you are this man Ford?”

I showed them my passport.

The men studied it so intently that I realized they could not read.

“The man who escaped rolled from the helicopter while the others were searching the house. His hands were tied behind his back, and we are the only ones who saw him. He ran along the beach to the corrals, then past the barn. But he stumbled as he climbed a fence. He fell into the pen where we keep the puercos.

“Those animals are wild. We trap them in the forest, and they sometimes kill our dogs.”

It was a place, the vaquero said, where even Incendiario would not search.

Puercos.

Pigs.

It was Tomlinson.

Tomlinson called to me, “If pigs could fly, man,I’d be pasted on some statue right about now!” Trying to be funny, but, instead, he sounded robotic, possibly in shock.

I was searching the pen with my flashlight, seeing black-haired hogs with tusks, belly-deep in slop after the rains, a Stygian nightscape too dark for the light I was using to probe.

But when I called Tomlinson’s name, he answered, “Over here!,” then moaned something indecipherable before attempting a brave front. If pigs could fly…

I used the flashlight to signal the helicopter- Land immediately -then ran around the outside of the pen, sweeping the beam back and forth until I saw a section of Tomlinson’s arm and hand, skin white as rice paper, protruding above the pack. He was waving to be seen, either sitting in mud or on his back-I couldn’t tell-surrounded, or pinned, by the hogs.

I vaulted the fence and landed in muck up to my calves. I was trying to get one of my boots free when Tomlinson yelled, “Don’t show fear! They won’t hurt you!”

I got the flashlight up in time to see two pony-sized boars charging me. The clicking of their tusks was the sound of bone on bone.

I wasn’t going to risk it. I slogged back to the fence, got a leg over the top rail as one of the hogs grabbed me from below, locking onto a length of shoestring like an attack dog. The shoestring gave way and I fell backward off the fence, landing so hard it knocked the breath out of me. I came up fast, drawing my pistol, holding the flashlight along its barrel in a two-handed grip.

“Don’t shoot them. They’re my friends!”

Friends?

I wanted to shoot. It was one of the scariest things I’d ever experienced. But I touched the hammer release and used the flashlight instead.

The hogs scattered when they charged me and I could see Tomlinson plainly for the first time. He was sitting in mud, back erect, legs folded into full lotus position, arms thrust outward, fingers and thumbs making circles. Around each wrist were cuffs of frayed rope, his hands no longer tied. He squinted with the pain of the light in his eyes.

“I was afraid you were Praxcedes and came back for me. He was going to burn me tonight.” Tomlinson’s voice was still monotone. Absurdly, he continued to meditate. Yes, in shock.

I was moving to the other side of the pen, hoping the pigs would follow. I said, “Tomlinson, get out of there. Lourdes is gone. You’re safe now.”

A lie because he wasn’t safe. The pigs were losing interest in me, snorting and gnashing their tusks as they refocused on Tomlinson. I had the gun out again, flashlight laid along the barrel. I touched a red laser dot to the head of the boar that was now chewing my shoestring.

“Praxcedes wanted my face for a surgical transplant. But he found out I’m the wrong blood type. He needs O-positive. Vue’s O-negative, but the surgeon told him that could work. Praxcedes wanted you and the president to watch me burn.”

“Tell me later. Get out of that pen.”

“But there’s no danger. You shouldn’t have run.”

The boar would have been eating my leg right instead of my shoestring if I hadn’t run.

I listened to Tomlinson tell me, “When I first fell in, I thought I was a goner, man. Pigs all over me. Know what they went for first? My hams. Funny or what? Instead of eating my butt off, though, they chewed my ropes. I communicated with them, man. They freed me. ”

I said, “Uh-huh. Regular heroes.” I was moving the laser dot between the two boars. “I’m asking you as a favor, climb out of there.”

“Okay. But they’re gonna miss their new buddy.”

I pulled the hammer back as Tomlinson got to his feet, slinging mud from his fingers. His pants had been ripped to tatters. I couldn’t tell if he was injured. The pigs, I noticed, continued to root where he’d been sitting, playing tug-of-war with bits of plastic bag.

When he got to the fence, I hurried and helped him onto the ground. Fear is exhausting; shock is debilitating. Tomlinson was so weak, his legs were straw until he got an arm over my shoulder.

The stink was incredible.

“Sam and Rivera knew Lourdes was coming. How, I don’t know, unless Sam locked onto my telepathic warning. Which is possible. It made Praxcedes crazy. Crazier. I had time to get my legs free. Man, I bounced out of that helicopter like a bunny.”

I said, “You need a bath in disinfectant. Pigs may like you, but bacteria don’t play favorites.”

“Nope, salt water is best. Salt water cures anything. Whoops!” I was helping him toward the beach, but he stopped to pat the back of his pants. “I’m missing something, man. Hey!” He searched his front pockets, then tried his back pockets again-they had been ripped away.

“Damn. The pigs got Danson’s wallet.” He was looking back at the sty. “I was going to return it to his family. It was inhuman what Lourdes did to that man. They tied him to a pole and used a blowtorch-”

I gave him a shake. “I know, I know. Don’t talk about it.”

Tomlinson took a deep breath, shuddering as he inhaled, then let the breath go slowly. He was teetering near the abyss but fighting it.

“Okay… but I have to go back for his wallet-”

“ No. I’ll get it.”

He was still feeling for his pockets. “You’re patronizing me, man. I can tell.”

“Exactly.”

I was watching the helicopter descend toward an open area between the ranch house and the beach. It looked like a spacecraft, with its blinking lights and powerful landing beam. I told Tomlinson that Vue was aboard and in good shape. The news buoyed him. Tomlinson is a resilient man. A lightning rod for positive energy, he describes himself, and maybe that’s true. He seemed to rally.

“Doc, if you do go back”-it took me a moment to realize he was talking about Danson’s wallet again-“it would be nice to find it for his family. But while you’re there? I had some Ziploc baggies rolled up in my back pockets. About two ounces of prime weed.”

I shined the light toward the pen where the animals were still rooting among the remains of plastic bags.

“I thought pigs are evil but they’re not. They’re actually very mellow once you get to know them.”

I said, “It’s probably because you’re a vegetarian.”

Shana Waters told me, “I called New York and told them about Walt. Until it’s confirmed, though, and his relatives are notified, they’ll hold the story. Try, anyway. A lot of TV people aren’t going to get any sleep tonight.”

Tyner had given her a satellite phone, saying, “Keep it. Bring it along when you visit me in the jungle.”

Waters had replied, “Sure-when the Amazon freezes. I can tour your art collection.” Sarcastic but taking the phone, anyway.

She thought Tyner was kidding when he replied, “I’d like that. Most people don’t consider shrunken heads art.”

Waters had spent the next hour on the phone, pacing between the porch and kitchen, where I had sliced a haunch of smoked beef, provided by the vaqueros, and opened canned beans and canned spaghetti I’d found in the cupboards.

Shana had also told New York that she knew where to find Kal Wilson-Panama City.

The amphib needed a lighted municipal airport to land at night. Panama City was the closest, but it wasn’t a guess. We found a note inside the ranch house that was crumpled and partially burned. Presumably, it had been tacked to the door when Lourdes arrived. If you came for my head, you will find it at the Panama Canal Administration Building, noon, tomorrow. Kal Wilson

Wilson knew a killer was coming. How?

Vue had the best explanation. The president wasn’t forewarned telepathically, he was tipped-off tele graphically. Telegraph operators develop a unique style on the key. “Fist” is the term, Vue said. He and the president had been practicing Morse code together for months.

Wilson may not have known Lourdes was coming, but he knew it wasn’t Vue who sent the message.

What Waters didn’t share with New York were the specifics. Tomorrow’s Independence Week celebration was a huge story and she wanted to be the only network reporter broadcasting live.

“It’s what Walt would have done,” she told me. We were walking toward the Pacific, where rollers conveyed starlight before collapsing onto sand. “The network’s going to send a crew from Miami first thing. Just in case, we’re also arranging for a local crew to be standing by.”

It was 2:30 a.m., and I’d left the hammock I had commandeered as a bed, too restless to sleep. What I really wanted to do was go for a swim. But I had surprised Waters, who was standing on the porch smoking a joint. She wanted to walk with me.

When she offered the joint, I shook my head and asked, “Did Tomlinson give you that?” I’d thrown his clothes away while he was swimming and couldn’t imagine where he’d hidden it.

“No. I gave him one. Two joints, actually. His day was even worse than mine, and I figured he could use it. I’ll buy more when we get to the city.”

I was tempted to tell her to keep away from the pigs but said, “Very kind of you.”

“I like him. And he was such a mess.”

True, but cleaner now. I had searched the barn until I found veterinary-grade disinfectant soap and a bottle of Betadine. I poured half of each into a bath and told him to go soak. He walked into the bathroom carrying a bucket of ice, a bottle of tequila, and three limes.

“I’m going to attack the bastards from the inside, too,” he said. Meaning bacteria. He was weak but getting better.

As we walked, Waters talked about Key West and Danson. Neither of them recognized the president, she told me.

“I’ve been in so many hotels, staff people become shapes without faces,” she said. “Have you ever run into a friend at some place totally unexpected? They look so different until we make the association. He reminded Walt of an actor-see what I mean?”

It wasn’t until an hour later when she discovered her recorder missing and confronted Danson that they made the connection. After that, they had stood toe-to-toe, arguing, blaming each other for blowing the biggest story of the year.

“It was so damn funny the way we battled back and forth,” Waters said, “trying to beat each other. It’s true that I’ve wanted his job for years. But I’m still going to miss him.”

I wondered.

Waters spoke with warmth and regret. But I couldn’t be sure if she was sincere or trying to manipulate my opinion of her. She wanted to interview me about Wilson-she’d mentioned it in an offhand way, as if I’d already agreed.

Maybe I had, in her mind. This was a woman expert at leverage and she’d been within viewing distance when I shot three men.

But the closest she came to hinting at it-if she was hinting- was when she stopped, looked at me, and said, “In Key West, I knew you were no maintenance man. Even drunk as he was, Walt knew it, too. Who’re you with, the CIA? I’d say the Secret Service, but they’re not allowed to… do the sorts of things you seem good at.”

I said, “I’m a biologist. I was hired as a consultant on the new canal. I was with the president because I’m familiar with the area.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s insulting. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

I said, “It happens to be true, but you’re right-it’s not the whole truth.” She was not expecting me to add, “I should know better. Some of the things I heard on your recorder are memorable. I apologize for underestimating you. It won’t happen again.”

The woman cleared her throat. “You listened?”

“Only portions. It was a long flight.”

“Where is my recorder?”

“I have it. I’ll return it-tomorrow. When President Wilson says it’s okay.”

Waters nodded, letting it sink in. “Did Tomlinson steal it? Or did you?”

I nearly smiled. Wilson had said that no one expects a former U.S. president to break the law. “What does it matter?”

“I thought you might admit it. Tomlinson’s too religious and Kal Wilson wouldn’t have the nerve. You’re different, Ford. Nerdy and industrious-like setting out food for everyone. But underneath, you are one very damn cold customer.”

The woman stopped, relit the joint. Inhaled a couple of times, holding it like a cigarette, then offered it to me once again. When I refused, she said, “Boy Scout, huh? I don’t think so. You and I have a hell of a lot more in common than either one of us is likely to admit. Scary, huh?”

She turned her back to me and began doing something-unbuttoning her blouse, I realized. I replied, “When you put it that way, yes.”

“I can’t imagine what you think of me after hearing what’s on that recorder.”

“Don’t worry. I averted my ears when it got personal.”

She laughed. “Like a boy who covers his eyes when a western gets too romantic.”

“I didn’t hear any romantic parts.”

“That’s because I’m a realist, not a romantic.” Waters slid her blouse off, unsnapped her bra. With the practiced immodesty of an actress, she tossed them above the tide line. Then, using fingers to brush her hair back, she turned to face me. Curtis Tyner and Juan Rivera shared the same fixation, and their interest was not unwarranted.

“Ford? You should let your hair down. Because I’m getting my hair wet. After the day we’ve had, we both deserve it.”

The woman shimmied out of her slacks and panties and I watched her walk into the sea.