Hunter's Moon (14 page)

I said softly, “Tomlinson?”

“Yes, Marion.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He focused. “Doc? I'm not imagining you, am I, Doc?” Fire crackled, sparks cometed across his eyes, as he sought reassurance by touching my arm.

I gave his hand a friendly whack. “Knock it off. I'm not Dorothy and you're no Wizard. We need to talk.”

I searched his expression to see if he was acting. Tough to read. “Are you as drunk as you look?”

He stared at the palm of his hand. I realized he was using it as a mirror.
“Drunker,”
he said after a moment. “I stopped dancing when I started to slosh. That was about six margaritas ago. But I still look pretty damn good . . . except for those weird stripes above my eyes.”

Joking. But also drunk. Or stoned. Or both.

“When you're done with orchestra practice, can you sober up enough to talk?”

“Not a problem. I always back off the accelerator a notch or two come dawn. Besides”—he looked west, where the moon was dissolving into a blue and animated darkness—“it's time to split. Tradition, man. We gotta dance the moon into the sea.”

He motioned with his head
—Follow me—
as he stood. “Drumming ends at sunrise, man. All Hallows' Eve becomes All Saints' Day. The ceremony dates back to the Druids, so it's gotta be done right.” He held up a bony finger. “Just one more bit of business before I can grab my lunch bucket and punch the clock. Be patient, okay?”

Before I could respond, he turned, calling, “Conga line! Conga time! Listen up, heathens.” Yelled it a few more times, adding, “Keep in mind, kiddies, we didn't come here to have
fun.
”

I have watched Tomlinson rally many conga lines. The jokes don't vary much, but the results often do. I stepped back to watch.

He tucked the drum under his arm and looped the strap over his shoulder, waiting as others stood, dusting sand off their butts. Then he began to drum, as he instructed, “We must play the sacred hymn. Find the beat, comrades.
Be
the drum. The ancient mantra passed down to us from on high . . . from the king's men of king's men. Please join me in this grooviest of liturgies.”

Drummers parroted Tomlinson's tempo:
Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom.

It was distinctive. Simple. Oddly familiar.

“Feel the love, brothers and sisters, as we march to the Holy Church of Waves Without Walls. There we will wash our sins away. Afterward, I suggest we retreat to whatever bedrooms are available . . . in groups of two . . .
or three
. . . where I beseech ye to go—go and sin some more.”

There were bawdy hoots as a loose line formed behind Tomlinson. Hands on hips or drumming, they began a snaking dance toward the Gulf.

Catchy. I was tempted to join when two waitresses from the Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille, Milita and Liz, tried to pull me into the line. Both were dressed as angels, although they'd jettisoned their wings.

Milita pleaded, “Come on, Doc. Relax a little . . . shallow up, man.”

Shallow up.
A new Tomlinson line. It meant stop being serious; leave the burdens of depth behind.

I respect Tomlinson's spirituality, but I don't envy the emotional toll of its uncertainties. There are times, though, when I wish I could just let go, the way Tomlinson does. Like now.

Drums throbbed as dancers created a moving wave, some bowing while others stood.

When they began to sing, I understood why the beat was familiar: “Louie Louie . . . oh no . . . Me gotta go . . .”
Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom.
“Louie Louie . . . oh no. . . .”

Tomlinson had said, “Kingsmen,” not “king's men.”

“Please, Doc?” Liz was pulling at my elbow.

Milita said, “We don't have to be at work until four. And we have that big house rented. There're lots of rooms.”

But I have forever been, and will always be, an observer. And focus requires distance. As with a microscope, the degree of distance varies, but spatial separations, like walls, always stand between.

I gently disentangled myself from the ladies, promising to meet them later. Then I watched them hurry to join the conga line, dancing toward the Gulf of Mexico, where, I assumed, the unpainted members of the circle would strip naked and swim.

I'd just been charged by a half-ton hammerhead. It was unlikely the shark would cruise the beach, seeking human prey, but I had to at least let them know it was in the area. Didn't I?

Yes,
I decided.

I should probably also offer to stand watch. Wait until they were all safely out of the water and even dressed, Milita and Liz included. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn't it?

Yes,
I decided.

Sand, like glass, is siliceous based, and the beach was vibrating like a window with the circle's sacred mantra:

“Louie Louie . . . oh no . . . Me gotta go . . .”
Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom.
“Louie Louie . . . oh no . . .”

Near the drop-off, where I'd hooked the barracuda, the president was landing a small snook. He was also moving in flow with the music, enjoying his first unpresidential morning, doing juke steps that mimicked the conga line's wave, his rhythm perfect but subtle, keeping it to himself.

The man could dance, too?

I tried a few juke steps myself as I followed the drum circle to the Gulf—an effort, at least, to shallow up.

Soon, though, I turned my attention to the sky. If the Secret Service discovered Wilson was missing, helicopter traffic would be the first indicator.

When I left Tomlinson, I slept for two hours, then strapped on shoes and ran the beach, pushing myself, alternating between hard sand at the water's edge and sugar sand on the upper beach. To make it tougher, I varied the pace, sprinting ten seconds out of every minute. Brutal. But I've come to realize that travel is the natural enemy of fitness. You have to improvise on the road or you're condemed to a roller-coaster ride of fitness decline.

I was in good shape. No, I was in
great
shape. For the last six months, I'd been living a Spartan life that, for me, has become a periodic necessity since slipping into my forties. It means swimming at least three times a week. Pull-ups and abs, every morning and evening, on the crossbeam beneath my house. Daily kick-ass runs, lots and lots of water, lean protein, few starches, and absolutely no beer or margaritas.

Tomlinson says I have a monastic side. That's why I do it. He may be right, but it's not the only reason.

For American males, our forties should be advertised as “The Most Dangerous Decade” because so few of us realize it's true. It's during our forties that most men die of heart attacks, smoke themselves across a cancerous border, or drink themselves into unambiguous alcoholism. It's during our forties that most of us experience panic attacks, nervous breakdowns, depression, and a gradual, invidious weight gain that we will take to the grave. Men in their forties are also more likely to have affairs, divorce, and make asses of themselves by dating women twenty years younger, who, twenty years earlier, they wouldn't have given a second look. It is during our forties that we lie awake at night, wrestling with decisions, and our own frail heartbeats, investing much thought and worry before deciding to go ahead and fuck up our lives, anyway.

I punish myself not only because fitness requires it but because I'm in my forties. I deserve it.

When I finished my run, I had a saltwater bath and returned to the cabin to find Wilson browning corned beef hash over a propane stove. He was pacing as he cooked.

“What time does the tide start falling?”

He'd seen the tide chart but often asked questions when he knew the answer. I said, “It's late, around sunset. The wind's out of the southwest so it could be after nine before it gets running.”

“Damn it, we need to get
moving.
Aren't there usually two tides?”

“The Gulf of Mexico's unusual. It happens.”

“I don't understand why we have to wait.”

He was talking about Tomlinson's sailboat, I realized.
No Más
was solid but not nimble.

I said, “Maybe we don't. Depends on where you want to go. And how much time Tomlinson needs to sober up.”

“Does he often drink too much?”

“Tomlinson's drinking habits are like the tides. He misses a day occasionally.”

“Then he's used to functioning with a hangover. I want to get into open water as soon as possible.”

“It's your trip. Where we headed?”

Wilson flipped the hash with a spatula, then stirred in a glop of pepper sauce. “When we're a couple miles out in the Gulf, I'll brief you.”

I said, “I can't offer advice without information,” then explained that incoming current moved through Captiva Pass at six or seven knots.
No Más
had only a small Yanmar engine. We couldn't exit the pass until the tide changed. Under power, though, we could avoid the pass by traveling north or south on the Intracoastal Waterway.

He thought about that, not eager to tip his hand. “I don't want to wait around here until sunset. We both need sleep, but we can do that once we're under way.”

Like me, he'd been watching the sky, anticipating helicopters.

“Then we'll have to use the motor. Head north and use another pass when the tide turns. Or head south to Sanibel and cut to the Gulf at Lighthouse Point.”

“Those are our choices?”

“Unless Tomlinson has another idea.”

“It's settled, then. That's what we'll do.”

I hesitated. “But . . . what about that other matter we discussed? There's equipment at my lab I need.”

“How do you propose to get it? We're leaving in a few hours.”

“If we're going south, Dinkin's Bay Marina is on the way. If we're not, I could hitch a ride in a powerboat, then arrange a rendezvous by radio.”

Wilson shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Mr. President,” I said, seeing his eyes over the lenses of his glasses, “you told me you pick good people and let them do their jobs. If you are serious about . . . about resolving the matter you alluded to, trust my judgment, sir. I know what's needed to . . . to dispose of unresolved issues.”

Wilson had green farmer's eyes, commonplace but for their intensity. “When I say I don't doubt your expertise, Dr. Ford, I'm not confirming your insinuation. But I've made my decision. Have your gear ready by . . . let's say three p.m. That'll give us another few hours to rest”—he moved his shoulders, working out kinks—“and I want to get some more fishing in.”

“Have you spoken to Tomlinson? It's his boat. His decision.”

“No. But it's time I said hello. I've been putting it off. I'm curious about how his friends will react.”

Meaning would he be recognized. He didn't sound as confident now as he did in my lab. He stepped back as if I were a fulllength mirror. “What do you think?”

With the shaved head, the owlish glasses, I wouldn't have recognized the man if I'd seen him on the street. But if someone took a close look?

“Risky,” I said.

“Suggestions?”

On the bookcase, someone had left sunglasses with a white plastic nose shield attached. “Hand me your glasses.” I clipped the shield to the bridge, used a towel to clean the tinted lenses, and handed them back. “Try these.”

He slid them on. “Any better?”

“You look like you should be playing shuffleboard. Waxing the RV for a vacation from the retirement village.”

The president's response was profane but good-natured, then he added, “There's something I haven't shown you.” He put the skillet on the stove, pulled a leather case from his duffel, and opened it. “You ever see one of these before?” He began removing items.

It was a kit assembled by the CIA's Headquarters Disguise Unit.

“No,” I lied. “Never.”

“Then I can't tell you where it came from. But have a look.”

The agency employed Hollywood makeup artist John Chambers, who won an Academy Award for
Planet of the Apes,
as designer and consultant. The containers varied, and some of the contents, but the basics were there: facial hair, dental caps, uncorrected contact lenses, theatrical makeup and glue, synthetic skin, scars, moles, birthmarks. It wasn't the crap sold in novelty shops. The kit was designed for operatives who had to escape from countries in which they were well known. Up close, the effects were more convincing than anything used on Broadway because they
had
to be.

“Have you tried any of this stuff?”

Wilson said, “A couple of things.” He pointed. “That . . . that . . . that. But I felt ridiculous. Like a kid playing dress-up.”

I pointed. “What about this?”

He shook his head.

“It could work. And it's simple.”

“Do you know something about disguise?”

I lied again, “No. Just a feeling. Give it a try.”

The president took the item, held it up for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”

 

 

 

IN THE INTELLIGENCE BUSINESS, AGENTS WHO RELY ON disguises are called “ragpickers”—a term that dates back to the days when spies dressed like bums so they could stand innocuously on busy streets. I'd been through an agency's two-day disguise evolution because it was part of the required tradecraft. I'd felt ridiculous, just as the president described it. But the course probably saved my life a couple of years ago when, for the first and only time, I had to improvise a disguise to get across the border from Venezuela into Colombia. It was only a day after Rodrigo Granda, a FARC “revolutionary,” was kidnapped by “an unknown group” and spirited back to Bogotá to stand trial.