Hunter's Moon (20 page)

 

 

 

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.”

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.

“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.