Hunter's Moon (28 page)

“Don't do it!”

He wouldn't stop. As Lucius lifted the gun toward me, I put the pulsing red dot on his boot and fired.

“Mother of God!” The gun spun from his hand as he fell against the chopper's controls clutching his foot. The helicopter rocked, began to climb, and nearly stalled.

The gunshot was so loud that, for a moment, I thought the slug had caromed off the deck and hit me in the temple. My ears were ringing.

As the pilot struggled to regain control, I reached and dragged Lucius into the aisle.

“You're insane, man. You're gonna kill us!”

I stuck the pistol against his neck again. “Insanity's for amateurs. Do exactly what I tell you to do. Understand?”

Lucius was still screaming, trying to get his boot off.

“Okay! But keep that kid away from the controls. Christ, he's getting blood all over everything.”

I told the pilot to do three touch-and-goes—brief landings, each with only a few seconds on the ground.

“Circle the hacienda, but stay a couple hundred meters away.”

There were men with weapons near the burning Land Rover. I hoped to confuse them. At which spot had the helicopter off-loaded attackers?

The third time we touched down, I slipped off the landing skids onto the ground. I kept the pistol pointed at the pilot. He gave me the finger as the helicopter lifted away.

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?”

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?”

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.

Walt Danson, the television star, had not died a Hollywood death.

Nor had his two crewmen.

Praxcedes Lourdes had enjoyed himself here. Shana Waters had watched through the window, she said, until she couldn't stomach it anymore, then run away.

“What could I have done to help? Me against five men? Six, really, because our own fucking pilot set us up—the coward never got out of the helicopter. And my damn cell phone was useless!”

Shock, as it fades, is commonly replaced by guilt.

Waters had caught up with Danson as he was boarding the helicopter in Panama. They had compromised, using the same helicopter and sharing Danson's crew.

They were disappointed not to find the former president at the camp, but they both recognized Vue; Tomlinson, too. Still a damn good story, she said, even though Vue refused to talk.

Danson and his crew were setting up outside the hacienda getting ready to shoot, so Waters decided to take a look around. Maybe Wilson was at the camp but
hiding.

When the five men arrived in a Toyota pickup truck, she was near the baseball diamond on the far edge of the property. Waters heard the first scream as she was returning to the house.

“It's the only thing that saved me. My God, to think how close I came . . .” The woman put a hand to her stomach, eyes dazed, as if she might vomit. “By that time, they'd herded everyone into the house. They knew who Walt was. Those bastards had watched him on satellite. An American
anchorman.
So they went after poor Walt right away.”

At first, she thought the men were robbers. Waters watched through a side window as they collected billfolds and jewelry. Tomlinson got some abuse because he had neither, she said.

“But then
he
came in. A guy the size of a football player, smoking a cigar.”

It was Praxcedes Lourdes, though the woman didn't know his name.

They were all wearing ski masks, she said, or had their faces wrapped—turbans were easily adapted.

“But the big man wore this bizarre silk mask, the kind they use in operas. It was white, with huge Oriental eyebrows and a fucking smile. Like a clown, but with an opening so he could smoke.”

Yes, it was Lourdes.

Lourdes always kept his face covered because of his scars—the failed plastic surgeries, too. He'd been burned to the bone on the cheeks, much of his chin, and the top of his head. His mouth was an exposed wedge of teeth, like a dental schematic—skeletal, like a cadaver used in medical school.

He might seem a sympathetic figure, unless you knew the truth. He'd been scarred by a fire he set himself while murdering his family.

Lourdes sometimes wore surgical gauze, or bandage wrap, plus sunglasses—practical, when traveling by day. Most often, though, he preferred a monk's habit, because of the hood, and he liked masks, which are common in Central America. During the war in Nicaragua, rebel Contras often wore light mesh masks that allowed them to eat and drink without revealing their identities.

It sounded like the mask Waters was describing.

“He had one of those propane torches, the kind with the screw-on cylinder. He used his cigar to light it. I could hear the hissing noise even through the window while he adjusted the flame.”

By that time, she said, the men had taped Danson's hands and tied him to a pole in the center of the main room. The rope allowed the anchorman to walk around it in a tight circle.

I pictured a pony on a leash, although Waters did not describe it that way.

Then, with everyone watching, Lourdes began to goad Danson around the pole. Burning him with quick blasts of flame on the butt and back. Both Vue and Tomlinson attempted to intercede, but were knocked to the floor with rifle butts. Vue, she said, had to be taped like a mummy because he was so strong.

Lourdes continued his torture of the anchorman.

“One thing I found out—Walt was one tough son of a bitch. I always thought it was an act, but it wasn't. He was so damn . . .
brave.
I could have never endured what he did.”

Lourdes was a performer. He often filmed victims, as I knew. He loved an audience. Torturing a TV star with men watching was the sort of thing he would enjoy.

Her breath catching, Waters said, “I thought it would go on forever, the cruelty. But then . . . then . . . then Walt's hair caught on fire. I've never seen anything so hideous in my life. But they were
laughing.
Those men thought it was hilarious—like some sick, slapstick comedy bit. See the anchorman's hair burn!”

That's when she ran away.

 

 

 

SHANA WATERS HID IN THE TREES UNTIL THE HELICOPTER they had chartered flew away, soon followed by the truck. After waiting ten minutes, she went inside the house but got only a quick look before the truck returned and the three men surprised her.