Hunter's Moon (9 page)

As I waited, Vue did a lot of throat clearing. The former president made soothing sounds, laughed, maybe cracking jokes. I couldn't make out what they said. I didn't try.

It was 12:50. Tide would be high around one, the moon would set at sunrise. We had good water and plenty of light. I felt wakeful, energized, confidence growing. I didn't know where Wilson wanted to go but that was okay. Some of my best trips have had destinations so vague that the trip itself became the destination.

My blue Chevy pickup was loaded and ready. Wilson had told me to park someplace private, so I'd left it at a friend's house on Pine Island, just a couple of miles away. The gas tank was full, oil changed, tires good, and there was a cooler in back filled with ice, beer, and food. The truck is more than twenty years old, but any vehicle packed for a road trip handles like it's new.

The only other instruction Wilson gave me was to clear my calendar for two weeks. That wasn't easy. I had research projects under way and orders to fill. The University of Iowa's medical school needed three liters of shark's blood. Colorado College wanted several dozen ivory barnacles and assorted sea tunicates, all shipped live. Duke needed horseshoe crabs—their blood is sensitive to endotoxins and valuable as a diagnostic tool in cancer research.

My personal life was just as demanding, and even more complicated than usual. I like independent, strong-willed women, but those very qualities can also be a monumental pain in the ass when friendship crosses the dangerous line into romance. Marlissa Kay Engle was an example. Dewey Nye, my former girlfriend, was another. In the last couple of weeks, I'd come to the conclusion that actresses and female tennis pros should have warning tags wired to their bra snaps.

A more pressing concern was my teenage son, Laken. More than a year ago, he'd been abducted and held captive by a sociopath and professional killer. Because Laken's a tough kid, and because I'd had some very good luck, the man went to prison, and Laken had returned home to Central America, where he lives with his mother, Pilar. Laken was untouched, not a scratch.

He is a bright and rational young man in every way except one—he's taken what he considers to be an academic interest in his abductor's “mental illness.” He refuses to terminate contact. The killer writes rambling letters describing his “symptoms” and detailing his unhappy childhood. My son frequents medical libraries and is now well-versed in brain chemistry and behavioral anomalies caused by injury and birth defects.

The killer also has a savant's gift for computers and electronic gizmos. He has used that gift to trick victims more than once.

The man's name is Lourdes. Praxcedes Lourdes. Lourdes is a convincing liar because, like most psychopaths, he has no conscience. He's had a lifetime to perfect the social camouflage necessary to hide the truth—he is a monster.

I can't stop the correspondence between my son and his abductor because, several months ago, the man was extradited to Nicaragua to stand trial for murder. Seventeen counts. Lourdes is a serial killer. His fetish is setting people on fire—ultimate control. The peasants speak of him in whispers. “Man Burner,” they call him.
Incendiario.

But the Nicaraguan judicial system doesn't care about the fatherly concerns of a U.S. citizen, so I've spent a lot of time on the phone talking to attorneys in Managua. It's the main reason I accepted the consulting job in nearby Panama. It's also the reason why, after months of my badgering, Pilar took Laken to live in San Diego until I convinced the courts to act. I had friends on Coronado who would keep watch.

I was much too busy to disappear for two weeks. But I cleared my calendar, anyway—and I was secretly relieved.

So I was ready. And cautiously optimistic. As Vue had said, the cavalry was here, Coast Guard and military, but they were busy dealing with the four assassins. Secret Service radar hadn't picked up my plastic canoe as I approached. Presumably, it wouldn't track me as we returned to my truck. And if agents did swoop down, guns drawn? Kal Wilson was my willing passenger. He could do the explaining—which might be interesting. See how the great man handled it.

So I stood facing the water, waiting while the two men loaded gear and said their good-byes. Luckily, I turned to look when Vue said something loud enough for me to understand: “If this hurts, Kal, tell me and I'll . . .”

I was surprised to see that the president had his sleeve rolled up. Vue was using a penlight, concentrating on the man's shoulder as if inspecting a wound. Why?

I was considering explanations when I noticed a third person approaching. A man. The moon was so bright his shadow glided with him along the white shell ridge. Vue and the president were oblivious.

I whispered the only warning I could—
“Pssst! On your six!”—
and ducked into the mangroves. A fighter pilot would understand.

Wilson did.

CALMLY, THE FORMER PRESIDENT TURNED. AT THE SAME time, he hurried to get his sleeve down. Vue took a couple steps forward, placing himself between the approaching figure and Wilson. I hid in the bushes, listening.

“Identify yourself.”

A flashlight went on. A man in slacks and sports jacket used the light to show himself. “It's me, Mr. President. Agent Wren.” Short man, styled hair, eye sockets in shadow because the light angled from below his chin. He switched off the flashlight and continued walking.

“You're looking for me?”

“Yes, Mr. President. I was worried, sir. Am I intruding?”

“Yep, Adrian. You're intruding. I didn't make myself clear at the briefing? As of an hour ago—midnight—I began my retreat. My wedding anniversary is today. First day of November—it would've been our fortieth. Or maybe you forgot.”

“Of course I didn't forget. You and the late Mrs. Wilson, a very special day. But what you don't understand is, the security situation has become serious. Coast Guard has detained four men, foreign nationals, all Muslims—”

“Islamicists or Muslims?”

“I don't understand the distinction—”

“Then you need to do some reading.”

I knew the distinction, but only because of recent research I'd done. I listened to the president say, “What you should understand is that no one, and I mean
no one,
is supposed to bother me for the next fourteen days. It's a spiritual matter, Adrian, which means it's private. In an emergency, you contact Mr. Vue. He brings my meals and delivers messages too important to wait.”

The agent had stopped a few yards away. Vue moved to Wilson's left—a mobile wall. I got the impression Vue didn't like Agent Wren. Same with the president.

“I'm very sorry, sir. Our understanding was that sequestering yourself meant you weren't going to leave your cabin. Two weeks of solitary meditation. Very healing, I'm sure. But here you are
outside
your cabin.” The man had the infuriating ability to sound compliant but with a subtle, superior edge.

“
Our
understanding, Adrian? I missed the evening news. Were you named director, Secret Service?”

“Of course not, sir—”

“Then maybe you have something in your pocket. A special little friend? My guess is, it's the GPS tracker.”

Wren reached into his jacket and produced something the size of a TV remote. When I saw green lights blinking, I knew what it was.

“Sorry, Mr. President, but I took extra precautions tonight for obvious reasons. The tracker indicated you'd left your cabin. I thought it was a false reading, so I tried to find Vue. When Vue didn't respond, I knocked on your cabin door—”

“You
what
?”

Vue took it as a cue. “He did right thing, Mr. President. That's procedure.”

“Bullshit. I gave orders not to be disturbed. Period.”

“He was just doing his job, sir.”

“His job, my ass. Agent Wren's job is to follow orders. Don't take his side in this, Vue—”

Good cop, bad cop, Wilson and his bodyguard knew their roles.

“Vue's right, Mr. President. I wouldn't risk disturbing you unless agency protocol required—”

Like heat, Wilson's voice began to rise. “Agent Wren, for the next two weeks I want you to
pretend
like agency protocol requires you to follow my orders.
Pretend
as if I'm the man in charge, not you. Do you read me,
mister
?”

“I understand, sir, but—”

“. . . Because, Agent Wren, if I'd known a GPS chip in my shoulder gave you permission to stick your nose into my personal business I'd've had the doctors stick it up my ass instead of sewing it into my arm!”

“If you got the impression I'm snooping, sir, I want to reassure you—”

“I don't want to be reassured. I want to be obeyed. For your information, Agent Wren, we are on
an island.
Do you know the sailor's definition of an island? An island is a navigational hazard inhabited by drunks, whores, farmers, thieves, and other sons of bitches who were dumb enough to get off the fucking boat . . .”

“Really. That's quite amusing, sir—”

“. . . which is why I
strongly
suggest that unless that electronic gizmo your holding, the whatchamacallit, ‘Angel Tracker,' indicates I'm swimming out to sea, or drifting toward Mars, you'd better mind your own goddamn business. Or you will find yourself on a boat headed for an assignment that includes icebergs and sex-starved polar bears. Not palm trees and moonlit beaches. Am I getting through to you,
mister
?”

“Well . . . of course, sir. When you put it that way. And it really is such a beautiful tropical night . . .”

I continued listening, impressed by Wilson's gift for seagoing profanity. But I was also picturing the president with his sleeve rolled up, Vue concentrating.

Suddenly, I understood.

I've done a lot of fish-tagging projects. Worldwide, the electronic fish tag of choice is made by Applied Digital Solutions, a Florida-based company. Because I'm on their mailing list, I knew that the company had patented an implantable microchip for humans. The chip is the size of a rice grain and transmits its location, along with a unique verification number, via satellite. The system is called “Digital Angel.”

Kal Wilson had a locator microchip in his shoulder. Vue had been in the process of removing the Digital Angel when Agent Wren interrupted them. Smart.

The president was leaving with me. The microchip was staying in his cabin.

Something else smart: Wilson had established the precedent of spending long periods of time alone—Tomlinson had mentioned his month at a Franciscan monastery. Maybe it
was
possible that the former president could sneak out for a week or two without Secret Service missing him.

But I didn't believe it. I doubted if Kal Wilson believed it.

The former president told me, “Stop calling me ‘Mr. President.' Same with ‘sir.' Even when we're alone. Break the habit before we go public.” Ligarto Island was two miles behind us but he kept his voice low. Something about being in a canoe in darkness causes people to whisper.

I said, “I'll try. But it'll seem strange.”

“Not as strange as it'll seem to me. Vue's one of the few who calls me by name. And my wife, of course. It's not because I'm a prick—though I
can be.
It's because the office demands that degree of respect.”

“Then I should call you by your real first name?” I knew that Kal, although his legal first name, was an acronym made up of his given name and two middle names.

Because I wasn't sure of the pronunciation, I was relieved when he said, “No. For now, use something impersonal. Military. Nautical, maybe.”

I said, “What about your Secret Service code name?” Vue had used it a couple of times on the radio.

Wilson shook his head.

I tried again. “Captain?” I waited through his silence, then said, “Skipper?”

“ ‘Skipper' . . . yes, that works. Use it. Drop all the other formal baloney. No, wait . . .” He thought about it for a moment. “I spent June on Long Island. Seaside mansions, and about half the people there were named Skipper. Skipper's too old money. I grew up on a farm.”

“Well, how about—”

“How about ‘Chief.' I left the Navy as a lieutenant commander so it's a bump in rank. But it's better than Skipper.” There was a smile in his voice. The man had known some chief petty officers.

I said, “It fits.” I was thinking
chief executive, commander in chief.