Randy White - Hunter's moon

FIGMO-an old and profane military acronym: Fuck You I’ve Got My Orders.

Vue turned. “Four men. Three Indonesian passports, one British, all Muslim surnames. But no weapons. They carrying green cards and Florida driver’s licenses…”

I said, “Then they dumped the weapons during the chase,” as Vue continued, “They say they work in the Sarasota area. They here on vacation, staying at place called Palm Island Resort. They claim they on way to party. Party at some local island, but got lost in fog-”

As I said, “What about the tactical gear? The ski masks?,” Vue said, “It is Halloween party. They say they think it funny, dressing up like soldiers, a joke. Coast Guard says they might be drunk.”

I was shaking my head, anticipating what came next as he added, “No weapons, but they found bottle of vodka aboard. Half empty.”

When I said, “Your people aren’t going to fall for a bullshit story like that,” Wilson touched the sleeve of my sodden sports jacket as if admiring the material. “Yes, dressed up for a party. They’d have to be idiots to come up with something so transparent.”

The man could be a ballbuster.

I said, “For a local guy, it’s a reasonable story. But foreigners? That’s why I need to speak to security-”

“You’re not talking to anyone without my authorization. Secret Service will figure it out. But if these four guys aren’t carrying weapons, and they have all their papers”-Wilson was speaking to Vue now-“What’s illegal about dressing up on Halloween? Shooting off a couple of firecrackers? What’d you think, Vue? I think it gives me enough wiggle room to stick with my plan.”

The stocky man was shaking his head. “They’ll want to ship you out. Tonight. If there’s any chance of risk-”

“Well, what Secret Service wants and what I want may be two different things. I can tell you who’s gonna win that debate.”

“Mr. President… Kal, I think it better you wait. We go back cabin, let other agents eyeball. They know you okay, then. Dr. Ford, he wait here three, maybe four hours. Leave oh-dark-thirty. Safer then-”

I was thinking: Sit in a mangrove swamp until 5 a.m., October, no breeze. Mosquitoes would drain me dry.

“Can’t do it. I’ve got this trip scheduled. I can’t spare three hours.” Wilson began walking toward the bay again, taking long strides for a man his height. He had a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Vue was carrying his duffel bag.

The smell of military olive drab is distinctive. It was like the former president was twenty again, field-packed and headed off to war.

When we got to the water, I used my flashlight to indicate where the canoe was hidden, then moved away to give the two men privacy. Over the last few days, I’d read a lot about the former president. I knew that Le Huy Vue had been his personal assistant and bodyguard for more than fifteen years. The media liked the storybook irony: Vue and Wilson had fought in the same war but on opposing sides. After the war, Vue was one of thousands who fled Indochina, seeking refuge in America. “Inseparable” had become the cliche used to describe their relationship.

Even if I was unaware of the history, I would’ve noticed their visual exchanges, the intensity of the silences they shared. Wilson was terminally ill. This might be the last time they saw each other.

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…”