Randy White - Hunter's moon

But Wilson had demanded I come by canoe. Less chance of hidden electronics, I realized.

Before Vue left me, he loaded the president’s bags into the canoe, saying, “I am from the snow mountains, Burma, near the Chinese border. There are men in my village who think they know of you. You had many friends, some with green faces. And yet, our men say, you always traveled alone.”

I waited. He was talking about Indochina.

“You not traveling alone now. Understand? You never leave the president alone. Not for a minute, because he die soon, I think. In my village, when a great man dies we place his body on a platform where the wind can take it. President Wilson, he is a great man, and he must not die alone.”

Vue, I was guessing, came from one of the many tribes that inhabit mountainous regions from Afghanistan to Nepal, from Burma into Southeast Asia. Like Great Britain’s infamous mercenaries the Gurkhas, the tribesmen are known for their loyalty and their fearlessness. According to legend, they are the descendants of mountain gods, but the ethnic majorities of Burma, Cambodia, and Vietnam refer to them as “Mois”- a racial slur that means “savages.”

I said, “I’ve been in those border areas. I attended a funeral like you’re describing. It was for the father of a friend, a member of the Hmong tribe. You call it a ‘wind burial’?”

“Yes. Put the body high among the trees, so the spirit flies.”

As he added, “ Mong, that word mean ‘brave,’ ”I was remembering a line of mourners in colorful dress, winding up a hill with a red coffin, and chanting as vultures cauldroned overhead. There was the smell of incense and ox dung.

“The burial ceremony is important. But it more important how a great man dies. Do you understand? There must be wind and light so the sky can take him.”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t understand.”

Vue shrugged his massive shoulders, then turned, done with it. I watched him disappear into the darkness of the shell ridge.

The former president arrived an hour later, carrying a backpack. “Secret Service thinks I’m locked in my cabin,” he whispered. “Let’s get our feet wet.”

At 4 A.M., wind freshened off the Gulf of Mexico; heat radiating from the Everglades was siphoning weather from the open sea. I was in the stern, paddling toward the Gulf, using the October moon as a beacon. It was desert yellow, gaseous. It cast a column of light broad as a highway.

When we’d traded seats, Wilson finally revealed our destination. We were bound for the southern point of Cayo Costa, an isolated barrier island three miles southwest of Ligarto. There was a settlement of shacks and beach houses on the point that were only occasionally inhabited by the eclectic mix of beach bums, hermit entrepreneurs, and hippie dropouts who owned them. There were no roads on the island, no landing strips.

When I asked why he wanted to go to Cayo Costa, the former president told me I’d find out when we got there. It was the answer I expected.

Cayo Costa was now an undulant darkness less than a mile away, ridged like a sea serpent floating on the Gulf’s rim. The moon was over the island, its reflection linked to our canoe like a tractor beam, drawing us away from mainland Florida, leaving sleeping tourist resorts and city lights behind.

Wilson noticed.

“The way the moon hits the water… it’s like a passageway. Almost like the deck of an aircraft carrier opening up.” After a pause, he asked, “Do you believe in omens?”

“Umm… no.”

“Would you admit it if you did?”

I smiled. “Probably not.”

“Me, neither. Which makes us both a couple of superstitious liars. There was a moon like this the first time I landed on the Kennedy. It turned out to be good luck, so I take this as a good omen. Did you ever make a night landing on a carrier, Ford?”

“No. Well… in a helicopter once. But not what you’re talking about.”

I expected him to add something, tell me how terrifying it was. He was a Naval pilot. He’d experienced it. But all he did was nod. It was another of his techniques: Say little, imply much. You had to listen or you might miss something.

I continued paddling as Wilson opened his backpack. His back was to me, a precise silhouette in the liquid light. I watched him roll his sleeve and wipe his shoulder. Disinfectant. The Angel Tracker had been just under the skin, he told me. Easy for Vue to make a tiny incision and remove it.

Wilson patted a fresh bandage in place, buttoned his sleeve, then swallowed a couple of pills. For the first time, I noticed that his profile lacked a familiar contour. His stylish hair had been buzz-cut.

I assumed he’d figured out some kind of disguise. Was that it?

“I’ve got all my medicines, vitamins, and things in here.” He was talking about the backpack. “I can’t lose this. Or get it soaked. I hate taking pills, but they buy me time.”

Lightning flickered on the horizon, revealing distant cumulous towers. I waited through a minute of silence before saying, “That storm’s ten, twenty miles out to sea. You’re okay. But if we travel by canoe tomorrow, you’ll need a waterproof bag, plus flotation.” I paddled a couple of strokes before adding, “ Are we going by canoe?”

He rolled down his sleeve and closed the backpack. “When it’s time for you to know, I’ll tell you.”

As expected.

Useppa Island and Cabbage Key were behind us. Windows of sleeping households twinkled through trees, and Cabbage Key’s water tower was a solitary star above mangroves, bright as a religious icon. To the south, lights of Captiva Island and Sanibel were a melded blue aura; Cape Coral was an asphalt fluorescence to the east.

Separating us from Cayo Costa was the Intracoastal Waterway where navigational markers blinked in four-second bursts: white… red. .. green. The Intracoastal is a federally maintained sea highway that runs from Texas to New Jersey. Big boats depend on it. I avoid it. The water would be rougher there because its deep channel accelerated an outgoing tide like a faucet.

I told Wilson, “You can stop paddling. We’ll let the tide do the work. Get some rest-but secure your life jacket first.” I explained why.

“I wondered why you were bearing north. You being such an expert paddler, there had to be a reason.”

The man didn’t miss anything

I said, “The channel’s going to be running fast, like a river. If we get swept too far south, we’ll have to wait for the tide to change, then work our way back.”

“We can’t wait,” he said. “I don’t have time. So stay as far north as you need to be.”

I nearly responded, “Aye, aye, sir.”

For the last half an hour, I’d been watching a light on Cayo Costa. A yellow light that brightened, then dimmed-a fire, I realized, on the island’s point. There was pink sand there, where the water of Captiva Pass swept past, fast and deep, into open sea.

“Are we meeting someone?”

He realized I was talking about the fire. “Yes. A friend.”

I knew better than to ask who.

“Did you tell him to do that?”

“No. I’ve been wondering about the fire myself. It’s the last thing I’d want.”

“Maybe he has camp pitched and breakfast cooking. That would be okay. We both need sleep and I didn’t pack a tent.”

“Don’t worry about details. But there wasn’t supposed to be a fire.” His puzzled inflection read Why draw attention?

“It’s not a private island. Maybe he has company.”

The former president replied, “That would not be surprising.”

The way he said it, it sounded like his friend might be an interesting character. I wondered if it was Vue. Vue could’ve hopped a boat and beat us to the island by an hour. But why?