Randy White - Hunter's moon

I let him move ahead. He was about to tell me that something important had occurred on this island between him and his late wife. They’d made a sunrise visit, probably shelling or picnicking. Today, November 1st, was their fortieth wedding anniversary, he’d told Agent Wren. Perhaps Wilson had chosen the same date, a year earlier, to propose. Here. On this island.

While he waited on the porch, I pushed the door open, then used my flashlight to hunt for lanterns and matches. “Did you tell Tomlinson you’d be arriving this morning?” I was as uncomfortable discussing personal matters as the former president. I was also anticipating being pissed off at Tomlinson for not having the cabin ready. I saw no food, no ice, and the generator wasn’t running. Typical.

But I was premature.

Wilson said, “No, he’ll be surprised. When he told me he knew of a secluded place, that it was available, I told him if I did show up it would be around the first of the month. He said his sailboat’s anchored somewhere nearby. We’d been discussing Zen meditation. I suggested that if things worked out, maybe we could go for a cruise.”

I’d seen Tomlinson’s old Morgan, No Mas, anchored off the beach, its hull pale as a mushroom in the moonlight, bow pointing water light into the tide.

“A cruise,” I said. “Meaning his boat’s ready, provisioned with food and supplies.”

“I assume so.”

“You told me to do the same thing. Have my truck ready.”

Wilson placed his duffel bag on a table as I filled a Coleman lantern with fuel. “It’s good to have options. We may need your truck before we’re done.”

“Did you tell him to bring a passport and block out a week or two, just in case?”

The president said, “Tomlinson doesn’t strike me as the type who keeps a calendar.”

“I think you know what I’m getting at, sir. You said you knew things about Tomlinson that would surprise me. Did you offer him the same deal you offered me?”

Wilson was unpacking a shaving kit, a towel, a photograph in a brass frame, positioning them neatly. He didn’t reply.

I struck a match. The lantern hissed, filling the room with stark light. “Am I allowed to read between the lines, Mr. President? Or maybe it would be easier if you just came out and told me what’s going on.”

“You’re supposed to call me ‘Sam.’ A slip like that with people around could cause problems.”

“Sorry, Sam. We’re taking Tomlinson’s boat, aren’t we? That’s not hard to figure out. But where? Tampa? Key West? You mentioned both. Is this some kind of farewell, sentimental journey? If it is, I understand. I’ll stick with you. But why involve Tomlinson?”

“You’re a perceptive man, Ford. I would like to revisit some places important to my wife and me. But I don’t have time. In fact, if we could press on right now”-he looked at the exposed beach, the falling water, his expression impatient-“I’d say let’s get going. Wray and I loved this part of Florida. It’s true. We had a lot of fun here. But you say the word ‘sentimental’ like it’s sweet. There is nothing sweet about what I intend to do”-he looked at me sharply-“or what I intend to ask you to do.”

“Then this is about your wife’s death. You believe she was murdered.”

“I believe it’s probable. Wray and six other good and decent people. One of her best friends was aboard that plane. A fellow we’d known since grade school who became a very fine plastic surgeon.”

“Do you have evidence?”

“It’s my opinion. My wife’s death wasn’t an accident.”

There was an intensity to his silence and something suggestive about the way he busied himself neatening his gear. Customs agents and cops learn to watch the hands. People who feel guilty use busywork to dissemble.

“You were supposed to be on that plane, weren’t you, sir?”

His hand came to rest on the photograph. It was facedown on the table. “That’s right.”

“It wasn’t mentioned in the news accounts.”

“No one knew. No one was supposed to know, anyway, and the media still hasn’t found out. I told the FBI, of course. They’re working on the investigation with an international team. It’s important for them to understand there was a motive.”

“Why would someone in your position risk traveling to Central America in a small plane?”

“It was a private plane, but it wasn’t a small plane. It was a Cessna Conquest. A dream to fly; we used it several times. It was part of what we did -help people. Anonymously. There’d been an earthquake that wiped out a village in western Nicaragua. They are common in that part of the world. We were taking supplies and a medical team. Our friend was a gifted surgeon.”

I had personal experience with the earthquakes and volcanoes of the region but said nothing.

Flying supplies to people in trouble, the president explained, wasn’t an unusual thing for him and his wife to do.

“When we began work on the Wilson Library, we also created the Wilson Center to stay involved with issues important to Wray and me. It was her idea to establish a response team that could get help to disaster victims fast. We are small, we’re privately funded, so we’re already on scene while the big bureaucracies are still dealing with red tape. It’s a hands-on project. We work hard, and always anonymously.”

Because of his schedule, the president said, he could only occasionally join the Wilson Center’s volunteers. He’d cleared the decks, though, for Nicaragua.

“But Secret Service talked me into canceling because of that damn death threat. The day after my wife was killed, I told my security people, and the director, that I would never again allow them to overrule me.”

“Someone targeted the plane because they thought you were aboard.”

His finger tapped at the back of the photo. “I’m convinced that’s true.”

“An incendiary rocket?”

He shrugged. His finger, I noticed, was tapping in synch with the distant drums.

“How many people knew you planned to make the trip?”

“Dozens. The Wilson Center has a full-time staff, plus many volunteers who have administrative responsibilities.”

“How many knew you canceled?”

“Fewer, but still a sizeable number.”

“You told me the plane made a scheduled landing. But newspaper accounts said the plane crashed while making an emergency landing. Are you sure you’re right?”

He nodded. “Wray and her group got a message that a pregnant woman was in desperate need of medical attention. The woman and her son were to meet the plane at the airstrip.”

“You must have someone feeding you solid information.”

“Smart executives put together first-rate intelligence networks or they’re not smart executives. Even nine years after leaving office, it’s not an exaggeration to say that my sources are beyond the comprehension of most. Many of the world leaders I dealt with have also retired, but we stay in contact, advise each other, and share information-even some of my old adversaries. No one in power wants our input anymore. In a strange way, we’re like a secret and exclusive little club.”

“Are you telling me you know who did it.” I waited through a long silence. “I would assume it was the same group that came after you tonight. Muslim fanatics.”

The former president’s hand stilled. “ Islamicists, you mean? It’s true they’d love to have my head on a platter. Literally.” Abruptly, he resumed neatening his gear. I had the feeling I’d missed something.

“Maybe Hal Harrington can provide more information,” he said. Wilson was good at that-dodging questions by putting you on the defensive. “Or are you still pretending you don’t know the man?”