Randy White - Hunter's moon

I chose a bunk, laid down to read, but also listened to the news on the cabin’s clock radio. No mention of terrorists. No mention of a missing ex-president. But more trouble in Panama.

Outraged by a speech given by the pope, IS amp;P’s CEO said he would “not be surprised” if Jihadists brought Holy War to Central America. “I am not inviting them,” Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish added, “but we will not turn them away, either.”

Farrish was the most dangerous man on earth, Wilson had told me. Right again.

I awoke an hour later with Tomlinson shaking my shoulder.

“We got trouble, Doc. The water cops are out there talking to Kerney.”

I said, “Who?”

“Kerney.”

“Who?”

“You know-Kal Wilson. The president.”

It took me a moment to recall that Kerney Amos Levaugn Wilson was his full name.

I was wearing nothing but running shorts. As I ducked into a shirt, I said, “Were they looking for him?” I hadn’t heard helicopters. If one passes within a mile, I wake up.

“I don’t know. I was asleep myself when one of the tribe got me.”

“Did they recognize him?”

“Man, I didn’t even recognize him for the first couple of minutes. His face-when I saw him, I thought What the hell happened? It’s so damn… real.” I was tying my shoes as he added, “Oh-Ginger Love’s involved, too. The cops are questioning them both.”

“Wilson and Ginger?” Maybe I was dreaming. “How did he hook up with her?”

Tomlinson lifted his eyebrows, a disclaimer.

“What’s that woman doing here? Please tell me you didn’t invite her.”

“Drum circle’s wide-open. I let karma handle all my detail work, man.”

Ginger Love and Kal Wilson? If I was dreaming, it was a nightmare.

Ginger Love is a self-described political activist. The islands attract them. Name an ideology or a cause. Ginger’s less motivated by political ideals, though, than by a lust for attention and her craving for a stage to vent hysterical rants. A few months back, she came to the lab and tried to enlist me in some project. Her perfume and rage filled the room. Ginger Love was a spooky, overmedicated pain in the ass.

Tomlinson followed me out the door, then north along the shore. Where the beach ended and mangroves began, I could see the gray hull of a Florida marine patrol vessel-Florida Fish and Wildlife, officially. Two uniformed officers were talking to the former president while a half dozen of Tomlinson’s group looked on-a couple of them painted but at least clothed. Ginger Love was there, with her Kool-Aid orange hair and signature straw hat.

Wilson was standing next to our plastic canoe. He’d been fishing from it, apparently. When I mentioned it to Tomlinson, he said, “I bet he doesn’t have a fishing license. Maybe that’s what this is about.”

In Florida, a saltwater license is required if you fish from a boat.

“Even if he does, he can’t show it. Or his ID.”

I said, “I hope you’re wrong.” I was imagining the president resisting, then news footage of Wilson and Love handcuffed. Humiliating.

Before we got much closer, though, the officers gave farewell nods, pushed their boat into deeper water, and fired the engine as the little group splintered. Some returned in our direction, a few remained with the former president, Ginger among them.

When Mike Westhoff, one of Tomlinson’s few jock pals, got close enough, I called, “What’s the problem?”

Coach Mike smiled. “That woman’s nuttier than a bucket of loons. If it wasn’t for your uncle, she’d be on her way to jail’bout now.”

Tomlinson and I exchanged looks. “Whose uncle?”

“ Your uncle, Doc. He’s right there.” Mike used his linebacker chin to point. “Your Uncle Sam. He was great, the way he handled the water cops.”

I was thinking Uncle Sam? The former president’s alias had just gotten better.

Ginger, Coach Mike explained, had gotten into an altercation with the Fish and Wildlife officers. “The water cops were on the beach for some reason and she started bitchin’ at them. Who knows why. But it attracted a crowd. Ginger has the rare ability to alienate everyone. But then Sam paddles in. He got everybody calmed down.”

I said, “What did he do?”

Coach Mike thought for a moment. The man’s a football coach, and he also has a Ph. D. in psychology. Even so, he was puzzled. “Damned if I can say. Just started talking. Asking questions, mostly. Very polite, but not faking it. Usually, when someone butts into a fight, they’re the first ones cops put on the ground. But Sam, he’s cool. You know”-Coach Mike was still digesting the scene-“he reminds me of someone. I can’t put my finger on it. He looks a little like that actor, the older guy who plays a pilot, or a senator. Except for the scar, of course-no offense, Doc.”

I said quickly, “None taken.”

“He get a bad burn or something when he was a kid?”

“Burned, yeah. A long time ago.”

“That’ll make a person strong. It shows. Your uncle’s not wimpy, like the actor, and he doesn’t have the TV hair. But in the face, you know what I mean? Around the eyes, and the way he smiles.” Coach Mike was nodding. “Bring him to a Jets game sometime. You always have the most interesting relatives. I’d like to get to know Sam better.”

I replied honestly, “Some people say that my uncle’s unforgettable.”

As we approached, the waitresses from the rum bar, Liz and Milita, were watching as Ginger Love talked, rapid-fire, moving her hands as if conducting a symphony. Wilson faced her, expression patient. When he saw us, though, he held up a palm, telling us to stop where we were. “Sorry I’m late, guys. I’ll be right with you.” Setting up his escape.

Pretending we couldn’t hear, Ginger said, “Sam, it’s such a shame that Doc didn’t inherit your charm. Or your sense of civic responsibility. Some men, though”-her laughter was weighted with forbearance-“never grow up. He and Tomlinson are so alike in that way.”

I noticed that her eyes never lingered on the president’s face. It’s impolite to stare at scars, which is why I’d suggested it.

The Rum Bar waitresses were walking toward us as Wilson replied, “Very insightful to recognize the similarities, Ginger. But I don’t agree with your assessment. You should get to know the guys better.”

What was different about his voice? Had he added a slight Southern accent? I was paying closer attention as Ginger replied, “Oh, I’ve tried and tried with those two, my friend. They’re both terrified of strong women. Poor Doc, he scampers into his little world of fish and chemicals and experiments. Know why I think he’s not politically involved? He’s so naive. If the man was somehow magically transported to a foreign country? A place where life is hard -places we’ve experienced, Sam-I think he’d be as helpless as a child.”

I heard Wilson say, “Well, I hope you’re wrong about that, ” as Milita and Liz stopped with their backs to Ginger Love, close enough for Liz to whisper, “Bitch.”

Both women grinned.

“We tried to rescue the poor man. But Ginger pretended like we were invisible.”

“Typical,” Milita added. She turned to look at Wilson. “We really like your uncle, Doc. I wish he wasn’t wearing that wedding ring-a man like Sam, a woman doesn’t care about age. Why isn’t his wife with him?”

Tomlinson and I exchanged looks. “She transitioned to the next Dharma,” he said. “It was less than a year ago.”

“Dah-harma?”

I translated. “She’s dead.”

“Oh no! That’s so sad! Geez, poor Sam, I bet he was married to a good one. You can just tell, can’t you, Liz? He’s so… solid.”