Randy White - Hunter's moon

Liz was nodding but also listening. She timed it so she interrupted Ginger in midsentence when she called, “Sam? Sam! We need your advice about something. Personal, if you don’t mind us borrowing him, ma’am. ”

Ginger didn’t like being called “ma’am.” It’s something I’ve noticed in women of a certain age. She stood glaring as Wilson joined us. She was still glaring as we turned down the beach toward our cabin, Milita saying, “If you’re going to be in the area for a while, Sam, why don’t you stop by the Rum Bar for a drink?”

When Wilson, Tomlinson, and I were alone, the former president said, “Nobody recognized me.” He was delighted. “Know what I worried about most? Someone recognizing my voice.”

I was right about the Southern accent.

“It comes natural,” he explained. “I spent the first part of my life in a little piney-woods village. I worked hard at getting rid of the drawl. But it’s always right there if I want. Just a hint-actors always overdo it.”

Tomlinson leaned to get a close look at Wilson’s face. “Did you have a professional makeup artist create that?”

“In a way. But not for me.”

“It’s artistry, man. Even from here, it looks real. Such a small thing-but what a difference.”

“So far, so good, but the fewer people I meet, the better. I was nervous, at first, the way the woman with the hat was looking at me.”

The president had given us a condensed version of what had happened between Ginger Love and the water cops. Something to do with her being questioned about a loggerhead turtle shell she’d found. He was more interested in how strangers had reacted to him.

“Most people averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. One of the deputies said I looked familiar, but even he wouldn’t look at my face. The woman asked if I’d ever thought about going into politics.”

I said, “What did you tell her?”

“Told her I was flattered. But I came too damn close to using a Richard Nixon line-I have to stop quoting presidents. It’s become automatic. But I was right. They didn’t make the connection.”

There was a boyish quality in his tone.

“What’s the Nixon line?”

I’d omitted the prefix, which irritated Wilson. “ President Nixon said that politics would be a helluva good business if it wasn’t for the goddamn press.” He looked at his watch, then at Tomlinson. “Can we leave in an hour?”

Tomlinson said, “Sam, we can leave now if you want,” celebrating, his inflection saying You did it, man. You’re free.

Three miles off Redfish Pass, wind out of the southwest, No Mas on a starboard tack: Tomlinson said softly, “He used the same leverage on me.”

“How?” I kept my voice low. Kal Wilson was belowdecks, reading.

“He said I don’t really know who you are. That there are things about myself I don’t know. And that he could get me pardoned. Because the president owes him.”

Meaning the current president. During Wilson’s last days in office, Tomlinson explained, he signed nine executive pardons as a personal favor for the man who would succeed him two terms later.

I said, “I know. He showed me the list. It checks out-if you believe he’ll do it.”

Tomlinson said, “Yeah. If.” He thought about it a moment as I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before 6 p.m. The Gulf of Mexico was gradually encircling us as we moved off shore. Waves slid past, gray buoyant ridges that lifted No Mas, zeppelinlike, inflating then deflating the fiberglass hull.

“Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“The man didn’t have to threaten me. Hell, I still don’t know exactly where we’re going. But I wouldn’t’ve missed taking a trip like this, unless… unless he’s on some kind of destructive mission-”

I held up a warning finger as Wilson’s head appeared in the companionway. He came up the steps carrying a nautical chart.

“I feel like I’m interrupting, gentlemen. Comparing notes?”

I said, “Tomlinson’s worried you’re planning something destructive. He was telling me he would’ve come along even without the coercion. I probably would’ve, too.”

Wilson appeared pleased by my honesty. “The definition of coercion varies. Didn’t we talk about that? I’m offering you both something of value in return.”

Tomlinson said, “If I committed a crime, man, I have a moral obligation to pay. Reciprocity, man. That’s what karma’s all about.”

Wilson looked at him sharply. He said, “ If you committed a crime. You really don’t remember-?”

“I do remember. That’s what I’m saying. I helped build a bomb. A man died and I’m guilty. For me, there’s no such thing as a pardon. It doesn’t matter that it happened twenty years ago.”

The former president was paying attention, no longer impatient. “Then why did you say if?”

Tomlinson was lounging shirtless, using his toes to steady the wheel. He straightened, thinking about it. He’d been institutionalized after the bombing. Weeks of electroshock therapy had scrambled his memory synapses. “I… don’t know. You’re right. I’ve admitted that I’m guilty. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t expect the cops to come banging on my door”-he glanced at me-“or worse. A bullet through the old coconut, maybe.” He reflected for a few seconds more. “I don’t know why I said ‘if.’ It just came out.”

Wilson was studying him, nodding, as he took a seat beside me on the starboard side and unrolled the chart. “Think about it. If you don’t care about a pardon, maybe you care about the truth.”

Tomlinson sat back and his toes found the ship’s wheel. “The truth, man, absolutely.”

I was tempted to say the definition of “truth” is even trickier than the definition of “coercion,” but the former president had taken charge. I listened to him say, “The truth is part of our bargain, too. I’ll give you the information I have. You two have a lot in common. I think you’ll find it… interesting.”

“When?”

“When it’s time, Doc. That’ll have to do.” He had the chart on his lap, holding it with both hands so the breeze didn’t take it. “There’s a more pressing matter. Our destination.”

“I’ve been wondering, man. For the last half hour, I’ve been taking it slow, just like you told me. Letting No Mas have her head.”

Wilson touched an index finger to the bridge of his glasses. “Then let’s make a decision.”

It was one of the big noaa charts that showed the Gulf of Mexico and bordering land regions. The former president unfolded it, then folded it to narrow the aspect. He placed it on his lap so we both could see, before asking, “How long would it take us to sail to Tampa Bay?”

Tomlinson answered, “Depends on where in Tampa Bay you want to go. It’s ten or twelve hours to the sea channel-that’s the easy part. After that, it’s twenty-five miles or so to the port. But lots of narrow channels.”

Wilson nodded. “The Bahamas?”

“Two full days at least, no matter which way we go.”

“What about Key West?”

“Twenty-four hours, plus an hour or two-if this breeze holds.”

“You’ve made the trip?”

Tomlinson removed his toe from the wheel and knocked a knuckle on the oiled teak. “If this lady leaked asphalt, there’d be a highway between Dinkin’s Bay and the patio bar at Louie’s Backyard.”

“What about Big Torch Key?”

Big Torch Key was only a few miles from Key West, but Tomlinson said, “Add a couple more hours, because we draw too much water to go in through Florida Bay. There’s a good anchorage at Key West, then we’d sail out and around. Come in from the Atlantic side.”

“I see.” The president moved his hand west, across the chart. “What about Mexico? How long to sail to the Yucatan?”