Randy White - Hunter's moon

I was holding the little LED. A fine piece of equipment. Machined aluminum body and a dazzling beam. It wasn’t as nice as the Blackhawk I’d left with Wilson’s would-be assassins, but it was nice.

I said, “How about I take the light apart? You can stow it with your gear. These things are a lot more expensive then you might think-”

The former president was shaking his head even before I finished. “On a trip that’s so personally important, is that our most secure option? I don’t think Tomlinson’s going to be shocked to hear that, in certain circles, you’re considered a security expert of sorts. So I’ll leave the decision up to you, Doc. Your call.”

In only a couple of sentences, the man had voiced his unquestioned respect for my integrity and deferred to my superior knowledge and judgment.

Damn.

“Marion, your behavior is so predictable.” Tomlinson said. “You’re clinging, man. Material objects. Money. The sutras tell us that all suffering is rooted in selfish grasping. To experience reality, we must first divest ourselves of delusion.” He was using his Buddha voice-the gentle, all-knowing tone he uses with his students, and, at times, to intentionally piss me off.

I held up a warning hand. “Okay. Enough. No more of your ping-pong Zen speeches. I’d rather throw the damn thing overboard than have to listen.” And I did-flipped the flashlight over my shoulder. Didn’t even turn to see it hit the water.

Tomlinson had both feet on the wheel, hands folded behind his head. He leaned and gave me a brotherly rap on the arm. “Sam? Doc’s the sort of guy who, if I pointed at a meteorite, he’d study my finger. Seriously. Meditation frees us.”

Wilson said, “Really? You’re free of greed and delusion, huh? We’ll see.” He had returned to the companionway, talking to Tomlinson as he went down the steps.

When the President reappeared, he was carrying Tomlinson’s leather briefcase, timing the sailboat’s movement before he took his seat. The man was careful about getting banged around, I’d noticed.

“You stowed this in the bulkhead locker. The briefcase was open, so you’re obviously not trying to conceal anything.” Wilson removed a laptop computer, then a palm-sized wafer of white plastic-an iPod.

Tomlinson was suddenly sitting up straight, watching. “Careful there, man. If we take some spray, salt water could ruin the circuitry.”

“I’m aware of that. Question is, why are these things aboard?”

“Because this is my home, man. Don’t you have a computer at home? Everybody has a computer at home. Where else would I keep it?”

“I told you several times that I had to personally okay all electronics.”

“Yeah. But you meant navigational gear. Radios, radar, my sonar-that kinda stuff. The bullshit twenty-first-century baggage no real sailor needs. I got rid of that crap. We’re simpatico on the subject-”

Wilson was shaking his head. “Apparently not. I hate to force the issue, but this equipment has to go.”

Tomlinson was twitching, tugging at his hair. “My computer? Sam. .. you can’t be serious.”

“I’ll give you time to back up your files.”

“You mean… throw it overboard?”

Wilson nodded.

“But it’s a MacBook, Sam! It’s not some IBM clone piece of garbage. We’re discussing an engineering work of art.”

Wilson remained stoic.

“ And my iPod?” The president didn’t resist when Tomlinson reached, took the device, and held it lovingly. “This is my personal music system. I’ve got, like, my entire vinyl collection stored here. Jimi Hendrix outtakes from the Berkeley rally. Cream’s last concert. The actual tape from the Rolling Stone interview with Timothy Leary!

“Sam, please”-I’d never heard Tomlinson beg before-“this is history, man. Think of what you’re doing. You… you need to shallow up, Sam.”

The president said, “Sorry,” his voice flat.

Tomlinson leaned forward and touched my sleeve. “Doc-talk to him. Aren’t there some basic safety issues involved here? He’s asking me to sail to Key West without music or smoking a joint? Why, it’s… insane. I’ve never tried anything so crazy. Say something, compadre.”

I was watching Wilson open the laptop-surprise, surprise. Tomlinson’s screen saver was a photo of Marlissa Kay Engle, actress and musician. She was wearing a red bikini bottom, nothing else, smiling at the camera from a familiar setting. The woman I’d been dating was topless on the sun-drenched foredeck of my best friend’s boat.

Wilson said, “I admire your taste, but your judgment is questionable.”

“But it’s only two months old. A MacBook with a SuperDrive, four gigs of memory, and the built-in video eye. You can’t be serious!”

I studied the computer screen long enough to be sure of what I was seeing, then looked at Tomlinson, whose expression had changed. “Doc. I can explain.”

I interrupted. “You’re clinging, man. Don’t grasp-it’s the root of all suffering. You’re hung up on possessions… man.” To Wilson I said, “Give me the goddamn computer. I’ll throw it over.”

Wilson closed the laptop, cutting us both off. “You take the helm, Dr. Ford. Mr. Tomlinson, go below and back up your data. Then deep-six this contraband.”

As the president went down the companionway steps, Tomlinson sounded near tears. “But these are Apple products, Sam.”

I nudged him away from the sailboat’s wheel, saying, “You need to deepen up, pal.”

Two hours before midnight, the president said, “I didn’t anticipate our friend Tomlinson disappearing. So I’ve got to confide in you. We have to be in Central America in three days. By the afternoon of November fifth.”

Tomlinson hadn’t disappeared. As I had explained to Wilson, we were in Key West. The man was out having fun, not hiding.

Even so, we were walking the streets, searching.

I said, “By ‘Central America,’ you mean Panama? Or Nicaragua?” He didn’t reply for several seconds, so I made another guess. “You’re going there to kill the person who murdered your wife.”

He walked half a block before saying, “No. You’re going to kill him.” His voice low. “If you have moral reservations, tell me now.”

I turned my attention to the tangled limbs of a ficus tree, where bats dragged a fluttering light into shadows. “November’s nice in Central America. Rainy season’s ending, but tarpon are still in the rivers.”

“Is that an answer?”

I looked at the man long enough for him to know it was.

“Then we don’t have time to waste. Why the hell would he do something so crazy?”

“There’s nothing crazy about Tomlinson disappearing in Key West,” I said again. “The only reason he doesn’t live here is because he knows it would kill him.”

We’d anchored off Christmas Island, Key West Bight, at 5:30 p.m. An hour later, Tomlinson vanished into the sunset carnival of Mallory Square while I chatted with my friend Ray Jason, who juggles chain saws when he’s not captaining boats.

It was Ray who reminded me that Fantasy Fest had just ended, a weeklong celebration of weirdness. A dangerous time to lose Tomlinson on the island because the party’s wounded and demented were still roaming the streets.

Tomlinson was visible one moment, laughing with a couple of bikers and a woman dressed as a Conehead. Next moment, all four were gone. I didn’t see him all evening, and he wasn’t aboard No Mas when I returned at 8:30 to ferry the president ashore.

Wilson thought it would be safe to spend an hour after dark reacquainting himself with Key West. He was peeved that he had to spend the time searching.

“Is he still mad about dumping his computer?”