Randy White - Hunter's moon

For a moment, I thought Wilson had gotten choked up. But then I realized he was concentrating on the instruments. We’d have to switch fuel tanks soon.

“What does the crew say about you, sir?”

“Well… I hope they say they enjoyed working for me. Leadership is the art of getting someone to do something you want done because they want to do it. Eisenhower said that. They loved Wray. Like the rest of the staff, they knew the kindness in my speeches came from her-she was more than my occasional ventriloquist. But they respected my record as a pilot, if nothing else. So they worked hard to please us. No boss can ask more than that.

“Before we decided not to run for a second term, our strategy guys said I should do my last few press conferences standing in front of Air Force One. It communicates such power. Wray was heartbroken when we decided not to do four more years. A big part of the disappointment, I think, was how much she enjoyed her time on that aircraft.”

“Sam?” Tomlinson had gotten so used to calling the president that it seemed natural. “If the late Mrs. Wilson wanted to run again, why didn’t you?”

Wilson’s expression changed. “Check the history books. That’s a question I’ve answered too many times to repeat.”

He pushed his microphone armature up.

End of conversation.

Tomlinson said, “It’s the Days of the Dead. That’s why I’ve felt this weird vibe. All afternoon-since those damn pigs attacked us.”

We were standing outside a hut roofed with palm thatching. The thatching was a foot thick, intricately woven. A Halloweenstyle tableau had been constructed outside the door: candles carved as skeletons, a table with offerings of liquor and twists of tobacco.

It had taken me a moment to remember that in Mexico and parts of Central America, the first two days of November are celebrated as Dias de Muertos. Days of the Dead.

Deceased children are honored on November 1st, adults on November 2nd. Today was the third, but the shrines would be around for weeks.

I said, “The pigs didn’t attack us. You were paranoid. Probably some type of withdrawal.” I was trying to humor him because his expression was so serious. Dread and disgust, like before.

“No,” he said. “They wanted me, man. I could see it in their piggy little eyes.” He cringed. “I was never afraid to die until I thought about getting eaten by a pig. A fucking pig, man. Anything but that.”

We were on the remnant of a volcano that protruded from Lake Nicaragua. It was one of the largest of the Solentiname Islands, an archipelago of more than thirty islands clustered at the lake’s southern end.

We’d landed at 5 p.m., near a settlement of three huts, all furnished but empty. A man had been waiting for us on the dock. Vue. He had a backpack and a couple of boxes with him, plus a row of gas cans. It was as if he’d just arrived himself.

The little giant had appeared upset. Maybe because he didn’t expect us until the next day. Which didn’t compute-he also seemed in a hurry.

He’d nodded at Tomlinson and me as he helped Wilson out of the plane, then immediately steered the man toward a private spot ashore to talk. As they started down the dock, I heard Vue say, “Mr. President, I’m very sorry I fail you. Secret Service discovered you missing yesterday morning. And there is more bad news…” Vue’s voice became a whisper, and I didn’t hear anything else.

Since then, Tomlinson and I had been left on our own. A relief for all three of us, probably. I got the plane secured while Tomlinson carried our gear to the door of the shack. Part of my duty was to tie the aircraft fast near overhanging trees, then cover it with camouflage netting Wilson had packed.

The man was good at details.

When I was finished, I returned to the hut. Presumably, we would sleep here. Wilson had an ally in the region who had a lot of power-that was apparent. The Solentiname Islands are isolated, but not all of the islands are uninhabited. About a hundred people, mostly fishermen and artists, live in the area. Yet someone had arranged for these huts to be vacated for our use.

It was now only 6 p.m. but volcanoes to the west were already silhouetted, mushroom clouds tethered to their rims. The Pacific Ocean would be visible from those craters.

“Do you think we should interrupt them to ask which hut we should use?” Tomlinson meant Wilson and Vue, who were standing near the lake’s edge, focused on their discussion.

I said, “The man doesn’t have any problem giving orders. He’ll tell us if we take the one he wants.”

Spooked by the tableau, Tomlinson had stacked our gear outside the hut. I took a backpack, opened the door, peeked in, and saw beams of raw timber with hammocks strung between supports. Oil lanterns on a table.

“Nice,” I said. “Smells like wood smoke.”

I went inside, claimed a hammock, then searched until I found cans of Vienna sausages and an unopened bottle of Aguadiente hidden in a sack of rice. I opened the bottle, poured half a tumbler for myself, a tumbler three-quarters full for Tomlinson, then went outside to find him. He was leaning against a tree smoking a joint.

“I guess you won’t be needing this,” I said.

“What?”

“It’s cheap cane rum.”

He thrust his hand out and took the glass. “The hell I won’t.”

We drank the warm liquor and talked about the things travelers talk about-home, mostly. Friends; what they were probably doing right now.

“Vienna sausages,” Tomlinson smiled, “one of nature’s perfect foods. Drink the juice, then eat the little bastards. One of the few staples I miss since becoming a vegetarian.”

Later, I went for a swim, then dozed off reading by lantern light. Moths found their way into the hut. Their wings threw gigantic shadows.

Around nine, Wilson tapped on the door and poked his head in. “We can hike to the site from here. We’ll leave before first light. Six-thirty sharp.”

I was half asleep and confused. After the door closed, I said, “Hiking where? What’s he talking about?”

Tomlinson was in a hammock across the room. He had the Aguadiente bottle cradled beside him. Half empty.

“The site where the plane burned,” he said, his voice monotone. “The man wants me to visit where his wife died.”

I awoke to the rumble of thunder and a rain-fresh wind filtering through the thatched roof. It was 6 a.m. and Tomlinson was already up. He had a fire going outside, coffee steaming. I took a leak off the dock, went for a swim, and returned as storm clouds assembled in pale light to the east.

“I dread this,” Tomlinson said, handing me a mug of coffee.

I took a sip, then another, saying, “It’s bad. But it’s not that bad,” trying to get him to laugh.

He did. But then said, “I mean visiting the crash site.”

“I know.”

“I’m pulling out today around noon. Sam gave me the news a little bit ago. Vue and I are driving to some hacienda near the Panamanian border, taking excess gear to lighten the load. It’s only a hundred twenty miles and he’s got a rented Land Rover. I’ll fly home from San Jose or Panama City tomorrow night.”

I was surprised.

“Visiting the wreck is the only reason he wanted me to come on the trip. He wants to know what his wife experienced when the plane caught fire. And any other details. He’s aware I have psychic powers.”

I said, “So he’s told me. But I’m curious-what convinced him? He’s not what you would call a frivolous man.”

“You can say that twice. He’s about as warm as a brass hemorrhoid tester. But… likeable, too, in a weird way.”

You never met before the party on Useppa?”

“No.”