Randy White - Hunter's moon

“Do you agree his interest in Buddhism was just an act?”

“I’ve known that since we left for Key West.”

“So you weren’t invited because of your book?”

“I doubt if he read it.”

I asked again. “Then what convinced him you have psychic powers? I assume he hasn’t told you the reason.”

Tomlinson’s reaction was unexpected. I’ve known him so long, I can read his mannerisms nearly as well as he can read mine. There was guilt in his expression; confusion, too.

“As a matter of fact, he did tell me. Not everything. But enough to jog the old memory banks. And to know what he said is true.” His laughter was forced. “Kind of a shocker. I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t tell you.”

“You’ve known for a while?”

“Since a few days after the party. We met privately for drinks on Cabbage Key. He rented the Cabbage Patch so we could talk confidentially.”

I was looking beyond a hedge of banana plants, where stalks grew heavy-fingered like yellow fists. President Wilson and Vue were walking toward us as I said, “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. For the last couple of years, your memory’s been returning a little piece at a time, I know that. Electroshock therapy erases memory. It’s documented.”

The gentle smile on his face told me he was aware I was being kind. “Well… truth is, I’ve remembered bits and pieces of what he told me for quite a while. I guess I was ashamed. You see”-he broke off several bananas and tossed one to me-“back when I was at Harvard I got involved in a research project. I needed money. Didn’t know what I was getting into-a secret sort of deal at the time. But it all came out later. A program called ‘Stargate.’ ”

I did a bad job of hiding my surprise because then Tomlinson said, “So now you understand why I’m ashamed. I worked for those right-wing weirdoes more than a year.”

I was familiar with the project. There was no right-wing association and only critics called it “Stargate.” The Pentagon referred to the project as “Asymmetrical Intelligence-Gathering Research.” It began in the 1970s when U.S. intelligence agencies learned that the Soviets were recruiting clairvoyants and telepathic savants to work as “psychic spies.”

The CIA and U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency took it seriously enough to establish a similar program. The project was funded until the mid-’90s, and employed many dozens of “psychics” over a period of twenty years. Some in the intelligence community say it produced usable product, others say it was a waste of millions.

I was smiling despite the implications. “You worked for the CIA?”

“Isn’t that a kick in the pants?” Tomlinson said. “Somewhere, right now, Tim Leary is rolling over in his grave. But it’s not like the agency gave me a decoder ring and showed me the secret handshake. I sat in a room at a military base in Maryland while a guy in a lab coat asked me questions. I remember looking at a lot of maps and pointing at places. That particular extrasensory gift is called ‘Remote Viewing.’ ”

“You convinced researchers you had the gift?”

“They told me I had the highest score ever recorded on their test. A lot of what happened, though, is still foggy. Big chunks missing.”

I said, “The highest score?”

“Well, they said one of the highest scores. But I knew what they meant.”

It was the way the agency would have couched it. He was telling the truth.

Tomlinson, eating a banana, waved at Wilson and Vue, who were close now. “Sam found the classified records. That’s how he knew. He told me what he wanted before you showed up on Cayo Costa-quite a shock to see you, Doc.

“No offense,” he added, “but I told Sam you were very negative about the whole psychic thing. You might get in the way. I love you like a brother, man. But I still can’t figure out why he asked you to come along.”

The wreckage of the Cessna had not been removed, as I expected. In isolated places worldwide, carcasses of planes are routinely abandoned where they fall. Their fragility makes a mockery of wealth and complexity. I’ve seen locals smile a little as they pass by.

I wasn’t prepared, however, when Tomlinson told us, “They didn’t find all the bodies.”

I translated for the guide as the president and Vue stared at my friend as if he were making a bad joke.

“Bodies from the plane, you mean? There were only seven people aboard.” His face pale, Wilson was looking at the stone marker beyond the runway where trees thinned, and the lake, six hundred feet below, was a motionless blue. Next to the stone were five white crosses and two Stars of David.

The Nicaraguan government’s way of honoring the First Lady and her group.

Tomlinson, with eyes closed, facing the jungle opposite the marker repeated, “They didn’t find all the bodies.”

The wreckage was a quarter mile from the huts, all uphill until we got near the top, where there was a natural terrace-ideal for the small runway. After lighting incense and candles, Tomlinson had walked around the perimeter, saying: Whatever beings are gathered here… of the land below or skies above. Listen respectfully to what is being uttered now… May all those beings develop loving-kindness toward human progeny. They that brought them offerings by day and by night, let extraterrestrial beings diligently keep watch over them…

They were words from one of his favorite Buddhist sutras. He repeated them over and over, as a chant.

But after half an hour, uncomfortable with religious ceremony, I slipped off alone. The rain forest on the north side of the volcano was dense. Beneath canopy shadows, the chirring of tree frogs was an oscillating chorus. I found several tiny frogs, three inches long, that were iridescent scarlet with black flecks at the dorsum. They were from the genus Dendrobate, which the indigenous people call “poison dart frogs.” Roasted, their skin secretes alkaloid poison that’s deadly-effective when arrows are dipped in it.

Flora and fauna I saw were common to the region. It was the end of Central America’s rainy season. In this cloud forest, water had been converted into rivulets of vines, rivers of fern, and pools of green forest canopy, water’s flow slowed by absorption, then delayed by photosynthesis.

I jotted details in my notebook.

When I returned, Tomlinson and the president were alone near the stone monument talking. Tomlinson had his hand on the man’s shoulder, comforting him.

When they rejoined our group, Wilson’s face had paled, but he was stone-jawed, in control. It was then that Tomlinson stopped abruptly, closed his eyes for a moment, and said it: They didn’t find all the bodies.

When the president snapped, “Damn it, that’s impossible!,” Tomlinson touched a finger to his lips and waved for us to follow.

He walked like a man using a stick to dowse for water, feeling his way. He led us through jungle, down the volcano, to a wall of vines that, when parted, revealed a stone cistern. It was ancient; the hieroglyphics on the outside were Maya-like.

Tomlinson leaned over the cistern for a few seconds, then spun away, hands on hips. His chest was heaving as he asked, “You said the plane was supposed to pick up a sick woman and her child?”

The president was moving toward the cistern. “That’s right. A pregnant woman. But she and her son left earlier in a boat. That’s what locals told our investigators.”

“They never got to the boat.”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me-”

Tomlinson moved to slow Wilson as I stepped to the opening. I looked, turned away, cleaned my glasses, then looked again. There was an adipose stink about the place.

“You don’t need to see this, sir.”