Randy White - Hunter's moon

In Spanish, I said to the men, “There was a man here. A yanqui with long hair. His name is Tomlinson. Where is he?”

I could see that they understood. They didn’t answer.

“She says you killed him. Why?”

One of the men spoke. Maybe he interpreted the expression on my face accurately. “The woman lies. We have only just arrived. We have no knowledge of what has happened here.”

“That’s difficult to believe. Why are you carrying weapons?”

“It is a dangerous world.”

I replied, “I’ve heard the rumor. I will give you one more chance. Did you kill him? Or was it Praxcedes Lourdes?”

They knew Lourdes. I could tell by their reaction. The man said, “We know nothing.”

“You know how to lie, that’s clear.”

“Believe what you want. We saw the fire and came to help this silly puta. Call the police, if you like. We will only speak to the police or our attorney. And stop pointing those ridiculous guns at us or we will have you arrested.”

Attack your accuser-an old gambit.

One of the men managed to laugh. The third man appeared terrified. Of the three, he was the only one with good instincts.

I thumbed the pistol’s hammer as I said to Waters, “Do you understand Spanish?”

“A little.”

She hadn’t understood.

“They want us to call the police. They want their attorney.”

“They’re a bunch of murderers, for God’s sake-”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Of course, but there’s no signal. I tried while they were-”

“Walk toward the house. Maybe you’ll get a signal there. These men know their rights.”

“But I tried to call a dozen times!”

“Try again. I’ll stay here.”

“But why?”

“Do it.”

When Waters was a dozen yards away, I shot the first man in the chest, the second man in the side of the head, and the third man in the back. Two shots each. Stop-action. Like film frames of a man attempting to turn and run.

It’s not like in the old westerns. No matter where you shoot a man, he continues to function until the hydraulics or the electrical systems fail.

The man who told me he would only speak to the police or his lawyer was still moving. I stepped close enough so that the pistol was directly over his head. His eyes were open, looking up at me, and he lifted his chin, exposing his neck-a reflexive gesture of submission I have witnessed before in men about to die. It is a primitive request: Be quick, be painless.

Waters, I realized, was watching.

“Keep walking!”

The woman turned. I fired.

Walt Danson, the television star, had not died a Hollywood death.

Nor had his two crewmen.

Praxcedes Lourdes had enjoyed himself here. Shana Waters had watched through the window, she said, until she couldn’t stomach it anymore, then run away.

“What could I have done to help? Me against five men? Six, really, because our own fucking pilot set us up-the coward never got out of the helicopter. And my damn cell phone was useless!”

Shock, as it fades, is commonly replaced by guilt.

Waters had caught up with Danson as he was boarding the helicopter in Panama. They had compromised, using the same helicopter and sharing Danson’s crew.

They were disappointed not to find the former president at the camp, but they both recognized Vue; Tomlinson, too. Still a damn good story, she said, even though Vue refused to talk.

Danson and his crew were setting up outside the hacienda getting ready to shoot, so Waters decided to take a look around. Maybe Wilson was at the camp but hiding.

When the five men arrived in a Toyota pickup truck, she was near the baseball diamond on the far edge of the property. Waters heard the first scream as she was returning to the house.

“It’s the only thing that saved me. My God, to think how close I came…” The woman put a hand to her stomach, eyes dazed, as if she might vomit. “By that time, they’d herded everyone into the house. They knew who Walt was. Those bastards had watched him on satellite. An American anchorman. So they went after poor Walt right away.”

At first, she thought the men were robbers. Waters watched through a side window as they collected billfolds and jewelry. Tomlinson got some abuse because he had neither, she said.

“But then he came in. A guy the size of a football player, smoking a cigar.”

It was Praxcedes Lourdes, though the woman didn’t know his name.

They were all wearing ski masks, she said, or had their faces wrapped-turbans were easily adapted.

“But the big man wore this bizarre silk mask, the kind they use in operas. It was white, with huge Oriental eyebrows and a fucking smile. Like a clown, but with an opening so he could smoke.”

Yes, it was Lourdes.

Lourdes always kept his face covered because of his scars-the failed plastic surgeries, too. He’d been burned to the bone on the cheeks, much of his chin, and the top of his head. His mouth was an exposed wedge of teeth, like a dental schematic-skeletal, like a cadaver used in medical school.

He might seem a sympathetic figure, unless you knew the truth. He’d been scarred by a fire he set himself while murdering his family.

Lourdes sometimes wore surgical gauze, or bandage wrap, plus sunglasses-practical, when traveling by day. Most often, though, he preferred a monk’s habit, because of the hood, and he liked masks, which are common in Central America. During the war in Nicaragua, rebel Contras often wore light mesh masks that allowed them to eat and drink without revealing their identities.

It sounded like the mask Waters was describing.

“He had one of those propane torches, the kind with the screw-on cylinder. He used his cigar to light it. I could hear the hissing noise even through the window while he adjusted the flame.”

By that time, she said, the men had taped Danson’s hands and tied him to a pole in the center of the main room. The rope allowed the anchorman to walk around it in a tight circle.

I pictured a pony on a leash, although Waters did not describe it that way.

Then, with everyone watching, Lourdes began to goad Danson around the pole. Burning him with quick blasts of flame on the butt and back. Both Vue and Tomlinson attempted to intercede, but were knocked to the floor with rifle butts. Vue, she said, had to be taped like a mummy because he was so strong.

Lourdes continued his torture of the anchorman.

“One thing I found out-Walt was one tough son of a bitch. I always thought it was an act, but it wasn’t. He was so damn… brave. I could have never endured what he did.”

Lourdes was a performer. He often filmed victims, as I knew. He loved an audience. Torturing a TV star with men watching was the sort of thing he would enjoy.

Her breath catching, Waters said, “I thought it would go on forever, the cruelty. But then… then… then Walt’s hair caught on fire. I’ve never seen anything so hideous in my life. But they were laughing. Those men thought it was hilarious-like some sick, slapstick comedy bit. See the anchorman’s hair burn!”

That’s when she ran away.

Shana Waters hid in the trees until the helicopter they had chartered flew away, soon followed by the truck. After waiting ten minutes, she went inside the house but got only a quick look before the truck returned and the three men surprised her.

I said, “Maybe the pilot told them he’d brought a woman. A trap.”

“Maybe,” she said bitterly, “but it’s more likely he thought I was dead. The coward had to realize what was going on, but he made sure he didn’t see it.

“It was existential. I covered the Middle East for two years and it’s the only thing that comes close. Tie men and burn them alive? I thought Kal Wilson was a spineless figurehead, but I respected Vue. And the old hippie Tomlinson? If he was a friend of yours, I’m so sorry.”