Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  Until that moment, I’d thought it was one of the big female snook. This behavior, though, was unusual.

  I turned and retraced my footprints up the beach, leashed to the fish, my hands sensitive to vibrations transmitted through the line. I could feel the steady oscillation of connective tissue as the fish angled into the current, using its body mass to resist as I leveraged with the fly rod, steering it toward the shallows.

  It turned . . . sounded . . . then ascended. More unusual behavior. I pumped and reeled, the morning breeze keening through the line I gained.

  I didn’t care about landing and killing the fish, although I would if it was breakfast-worthy. I wanted to find out what it was. Swimming against the tide, its erratic descents, didn’t mesh with the behavior of familiar species. I at least wanted to get a look at the thing. So I waded waist-deep to the edge of the drop-off, trying to narrow the point of intersection. The tide was running so hard, it eroded the sand beneath my feet, and I had to keep moving or I would have been swept away.

  Then, abruptly, the line went slack. It didn’t break; there was no elastic recoil. It collapsed, like a balloon deflating.

  The fish was gone . . . I thought.

  But it wasn’t gone.

  The line, I realized, hadn’t broken. The line was moving toward me . . . no, it was torpedoing toward me at high speed . . . hissing now as it ripped the water’s surface.

  The fish I’d hooked wasn’t alone, either. Its erratic behavior was explained. A shark’s dorsal fin, two feet high and gray, was tracking the line, closing in so fast that it pushed a bulbous wake like a submarine.

  I turned my side to the shark, watching the line as I tried to hurry into shallower water. But the sand was like snow and collapsed under pressure. I could walk but I couldn’t run.

  There was no escape. So I stopped and just let it happen, resigned but also fascinated.

  The shark was a great hammerhead, as long as our canoe but triple the girth. It had to weigh a half ton. The dorsal was backlit by the dawn horizon; its bizarre head was a transient shadow wider than my shoulders. I lifted my feet from the bottom and let the tide move me as the fish I’d hooked shot past my legs. The shark’s wake followed, close enough that I felt its bulk graze my thigh.

  An instant later, water imploded. The hammerhead breached. In its jaws was a barracuda, my chartreuse fly pinned neatly to the hinge of its mouth. Plasticine flakes glittered as the shark twisted and crashed into the water—barracuda scales. Then it swirled massively, so close I could feel the suction created by the hammerhead’s tail stroke.

  My feet had found the bottom. I walked and crawled until I was on the beach, the fly rod still in hand.

  “An interesting fishing technique, Dr. Ford. But shouldn’t you have a large hook strapped to your butt?”

  The president had been watching. He looked fit in running shorts and a T-shirt. He was also wearing owlish, wire-rimmed glasses with tinted lenses—even in photographs I’d never seen the man wear glasses. It had been less than half an hour since I’d left him.

  I was laughing, adrenaline wired. “Did you see the size of that bastard?”

  “Yeah. You’d look nice in his trophy case.”

  I was searching the water. No fin. “It wasn’t after me. It was locked onto the fish I was fighting. Probably didn’t even notice I was there.”

  “You’re the expert. But I think I’ll give it a few minutes before taking a swim.” He was a dry one—irony as understatement, a trait common in people comfortable under pressure.

  “I thought I told you to call me if fish were hitting.” Wilson put his hand out, not joking now. I realized he wanted the fly rod. He took it, looking around, seeing the sunrise, the painted dancers, then he smiled, touching an index finger to the bridge of his glasses. “God, I’ve missed this. Mind if I see what’s on the other end?”

  He reeled in the line. Nothing left but the barracuda’s head.

  “Five-footer, you think?” Wilson had done some saltwater fishing.

  “A little over four maybe. Big.”

  I showed him the drop-off where I’d caught the snook.

  “The barracuda was using it as an ambush point. The shark was doing the same thing. It’s possible the barracuda didn’t know.”

  “One predator using another predator as bait.”

  “Yeah.”

  That meant something to Wilson. I wasn’t sure why but I could guess.

  “Good,” he said. “Another good omen.”

  As the man turned down the beach, though, I noticed a purple hematoma on his thigh and a smaller bruise on his calf.

  Bad omens.

  I STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE DRUM CIRCLE OBSERVING as a lone drummer started, offering a baseline rhythm. Others joined. As the noise grew, some added solo riffs and counterbeats. After a few minutes, the chorus broke down and a new tempo emerged.

  The objective, Tomlinson once explained, was to connect with the Tribal Mind. If you found that magic zone, he said, you vanished into the sensation that your body was being played by the drum circle, not your drum.

  Tomlinson looked as if he’d found the zone.

  As I approached the circle, I saw people I recognized. There was a fishing guide, a couple of nurses, several restaurant people, even a Sanibel cop. Mizzen, the nautical setter, was there with Dr. Bill and Sherry Welch. We exchanged waves. But Tomlinson was too lost in drumming to notice. He didn’t recognize my voice, either, when I came up behind him and said, “Do you take requests? Or only original material?”

  The man’s eyes weren’t just dreamy, they were glassy, but opened wide, like miniature TVs reflecting images of painted figures dancing by the fire.

  Without looking, he replied, “I can’t take verbal requests, man. But if you feel what you want, I might tune to the vibe. Comprendo?” His head bobbed, hands blurred, as he added a triple-time riff. “Reason I don’t take requests is . . . rhythm, it’s the mother tongue. Earth’s first language. Words, man”—he motioned vaguely, somehow without missing a beat—“they’re pointless here. You gotta feel it to communicate. So far, though”—he inserted another flourish—“you’re not putting out a signal. It’s like you got no soul, dude.”

  I didn’t answer. Stood looking over his shoulder until he got curious and turned. “Why . . . it’s you, Doc?” His expression was theatrical. “That explains it.”

  When he grinned, I realized I’d been set up.

  “How long have you known we’re here?”

  “Since before you landed, man.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His hands slowed on the drum, then stopped, but he continued keeping time with his left hand. “Seriously. I went down the beach to take a whiz and saw you riding that track of moonlight. You’re the only guy I know who paddles a canoe like he’s harvesting potatoes. And he’s with you.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Nope. I was expecting him.”

  “I bet your friends are excited.”

  “No need to test me, Doc. The man gave me orders. It’s top secret.”

  I looked toward the cabin. Wilson was a solitary figure in the dawn light. He was fishing: smooth backcast, a tight loop; doublehauling and making it look easy. Impressive.

  I said, “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

  “Going? You mean we’re taking a trip? The three of us? That’s cool . . . I guess . . . despite several troubling issues. Some of his outrageous political positions, for example. Which means I must anticipate conflict. I’ll have to tread lightly to avoid ugly scenes. Unless—” Troubled, Tomlinson paused, now talking to himself. “Unless I’m just imagining this. Which is very possible with a snoot full of hooch, and a head full of conga. Yes, this could be another one of Señor Tequila’s little mind fucks. A potential downer.”

  I said softly, “Tomlinson?”

  “Yes, Marion.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He focused. “Doc? I’m not imagining you
, am I, Doc?” Fire crackled, sparks cometed across his eyes, as he sought reassurance by touching my arm.

  I gave his hand a friendly whack. “Knock it off. I’m not Dorothy and you’re no Wizard. We need to talk.”

  I searched his expression to see if he was acting. Tough to read. “Are you as drunk as you look?”

  He stared at the palm of his hand. I realized he was using it as a mirror. “Drunker,” he said after a moment. “I stopped dancing when I started to slosh. That was about six margaritas ago. But I still look pretty damn good . . . except for those weird stripes above my eyes.”

  Joking. But also drunk. Or stoned. Or both.

  “When you’re done with orchestra practice, can you sober up enough to talk?”

  “Not a problem. I always back off the accelerator a notch or two come dawn. Besides”—he looked west, where the moon was dissolving into a blue and animated darkness—“it’s time to split. Tradition, man. We gotta dance the moon into the sea.”

  Huh?

  He motioned with his head—Follow me—as he stood. “Drumming ends at sunrise, man. All Hallows’ Eve becomes All Saints’ Day. The ceremony dates back to the Druids, so it’s gotta be done right.” He held up a bony finger. “Just one more bit of business before I can grab my lunch bucket and punch the clock. Be patient, okay?”

  Before I could respond, he turned, calling, “Conga line! Conga time! Listen up, heathens.” Yelled it a few more times, adding, “Keep in mind, kiddies, we didn’t come here to have fun.”

  I have watched Tomlinson rally many conga lines. The jokes don’t vary much, but the results often do. I stepped back to watch.

  He tucked the drum under his arm and looped the strap over his shoulder, waiting as others stood, dusting sand off their butts. Then he began to drum, as he instructed, “We must play the sacred hymn. Find the beat, comrades. Be the drum. The ancient mantra passed down to us from on high . . . from the king’s men of king’s men. Please join me in this grooviest of liturgies.”

  Drummers parroted Tomlinson’s tempo: Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom.

  It was distinctive. Simple. Oddly familiar.

  “Feel the love, brothers and sisters, as we march to the Holy Church of Waves Without Walls. There we will wash our sins away. Afterward, I suggest we retreat to whatever bedrooms are available . . . in groups of two . . . or three . . . where I beseech ye to go—go and sin some more.”

  There were bawdy hoots as a loose line formed behind Tomlinson. Hands on hips or drumming, they began a snaking dance toward the Gulf.

  Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom.

  Catchy. I was tempted to join when two waitresses from the Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille, Milita and Liz, tried to pull me into the line. Both were dressed as angels, although they’d jettisoned their wings.

  Milita pleaded, “Come on, Doc. Relax a little . . . shallow up, man.”

  Shallow up. A new Tomlinson line. It meant stop being serious; leave the burdens of depth behind.

  I respect Tomlinson’s spirituality, but I don’t envy the emotional toll of its uncertainties. There are times, though, when I wish I could just let go, the way Tomlinson does. Like now.

  Drums throbbed as dancers created a moving wave, some bowing while others stood.

  Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom.

  When they began to sing, I understood why the beat was familiar: “Louie Louie . . . oh no . . . Me gotta go . . .” Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom. “Louie Louie . . . oh no. . . .”

  Tomlinson had said, “Kingsmen,” not “king’s men.”

  “Please, Doc?” Liz was pulling at my elbow.

  Milita said, “We don’t have to be at work until four. And we have that big house rented. There’re lots of rooms.”

  But I have forever been, and will always be, an observer. And focus requires distance. As with a microscope, the degree of distance varies, but spatial separations, like walls, always stand between.

  I gently disentangled myself from the ladies, promising to meet them later. Then I watched them hurry to join the conga line, dancing toward the Gulf of Mexico, where, I assumed, the unpainted members of the circle would strip naked and swim.

  Swim?

  I’d just been charged by a half-ton hammerhead. It was unlikely the shark would cruise the beach, seeking human prey, but I had to at least let them know it was in the area. Didn’t I?

  Yes, I decided.

  I should probably also offer to stand watch. Wait until they were all safely out of the water and even dressed, Milita and Liz included. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn’t it?

  Yes, I decided.

  Sand, like glass, is siliceous based, and the beach was vibrating like a window with the circle’s sacred mantra:

  “Louie Louie . . . oh no . . . Me gotta go . . .” Boom-boom-boom . . . boom-boom. “Louie Louie . . . oh no . . .”

  Near the drop-off, where I’d hooked the barracuda, the president was landing a small snook. He was also moving in flow with the music, enjoying his first unpresidential morning, doing juke steps that mimicked the conga line’s wave, his rhythm perfect but subtle, keeping it to himself.

  The man could dance, too?

  I tried a few juke steps myself as I followed the drum circle to the Gulf—an effort, at least, to shallow up.

  Soon, though, I turned my attention to the sky. If the Secret Service discovered Wilson was missing, helicopter traffic would be the first indicator.

  10

  When I left Tomlinson, I slept for two hours, then strapped on shoes and ran the beach, pushing myself, alternating between hard sand at the water’s edge and sugar sand on the upper beach. To make it tougher, I varied the pace, sprinting ten seconds out of every minute. Brutal. But I’ve come to realize that travel is the natural enemy of fitness. You have to improvise on the road or you’re condemed to a roller-coaster ride of fitness decline.

  I was in good shape. No, I was in great shape. For the last six months, I’d been living a Spartan life that, for me, has become a periodic necessity since slipping into my forties. It means swimming at least three times a week. Pull-ups and abs, every morning and evening, on the crossbeam beneath my house. Daily kick-ass runs, lots and lots of water, lean protein, few starches, and absolutely no beer or margaritas.

  Tomlinson says I have a monastic side. That’s why I do it. He may be right, but it’s not the only reason.

  For American males, our forties should be advertised as “The Most Dangerous Decade” because so few of us realize it’s true. It’s during our forties that most men die of heart attacks, smoke themselves across a cancerous border, or drink themselves into unambiguous alcoholism. It’s during our forties that most of us experience panic attacks, nervous breakdowns, depression, and a gradual, invidious weight gain that we will take to the grave. Men in their forties are also more likely to have affairs, divorce, and make asses of themselves by dating women twenty years younger, who, twenty years earlier, they wouldn’t have given a second look. It is during our forties that we lie awake at night, wrestling with decisions, and our own frail heartbeats, investing much thought and worry before deciding to go ahead and fuck up our lives, anyway.

  I punish myself not only because fitness requires it but because I’m in my forties. I deserve it.

  When I finished my run, I had a saltwater bath and returned to the cabin to find Wilson browning corned beef hash over a propane stove. He was pacing as he cooked.

  “What time does the tide start falling?”

  He’d seen the tide chart but often asked questions when he knew the answer. I said, “It’s late, around sunset. The wind’s out of the southwest so it could be after nine before it gets running.”

  “Damn it, we need to get moving. Aren’t there usually two tides?”

  “The Gulf of Mexico’s unusual. It happens.”

  “I don’t understand why we have to wait.”

 
He was talking about Tomlinson’s sailboat, I realized. No Más was solid but not nimble.

  I said, “Maybe we don’t. Depends on where you want to go. And how much time Tomlinson needs to sober up.”

  “Does he often drink too much?”

  “Tomlinson’s drinking habits are like the tides. He misses a day occasionally.”

  “Then he’s used to functioning with a hangover. I want to get into open water as soon as possible.”

  “It’s your trip. Where we headed?”

  Wilson flipped the hash with a spatula, then stirred in a glop of pepper sauce. “When we’re a couple miles out in the Gulf, I’ll brief you.”

  I said, “I can’t offer advice without information,” then explained that incoming current moved through Captiva Pass at six or seven knots. No Más had only a small Yanmar engine. We couldn’t exit the pass until the tide changed. Under power, though, we could avoid the pass by traveling north or south on the Intracoastal Waterway.

  He thought about that, not eager to tip his hand. “I don’t want to wait around here until sunset. We both need sleep, but we can do that once we’re under way.”

  Like me, he’d been watching the sky, anticipating helicopters.

  “Then we’ll have to use the motor. Head north and use another pass when the tide turns. Or head south to Sanibel and cut to the Gulf at Lighthouse Point.”

  “Those are our choices?”

  “Unless Tomlinson has another idea.”

  “It’s settled, then. That’s what we’ll do.”

  I hesitated. “But . . . what about that other matter we discussed? There’s equipment at my lab I need.”

  “How do you propose to get it? We’re leaving in a few hours.”

  “If we’re going south, Dinkin’s Bay Marina is on the way. If we’re not, I could hitch a ride in a powerboat, then arrange a rendezvous by radio.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “Mr. President,” I said, seeing his eyes over the lenses of his glasses, “you told me you pick good people and let them do their jobs. If you are serious about . . . about resolving the matter you alluded to, trust my judgment, sir. I know what’s needed to . . . to dispose of unresolved issues.”