Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  If there was trouble, it would begin with them.

  The interest in Wilson’s words radiated gradually outward through several thousand people. One politician’s truth is another politician’s lie, but people recognize sincerity and they are attracted to it even when they don’t agree.

  What Wilson said was dangerous. They recognized that, too.

  “A few months ago, an invitation was delivered to me in the form of a fire that killed seven people, including my wife. I am here to respond, and also point out that you, too, received an invitation. It was delivered on a Tuesday in September, in New York. Since then, it has been delivered many times around the world.

  “There could be no better place to address this issue than Panama. Panama is at the crossroads of the world and your people represent every religion and race. The same is true of all the Americas, from Canada to Brazil.

  “That is precisely why they hate us. We are joined by geography and our differences. It does not matter that some of us pray to a God they claim as their own. They say we lack courage, resolve, and morality. They say we are mongrel nations and unclean. They will not tolerate our tolerance.

  “So they send these invitations—but from the shadows. The shadows are where intolerance and hatred and cowardice always hide.”

  For the first time, Wilson looked at Thomas Farrish and Altif Halibi sitting to his left. Farrish was dressed in a suit of white silk, the cleric was bearded and wore a turban and robes. Both sat stoically, refusing eye contact.

  Wilson continued to look at them as he said, “Perhaps it would be good to explain who we really are and thereby remind ourselves exactly what our heritage demands of us.

  “We are the sons and daughters of every race, all religions, joined between two oceans and by a passion for self-determination and freedom. We are not a perfect people. The inequities we suffer as neighbors, and inflict as neighbors, are many. But we do not hide in shadows.

  “In us runs the blood of revolutionaries and explorers, of farmers, immigrants, and Aztec statesmen. In us runs the blood of train barons—and train robbers—and of individuals who, though chained in slave ships, refused to bow down as slaves.

  “We are people who risked the gallows to create sanctuaries on earth that, for the first time, guaranteed religious freedom. In the years it took to build Panama’s Canal, Muslims, Christians, Hindus, and Jews lived and worked and prayed here, side by side, and continue to do so.

  “Our numbers include women brave enough to demand equality, and who continue to fight against the sickening control some attempt to impose on them. Are we a collection of mongrels? Yes.

  “The same was said of us in another invitation. It was issued from Berlin in 1939.

  “If you believe we lack courage and resolve, it may be because you have banned so many history books. Allow me to enlighten you.

  “We are the fifty thousand who took our convictions to earth at Gettysburg. We are the thousands of white crosses that rest where poppies grow at Flanders Field—South Americans, Central Americans, and North Americans, all died in that war.

  “We are Simón Bolívar’s fearless charge against the Spanish, and a thousand Inca warriors, marching against the guns of Conquistadors. We are the Seventh Cavalry who perished at Little Bighorn. We are Apache warriors who refused to run and so stood awaiting death while chanting: ‘Your bullets stand no chance against our prayers.’

  “We are not an easy people. We love a winner and despise a coward. Courage is an immigrant’s cornerstone, and our reverence for self-reliance has never been equaled nor will it ever be.”

  Once again, Wilson stared at Farrish and Halibi. “You can’t possibly understand who we are. But our quandary is this: In any conflict, the boundaries of civilized behavior are defined by the party that cares least about morality.

  “You have defined the boundaries and there are none. The lives of innocent women and children are meaningless. You hide weapon factories beneath day care centers. You hide collectively behind the caskets of innocents. You have no morality, no character, no conscience, while most people around the world are blessed—and burdened—by all three.

  “Fascism has worn many costumes. Yours is religion. That makes it even more difficult, but we will find a way. Appeasement is suicide. The world is beginning to understand that.” He paused, then pointed directly at them. “Your cowardice only strengthens our resolve. Your hatred stands no chance against our prayers.”

  He returned his attention to the crowd. “Thank you. God bless you, and God bless Panama.”

  Wilson closed the leather folder and stepped back from the podium.

  The crowd’s applause was loud, much louder than when he’d been introduced, and Wilson paused to acknowledge it. He nodded to Juan Rivera. “Would you agree, General?”

  Rivera marched to Wilson, gave him a bear hug, then exhorted the startled audience in Spanish, “You have just heard a man speak! Have you forgotten what it’s like?”

  The applause grew.

  Wilson smiled. He looked happy; a man at peace, standing with his old enemy. It may be the happiest I had ever see him.

  Then he turned and walked toward Thomas Farrish and Altif Halibi.

  With the scope’s crosshairs on the president’s back, I moved my index finger to the trigger guard.

  AS WILSON APPROACHED, FARRISH WAS LOOKING OVER his shoulder. He began gesturing to his bodyguards. The cleric Altif Halibi refused to make eye contact with the former president. It was more than disinterest; he radiated contempt. To acknowledge a kuffar—an “infidel cow”—was beneath him.

  The crowd, I realized, had suddenly gone silent. The Panamanian police watched with interest. Wilson was still wearing the microphone and they wanted to hear what he would say.

  Wilson addressed the two men as if they were one. He said softly, “I accept your invitation. Here it is. Give me the money.”

  Farrish was snapping his fingers, trying to get security to intercede. I moved the crosshairs from the president’s back to Farrish’s head—tempting—as Farrish said, “What do you mean, ‘It is here’? What is here? I have no idea of what you are saying.” The man had spent his playboy years in the U.K.; the accent was British.

  “You wanted my head. Here it is.” Wilson tapped his temple. “You owe me a million dollars. I’m donating the money to Panama’s orphanages.”

  Farrish laughed, but it was nervous laughter. The cleric stood, his hands folded into his robes, but he stopped when Wilson said, “What are you afraid of? I’ll make it easy.”

  I watched Wilson reach inside his jacket . . . and I saw the fear in the cleric’s eyes as he drew the curved knife—the badek, an instrument made for killing infidels.

  Someone in the audience screamed; everyone began moving, then—Vue, Farrish’s bodyguards, the police. But they stopped when Wilson tossed the knife at the cleric’s feet. His voice was loud enough now to echo in the noon silence. “Go ahead. I’ve brought you my head, cut it off! Sunlight’s a great disinfectant—for everyone but cowards.”

  Farrish stood. “I have had enough of this insanity!”

  Wilson said, “And so have I.” Then he slapped Farrish across the face, just as our seventh president, Andrew Jackson, had once done to a man who insulted his wife.

  Rivera had placed himself between the bodyguards and the two men. The security police had closed ranks, but now more as admiring spectators.

  Farrish was holding his cheek. His skin had the flushed, mottled look of a man who is frightened and in shock.

  Wilson moved close enough to brush both Halibi and Farrish with his chest. “You offered a reward for my head. I want the money. Now. Or satisfaction. I’m challenging you to a duel. If you have the courage, face me.”

  Farrish looked at the cleric, the cleric looked at Farrish—then they both slid past Wilson, who remained solid as a statue.

  The two walked swiftly toward the exit.

  EPILOGUE

  At noon, November 27th
, a Thursday, Tomlinson and I boarded Amtrak’s Silver Star in Tampa, kicked back in our respective sleeper cars, enjoying beverages and an elegant dinner. Eleven hours later, we disembarked beneath a blazing full moon in the village of Hamlet, North Carolina, population 6,018.

  Hamlet’s train station, with its Victorian Queen Anne gables, wood painted and polished bright, may be the most beautiful in America. Kal Wilson and blues icon John Coltrane were born nearby.

  Tomlinson had stood by the tracks, in a circle of yellow light, watching our train pull out, gathering speed northbound toward Raleigh, Richmond, D.C., and Grand Central Station, New York.

  “A time warp,” he said.

  The city’s main street was deserted an hour before midnight. No one else had gotten off the train, and the upstairs station windows were dark, save for one where the silhouette of a stocky man was hunched over a typewriter—or maybe a telegraph key.

  “The moon’s bright enough, we should’ve brought our ball gloves,” I told him. We could have played in the middle of the street, no problem.

  My arm felt good. Two weeks after returning from Panama, General Juan Rivera had met us at the Presidential Library in Minnesota. We’d gotten a sandlot ball game going with some local kids and Rivera had pitched three innings of shutout ball. Next day, we received VIP treatment, and a special tour of the Wilson Center.

  The president himself had welcomed us into his office, then took us next door to show us the First Lady’s office. There was a concert grand piano, and Tomlinson had played “Moonlight Sonata” and “Clair de Lune” until a nurse noticed that Wilson was weakening. We pretended not to see the wheelchair she’d left around the corner.

  The three of us said good-bye with the forced but courageous good humor that friends draw upon when they know they may never meet again.

  BUT WE WOULD MEET AGAIN. TWO DAYS EARLIER, VUE HAD telephoned unexpectedly and invited us here, to Hamlet, saying, “He wants to see you.”

  As Tomlinson had once observed, it’s impossible to say no to a man like Kal Wilson.

  So we booked sleeper cars and took the train. We didn’t even consider flying commercial. We would have had to land in Charlotte, then there would have been a two-hour drive southeast.

  Besides, we wouldn’t have enjoyed flying commercial after the way we’d returned from Panama.

  The White House was so delighted with Wilson’s speech, and the reaction it had received worldwide, that the president had sent Air Force One as special thanks. He had insisted it be designated Air Force One, even though it carried a former president.

  Shana Waters was aboard. She thought it was hilarious when, somewhere over the Caribbean, Tomlinson signaled for Wilson’s attention and said, “Sam, I don’t want to put you in an awkward spot, man, but”—Tomlinson had looked at Waters—“there are a couple adventurous types aboard who’d like to be the first to smoke a doobie aboard this fine aircraft.”

  Wilson had chuckled, but then said, seriously, “You’d need a time machine, I’m afraid. I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t be the first.”

  Tomlinson liked that. “Wow,” he said. “Radical.”

  Later, Waters came to me, stood on tiptoes, and whispered another adventurous suggestion. When I said, “I think we’d need a time machine to be first at that, too,” she was not dissuaded.

  Pulling me by the wrist, she countered, “I covered the White House for three years. You don’t think I know that? But history’s supposed to repeat itself.”

  In its way, Hamlet’s train station was a time machine. Wilson had chosen this, his boyhood home, in which to spend Thanksgiving, and had decided to stay on until Christmas.

  That’s why we were standing in this North Carolina village, an hour before midnight, looking at a blazing moon.

  It was a “hunter’s moon,” Tomlinson informed me. The first full moon in November.

  “Yeah, man,” he added, his tone introspective, “streets are empty, and it’s bright enough to play. Next time, we bring our gloves.”

  But there would be no next time, as we both knew.

  THE NEXT MORNING, WE STOOD ON A COUNTRY ROAD, too small for the number of Lincoln Town Cars, unmarked Fords, and Secret Service SUVs parked in the sand, and watched Agent Wren touch an index finger to his ear before telling his partner, “He’s countermanded my orders again. His doctors, too. He says these two gentlemen should be escorted in immediately.”

  As Wren said “gentlemen,” his eyes brushed past me with a variety of contempt reserved exclusively for rogue biologists who help rogue commanders in chief escape. Wren didn’t like me, didn’t trust me, and had contacted the head office in Maryland determined to keep Tomlinson and me out.

  Finding several joints in Tomlinson’s silver cigarette case, he believed, had finalized his case.

  Instead, he had been overruled.

  Wren’s partner straightened his Ray-Bans and turned toward two houses set back in a clearing of orange clay and pines. The area had been cordoned off with Secret Service agents, local law enforcement, and sophisticated electronic sensors.

  Tomlinson asked Agent Wren, “Did his family own both these houses?” Each was tiny: white shingle exteriors, asphalt shingle roofs, and sand driveways.

  Wren’s partner answered, “No. The president and his family lived in the one on the right. The First Lady’s family lived in the other. Their parents worked for the same textile mill, and they both moved to Minnesota at about the same time. That’s where the Presidential Library’s located. And the Wilson Center.”

  Tomlinson said we were aware of that as one of the agent’s radios squelched, and I overheard, “If Hunter wants privacy, that’s what Hunter gets . . .”

  Not easily accomplished.

  Overhead, two Blackhawk helicopters cauldroned like seabirds, maintaining secure airspace, keeping a half dozen TV news choppers at bay. There was a breaking story below. New York, Atlanta, and L.A. wanted a live feed when it happened.

  Kerney Amos Levaugn Wilson lay dying in the house where he had been born.

  LEUKEMIA DESTROYS RED BLOOD CELLS WITH A SWARMING indifference. Kal Wilson’s face was the color of a mushroom, and he looked as frail.

  He lay in a hospital bed, in the room that had been his as a boy, surrounded by monitors and tubes but also family photos. The Boy Scout and the deaf girl, with this same white-shingled house in the background—there were several black-and-white shots in frames.

  When Tomlinson and I entered the room, Vue gave us a quick hug, then shooed everyone else out. When he turned to close the door, I could see that he’d been crying. I don’t know why I found that surprising but I did.

  The president stuck his hand out. I shook it. His skin was cool but too loose over its fleshy scaffolding. He didn’t object when Tomlinson leaned to pat his shoulder—a daring familiarity with this man.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said. “The holiday season’s a busy time for everyone. But there’s one last bit of business I’d like to dispose of before . . .” He had a mask that fed oxygen when he needed it and he fitted it over his face and took several breaths. He left the sentence unfinished.

  “You received the envelopes containing your dossiers?”

  Yes, we had. Tomlinson and I had not shared. Not everything, anyway. We all have done things in the past that we would prefer to remain in the past. That is certainly true of my life.

  As the documents confirmed, Tomlinson had been recruited, tested, and then employed by a federal agency—the CIA, most likely—as “asymmetrical intelligence-gathering personnel.”

  “My God,” he wailed when he told me, “I was a psychic spy. Like James Bond, man, only I never got to leave the damn room.”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I told him.

  I was referring not only to Stargate. Tomlinson had unwillingly participated in another CIA program, he discovered, that is not as well documented because files were ordered destroyed by Richard Helms, director of the CIA at the time.
r />   According to information provided by Wilson,

  The research project, code-named MKULTRA, was established to counter Soviet advances in brainwashing techniques. It was designed to study the use of biological and chemical materials in altering human behavior, and also human memory.

  MKULTRA researchers demonstrated that human memory can be damaged or destroyed by electroshock treatments—Tomlinson was proof. But there was no way to selectively destroy memory, as Hollywood would have us believe.

  Far easier, they discovered, was introducing specific, detailed memories of events that, in fact, never occurred. Give a subject a combination of drugs and shock treatments, for instance, show them a film of a murder scene over and over, the subject would soon be convinced he was guilty.

  “You had nothing to do with sending a bomb, or killing Naval personnel,” the former president told Tomlinson. “You already know that. The information was in the documents I provided. But I wanted you to hear it from my own lips. Feel better?”

  Tomlinson was looking at him affectionately. “You are a good one, Sam. I wish you would’ve run for a second term. We need you, man.”

  According to polls taken after the stand he took in Panama, Kal Wilson could have won the presidency again—but the mention of a second term was still an unwelcome subject.

  He pointed abruptly to the door and said to Tomlinson, “Give me a few minutes alone with Ford.”

  AFTER TOMLINSON EXITED, WILSON TOLD ME, “YOU never admitted that you are one of the thirteen plank members of the Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group. I want you to sit in on a little meeting I’ve arranged with three of those plank members. Right here. Are you willing?”

  It seemed absurd to lie but I had to. “I still don’t know what group you’re talking about, sir.”

  He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s my understanding that members of your group trained and operated separately for security reasons. You’ve never met.”