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Authors: Randy Wayne White

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BOOK: Hunter's Moon
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“Are you sure we have the right spot?”
I was sure. I recognized the bay and the layout of the ranch. Even so, I checked the telemetry receiver. The flashing dot was steady: Danson's wallet was somewhere on the ground below.
“Then there's something wrong. I don't like it.”
Nor did I.
Near the campfire, a couple of men were staring up at us. The men I'd seen cutting wood, possibly.
“Put me on the beach. I'll check it out.”
Tyner said, “Okay, but I'm going airborne the moment your feet touch sand,” meaning he suspected a trap.
THE MEN WERE
VAQUEROS
. THEY WORKED ON THE RANCH with cattle and horses. But they were nervous as I approached. Shifting their weight from foot to foot, machetes within easy reach.
They were relieved when I told them I was a friend of Juan Rivera.
“You are the
yanqui
named Ford?” one asked.
“That's right.”
“He told us you might return. The general was once a great
caballero
.” The
vaquero
smiled. “It is a shame we no longer have men like him.”
Men who work with horses and cattle are also sometimes called
caballeros,
the Spanish word for “knight.” The man was talking as if Rivera was dead.
“No,” the man explained, “the general is not dead. It is a way of speaking of people who lose their heart at a certain age.”
This was not a trap. These men knew Rivera.
The plane that floated on water, the
vaquero
said, had flown away more than an hour ago with Rivera and his
yanqui
friend aboard. Afterward, a helicopter landed. Men searched the house, and one of them tried to set the barn on fire. The man was very angry, the
vaquero
said, screaming profane words in a strange accent.
Lourdes.
“But we extinguished the fire. That is all we know.” Once again, the
vaquero
was shifting from foot to foot.
“Did the angry man ask you questions?”
“No. He did not see us. We . . . know who this man is. The stupid peasants in the mountains call him
‘Incendiario.'
A monster. We do not believe in monsters, but neither are we stupid.”
The two
vaqueros,
I realized, had watched from hiding until Lourdes was gone.
“How did you know it was
Incendiario
?”
“Because of the helicopter he uses. A yellow helicopter. The
Indios
speak of it. And also because”—the two men exchanged looks—“because one of his men fled and we could hear
Incendiario
's voice as he searched. He swore to burn the man alive if he found him. Even as his yellow helicopter left the ground,
Incendiario
was screaming.”
I said, “A man escaped? Where is he?”
The
vaqueros
exchanged looks once again. The man who had not spoken said, “Do you have a paper that proves you are this man Ford?”
I showed them my passport.
The men studied it so intently that I realized they could not read.
“The man who escaped rolled from the helicopter while the others were searching the house. His hands were tied behind his back, and we are the only ones who saw him. He ran along the beach to the corrals, then past the barn. But he stumbled as he climbed a fence. He fell into the pen where we keep the
puercos.
“Those animals are wild. We trap them in the forest, and they sometimes kill our dogs.”
It was a place, the
vaquero
said, where even
Incendiario
would not search.
Puercos.
Pigs.
It was Tomlinson.
 
 
 
TOMLINSON CALLED TO ME, “IF PIGS COULD FLY, MAN, I'D be pasted on some statue right about now!” Trying to be funny, but, instead, he sounded robotic, possibly in shock.
I was searching the pen with my flashlight, seeing black-haired hogs with tusks, belly-deep in slop after the rains, a Stygian nightscape too dark for the light I was using to probe.
But when I called Tomlinson's name, he answered, “Over here!,” then moaned something indecipherable before attempting a brave front.
If pigs could fly . . .
I used the flashlight to signal the helicopter—
Land immediately
—then ran around the outside of the pen, sweeping the beam back and forth until I saw a section of Tomlinson's arm and hand, skin white as rice paper, protruding above the pack. He was waving to be seen, either sitting in mud or on his back—I couldn't tell—surrounded, or pinned, by the hogs.
I vaulted the fence and landed in muck up to my calves. I was trying to get one of my boots free when Tomlinson yelled, “Don't show fear! They won't hurt you!”
I got the flashlight up in time to see two pony-sized boars charging me. The clicking of their tusks was the sound of bone on bone.
I wasn't going to risk it. I slogged back to the fence, got a leg over the top rail as one of the hogs grabbed me from below, locking onto a length of shoestring like an attack dog. The shoestring gave way and I fell backward off the fence, landing so hard it knocked the breath out of me. I came up fast, drawing my pistol, holding the flashlight along its barrel in a two-handed grip.
“Don't shoot them. They're my friends!”
Friends?
I
wanted
to shoot. It was one of the scariest things I'd ever experienced. But I touched the hammer release and used the flashlight instead.
The hogs scattered when they charged me and I could see Tomlinson plainly for the first time. He was sitting in mud, back erect, legs folded into full lotus position, arms thrust outward, fingers and thumbs making circles. Around each wrist were cuffs of frayed rope, his hands no longer tied. He squinted with the pain of the light in his eyes.
“I was afraid you were Praxcedes and came back for me. He was going to burn me tonight.” Tomlinson's voice was still monotone. Absurdly, he continued to meditate. Yes, in shock.
I was moving to the other side of the pen, hoping the pigs would follow. I said, “Tomlinson, get out of there. Lourdes is gone. You're safe now.”
A lie because he wasn't safe. The pigs were losing interest in me, snorting and gnashing their tusks as they refocused on Tomlinson. I had the gun out again, flashlight laid along the barrel. I touched a red laser dot to the head of the boar that was now chewing my shoestring.
“Praxcedes wanted my face for a surgical transplant. But he found out I'm the wrong blood type. He needs O-positive. Vue's O-negative, but the surgeon told him that could work. Praxcedes wanted you and the president to watch me burn.”
“Tell me later. Get out of that pen.”
“But there's no danger. You shouldn't have run.”
The boar would have been eating my leg right instead of my shoestring if I hadn't run.
I listened to Tomlinson tell me, “When I first fell in, I thought I was a goner, man. Pigs
all over
me. Know what they went for first? My
hams.
Funny or what? Instead of eating my butt off, though, they chewed my ropes. I communicated with them, man. They
freed me.
”
I said, “Uh-huh. Regular heroes.” I was moving the laser dot between the two boars. “I'm asking you as a favor, climb out of there.”
“Okay. But they're gonna miss their new buddy.”
I pulled the hammer back as Tomlinson got to his feet, slinging mud from his fingers. His pants had been ripped to tatters. I couldn't tell if he was injured. The pigs, I noticed, continued to root where he'd been sitting, playing tug-of-war with bits of plastic bag.
When he got to the fence, I hurried and helped him onto the ground. Fear is exhausting; shock is debilitating. Tomlinson was so weak, his legs were straw until he got an arm over my shoulder.
The stink was incredible.
“Sam and Rivera knew Lourdes was coming. How, I don't know, unless Sam locked onto my telepathic warning. Which is
possible
. It made Praxcedes crazy. Crazier. I had time to get my legs free. Man, I bounced out of that helicopter like a bunny.”
I said, “You need a bath in disinfectant. Pigs may like you, but bacteria don't play favorites.”
“Nope, salt water is best. Salt water cures anything. Whoops!” I was helping him toward the beach, but he stopped to pat the back of his pants. “I'm missing something, man. Hey!” He searched his front pockets, then tried his back pockets again—they had been ripped away.
“Damn. The pigs got Danson's wallet.” He was looking back at the sty. “I was going to return it to his family. It was inhuman what Lourdes did to that man. They tied him to a pole and used a blowtorch—”
I gave him a shake. “I know, I know. Don't talk about it.”
Tomlinson took a deep breath, shuddering as he inhaled, then let the breath go slowly. He was teetering near the abyss but fighting it.
“Okay . . . but I have to go back for his wallet—”
“
No.
I'll get it.”
He was still feeling for his pockets. “You're patronizing me, man. I can tell.”
“Exactly.”
I was watching the helicopter descend toward an open area between the ranch house and the beach. It looked like a spacecraft, with its blinking lights and powerful landing beam. I told Tomlinson that Vue was aboard and in good shape. The news buoyed him. Tomlinson is a resilient man. A lightning rod for positive energy, he describes himself, and maybe that's true. He seemed to rally.
“Doc, if you do go back”—it took me a moment to realize he was talking about Danson's wallet again—“it would be
nice
to find it for his family. But while you're there? I had some Ziploc baggies rolled up in my back pockets. About two ounces of prime weed.”
I shined the light toward the pen where the animals were still rooting among the remains of plastic bags.
“I thought pigs are evil but they're not. They're actually very mellow once you get to know them.”
I said, “It's probably because you're a vegetarian.”
 
 
 
SHANA WATERS TOLD ME, “I CALLED NEW YORK AND TOLD them about Walt. Until it's confirmed, though, and his relatives are notified, they'll hold the story.
Try,
anyway. A lot of TV people aren't going to get any sleep tonight.”
Tyner had given her a satellite phone, saying, “Keep it. Bring it along when you visit me in the jungle.”
Waters had replied, “Sure—when the Amazon freezes. I can tour your art collection.” Sarcastic but taking the phone, anyway.
She thought Tyner was kidding when he replied, “I'd
like
that. Most people don't consider shrunken heads art.”
Waters had spent the next hour on the phone, pacing between the porch and kitchen, where I had sliced a haunch of smoked beef, provided by the
vaqueros,
and opened canned beans and canned spaghetti I'd found in the cupboards.
Shana had also told New York that she knew where to find Kal Wilson—Panama City.
The amphib needed a lighted municipal airport to land at night. Panama City was the closest, but it wasn't a guess. We found a note inside the ranch house that was crumpled and partially burned. Presumably, it had been tacked to the door when Lourdes arrived.
If you came for my head, you will find it at the Panama Canal Administration Building, noon, tomorrow. Kal Wilson
Wilson knew a killer was coming. How?
Vue had the best explanation. The president wasn't forewarned telepathically, he was tipped-off tele
graphically.
Telegraph operators develop a unique style on the key. “Fist” is the term, Vue said. He and the president had been practicing Morse code together for months.
Wilson may not have known Lourdes was coming, but he knew it wasn't Vue who sent the message.
What Waters didn't share with New York were the specifics. Tomorrow's Independence Week celebration was a huge story and she wanted to be the only network reporter broadcasting live.
“It's what Walt would have done,” she told me. We were walking toward the Pacific, where rollers conveyed starlight before collapsing onto sand. “The network's going to send a crew from Miami first thing. Just in case, we're also arranging for a local crew to be standing by.”
It was 2:30 a.m., and I'd left the hammock I had commandeered as a bed, too restless to sleep. What I really wanted to do was go for a swim. But I had surprised Waters, who was standing on the porch smoking a joint. She wanted to walk with me.
When she offered the joint, I shook my head and asked, “Did Tomlinson give you that?” I'd thrown his clothes away while he was swimming and couldn't imagine where he'd hidden it.
BOOK: Hunter's Moon
12.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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