Hunter's Moon Read Free

dozen. When my wife was killed, some of them wept like children. Wray had that effect on people. Her decency, her humor, her . . . her”—the man’s voice caught, he swallowed—“Wray’s intellect, and sense of grace. Which means they can never know. They’re like family. When I say escape, I mean disappear .”
    I don’t follow politics, but even I was aware that he and his wife had been childhood friends, partners for life. Wray Wilson had been an inspiration to many. Born deaf, she’d earned a master’s degree before most kids her age—her future husband included—had graduated from high school.
    She’d been on a chartered flight, a humanitarian mission carrying medical supplies to Nicaragua. The plane had caught fire during an emergency landing near a volcano. Wray Wilson and six other people were killed.
    Distraught, the great man had demanded an international investigation. Later, he made headlines by hinting that his wife’s death wasn’t accidental.
    Grief is part of a complicated survival process, but it can also debilitate. I wondered if grief had unhinged the man. He was too young and vigorous to be senile. But mental illness might explain his behavior. What he was proposing was impractical, maybe irrational.
    I became agreeable in the way people do when they are dealing with the impaired. “I can empathize, sir. If a doctor told me I had a month to live, I’d want to . . . well, escape. So I understand, and I’m honored, but—”
    He interrupted. “Why makes you so damn certain you don’t have a month to live? Or two weeks?”
    â€œWell . . . I don’t know. You’re right, of course, but we all assume—”
    â€œNo, Dr. Ford, we don’t all assume. Your time may be more limited than you realize—that’s not necessarily a threat. It’s true of everyone, everywhere. And please don’t use that patronizing tone with me again. Do you read me, mister ?”
    Only Academy graduates and ex-fighter jocks can make the word “mister” ring like a slap in the face. He was both.
    The man might be nuts but he wasn’t feeble.
    I started over. “Look, I do empathize, but”—I gestured, indicating the room: wood ceiling, towels for curtains, rows of chemicals and specimen jars, books stacked on tables, fish magnified through aquarium glass—“but I’m a biologist. I don’t see how I can help.”
    â€œI’ve done the research and I can’t think of anyone more qualified.”
    â€œIt’s possible, sir, that you have the wrong man—”
    â€œNo. Don’t waste my time pretending . . . or maybe denial is a conditioned response in people like you. I know Hal Harrington. He’s your handler, isn’t he?”
    Harrington was a high-level U.S. State Department official and covert intelligence guru. I’d known him for many years.
    I replied, “Harrington? With an H ?” I pretended to think about it. “I’m not familiar with the name.”
    â€œMaybe if I remind you of a few details. Would that convince you?”
    â€œI really don’t know what you’re—”
    He held up a hand. “When I was in office, they said I had access to every classified document in the system. Baloney. After what happened in Cartagena, I asked for a dossier on you. Know what I got? Nothing. Or next to nothing. Later, I ran across other globe-trotting Ph.D.s with backgrounds just as murky as yours. Scientists, journalists, a couple of attorneys, even one or two politicians. That’s when I began to suspect.
    â€œI started digging. Insomniacs crave hobbies. I won’t tell you how but I discovered documents that hinted at the existence of a secret organization. An illegal organization, funded by a previous administration. Something called the ‘Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group.’ Only thirteen plank