Hunter's Moon Read Free Page B

way to the annual Halloween party at the friendliest of nearby islands: Cabbage Key, a popular bar and restaurant, accessible only by water. I’d have to do some acting. Pretend to be appropriately sloshed, tell agents I’d gotten lost in the fog.
    If they contacted Cabbage Key’s superb dining room, they would find my name on the guest list: Marion D. Ford, Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Reservation for one, admission paid in advance.
    Establishing plausible deniability is not a subject taught in college. The famous man was right: My past includes training in subjects other than marine biology.
    Nearby, I heard a heron’s reptilian growl. I was passing an oyster bar where wading birds had gathered—unusual for this time of night. Maybe they were grounded by fog. Was that possible? Or maybe feeding in the light of this full moon.
    I touched my paddle to the bottom. Felt shells crunch as the canoe pivoted with the current. Once again, I listened for the patrol boat. Nothing. Could still hear the distant outboard . . . could hear the river-rush of tide flushing seaward . . . then I was surprised to hear voices. Men’s voices whispering: a few staccato fragments, words indecipherable.
    Garbled by distance?
    No. They were close.
    I waited, using the paddle as a stake, my canoe pointing downtide like a weather vane.
    Water drizzled from leaves . . . yowl of raccoons . . . creak of trees . . . then another muffled exchange: two men, maybe three.
    The island was to my right. The voices came from my left. The men had to be in a boat. Or wading. The syllabic patterns were exotic, not English, not Spanish. That’s why it registered as garble. I didn’t hear enough to guess at the language.
    Fog is romantic in a cozy sort of way, but, in primitive lobes of our brain, it also keys primitive alarms. The alarms remind us that tribal enemies use fog as cover.
    During thunderstorms, people retreat in clusters, voices hushed. The same is true of the slow, silent storm that is fog. Men were out there in the gloom. Foreigners in a Florida backwater. Why?
    There were plausible explanations.
    I didn’t like any of them.
    A million-dollar bounty had been offered for the celebrated man’s head. My guess: They were here to collect it.
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    THE NIGHT THE CELEBRATED MAN APPEARED AT MY DOOR, I’d said to him, “If you travel outside the country, no security, what happens if the bad guys take you hostage, or worse? It could get some of our people killed, maybe even start a war. To be blunt, you’d be putting the nation at risk. Is that worth a couple weeks of personal freedom?”
    I’d expected indignation. Instead, he became philosophical, which is an effective cloaking technique. “History’s fickle. Small events have started wars. I suppose some minor event could also prevent war—who can predict? The only time I depend on men and nations to behave like they have any brains is when there’s no other choice. I’m speaking theoretically, of course.”
    Was he?
    â€œWho knows what I might stir up. The risks depend on where I go. And who you consider to be bad guys. It’s far more likely someone will take a shot at me in the States instead of in a country I’m not scheduled to visit.
    â€œThat’s another reason I’m eager to get on the road, Dr. Ford. Someone’s going to take that shot —soon, I think. My enemies view me as unfinished business. What they don’t suspect is, I have some unfinished business of my own.”
    He used his fighter pilot’s voice—a combat vet on a mission.
    â€œIt sounds like you have a target in mind.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œSomething to do with your wife’s death?” I knew the accident was still under investigation. It had only been a few months.
    â€œPossibly. Her plane caught fire after it landed. Seven people killed, no survivors. Do you find that suggestive?”
    I shook