Ten Thousand Islands

by Randy Wayne White

  I said, “This was five hundred years ago?”

  JoAnn looked at the paper. “The thing I just read, about killing children and the sodomites, it was written in 1568, a little over four hundred years ago.”

  After Tocayo hacked Salvador to death, the priest returned from Havana to discover that Tocayo had murdered fifteen principal men of neighboring villages and eaten their eyes. It was a belief of the Calusa that a man’s permanent soul resides in the pupil of his eyes. The Calusa weren’t cannibals, but Tocayo was. As Lopez de Velasco wrote, “They say that their idol eats human men’s eyes.”

  Tocayo had made himself a human idol.

  The priest found Tocayo and his captains holding a celebration and dancing with the heads of four chiefs, kicking their heads through the shell courtyards as if playing at sport.

  Tocayo had also taken for himself the golden medallion—a chaguala—and the wooden totem, both considered sources of great power.

  I leaned a little closer to JoAnn, listening carefully as she read, “‘Fray Castillo believes that these two idols possess unholy authority. Now Tocayo guards them jealously and laughs when we ask to examine them. He tells us that Light is in one of the idols, Darkness is in the other. They are the source of all his strength and he will not part with them.

  “‘But he has kept his word on other matters. He now kneels before the cross. He is serving Your Holiness as he promised. I know that Tocayo is not a tool of the Devil. He is a tool of the One True God.’”

  JoAnn turned to me. “Dorothy found them both. The gold medallion and the wooden totem. When she was digging on the bank of that canal.”

  “How do you know they’re the same artifacts? Maybe the Calusa had several.”

  “Tomlinson says they’re the same ones.”

  “Ah.”

  “He seems pretty certain of it.”

  “I’m not surprised. Omniscience is one of his specialties.”

  One thing was clear, though: someone wanted those artifacts. Wanted them badly enough to risk several break-ins. Wanted them badly enough to dig up the grave of a long-dead child. Maybe wanted them badly enough to come after me. Because that was the night, a Friday night, the foggiest night of the year, when a sensitive and civilized dope surprised two intruders on his boardwalk.

  Me, the sensitive and civilized dope.

  The next morning, we were gone—on our way to Marco.

  7

  Marco Island is a community of block-and-stucco, landscaped lots, fairways and beach condos, everything laid out as symmetrically as a Midwestern community college. It illustrates the tidy Toledo-by-the-Sea approach to development that has become the template of modern Florida. The effect is all the more striking because Marco lies several miles deep into the confluence of a great saw grass and mangrove wilderness.

  Until the mid-sixties, Marco was a fishing and clamming village. Enter three brothers, the Mackles, who decided to work a classic Florida finesse, but on a grand scale: presell lots to snow-weary northerners and use the cash to finance the infrastructure of an entire city; a city that had yet to be built.

  For months, the Mackles ran ads in major newspapers touting a new golf and retirement resort in the Ten Thousand Islands. It was billed as a world-class facility even though no facilities existed. What did exist were artists’ renderings and little diorama cities that real estate agents flogged at high-pressure sales “parties” that promised free trips to Florida.

  The gambit worked. It’s easy to push sunshine in The Great Gray North. They sold millions in raw property and used the profit to build precisely what they had promised, including a mazework of canals to create more “waterfront” lots.

  The result? Marco was an environmentalist’s nightmare, but a triumph of business ingenuity.

  In recent years, development has stabilized and the community has found its own character and direction, though that was not easily seen as I summited the Marco bridge in my old pickup. From the peak of the bridge, the island spread away below: residential areas in computer-chip patterns, then a jagged fringe of high-rise condos on the beach.

  I’d followed JoAnn down from Sanibel—not easy to do, because she was a fast, confident driver in her black Lexus. I had to keep my truck floored much of the time just to keep up. Prior to leaving, she’d told me she wasn’t looking forward to the trip, and not just because of the funeral. “I come back like maybe every couple of years, and it’s always the same,” she said. “More houses, more building, more traffic.”

  I’d pointed out that the same could be said of Sanibel. The same, in fact, could be said of all Florida.

  “I know, but it’s different when it’s the place where you grew up. That used to be a heck of a nice little island. Real friendly and simple. Piney wood houses along with the new stuccos, and still lots of barefoot kids. The monsters they got there now, they’re like stamped from a mold. They say it’s still Marco Island, but it’s not. Not the way I remember it. What they did was, they built something over Marco but they kept the name.”

  I’ve listened to enough bitter fellow Floridians to know there is no sensible response to their lament nor to their rosy remembrances of the past. There are a couple of reasons. In a state so young that nearly everyone is only three or four generations removed from somewhere else, the birthright of “natives” is easily argued. Also, Floridians have chopped up, dredged and reconstituted their homeland as eagerly as the most thoughtless of outsiders. Or happily sold it to developers who did worse.

  So I said nothing as I listened to her.

  I’d driven because I was going to continue on down to Key Largo after the service. JoAnn was not. Also, my truck has a trailer hitch. If I was going to be on the Keys for a few days, I would need my boat. I told her it was because I wanted to hunt some big October bonefish.

  Only partially true.

  For me, being near water without a boat creates a sense of confinement that approaches neurosis. Claustrophobia is a word that comes close to describing what I feel.

  I followed her as she made a turn, and another. Then she pulled into a 7-Eleven. Got out of her car shaking her head and said, “Damn it all, Ford! There’s so much new building been done, I’m not sure I can find the cemetery. I know it’s off Bald Eagle, but it’s such a little bitty thing. Let me run in and ask.”

  I sat in my truck, watching JoAnn through the convenience store window. Her face was framed by a Lotto decal and an ATM sign. She was standing at the counter, speaking to the cashier. I watched her nod and nod again. I watched her expression change as she looked outside toward me. Then she was crossing the parking lot, a wry smile on her face.

  “Know what the clerk told me? She said she didn’t think Marco had a cemetery ’cause everyone was boxed up and shipped back home. No one really stayed here. Isn’t that hilarious?”

  “You’re kidding.” I started the truck. “So next we stop at a gas station and ask directions. Or buy a map.”

  “We don’t have to. When I looked out the window, guess what I saw? I knew we had to be close.”

  I looked where she was pointing and saw an American flag high in the breeze above a hedge of concrete buildings, a beige Church of God, a Citgo Station and more buildings beyond.

  The cemetery was hidden back in there. Marco had squeezed up around it.

  Tomlinson was weaving a little. He couldn’t stand straight; had to brace himself against a tree for support as he told me, “We’ve got to look in the casket, man. I hate it. Hate it. For you, no prob-leem-oh. A man of science. No religious affiliations, zero politics, not much sensitivity that anyone’s ever noticed. So it’s no big deal for you. But me, it’s a whole different gig. Know why?”

  Tomlinson was drunk. Or high. Probably both. Easy enough to tell when I got close. The odor. “Tell me, old buddy.”

  “Reason is, you’ve never been trapped in the spirit world with a bunch of screaming ghost raiders. I have. So it’s not like I’m eager to bend over a coffin, stand there
with my nose open and risk those bastards climbing back into my brain. Seriously, man, the little devils consider LSD their own personal fucking ski trail. Keep in mind, this girl had a very ancient soul. There was lots and lots of karmic traffic.”

  We were standing side by side beneath two pine trees not far from Dorothy Copeland’s open grave. They’d used a portable hydraulic sling to raise the casket, then screened it from view with a green tarp that was chin-high. The tiny cemetery wasn’t much bigger than a baseball infield, so the canvas wall dominated the area. There were a few old headstones, bone-white, showing the decades, and a war memorial with a bench near a fountain and a flag.

  I said, “Is that the funeral director over there?”

  Tomlinson moaned softly, touched his forehead as if checking for a fever. “His name’s Barry Caldwell, the one who looks like Lumpy on Leave it to Beaver. That’s him. Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard. Demons up the nose. You don’t have to bend over the coffin, no need for you to get near it. You’ve already told me what we’re looking for. If it’s there, it won’t be hard to find.”

  “I’m not saying I won’t look. I’m just saying that I’ve got to play this very safe. Wear a face mask, keep a little distance. I’ve made enough wallets for one lifetime.”

  “Um-huh. You spoke to Caldwell, the director?”

  “He’s a funeral rep, actually. Yeah, a pretty nice guy. He was going to hire a minister for what they call the ‘committal service,’ but once he found out I was an ordained Buddhist priest, he turned the whole thing over to me. With Della’s permission, of course.”

  “Wise choice. Should be an interesting funeral.”

  “You betcha.”

  “Watch you don’t stagger and fall into the hole.”

  “I can always count on you for encouragement, Doc. That’s the kind of advice that actually helps.”

  Tomlinson looked the part. He was wearing billowing white pants and a shirt made out of some kind of linen-like material. It gave him an East Indian countenance except for his goatee and long hair, which was still in beaded dreadlocks.

  “What about the cop? Did you speak with the cop?”

  Through the trees, sitting on a marble bench beneath the flag, I could see Della Copeland hunched over a package of Kleenex, dabbing at her eyes as a man in a gray suit made notes. Standing nearby was her friend and coworker, Betty Lynn, a massively buxom blonde. Della was dressed in a black skirt and blouse. She looked smaller, more time-damaged than JoAnn had described her. When we’d shaken hands earlier, her eyes had the stricken, glazed look of a bomb victim. I doubted if she even heard my name.

  “Nope, I avoid cops,” Tomlinson said. “I leave all screwheads and other uniformed types to you. Especially now, you wearing slacks and a black blazer. They’ll open right up to Mr. America.”

  “Thanks so much. What about the other people? Any idea who they are?”

  There were more than two dozen men and women standing individually and in groups, most of them using scattered pockets of shade to filter the heat. Mostly adults but a few college-age people, standing tight and dressed of a style. A very large gathering at a cemetery that had so few parking places I’d had to pull off and park on the side of the road.

  Right now, I could look through the trees and see my boat strapped tight on its trailer. It was something nice to look at while waiting for the funeral to begin. Like certain fish, the skiff’s lines were perfect and functional. It gave me pleasure.

  Tomlinson said, “Curiosity seekers, most of them.” His eyes began to pan, as if focusing for the first time. “Probably some real freaks scattered in there, too. Jesus. Witchcraft pretenders, some devil-worshipping vermin. Take your pick. Holy shit, check out the kid with the purple spiked hair! Pimply little heathen would chew through your chest to get to your heart.”

  There were four punker types, all dressed in black T-shirts, all with hair dyed in Easter egg shades. Lots of complicated body piercings, eyebrows and ears. Tomlinson had singled out the tallest male, a big sinewy guy with tattoos and something silver gleaming from his lip.

  I said, “You’ve been smoking, haven’t you? That crap you smuggled in from Belize. How many, six bales? The stuff that smells like mold from toadstools.”

  He sniffed his sleeve. “Dear God, it’s that obvious?” Then he said, “Three bales. Not six. I’m prone to exaggerate when I’m sober.”

  I said, “What’s obvious is the paranoia. You become extremely paranoid. But worse, it seems to scramble your judgment. Not a very healthy side effect, old buddy.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Paranoia, well … if that’s the only problem, rest easy, amigo. Paranoia and me, we’ve spent so many nights together, the fucker owes me rent. Some security damage, too. I’ve got Dr. Leary to thank for that.”

  “Then consider how it messes up your judgment.”

  “That’s something to worry about.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you say it’s true, it must be. I know you wouldn’t lie.”

  “I’m not.”

  He was pursing his lips, thinking about it. “Then I need to start cutting back a tad. That’s what I should do. Use my supplies for research purposes only—I’m a scientist, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  He became contemplative. “What I may do is come up with some pleasant-tasting filtering device. Reduce the effects but not the enjoyment. I’m certain someone somewhere has the technology. One of my old classmates from Harvard, perhaps.”

  “What you better do is trot across the street, wash your face off and get some coffee. You don’t sober up—and I mean fast—you’re going to make an absolute ass of yourself.”

  “I will! Rest easy about that, old friend. I’ve dealt with this circumstance so many times in my life that my brain has adapted.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “I’m very serious.” He placed a confidential shoulder against my arm before explaining. “I’ve developed what I think of as my ‘Lifeguard Twin.’ Imagine, if you will, a Tomlinson clone locked inside a tiny room in my brain. In an emergency situation, I open the door and the little fellow skips out and rescues my ass. Happens every single time I need him. It doesn’t matter what a slobbering, pathetic wreck I’ve made of myself, he grabs the controls and takes charge.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Oh, the little bastard’s unbelievable! He speaks articulately through my mouth. He walks steadily on my legs. He’s extremely courteous to law-enforcement types and attentive to attractive women. Unfortunately, the limped-dicked fool hasn’t got the hang of intercourse, but we both have high hopes.” Tomlinson leaned closer. “Personally, I think my Lifeguard Twin is further proof of evolution.”

  I said, “Uh-huh, no doubt,” as I waved my hand back and forth in front of my nose. His breath smelled of rum and halothane gas and charred cannabis. Awful.

  Halothane? Yes, no doubt. Smelled exactly like industrial insecticide.

  “Damn it, Tomlinson, you don’t learn. You’ve made some new little doctor friends down on the Keys. Didn’t you? Medical types, hipster surgeons with canisters.”

  He sniffed the air primly. “People on Key Largo aren’t like you, Marion. They know how to enjoy life. They’re eager to share. Fun’s a good thing, that’s the way they think.”

  “You’ve got a funeral service to perform. You can barely walk.”

  “Don’t chide me, please. You can see into my eyes but you can’t see out of them. Lighten up. I feel shaky enough as it is.”

  “There’s a 7-Eleven across the street. Get going. Wash your face and buy some coffee.”

  “I will, I will! In the meantime, though”—he used his chin to indicate the punk rockers—“don’t turn your back on that evil little bastard.”

  8

  The reason there were so many people was because, the day before, the Marco Island Eagle had run a frontpage story about
Dorothy and the artifacts she’d found, as well as a reprint of the story about her suicide. They’d used old file photographs. The Miami Herald had a shorter piece in its Florida section, too. There was also a reporter from the National Enquirer who’d been calling Della, wanting to do a story.

  Della had refused.

  Detective Gary Parrish told me this, as I stood with him and the funeral rep away from the waiting crowd.

  Parrish had a wide, West African face, his head shaved clean; skin a lighter brown than his arms and neck. He had the look of a high school power forward who’d let things go, and the demeanor of someone who’d been at his job too long. It was a mixture of reserve and indifference. Sooner or later, all cops put up shields. Sometimes the shields are for protection, sometimes they are a device.

  “Grave robbing in Miami, yeah, it happens a dozen times a year, maybe more,” he said. “It’s almost always the Santeria people, because they need artifacts. The people from down on the islands, all that voodoo shit. Skulls, a piece of bone for their ceremonies. It’s like part of their culture, a religious thing. But on Marco? No one expected this.”

  The way they’d gotten into the grave was, they’d stolen a backhoe that had been parked beside the nearby church. The city was replacing a sewer line in the area. The backhoe had been there only a day or two. “It was one of those random deals,” Parrish said. “The idiot workers left the key in the machine. Whoever stole the backhoe probably saw it when they walked by, said to themselves, ‘Hey, lookee what we got here.’ And right next to the cemetery.”

  The perpetrators, Parrish said, ran over several stones to get to Dorothy’s grave, dug it open wide enough so they could drop down into the hole. “I don’t think they expected to find the cement vault down there, though. Those vaults, it’s a state law. You look at the cover? First, they use the backhoe to try and crack the thing open, then they got smart and just tilted it up and off.”