Everglades df-10

by Randy Wayne White

  Surprised by the unexpected. He was right about that. And Tomlinson often surprises me.

  I said slowly, “Yes. It is Geoff Minster. Exactly. Sally Carmel’s Miami husband. When did you meet him?”

  “Whoa, wait-Sally’s husband? That, I didn’t know. Very weird, man. A very far-out karmic linkage. To meet him yet not know he was married to our old buddy Sal.”

  Tomlinson has the amazing ability to react as if sober when the subject is sufficiently serious. He’s developed what he calls a “lifeguard twin” that is always waiting and ready, hidden within his brain. In an emergency situation, when drunk, Tomlinson calls upon the twin to speak articulately, to walk steadily, to be extremely courteous to law-enforcement types and attentive to attractive women.

  He seemed to be sober now, as I said, “Then explain how you know him.”

  “Remember I told you about the two pre-Columbian circles they found over in Dade County?”

  “I remember,” I said impatiently. “How does that have anything to do with Minster?”

  “Because Minster was the developer who was trying to build some mega-million-dollar high-rise luxury condo on the site. Built-in Starbucks, a little mall, high-tech security. You know the place, Brikell Pointe, located where the Miami River joins Biscayne Bay. Right near downtown Miami.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A little more than two years ago. I remember telling you about it.”

  I nodded. “So that’s the connection.”

  “Yep. Do you know where Cassadaga is?”

  Cassadaga is one of Florida’s stranger towns. It is northeast of Orlando, and well known for an enclave of oddballs who claim to be witches and warlocks.

  Tomlinson said, “In Cassadaga, there’s a group of mystics. A tight bunch of truly enlightened beings. I can’t tell you the name of the group. I took a vow of secrecy. This is an extremely successful, solid bunch. Not the usual flakes that I love so much.”

  He said, “Unlike the usual ones, the fakes and pretenders, they actually have the gift of telepathy, clairvoyance, all kinds of powers. Which means making money is easy for them. And they’ve made lots of it. Prescience. Don’t you love that word? What it combines and implies?”

  “What you’re telling me is that you’re a member of the group,” I said.

  “If you choose to come to that conclusion, I’m not going to argue, mi compadre. The point is, they- we -couldn’t allow Minster and his corporation to destroy something that’s not only an important archaeological site, but also a major Power Place. It’s an earth vortex, both the circles. Very powerful vortices. You’re familiar with the term?”

  “No, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear about it. All I’m interested in is how you know Minster.”

  Both of us walking again, Tomlinson made a calming motion with his hands. “I’ll make it quick. But you need to know what I’m talking about to understand how I met the guy. Okay?”

  When I didn’t reply, he said, “Okay, a quick lesson in earth energy. There are focal points for electromagnetic power. Hot spots you might call them, or vortices. Sometimes they’re rocky areas, water places, whole biospheres. Or sometimes they’re built by man. Pyramids or Indian mounds. A deep water spring, for instance. Volcanoes.”

  “Volcanoes,” I said. “That’s enough. I get the idea.”

  “Wait, you need to hear the rest. Vortices have a dominant force, either electric or magnetic. A very few possess both-Power Places we call them. Over the centuries, mystics, psychics-even alien visitors-it’s where they go to replenish their energy reserves. The Everglades? The Everglades is one of the world’s great Power Places. All those springs and vortices; no other place like it.”

  “Tomlinson, please don’t start talking about the Swamp Ape again. I’m still pissed off about you getting my truck stuck.”

  “Ahh-h-h. The skunk that nailed you when you were trying to push me out of the ditch. A touchy subject, yes.”

  I interrupted, “I don’t blame the skunk. I blame you. Only you. So do us both a favor, please don’t dwell on it.”

  He said, “Okay, okay, so back to the energy deal. It’s part of a force field that links everything. The earth. Our own bodies. Our souls. The energy’s produced by three key elements: iron, oxygen and silicon crystals. Quartz and silicon; it’s the same thing. Silicon Valley? That’s why computers will ultimately evolve to the point where they have their own spirituality, their own crystal souls.”

  I interrupted, hurrying him along, saying, “Okay, Minster was going to build on what you’d call a Power Place. I understand that, too. So what happened?”

  “What happened is, this group of Cassadaga mystics preformed a spiritual intervention. On Minster. Minster and his major partner.”

  “His partner. Okay, now we’re back on track. His business partner, was it a cult leader who calls himself Bhagwan Shiva?”

  It was my turn to surprise Tomlinson. His facial expression is normally passive, always congenial. Now, though, his face illustrated an uncharacteristic distaste-maybe even a little touch of anger in there.

  “Shiva,” he said. “Bingo. That’s what he calls himself. But it’s not his real name. He chose the name, like… like a Halloween mask. A disguise. It’s something to hide behind. Bhagwan means ‘Blessed one.’ Shiva means ‘Prophet.’ The dude we’re discussing, he’s neither.”

  I began to smile, “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you saying a bad word about anyone. You really don’t like him, do you?”

  “Never met him; never want to meet. He’s a cult leader, and you know me, man: I’ve never found a religion I didn’t like. Do you know what religion really is? Religion, any legitimate religion, it consists of rules of morality linked by love. That’s it.

  “What Shiva’s done is steal the worst parts of three or four faiths, and he uses them to feed on weakness. A lot of it’s taken from Scientology; the science-fiction writer deal? There’s a very heavy indoctrination program. They do what they call ‘cross-auditing,’ trying to rid themselves of a kind of virus implanted in humans by space aliens a billion years ago-which is cool. I’ve got no beef with Scientology. But what Shiva does is use it to control people, not elevate them.

  “The guy he really models himself after, though, is Bhagwan Shree-he’s dead, now-but he had a couple of hundred meditation centers around the world. He preached free love, that getting rich was good. So Shiva’s stepped in, made himself the new Bhagwan. He’s part carnival act, part like those motivational shysters you see on late-night TV. It’s still all about energy, man. Negative and positive. The guy who calls himself Bhagwan Shiva, he’s a black hole. A power-zapper, and he just can’t get enough. The non- Bhagwan, that’s the way I think of him. Evil -I think of him as that, too.”

  “You and your group of mystics confronted him and Minster? But you said you never met Shiva.”

  “I said we performed a spiritual intervention to stop construction. The group I’m talking about, they can get into some dark mojo if it’s required. You ever hear of a voodoo thing called an ‘assault obeah’? Get the right shamans involved, you can suck the life energy right out of your target.”

  I said, “You can’t be telling me your friends are capable of murder.”

  “What I’m telling you is, someone can die without being murdered. But what they decided to use on Minster was all positive, man. Lots of meditation and some heavy-duty prayers.

  “But Minster had been drained by the non-Bhagwan. Shiva, he’s like

  … well, remember, in the movie The Wizard of Oz? That scene with the witch’s soldiers, the ones with the tails and spears? They’re marching into the castle, shouldering their spears, chanting what you think is ‘OH-eee- ohhhhhh… weeee-OHHH-one.’”

  Tomlinson was singing it now. “‘OH-eee-ohhhhhh… weeee-OHHH-one.’”

  I said, “Sure. Even I know that scene.”

  Tomlinson said, “What the witch’s soldiers are actually singi
ng are lyrics. Only you have to listen close to understand them. What they’re singing, over and over, is: ‘Oh, we loath-h-h-h-he… the OLD one.’ We loathe the Old One. Meaning the Evil One. That’s Shiva. He’s evil, man.”

  I asked, “How do you know this stuff?” I was still back on The Wizard of Oz.

  He flapped his bony hands at me- forget it -as he continued, “What I’m saying is, Minster was under Shiva’s control. So mind-zapping him was like trying to drill through solid steel. Which is why we went to see Minster. Two of our group’s leaders and myself.”

  “You made an appointment at his office.”

  “You kidding? People like us, we’d have a better chance getting an audience with the governor. No, we confronted him at the construction site.

  “When he shook hands with me, he had this expression, like he was touching someone’s dirty handkerchief. We didn’t exactly become chums. But there was one of us, a woman, he really seemed to dig her. So she did most of the talking. A very cool lady-she doesn’t want anyone to know she really has the powers she has. She’s the private kind.”

  I said, “It’s hard to believe that she convinced Minster and Shiva not to build their condo complex. Not with that much money involved.”

  Tomlinson shrugged. “I don’t know. After the first meeting, I was out of the picture. My services were no longer needed. But construction stopped on the Tequesta Circle-that’s what we called it. So something happened.”

  “You said this was about two years ago.”

  “Yeah. Maybe a little more.”

  “Could you contact your lady friend and ask her about Minster? Six months back, he disappeared. Fell off a fishing boat, presumed dead. Now Sally’s stuck with a lot of emotional baggage, plus some big financial decisions to make. It would be good to find out what we can. It might help her.”

  “Minster’s disappeared? Jesus, you’re kidding.” Tomlinson had stopped again; sobered even more at the news. “Did they find the body?”

  “No. But the court has, apparently, been presented with enough evidence to order that a death certificate be issued.”

  He was tugging at his ponytail, biting the ends of his stringy hair-a familiar nervous mannerism. “That sounds exactly like it, man. Just what I was talking about.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Sometimes saving a sacred place takes extreme methods. What happened to Minster, Doc, it sounds just like an assault obeah. A very dark and powerful force. The body disappears, right along with the soul.”

  chapter eleven

  Karlita told us, “Why not let me try? Let me hold the photo, tune in on the vibrations. The Key West police, the Dade County Sheriff’s Department, they’ve all used me to find missing people. It’s one of my specialties.”

  We were sitting on the stern of Tomlinson’s trunk- cabined, salt-bleached Morgan Out Island sailboat, No Mas. He’d recently had her hauled, scraped, painted and refitted for an extended cruise he had planned-another symptom of his desire to escape.

  She now had a new little Yanmar diesel (though the man seldom resorted to using power), a high-amp alternator, inverter, wind generator, an autopilot and a very powerful Bose sound system. Even so, the cabin retained the familiar odors of oiled teak, kerosene, electronic wiring, patchouli incense, sandalwood and the musky smell of marijuana.

  It was crowded. There were five of us sitting around the stern cockpit and on the roof of the cabin bulkhead: Karlita, Tomlinson, DeAntoni, myself and Sally. Tomlinson was sitting cross-legged, meditation style to my right. When Karlita spoke, I nudged his knee with mine and, in the glow of blazing moonlight, did my best to glare at him.

  The entire evening, I’d tried to avoid her, yet, over and over, Tomlinson had steered her to me, smiling his mild, Buddha smile. Which is how she’d met Sally, then DeAntoni, who, it turned out, was a fan of her weekly television show as well as of her nightly cable TV infomercials.

  “I got what you call insomnia, Miz Karlita, so you and me, we’ve spent lots’a late nights together.”

  The woman loved that, vamping a little as she replied, “Oh really? You lying there in bed all alone? I bet we’ve shared some very special moments, just you and me. Am I right?”

  DeAntoni missed the implications of that; continued to smile and nod as he told her, “I think you’re one of the most beautiful women on the tube. Honest. I’m not just saying that.”

  Which guaranteed Karlita would be with us the rest of the night, tagging along, listening to everything we had to say and not shy about commenting.

  Now here she was on Tomlinson’s boat, hair hanging long over her right shoulder, dressed in Arabic-looking scarves, red and black, that showed that she was braless, very comfortable with her body, bare legs and thighs visible when she walked or sat with legs crossed, which she was doing now.

  DeAntoni said, “Know what the weirdest thing is? I almost called you. It was the night you had the guy on who could bend metal just touching it. I’m sitting there and it comes to me: Hey, maybe the beautiful psychic could help me with Mrs. Minster’s case.”

  He’d already told her about Sally’s husband, and the photo.

  Sounding flattered, Sally said to him, “You really seem to care.”

  DeAntoni said, “Sure, it’s my job. Plus, I think you’re one nice lady.”

  “That’s a very kind thing to say.”

  “I mean it. Which is why I’ve started feeling, well, I guess protective’s the word. It’s the kind of guy I am. I live alone, not even a cat, so who else I got to look after? All that insurance money involved, you could attract every kind of shark and con man around. Plus, your husband was hanging with a rough crowd. You ever do any reading about the Church of Ashram?”

  “Enough to know that the people there scare me.”

  DeAntoni said, “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. From what I’ve read, they’re nasty when it comes to revenge. People who piss them.. . people who cross them, make them mad. Out west, in this one little town, his followers went to the only restaurant and contaminated the salad bar with salmonella. The whole town got sick, so they couldn’t get out and vote. Murder, too-they’ve been accused of that. Of making people disappear.”

  “Like Geoff,” Sally said softly.

  DeAntoni said, “Yeah, like your husband. So I’ve been keeping a real close eye on you.”

  To the television psychic, Sally said, “You’re right. He’s kind.”

  Then, looking at me, she said, “I’d like her to hold the photograph. If she has a power, it was given to her by God, not any sort of witchcraft. So let’s give her a chance.”

  Holding the photo in both hands, eyes closed, the television psychic did her act.

  It took her half an hour to tell that Minster was dead; that he really had drowned.

  She ended, saying, “It was his penance, his own way of finding salvation and deliverance. You can rejoice in that.”

  As she finished, a warm gust of air bloomed out of the mangroves, dense with iodine and sulfur. No Mas, at anchor, shifted beneath the stars like a slow weather vane.

  I tried to change the subject, but Sally wasn’t done with it. After a few minutes, she said, “So Geoff really is gone. I feel bad because we’d become strangers.”

  “People change,” Tomlinson said gently. “No one really knows what goes on in the heart of another human being. We probe and pretend. But few of us ever truly connect with another.”

  I said, “It seems odd for someone like your husband, the entrepreneurial type-an intelligent guy-to be taken in by a cult leader.”

  “I would’ve agreed until I started learning about it,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how many successful people join the Ashram. Some of the names-famous people; people with money-I was shocked.”

  Still speaking softly, in his reflective mode, Tomlinson said, “She’s right. The Ashram and organizations like it appeal to two basic types: the successful, proactive sort and the homeless.

  “I was t
elling Doc, a lot of it’s stolen from Scientology. If you work hard, stay disciplined, do what they call your ‘au diting,’ you’ll keep moving up the spiritual ladder. Goal-oriented people like that.”

  He added, “I think for some of them that there’s so much pressure in their professions, it’s a relief to finally let go. To stop worrying, and have someone tell them what to do for a change.”

  Sally said, “That’s what happened to Geoff. He’d already started building his theme villages. Worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days, then couldn’t sleep at night, worrying over details, money.”

  I said, “Theme villages? I thought he did shopping malls. That sort of thing.”

  “In the beginning, yes, malls were his specialty. But then he came up with this theme-village idea-he was a genius when it came to marketing.”

  Geoff’s idea was a variation of the theme-park industry that has become synonymous with the plasticized, theater ized and stucco grotesquerie that too many people believe is Florida. It was to buy up large tracts of raw land in Florida and south Georgia, and build gated, turnkey villages. Each village would have a unique theme, built to attract people who shared passionate interests.

  He built his first theme community in the rolling pasture-lands north of Gainesville. It was called Cross Country-a lush, secure village designed to appeal to fitness hobbyists.

  There were miles of wooded running trails and bike paths. There were lap pools and fitness centers. There were artificial rock towers designed to challenge beginner, intermediate and expert climbers. The village employed its own staff of triathlon, marathon and fitness coaches-all part of the monthly maintenance fees.

  Cross Country was such a success that Minster began to build three carbon-copy villages-one outside Atlanta, another near Lauderdale, the third, north of Cape Coral.

  “It was way too much, too soon,” Sally said. “That’s when he began to have cash-flow problems. It got worse and worse until he just couldn’t handle it anymore. Instead of hustling off to the office every day, he began to avoid work. Hated the mention of it. Same with his obligations.