Frisbees were popular, too. The church must have designed its own. Each plastic disc was a black-and-white yin-yang symbol stamped with CAMI, the church’s initials. The air was filled with their slow, arching ascents. Prayer wheels, I heard one person call them.
The Archangels were maintaining high visibility. Shiva’s security people, dressed in black, weight-lifter types, male and female, were cruising in their golf carts, letting their authority be seen.
So far, I hadn’t seen any guards that I recognized.
Not that I would have minded.
I was in that kind of mood.
I’d talked to Detective Podraza twice during the day. They’d found no sign of Sally, no witnesses, no clue to where she might be, despite press conferences and expanding media coverage. They were, however, accumulating some crime-scene evidence. He’d also told me that he’d spoken to the Sanibel police. They’d vouched for me, so his manner, though still professional, was slightly friendlier.
“The security camera at the front gate shows Frank and Sally’s cars leaving, then both cars coming back,” he said.
I said, “They came by boat. Whoever shot Frank and the old guy, they were smart enough to come by water. Unless you’ve got something else on the security cameras.”
Podraza said, “That’s a possibility we’re considering.”
I didn’t expect him to provide any other details, and he didn’t.
I added, “I’m no expert, but I’ve read that a kidnap victim’s first twenty-four hours are critical.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mrs. Minster’s cousin, Belinda. If the lady was our own sister, mother-name it-we couldn’t be working this case any harder. A double homicide and a kidnapping. That’s about as bad as it gets. And you’re right-the longer she’s gone, the less chance of finding her alive.”
When I said that, if she was already dead, her body was probably out in Biscayne Bay, Podraza replied, “We have boats looking. And you’re right again. In an abduction-murder, getting rid of the body is always the biggest problem, because it’s evidence found on the body that usually nails them.”
What he wanted to know was why I’d guessed that both victims had been shot with a. 22 caliber.
I told him the truth: Like my suspicions about Izzy, it was a hunch. Something about the way the guy looked, the way he handled himself. Israeli intelligence, the Mossad, uses the. 22 Beretta as its signature weapon of assassination. Only a sociopath would put two innocent men in the trunk of a car and execute them, and the Mossad signature was the sort of touch a sociopath might try to imitate.
Podraza said, “I’ll be honest. The first time we talked, I got the impression you might be a kind of kook. But the Sanibel police chief told me that if you had some suggestions, I’d be smart to listen. So I did try to find out about the guy.
“I contacted the church’s main office. But cult religions, law enforcement, we don’t get along. Family members are always asking us to help get their sons and daughters out. I didn’t expect the church to be cooperative, and they weren’t. There’s no way I can check the guy out if I don’t even have his last name.”
I told Podraza, “Izzy’s last name. I can come up with that. I’ll call you tonight.”
I’d looked out the window of my lab, and saw that Tomlinson’s dinghy was tethered to the stern of No Mas. I got on the VHF radio, hailed him, and we switched channels. He’d told me earlier that he was going to Sawgrass to view what he called “Shiva’s Easter sunset carnival show.”
He sounded shocked when I said I wanted to go along.
“I thought we were going separately because all you wanted to do is see the tarpon. That you were going way earlier.”
I replied, “My interests have broadened.”
On the drive down, he told me that Billie Egret, Ginny Egret, James Tiger, her aunts and uncles were also attending the Cypress Ashram, all as Shiva’s special guests. Them, plus some members from Tomlinson’s secret group of Cassadaga psychics, who weren’t invited but were going anyway. He said they would be sprinkled among the crowd.
“We have no choice. Something big’s going on, so we’ve decided to do another spiritual intervention. The Non-Bhagwan has Billie’s people conned. They’re almost convinced they should go into partnership with him. All of them except Billie. She’s still standing strong, but she needs our help. She’ll be really glad you’re there.”
I had a different kind of help in mind.
That morning, during my run with Dewey, I’d nearly collapsed from exhaustion. But I’d completed the three miles-and at her brutal pace. The swim didn’t go much better. I stopped twice to vomit salt water.
But I finished the swim, too.
I was tired; still had a trace of hangover shakes. For the first time in months, though, I felt focused, energized by purpose.
So now it was 6:30 P.M. The parking lot adjoining Sawgrass’s outdoor amphitheater was jammed, and we were being swept along by the crowd. Tomlinson had come for his reasons. I’d come for my own. I was going to find Izzy.
Once I found him, if I got the slightest whiff of suspicion that he was involved with Frank’s death and Sally’s disappearance, I would devise a way to separate him from the group, isolate him, and I would then do whatever was required to make him talk.
It was something I was good at.
Why had it taken me so many years to admit it?
As we walked along, Tomlinson said, “We’re plenty early. Billie told me the main show’s supposed to start a little before sunset. That’s at eight, right?”
He knew that, every morning of my life, I check the tide tables.
I said, “Around eight, yeah. Seven-fifty-seven, to be precise.”
Actually, the show had already started. The Cypress Ashram had become a mini-stadium. The stepped levels of seating were already half full, and more people were rivering in, trying to get as close as they could to the stage.
The stage was attached to an acoustic dome that looked like a giant clamshell. The first time I’d seen it, the theater had seemed to consist of nothing more than tile, wood and stucco, built at the edge of a cypress pond. What was not readily evident was that the structure was a technological marvel, loaded with computers, lights and sophisticated electronic equipment.
I remembered Carter McRae telling us that Shiva’s show was better than anything we’d find in Vegas. I now got the first inkling of a confirmation.
The stage was bare, yet it was not bare. Standing, facing the growing audience, were three translucent men, twice normal height. They had glittering skin and flowing, brightly colored robes. Yet, you could look through them and see the wall beyond. One was Jesus-the standard image you see in children’s Bibles. The other was of a smiling, then laughing, Buddha. Standing between them was an equally happy Bhagwan Shiva.
The men were animated. Walking. Hugging. Spreading their arms wide as if to embrace the audience.
Orbiting above the three was a perfect miniature solar system; nine planets revolving around a smoldering sun, the earth a brilliant, lucent blue-green. The planets orbited to the slow wash-and-draw sound of waves on a beach. The sound seemed to come from every direction-behind us, from the stage, from the tops of the cypress tress as well, even from the ground below.
As I stopped, trying to comprehend what it was I was seeing, what I was hearing, Tomlinson said, “They’re holograms, man. Animated laser photos. And they got this whole place wired for sound. Disney World in the Everglades. Amazing.”
We were standing at the top of the bowl of seats, near the life-sized bronze statue of Shiva. The sound of the waves was hypnotic. If I allowed my mind to drift even for a moment, the pace of my own breathing began to match the rhythm of the waves.
I noticed that men and women in the stands were all sitting quietly, hands folded with palms upward in their laps, as if eager to join the rhythm, to give themselves over.
We stood and watched for a couple of minutes. As we did, a re
cording of Shiva’s deep voice joined the sound of the waves. I listened to his voice say, “A hologram is a three-dimensional photograph created by lasers. Like all things, it possesses a spiritual lesson to be learned. To create a hologram, an object is first bathed in the light of a laser. Then a second laser beam is bounced off the reflected light of the first before a third beam is added.
“Three-dimensionality is not their only remarkable characteristic. If the hologram of an apple is cut in half and then illuminated by a laser, each half will still be found to contain the entire image of the apple. Every part of a hologram contains all the information possessed by the whole.
“The nature of a hologram provides us with a new way of viewing the nature of existence. Western science and religion have always labored under the bias that the best way to understand the physical world, whether a frog or an atom, is to dissect it and study it. Like our faith, our brotherhood, the hologram proves that separateness is an illusion…”
As the recording continued, I said to Tomlinson, “He sounds like you.”
Tomlinson replied, “Yeah, but do you know what the difference is? I live it. He uses it.”
Apparently, even the wealthy residents of Sawgrass were attending Shiva’s show. Or maybe they just went home; locked themselves away from the devoted.
The Big Cypress Restaurant had a few tables seated for dinner, but the Panther Bar, with its granite fireplace and walls adorned with skin-mounted fish, was nearly empty. Four men were sitting at a table, bottles of beer and a basket of nachos between them.
I was hoping to find Kurt behind the bar. On the phone, he’d evaded my questions about Izzy. In person, I’d be more persuasive.
I’d left Tomlinson back at the outdoor theater, next to Shiva’s statue, where he was to meet Billie, Ginny Egret, James and the other board members of the Egret Seminoles. I told him I was going to visit the bar and later, if we couldn’t find each other in the crowd, I’d meet him back at the truck.
As I walked away, he’d said, “Have a rum for me.”
I didn’t smile. “Nope. I’ve had enough.”
So I was alone. Which is exactly what I wanted. But Kurt wasn’t working. Instead, there was a haggard-looking woman in her early thirties-maybe younger-wearing an apron and sleeveless blouse, a butterfly tattoo visible on her right shoulder.
She didn’t have the manicured look that I’d come to associate with Shiva’s followers.
When I sat at the bar, she said, “What can I get for you, hon?”
I told her iced tea would be just fine, then I said, “Where’s Kurt?”
Walking away, she said, “Give me just a second, hon.” A moment later, when she returned with a pitcher of tea, she said, “Kurt’s off tonight. The whole staff, they’re all off because they got some big whoop-de-doo going on. It’s like this religious thing they belong to. So we’re all temps. We work through a Naples agency. The restaurant’s only doing a limited seating, and they told me to close the bar at nine. Easter Sunday, the place should be packed, but look at it.”
She shrugged in a way that passive-aggressive people do. “But I guess they don’t want the business. And what do I care? It all pays the same to me. Accept for the tips. I’m not gonna make crap for tips.”
I said, “You’ve got to wonder how some places stay in business.”
“Can you believe it? A holiday weekend, they close the bar early.”
I sipped my tea. “Too bad. This guy I met-his name’s Izzy something-he told me to stop in, say hello to Kurt. We’re both from the Boston area.”
Kurt’s name tag had read: Lincoln, Mass.
I added, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a staff list back there. I could give him a call, say hello.”
“They gave me a list just in case there’s trouble, but it’s not going to do you any good. They already told us. In staff housing, they don’t got phones. So you can’t call ’im.”
I had my billfold out. I decided a twenty would make her suspicious, so I put a ten on the counter. “Can I have a look at the list? I’ll walk over and surprise him.”
Kurt’s name was on the list. He was in Cell B, Apartment 103.
Izzy’s name wasn’t.
Sawgrass staff housing consisted of a circular village of small, modular apartments positioned in three clusters, at the center of which was a swimming pool and barbecue area.
The place looked deserted. I worried that I was too late; that Kurt Thompson was among those already taking seats at the outdoor theater. From the direction of the Cypress Ashram, I could hear a muffled heartlike pounding, as if hundreds of people were beating drums in unison.
The sun floated above the canopy of cypress trees. I checked my watch. It was 7:05 P.M.
The middle cluster of apartments was labeled B. I found 103 and touched the doorbell.
I waited through a long moment of silence before I heard a rustling within. I stepped back to let the door open, then I quickly stepped forward, blocking the doorway so that the door could not be closed.
Yep, Kurt was one of the higher-ups; a senior member in this strange church. He wore an orange toga with a ruby sash. His hair was brushed to a sheen, tan face glistening, and he held a towel in his hands, as if he’d just finished shaving.
When he saw me, realized who I was, his expression changed briefly from indifference to surprise, but he recovered quickly.
“Yes? May I help you?”
He said it in his infuriating, superior tone.
“Remember me, Kurt? On the phone, I told you I’d be here.” I smiled broadly. “So here I am!”
“Is that supposed to be funny, sir? Just because I told you about the service doesn’t mean I invited you. What I suggest is that you go to the restaurant and ask anyone. They can tell you how to get to the Cypress Ashram. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”
He tried to close the door, but I blocked it with my shoulder.
I said, “Naw, Kurt. I’m looking forward to going with you. We can have a little talk on the way. I’m really interested in the church. I’ve got lots of questions.”
He’d heard about our fight with the Archangels. I could see it in his face, a mottled paling of skin: fear. “Mister, I’m not going to ask you again. Please leave immediately, or I’ll call security. I’m late. I don’t have time for this kind of silliness.”
Once again, he tried to pull the door closed. When I blocked it again, he tried to push my shoulder away. I lunged forward and hit him so hard in the chest that he backpedaled across the room and fell backward over the couch.
I stepped into the miniature living room, closed the door behind me and locked it with the deadbolt.
“Why are you doing this?”
Kurt was on one knee, getting to his feet. He held his hands up, palms out, as I walked toward him. I grabbed his left wrist with my right hand, yanked him to his feet, spinning him at the same time so that I was behind him. I had his left arm levered up between his shoulder blades, applying pressure, but not much.
“You’re hurting me, goddamn you!”
Into his ear, I said, “Language, Kurt. Pretty rough language for a man dressed in a robe.”
I was walking him across the room, moving slowly, in control, and then I pinned him against the wall.
“I want you to answer some questions. If you answer my questions, I won’t hurt you, Kurt. If you don’t answer, or if you lie to me, I am going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you bad.” For emphasis, I took his left pinkie finger and twisted it.
“Stop. Please stop! You’re going to break my fucking hand!”
I said, “That’s right. One finger at a time. I’m going to break your hand.”
Kurt, the aloof and superior bartender, suddenly became an eager, nonstop talker. Most people are strangers to violence, and so behave unpredictably, often oddly, when subjected to it.
He wanted to be my friend. He wanted to understand why I was interested in Izzy. When I told him, “He may have had something to do with a
friend of mine who disappeared,” Kurt’s sympathetic expression said, No wonder you’re upset.
Truth is, he was terrified.
He sat across from me in a chair and told me about Izzy Kline. For a time, Izzy had been in charge of organizing church security. Then he became Shiva’s special assistant-Kurt wasn’t certain why.
“I’ve been with the church for six years,” Kurt said, “and Izzy has always been kind of a mysterious figure in the brotherhood. We almost never see him at the Ashrams or services. He’s not a believer and doesn’t pretend to be. He spends a lot of time away. What he does, I don’t know. But he’s close to the Teacher-our Bhagwan.”
I said, “I’ve heard rumors that if someone pisses off Shiva, he finds ways to get even. Maybe that he’s even had some people killed. Would that be part of Izzy’s role?”
Kurt began to move uncomfortably in his chair. He’d been maintaining a kind of fraternity-boy eye contact. No longer. “Our Teacher is a man of peace. He’s one of history’s greatest prophets. I’ve heard those same rumors-and there is Ashram scripture that tells us that the souls of many are worth the lives of a few. But I don’t believe our Teacher would resort to violence. I’ve never believed it and never will.”
“But if he did, would that be part of Izzy’s job?”
After a long moment, Kurt said, “Yes. That would definitely be something that Izzy would do.”
“Where’s he now?”
“I saw Izzy this morning. I was surprised because I didn’t see him here last night. He was driving a big U-Haul truck.”
I said, “A U-Haul? Why?”
“I can’t say for certain, but it’s almost impossible-we’re all very close-to keep a secret from the brotherhood. I heard that Izzy resigned his position. That he was leaving for Europe. So maybe he had some personal possessions here and he was moving them.”
“When’s he supposed to leave?”
Still eager to please, Kurt said he didn’t know, adding, “If I knew, I’d tell you. I really would. ” chapter twenty-eight
I was right about the drums.
Several dozen men and women, wearing green or white robes, formed a semicircle on the highest steps of the amphitheater. They held skin drums between their knees, and used their hands to pound them in a slow, deliberate rhythm. About one beat every three or four seconds.
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