Everglades df-10

by Randy Wayne White

  Izzy was careful about the way he used the Internet. He knew that it was one of the few ways he could be tracked. An individual’s Internet habits have a signature, so he varied what he did, the sites he accessed; kept a low profile.

  He hadn’t put the video of the Merry Widow on line yet. Same with the two dozen porno tapes he’d made since he’d arrived in Nicaragua. He kept all the tapes in his office, neatly cataloged on wooden bookshelves.

  No. He was taking it slow, getting his new identity established, playing it cool. He’d begin to market the tapes soon, very soon. And the money would start rolling in.

  At dusk, Izzy went for a walk; walked the entire perimeter of his island, looking at similar islands to the south, then the red tile roofs of Granada to the northeast. He did the walk nearly every afternoon, partly for exercise, but also for security reasons.

  No boats out there anywhere.

  Then he stopped at the boathouse and checked the lines of his new twenty-six-foot Mako. Same thing. Habit. He did it every night.

  As he returned to the house, there was a silver, crescent moon, he noticed, floating above a horizon of volcanic peaks.

  Izzy was still sitting at his computer at a little after 10 P.M. when the computer, the lights, everything went out.

  Shit.

  Because it wasn’t unusual for the generator to run out of diesel fuel, he had glass oil lamps all over the house. He lighted one now.

  Goddamn Pablo didn’t fill the tank before he left like I told him to do.

  Pissed off, bored, Izzy carried the lamp to the back door, opened it… and dropped the lamp, he was so shocked to see who was standing there.

  The glass shattered, spilling kerosene across the tile floor. The room was immediately bathed in the eerie light of spreading flames.

  A deep, articulate voice said, “Hello, Izzy. Hey-you need to be more careful. Or maybe you never learned not to play with fire.”

  Izzy took a step back.

  Jesus Christ, it was the fucking nerd biologist, standing there in a black sweater and black shorts, his face painted green, a watch cap pulled down to his ears, water dripping from him. He was smiling. It was like he was an old friend or something, happy to see him.

  Not in his eyes, though. What he saw in Ford’s eyes was scary.

  Izzy turned to find water, a blanket, something to stop the fire, as the biologist said, “Hold it right there. I’m a little cold after my swim. So let’s just let ’er burn. Okay?”

  “Fuck you, mister!” Izzy was still walking away. Where he was really headed was his desk to get the Beretta. After that, he’d worry about the fire. “You just don’t show up without an invitation, come into a man’s house and start giving orders.”

  Which is when he felt the man’s big hands grab him from behind. Just as he’d been trained in martial arts, Izzy swung back hard with his left elbow, already pivoting to slam the palm of his hand into Ford’s nose-but Ford had somehow managed to remain behind him.

  Christ, it was like fighting the Italian all over again.

  Izzy had the same kind of feeling-overpowered, helpless-as Ford took him to the ground.

  “You’ve got no reason to do this to me. Why are you doing this?”

  Ford said, “I want to have a chat, Izzy. A little come-to-God meeting you might call it.”

  As he talked, with not much effort at all, he got Izzy’s right arm behind him, then his left.

  Izzy heard a ripping sound.

  Fuck! He’s taping my hands.

  “I want to talk about Geoff Minster, and what you did to his wife, Sally. And I want to talk about Frank DeAntoni. The guy you put in the trunk and shot execution-style. Remember?”

  Izzy grunted at the terrible pressure the man was now putting on the back of his neck.

  “Remember?”

  Barely able to speak through the pain, Izzy said, “I’ll pay you. Anything you want. I’ll tell you anything, give you money. Just let me go.”

  “The only thing I want you to tell me right now is where you keep the key to your boat.”

  Izzy pictured the Beretta, thinking, I’ll pretend it’s in the drawer, and said, “Let me go. Let me stand up. I’ll get the keys for you. I promise.”

  Ford stood over him. The room was bright now, flames moving up the wall, crackling, the wood catching fast.

  Izzy listened to him say, “The boat keys, Izzy. Or I’ll tape your legs and leave you here. Burning to death. Personally, I think that would be the second worst way to go.”

  Second worst. What did he mean by that?

  Izzy told him where to find the key.

  Now Izzy was in the trunk of a rental car, his legs taped, his mouth taped, and he was thinking, The son-of-a-bitch is going to do the same thing to me I did to the wop and the old man.

  He’d never felt such fear. He was trembling, heart pounding, panting through his nose. When the biologist beached the boat in what appeared to be jungle, opened the trunk of the car he’d hidden there, and lifted him in, Izzy had lost control of his bladder-that’s how scared he was.

  They’d been driving now for nearly an hour. Lots of curves and bumpy roads. Lots of long, uphill climbing.

  Izzy wanted the car to stop, but dreaded stopping because he felt certain that he knew what Ford had planned.

  But Ford still hadn’t asked the questions he said he wanted to ask. And that was good, right? Right?

  If he takes the tape off my mouth, I can talk my way out of it. I can talk my way out of anything. Anything! Please, God, let him take the tape off and give me a chance to talk.

  It had been true all of Izzy’s life. So that’s what he decided to do. Stay calm, use his brain, tell Ford anything he wanted to hear. Think.

  But when the car stopped, and Izzy saw where they were, he thought, Dear God, no. Please dear God, no, please.

  Izzy lost control of his bladder again.

  At an elevation of more that two thousand feet, Masaya is Nicaragua’s most unusual and isolated active volcano. It is rough rimmed, like a gigantic barnacle, with steep-sided walls that are home to a rare subspecies of parrot. Masaya has been frequently active since the time of the Spanish conquistadores.

  The volcano’s northwest basin is filled by more than a dozen rocky vents that smoke constantly and erupt occasionally. On its opposite side, though, where the walls are steepest, it is a straight drop into molten lava more than a thousand feet below.

  It is on the southeastern side of the volcano that Nicaraguan seismologists maintain a gatelike structure built of galvanized metal, a fifteen-foot steel arm connected to a turnstyle with heavy hinges. It is cemented into the ground. On it are fixed a variety of instruments that record heat, sulfur emissions, seismic activity.

  Swing the gate out, the instruments are suspended above the lava a thousand feet below. Swing the gate back, and the instruments can be read.

  It is checked monthly.

  As Ford tied Izzy to the gate, Izzy was thinking: This can’t be happening.

  But it was happening.

  Ford had him tied to the galvanized arm of the gate, legs and hands, back to the ground, so that he hung helplessly, like a pig on a spit. Ford had used some kind of complicated knots that Izzy didn’t recognize. Some kind of quick-release knots. The way it looked, the biologist could pop all the knots by simply yanking on the end of the line that he held in his hand.

  Izzy was panting, heart banging in his temples, as Ford said, “Izzy. It’s time for us to have that talk.”

  He ripped the tape off Izzy’s mouth.

  Still holding the end of the rope, Ford then pushed Izzy as if he were on a merry-go-round. The gate swung out over the abyss.

  OhhhHHHHH God!

  Izzy began to cry; felt as if he might vomit, as Ford said, “Let’s make this quick. It can’t be pleasant, hanging out there, so save us both some time and stick to the truth. For starters, what happened to Geoff Minster?”

  Shaking, his teeth chattering, Izzy said, �
�Please tell me you’re not going to pull that rope. Please don’t let me fall. I’ll do anything. I promise. I swear. ”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Okay, okay, okay!” Izzy was talking fast, not even having to think about it because he was telling the truth. “I stole a hundred grand from the church. I did it through the computers. I’m good with computers. I set it up to look like Minster stole it.

  “Jerry Singh-an asshole-he told me to kill Minster. The two of them hated each other by then. Plus, we suspected Minster had found out about our plans to fake earthquakes. We weren’t sure, but Shiva couldn’t risk it.

  “So I went to Minster and cut a private deal. Minster paid me ten grand, and he set it up to look like he’d fallen off a fishing boat. I was supposed to be behind him in my boat. Minster carried a waterproof light to signal me when he was going over the side.

  “Once he’d disappeared, I was supposed to go to the cops, agree to be wired, and get Jerry on tape telling me what a good job I’d done, killing Geoff. Jerry’d go to prison. That way, Minster figured he’d get all his money, his property back.”

  Izzy said, “Minster also figured he could lie low for a couple of weeks; have some fun. I think he had a thing for some Indian woman down in the ’Glades. A big, ugly woman. A guy with his money, it was weird.”

  Izzy paused for a moment, before he added, “Hey-don’t tug the rope like that. You’re scaring me.”

  After a longer pause, Ford said, “He went overboard, but you didn’t pick him up. You’d already misdated a digital photo of him in case someone suspected you, and they started to get close. A way of buying time.”

  Izzy was sobbing now; weeping as if from his soul. “I’m so ashamed of some of the things I’ve done. I mean it. I really am. That’s one of the reasons I came to Nicaragua. There are so many poor kids here-I want to help them. I want to make amends for some of my terrible acts.”

  “Did Shiva often ask you to commit murder?”

  “Four times. I regret every one. I’m going to church now. Confession. I’ve been talking to a priest, trying to get my life in order. I deserve to be in hell. But I want to do some good before I leave this earth.”

  “You murdered Frank and Jimmy Marinaro. Shot them in the back of the head. And you tied up Sally, locked her in the truck with your homemade bomb.”

  “Dr. Ford, I feel so much guilt, I can’t tell you. I’d do anything to bring them back. I’d give my life for theirs in a second. One thing I can tell you about Mrs. Minster, though. I never laid a hand on her. I made sure she went peacefully. She was a nice lady. So classy. I’m surprised you know about that.”

  Ford thought about it for a moment before he said, “Do you want to know what a smart cop recently told me? In any abduction-murder case, getting rid of the body is always the biggest problem. That’s because it’s evidence found on the body that usually nails the killer.”

  Hanging from the galvanized pipe, Izzy said, “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I know this: My life is in your hands. The guilt I feel’s going to haunt me forever. I’ve got to live with it. But you don’t. You’re too good a man to do the kind of things I’ve done. You’re too good a person to do what you’re thinking about doing now. I can tell. It’s an instinct I’ve got. First time we met, I knew you were a stand-up guy. There’s something about you. Solid.”

  Marion Ford replied, “Izzy, we have both badly misjudged my character and my conscience.”

  Then he pulled the rope’s bitter end, springing all four knots.

  The biologist didn’t linger. He turned away from Izzy Kline’s descending, echoing scream…

  epilogue

  On an equator-heated, blue-bright tropical morning, November 14th, a Thursday, I walked away from our rental cabana, and our private, secluded patio toward the beach, but the lady stopped me by wagging her finger: Come here.

  She said, “Where do you think you’re going, mister? It’s going to be another hot one, and I need to be coated with sunscreen. Do you mind?”

  No, I did not mind.

  She lay on her back in a lounge chair, beside the blue-tiled plunge pool, a tall drink and a book within easy reach. She wore sunglasses and an orange bikini bottom, nothing more. Even after six days of this-lots of nude sun-bathing-her breasts were pale orbs, flattened by their own weight and softness.

  I checked my watch before I sat beside her. She trembled slightly as I began to apply sun lotion to her abdomen and thighs, her pink areolas flushing, nipples erect, blue veins beneath the milk-white skin deepening in shade.

  Her eyes closed, the lady placed her hand on my thigh, and began to massage my leg with the precise, slow rhythm that I used to apply the oil.

  She murmured lazily, “I think we need to go back to our bedroom for a little bit.”

  Smiling, I thought, Again?

  That good woman, Grace Walker, the Sarasota realtor I’d been dating, had told me something interesting and true a month or so before. It was over dinner-a nice restaurant on St. Armand’s Key, just off the circle.

  She’d said, “Doc, here’s what I’ve learned about men and women. If the sex is good, it’s about thirty percent of a solid relationship. If the sex is bad, if the chemistry isn’t there, it’s about ninety percent of the relationship. It’s just not going to work.”

  It was her way of telling me it was time for us to start dating other people.

  I was neither surprised nor disappointed. I was, in fact, relieved, because I’d driven north to meet her with plans to end it myself.

  We’d remain friends-always friends.

  And Grace was certainly right about sexual chemistry. With this lady, the chemistry was there. It was unmistakably, obsessively, irresistibly there.

  That morning after making love for the second time, we’d lain naked, sweaty and spent, beneath the revolving shadows of a ceiling fan, and I’d listened to her say, “Maybe it’s true. Maybe we should stop fighting it. Maybe we are destined to be more than just friends.”

  I replied, “An exclusive relationship. You and me. I’m willing to try-if I have enough energy left after a couple of weeks vacationing with you.”

  She chuckled, and said, “Maybe more than just a dating relationship. We’ve both lived alone for a long time. Do you think you’d be willing to try? Down the road, I mean.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I would.” I meant it.

  “Something’s changed in you, Doc. Something’s changed in us both. Do you feel it? It’s different. We seem different. I’ve been thinking

  … well, maybe it’s because of the paper Tomlinson gave us to read. Maybe it really has had an influence. I checked the Internet. It’s changed the lives of a lot of people.”

  We’d brought “One Fathom Above Sea Level” along on the plane for something to read. The lady had spent far more time pondering it than I. She’d even used a pink highlighter to mark her favorite quotes.

  She’d made me review them:

  The absurdity of a life that may well end before we understand it does not relieve us of the duty to live it through bravely and generously, with passion and great kindness.

  Another was: Humanity has a limited biological capacity for change, but an unlimited capacity for spiritual change. The only human institution incapable of evolving spiritually is a cemetery.

  Another was: Pain is an inescapable part of the human experience. Misery, however, is not. Misery is an option.

  Another: Hope could not exist if man were created by a random, chemical accident. Pleasure, yes. Desire, yes. But not hope. Selfless hope is contrary to the dynamics of evolution or the necessities of a species.

  I’d marked my own favorite in green: Never underestimate the destructive power of small, mean people joined together as a larger group.

  Lying in bed, her long legs thrown over mine, she had said, “You can’t read what Tomlinson’s written and still doubt that spirituality-having faith -is important. So maybe it is our destiny.”
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  I told her, yes, that was certainly a possibility-although I didn’t believe it.

  I found Tomlinson’s paper interesting for the intellectual depth and perception it demonstrated, but nothing more. I am incapable of lying to myself, so I am incapable of embracing a spiritual view of the world. I’d come to accept who I am, what I am. It’s unlikely that I will ever believe-yet I still retain hope. Even so I no longer engage in that debate, or risk undermining the beliefs of others.

  So now, lounged back in her chair, the lady arched her back slightly, moaning, as I rubbed oil on her heavy breasts, her hand moving beneath my running shorts, searching.

  Breathing faster now, she whispered, “Doc. Let’s go to the bedroom. Now.”

  I checked my watch: 10:27 A.M.

  I thought: Damn.

  Her fingers had found me, and I was certainly ready.

  I said, “Stop, wait. Let me check something.”

  I stood awkwardly, and jogged barefooted down to our little section of private beach on St. Martin’s in the French West Indies. I used small but superb Zeiss binoculars to look across the bay that separated our rental house from a big, Mediterranean mansion half a mile away. The mansion was built into the side of a cliff, connected to the main road above by a gated access drive.

  Security there was tight for a reason. The house was being rented by Omar Muhammad, the successor to Sabri al-Banna, and the new head of Abul Nidal.

  There was Omar. I could see him plainly through the binoculars. He was a tall, bearded man with hollow eyes. He was lugging his scuba gear down the steps from the house to the beach.

  Omar was a man of habit. Every morning for the last three mornings, exactly at eleven, he’d put on his gear, and swim out to the shallow reef a hundred yards away. Always alone.

  Quid pro quo, Hal Harrington had told me.

  I sighed, turned and walked back to the patio. I placed the binoculars on the table, sat and kissed the lady on the lips. “Honey, give me a little time to rest up, okay? I’m going for a swim. I’ll be back in, oh, a little less than an hour.”