The rhythm reminded me of night markers flashing on the intracoastal waterway. A similar space of time.
The percussion of the drums vibrated through the ground, through the speaker system, through the tops of cypress trees and into a bronze-bright late-afternoon sky.
As I got closer, I could see that there wasn’t an empty seat in the theater. Had to be more than a thousand people.
Shiva’s people were recording the event, too. There were no fewer than four videographers moving among the crowd, holding small, digitized cameras to their eyes.
Despite the crowd, the little Seminole contingent was easy for me to pick out: four or five men and women in traditional dress, seated on the aisle in the front row, their rainbow-colored shirts and blouses much brighter than the robes worn by the people around them.
I didn’t see Tomlinson, though. And it didn’t look as if Billie Egret was among them, either.
A minute or so later, I realized why. On the outskirts of the arena was a grassy area landscaped with cypress and oak. It had a good view of the stage. There they both stood among trees, several people nearby.
Karlita. She was with them, too-and looking reasonably normal in jeans and a white blouse, her long black hair braided like a rope down her back.
The three of them, I noticed, were holding hands, joined in a chain with six or seven others.
Billie was the first to notice me approaching. She nodded at me, her eyes intense, then nodded toward the amphitheater.
Shiva was on center stage. He wore an elaborate purple robe with orange, green and white bands on the sleeves. His turban was golden, and he sat in full lotus position on a red cushion the size of a mattress. Behind him, in a semicircle, were several dozen men and women, all in orange robes, carrying candles and what appeared to be bundles of red sticks, walking in slow step to the pace of the beating drums. One of them, I noted, was the attractive blond teenager named Kirsten.
She and the others were filing off the stage. They were leaving Shiva alone.
The laser hologram of the solar system was still being projected. It was eerily beautiful. It now revolved above Shiva and around him.
On a small platform in front of the stage, another videog rapher had a much larger camera mounted on a tripod. It was fixed on Shiva. Perhaps they were broadcasting the event. Maybe some kind of in-house cable production.
As the drums pounded, and the orange robes marched down the steps of the amphitheater, Shiva’s amplified voice spoke to his audience live for the first time since I’d arrived. In the momentary silence between drumbeats, he said, We will…
In the next silence, more than a thousand voices replied: Move the earth…
Boom!
We will…
Boom!
Move the earth.
Boom!
I will…
Boom!
Make the earth move!
Billie Egret caught my eye again and motioned with her head. Come closer.
She was standing between Tomlinson and Karlita, both of whom, I could now see, stood with eyes closed, their breathing shallow, as if they, too, were in trances. Billie then joined their hands, stepped away from the little chain of people and walked to meet me
“Why don’t you come and join us?” she whispered. “We’re trying to fight him. His power. It won’t be long until sunset.”
I shook my head: No, but in a way that also apologized. I whispered back, “What’s supposed to happen at sunset?”
“He’s told my aunts and uncles that he can do it again. Make the earth move. Like last Sunday, the earthquake. They’re ready to join him now. He’s almost got them convinced.”
I said, “ Earthquake? You’re… you’re not serious. The idea that he had anything to do with that little tremor we had is absurd. Plus, why would they care?”
The woman took my arm in hers-Tomlinson was right. Because of my relationship with her father, Joseph, her acceptance of me was instant and seemed unconditional. She said, “It’s because of something that no outsider would know about. Or understand. Have you ever heard of Tecumseh?”
I said, “Yes. The Indian leader. Most people have.”
She was holding my arm tight.
“In eighteen eleven, he tried to organize all the southern tribes to help fight the whites. On November sixteenth, in central Alabama, he told our people that, one moon cycle later, he would stomp his foot, and the earth would move. It would be a sign to join him.”
Still keeping her voice low, she added, “That prophecy spread across the country, village to village. It’s well recorded. It happened. Exactly twenty-eight days later, the New Madrid earthquakes began. The worst in American history. He was also a genius, a prophet. He was a Shawnee; an Ohio tribe. What almost no one knows is that Tecumseh’s mother was core Maskoki-some called us Creek. She was what they’d call a Seminole. So it’s part of Seminole legend. To my aunts and uncles, an earthquake is a tremendously powerful sign.”
From the amphitheater, the chant continued:
We will…
Boom!
Move the earth.
Boom!
I will…
Boom!
Make the earth move!
I said, “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Because there’s no way a human being can cause an earthquake. Shiva, the Bhagwan, whatever you want to call him, that fraud can sit down there and meditate, chant, whatever he wants to do, all night long. The ground’s not going to shake just because he promises that he can-”
I stopped, feeling a sudden, dizzying sense of suspicion, then of realization. I said, “Wait-when did Shiva make his prediction about the earthquake. Was it prior to Sunday?”
“Long before that,” she replied. “Remember me telling you about the meeting he had with us? About the wooden masks he told us he’d seen in a dream, and carved himself? That’s when he said that he’d also dreamed he would one day make the Everglades tremble. As a sign; a sign that we should join together. He pretended that he didn’t know anything about Tecumseh or our connection with him. Which I never believed.”
Now I was shaking. My mouth was dry. I felt a flooding sense of panic and urgency. I was walking toward Tomlinson, my brain connecting what had seemed to be random events, meaningless sentence fragments:
A man Izzy’s size standing beside a maintenance truck in an abandoned limestone quarry, leaving behind an empty bag of ammonium nitrate, and a couple of blobs of goo that smelled of fuel oil.
Me asking Billie if someone was blasting in the area. I’d asked because there is a commercial explosive jelly called Thermex. It consists of little more than ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel.
I remembered Izzy tape-recording a furious Tomlinson. Remembered Tomlinson telling me that he was getting e-mail from manufacturers of blasting caps and explosives, and from eco-terrorist organizations. Remembered Tomlinson saying that, if it was a joke, he didn’t think it was very funny.
I remembered Detective Podraza telling me that, in an abduction-murder, getting rid of the body is always the biggest problem. How can you destroy the evidence? Remembered Kurt, the bartender, telling me that he’d seen Izzy that morning, driving a U-Haul.
Walking faster now, I said to Billie, “Shiva’s prophecy. What time is it supposed to happen? The earthquake.”
“At sunset. That’s just a few minutes from now.
I checked my watch. Seven-forty P.M. We had seventeen minutes until sunset.
From the amphitheater, the chanting seemed louder.
We will…
Boom!
Move the earth.
Boom!
I will…
Boom!
Make the earth move!
“Billie. I’ve got to get back to that rock quarry. The place where we saw the white truck. Did James come in his airboat?”
She’d stopped following me. “Marion? What’s wrong with you? Why’re you acting so strange?”
“Did he come in his ai
rboat!” I said it so loud that she jumped.
“ Yes. It’s right over there. At the edge of the cypress head.”
Tomlinson was still standing, eyes closed, holding Karlita’s hand. I grabbed him roughly and turned him around. I said, “Let’s go. I need you.”
“Doc? Why? I can’t go. Not now”
Karlita had turned her head; was staring at me. “It’s you. I want to go. We belong. ”
I told her, “Not a chance,” as I took Tomlinson by the shoulders and shook him. “Damn it, I need your help. I think I know where Sally is!”
I couldn’t figure out how to get the airboat started.
Tomlinson and I had sprinted far ahead of Billie; found the big twenty-one-foot airboat banked at the edge of the sawgrass. On the boat’s twin aft rudders, its name, Chekika’s Shadow, glowed a metallic crimson in the late sunlight.
We were both aboard, Tomlinson in a lower seat, me standing at the stainless-steel control panel where there was an ignition key tied to an oversized float, and three rows of unmarked toggle switches.
When I turned the key, nothing happened.
There were twin automotive batteries beneath the captain’s chair. I checked to see if there was a cutoff switch. There was. I twisted the dial to “On” and tried the key again.
Nothing.
“ Goddamn it!”
I looked my watch. Saw that my hands were still shaking: 7:46 P.M.
Tomlinson said, “Maybe I should run back and ask Billie. Or try to find James.”
I’d refused Billie’s help, and her offer to fetch James because, if I was right, and I allowed them to come with me, I might well be responsible for their deaths.
I answered, “We don’t have time.”
I took a deep breath, told myself to stay calm and to think. All those years with Tucker Gatrell, I’d learned more than most about airboats. Some were powered by standard car engines, others by aircraft engines.
Then I realized: That’s the problem.
All the toggle switches were flipped down-the off position.
I flipped each switch momentarily, experimentally, until I heard the steady hum of what I guessed to be an electronic fuel pump.
At least two of the toggles had to be magneto switches.
They have to be.
I flipped them until I found the right combination, turned the key, and the huge engine fired like a mini-explosion.
I swung myself up into the captain’s chair, pulled on the headphones. Tomlinson had done the same, his scraggly hair sticking out. I said into the transmitter, “Hold on tight. It’s been awhile.”
I heard him reply, “Let ’er roll, brother!”
I touched my foot to the accelerator pedal, pushed the control stick forward, and the boat pivoted to the right in a fast, tight circle. When we were bow-out, the boat straightened itself as I gradually backed off the stick, accelerating like a dragster as I pressed the pedal toward the deck.
I had to keep reminding myself: To turn right, stick forward. To turn left, stick back. At sixty-plus miles per hour, we went sledding through sawgrass, southward.
To the west, only a few degrees above the horizon, the sun was the smoky orange of a hunter’s moon. Because it was precisely bisected by a band of purple stratus clouds, there was a ringed effect-as if Saturn were ablaze and spinning on a collision course toward Earth. The harsh light flattened itself across the prairie, horizon to horizon, turning feathered sawgrass to gold, turning the mushroom shapes of distant cypress heads to silver.
I checked my watch once again: 7:48 P.M.
I’d just returned my attention to the trail ahead when I felt the first tremor rock the boat-an explosion so close the hull was bounced by the seismic shock. It lifted us up, then slammed us hard to earth.
In my earphones, I heard Tomlinson cry, “What the hell was that?” Then: “Oh, dear God, that was it. We’re too late. If you’re right, if you’re right, that’s it, we’re done.”
I said, “Maybe. But I’m not stopping now.”
I steered the airboat toward the abandoned limestone quarry, into the heart of the Everglades. chapter twenty-nine izzy
Izzy finished dialing the number he had saved months ago on his Palm Pilot, then checked his watch: 7:49 P.M.
It was Charles Carter’s private cell number, the wealthy banker who’d dedicated his life-and his money-to the Church of Ashram.
What a moron.
Miami International Airport is built in the shape of a horseshoe, Dolphin and Flamingo parking barns in the middle. Izzy was in Terminal H, the Crown Room, sitting in one of the secluded cubicles provided for members who want to use the Internet or make phone calls.
His membership was under the name of Michael Mollen, same as the name on the passport he was using. Once he got to Paris, after he’d spent a week or two relaxing, letting things cool down, he’d fly to London, then to Managua with a different passport, Craig Skaar.
He liked that name.
Izzy had his Dell laptop plugged in, signed onto the Web page of Bank Austria, Georgetown, Grand Cayman Island. He’d already checked his e-mails, and updated himself on the
local Miami news: HEIRESS WIDOW STILL MISSING.
Not exactly. But soon. Very soon.
That made him smile.
He had a Bloody Mary on the desk to his left-one of the reasons he preferred Delta and loved the Crown Room. Free drinks, all you wanted, and bar snacks that weren’t too bad. Even on this Easter Sunday, it wasn’t crowded.
As he finished dialing, he placed his hands on the keyboard of his laptop, and used his shoulder to cradle the phone against his ear.
Carter answered immediately; knew who it was going to be.
Into the phone, Izzy said, “Has the service started yet?”
Used the code word: Service.
Hearing drumming in the background, and impassioned chanting, Izzy listened to Carter exclaim, “Two of them so far. Unbelievable! Magnificent!”
Izzy said, “Well, you have four more to go, and the last one’s a biggie.” Then he added, “Carter-I didn’t call to chat.”
As Izzy listened, he typed an account number into a blank rectangle provided by the Bank Austria Web page. Then he typed in the password that Carter gave him. The password was Tecumseh.
Hilarious.
But there it was. The account opened right up: Isidore T. Kline, who, as of that instant, had access to more money than he’d ever had in his life.
Now hearing what sounded like thunder in the background, then something else-screams?-Izzy said to Carter, “Hey, just for the record, I always thought you were a fucking idiot.”
He hung up the phone, immediately changed the password, then he closed the laptop.
His flight to Paris was already boarding.
Standing in line, waiting to hand his first-class ticket to the attendant, Izzy couldn’t make himself relax. He’d had a couple of beers with lunch at Cheers in the main terminal, then three Bloody Marys at the Crown Room.
They didn’t even dent the tension in him. Until he was in the plane, off the ground, some cop or Fed could come up any second, tap him on the shoulder and say, “We need to ask you a few questions.”
As long as he was still in Miami, still in U.S. airspace, it was all right there with him.
That fucking Italian!
The Italian, surprising him the way he did, had nearly screwed up all those months of planning. Izzy was a perfectionist. Had always been a perfectionist. He hated improvising last-minute changes. But he’d had to do it. And until just now, when he’d successfully received the account number and password from Carter, nothing had gone the way he’d wanted.
On Friday night, getting the two men taped and loaded into the truck of the pimpmobile was a nightmare. He’d been scared shitless that some security cop, or some neighbor, was going to come snooping around.
So how should he do it? Drive them to some secluded place, and pop them? Or risk the noise and do it ghetto-style
, like someone high on crack who really didn’t give a damn who they killed or how, just as long as they found money for drugs?
Even with his mouth taped, the old man was bawling like a baby when Izzy touched the Beretta to the back of his head.
But not the big guinea. With those black eyes of his, the guinea had looked at Izzy like he would have ripped him apart and eaten him if he could have gotten his hands free. One scary son-of-a-bitch.
No fear, either. Not a whimper. Even as Izzy put the barrel behind his ear, and said, “I’m gonna count to three real slow, then your fucking head’s coming off.”
The guinea had shrugged, like he didn’t much care.
It took the pleasure out of it; the power-feeling it normally gave Izzy.
Same with the Merry Widow. She’d been the biggest disappointment. Turned out she wasn’t so merry. Like the wop, she wasn’t afraid, either. Not after she got herself under control, anyway.
For most of Saturday, he’d kept her in the back of the U-Haul, tied and gagged. He had so much work to do! But, every now and then, he’d pull into some secluded spot, remove the gag, and try to have a little fun.
She wouldn’t cooperate. Even after he’d slapped her a few times, she’d steady herself on her knees, eyes turned skyward, repeating over and over, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He restoreth my soul…”
Which sure as hell ruined the mood.
Plus, she wasn’t afraid. Nothing he did, nothing he threatened, frightened her.
Cold bitch.
So, as far as enjoying himself, the whole deal had been a bust. But that was okay. He had Nicaragua to look forward to. His own tropical island paradise, and plenty of money now to enjoy it.
When the attendant took his ticket, and passed it through the scanner, Izzy felt his heart rate increase-he’d been worried they’d cull him out into the security line. Not that he had anything on him to hide. It was the delay he dreaded.
Now, though, he grinned at the attendant, shouldered his briefcase, and walked down the ramp, feeling a little spring in his step.
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