Everglades, page 27
I said, “Do you mind listening to another possibility?”
“Not at all. You have some interesting ideas for a man who says he’s a biologist.”
His voice had the slightest hint, now, of cynicism. His cop instincts were probably telling him that I knew too much, that I was way too chatty. I didn’t mind.
I said, “Okay. Let’s review a chain of events that may or may not be related. I’d be interested in your reaction. Nearly seven months ago, Sally Minster’s husband, Geoff, disappears—”
“He fell overboard on a trip to the Bahamas,” Podraza said. “There’s nothing mysterious about that. It’s been thoroughly investigated. The court’s ready to declare the guy legally dead.”
“If you want to move from the general to the specific, you sometimes have to take a step or two back to see the broader picture. So let me finish. Minster disappears, yet his wife doesn’t believe he’s dead. At some time after his disappearance, she also becomes convinced someone is breaking into her house, going through her private things. Your people check it out, but don’t find probable cause.”
Podraza said, “Sometimes people in deep grief begin to imagine things. They can get a little paranoid.”
Meaning they thought she was a nut case.
I said, “Okay, but let’s assume she was right. Next, her dog is found dead in her own pool. A retriever. They’re bred to swim. Then the night security guard who’s promised to keep an eye on the lady’s house is also found dead, floating in the bay.”
Podraza said, “He died from a brain aneurysm, but I’m with you. We’re assuming it was actually foul play. Okay. So Mr. DeAntoni sets a trap for the guy or guys who are doing all this—that’s your point, right? But the trap backfires, and they all end up dead or missing. So we’ve got three-four-five individuals dead or missing. Six, if you count the dog. Interesting.”
I asked Podraza if he was aware that Minster had been a member of the Church of Ashram Meditation. He told me he was, and that he was familiar with the organization because the Miami Police had a unit that specialized in cult crimes.
I said, “It might be worthwhile to call them in, and have them take a look. One more thing, Detective? There’s a guy who works for Bhagwan Shiva, a guy I think you ought to check out. His name’s Izzy—that’s what they call him. I don’t know his last name. He’s like a personal assistant or something to the head guy. His last name shouldn’t be hard to find. In fact, I might even be able to provide his fingerprints if you need them.”
“Why do you suspect him?”
I paused, my brain scanning around for a cogent response. Finally, I said, “Detective Podraza, when you check me out—and I know you will check me out—you’ll find that I’ve been telling you the truth. I’m a working research biologist. I like to think that most of what I do is logical and objective. But when it comes to this guy, Izzy—and this isn’t easy for me to admit—my suspicions are purely instinctual. I’ve got a gut feeling about him. It’s an emotional reaction to meeting the man. I think he’s dirty. I think he has his own agenda going.”
Then I added, “I know you’re not allowed to confirm it, but I’m going to ask anyway. The gun that was used to kill Frank and his landlord. Was it a twenty-two caliber?”
Very quickly, Podraza said, “Dr. Ford, I think we need to have a face-to-face interview. And just to make sure you don’t decide to leave the area, I’m going to call you back to confirm this phone number. Then I’m going to contact the Sanibel Police to let them know I’m inviting you to Miami for a discussion. Or we can send someone to you.”
I told Podraza to call me anytime he wanted, particularly if he got any new information on Sally. I finished, adding, “I’m glad they have someone like you on this case.”
chapter twenty-six
I got a hold of Frank’s Aunt Juliana. By the sound of her voice, she’d been crying. She kept saying, “In my mind, I still see him as a little boy. He was so quiet and shy!”
She gave me phone numbers for three of Frank’s closest friends. I called Harris Washington at the bank where he worked near Trenton. He and DeAntoni had wrestled together in high school, Washington told me. “A hell of a guy,” he added.
I said, “I agree. I wish I could have gotten to know him better.”
Washington told me that he and another one of Frank’s former teammates were taking care of all the details. They were having his body cremated, and the ashes shipped back to New York for the funeral service. Instead of flowers—“Frank hated flowers, man. Something to do with a bad experience he had at the prom”—they were suggesting people send donations to an AAU wrestling program that DeAntoni had been instrumental in starting.
After I hung up, I wrote a check, walked to the marina and mailed it.
I still couldn’t stop moving, stop my mind from racing. I went back to the lab, called information, and got the main number for the Church of Ashram Meditation Center in Palm Beach. When a woman answered, I said, “Let me talk to Izzy, please.”
I had only a vague idea of what I would say to the guy. Maybe mention the weird trap-shooting encounter, tell him that, unlike Tomlinson, Frank and I liked to shoot so how could we join their interesting club?
If he knew the truth about DeAntoni, that he was dead, I’d be able to hear it in his voice.
But the woman refused to put me through, saying, “It’s church policy that we can only take messages for members or staff. It’s their decision to call you back.”
So I took a chance, called the Cypress Restaurant at Sawgrass, and had them transfer me to the Panther Bar. In any organization, the best jobs are awarded in order of rank or seniority. At a place that catered to wealthy sportsmen and big tippers, bartender would be the most coveted of all service jobs.
Kurt, most probably, was a higher-up in Bhagwan Shiva’s organization. He’d have insider information.
The stuffy bartender answered. He told me, no, Mr. Carter McRae wasn’t in. He told me he couldn’t give me Mr. McRae’s home number, and he played dumb when I asked him about Izzy.
But he knew who Izzy was. I could tell by his evasive manner.
Then he surprised me by saying, “The Bhagwan and his staff aren’t here tonight, but they’ll all be here tomorrow for the sunset Easter service. The public’s invited. It’s going to be quite an impressive event.” In his infuriating, superior tone, he added, “You and your friends should come. Perhaps you’ll learn something.”
I’d been invited to the ’Glades by Billie Egret, anyway, to see the inland tarpon. Now, though, I had a more pressing reason to go—to find Izzy.
To Kurt, I said, “I’ll be there. Count on it.”
Then, even though it made no sense, I got in my truck and drove across the Everglades to Coconut Grove. It took me awhile to find the exclusive enclave that is Ironwood. There was a Miami Police squad car at the electronic gate, and two uniformed officers. Only residents were being allowed to enter. When I asked to speak to Detective Podraza, they told me he’d just left.
I gave them my Sanibel Biological Supply business card with a brief note on the back.
Please call immediately with any news about Sally Minster.
That I’d visited the crime scene would assure me of special attention from the detective. Which is exactly what I wanted.
I drove past Vizcaya with its formal gardens, past Mercy Hospital, then headed up the hill into Coconut Grove—clothing boutiques, sidewalk restaurants. On Main Highway, with its tunneling banyan trees, I found a sizable church built of coral rock, then a slightly smaller church, which I guessed to be the church that Sally had described. White clapboard; white steeple. Beside the sidewalk out front was the kind of glass-encased signboard with plastic lettering that can be changed.
In large letters it read: ALL NATIONS CHURCH OF GOD OF PROPHECY.
Below, in letters that were only slightly smaller, someone had recently added, Pray for our Sister Sally!
I teared up when I saw the sign. I slowed, staring at it, until a line of cars behind me began to honk.
Then, for absolutely no rational reason, I drove north to Miami Springs and found the Pink Palm Apartment complex where Frank had lived: four rows of stucco condos with numbered carports, speed bumps, a miniature swimming pool, and a couple of kids riding tricycles outside near trash Dumpsters and a mulched playground.
It seemed important to find DeAntoni’s apartment. I thought it would take me awhile. It didn’t. His was the one with the yellow Crime Scene tape across the door and combination padlock on the doorknob.
I stopped at the door. Peeked through the blinds and saw a vinyl couch, no other furniture, and the kind of double-handled exercise wheel that people use to do abdominal crunches.
A bachelor fitness freak.
I checked my watch. A little before five. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, but wasn’t hungry. I decided that, if I got in my truck and left now, I could be back at Dinkin’s Bay while there was still enough light left to get out in my skiff.
Then maybe I’d find Tomlinson, and make a few bar stops by water before watching the moon rise.
That night, something inside me snapped. Something within the core region of my brain. It was ignited by a growing, withering pressure without vent. Intellectually, emotionally, I felt the scaffolding that defines me fracture, then break.
The moment of its occurrence was so precise that I felt it move through my nervous system like an electric shock.
I’d gotten back to Sanibel a little after eight. Lights were already on at the marina, but the sky was still bright with sunset afterglow. To the east, cumulous towers were layered in volcanic striations of rust, Arizona purple and peach.
I checked my main fish tank, the aquaria in my lab, fed Crunch & Des, then took a quick shower.
By the time I idled out of the marina harbor, the clouds had changed to shades of pewter and pearl. I saw that Tomlinson’s dinghy was tethered off No Mas—he was aboard. I headed toward the sailboat, then decided, no, I didn’t feel like company.
I’d made myself a traveler in an oversized plastic cup: ice, rum, fresh lime. With the big Mercury rumbling, I pushed the boat up onto plane, then throttled way back, traveling at a comfortable 2,600 RPM—“wine speed,” Dewey Nye calls it, because it’s fast enough to get you to dinner, but slow enough so it’s still possible to sip a glass of wine. I ran across the flat past Green Point, then Woodring Point.
My cousin, Ransom Gatrell, was out on Ralph Woodring’s dock, wearing shorts and a pink bikini top, a sunset beverage still in her hand.
I waved. She waved.
Ransom has Tucker Gatrell’s blue eyes, but she’s a caramel-colored woman, a color she calls “Nassau chocolate.” She wears her hair in braids, tells fortunes, believes in Obeah—a variation of voodoo—and is already making a small fortune selling real estate on a part-time basis. During the day, she works behind a cash register at Bailey’s General Store, or at She Sells Sea Shells on Periwinkle.
Ransom tells people that she’s my sister. I no longer bother to correct her or them. We’ve become that close.
Even so, I ignored her beckoning wave—Come talk for a spell!—and turned beneath the power lines, then beneath the Sanibel Causeway, seeing the bright high-rise lights of Fort Myers Beach to the south.
One of my favorite places to eat and drink is a bayside café that almost no one knows about, and where only locals go. It’s in the old shrimp yards of Matanza Pass, a funky, quirky outdoor restaurant and bar built beneath the sky bridge that joins Fort Myers Beach with tiny San Carlos Island. It’s called Bonita Bill’s, and it may be the only restaurant in Florida with an unlisted phone number.
Kathy and Barb were working the bar. I sat beneath tiki thatching, drinking rum, staring out at the dark water, seeing the development glare of Fort Myers Beach beyond.
At one point, Kathy said, “You don’t seem real talkative tonight, Doc. Something wrong?”
Yes, there was something wrong. Frank DeAntoni had moved into my head and would not leave. His voice had become a refrain:
I’ve got to have someone who knows how to take care of himself. A guy who can bust a head or two if things get tough.
I told Kathy, “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Around ten, a bunch of the guys from the Fort Myers Beach Coast Guard station came in. They’re a good group. Well trained. Dedicated. I tried to force myself to be jovial, conversational, but my heart wasn’t in it.
I bought one more rum for the road, then idled out toward Bodwitch Point, the Sanibel Lighthouse flashing in the darkness beyond.
My next recollection was of standing in my house, staring into the little mirror that is tacked to the wall near my Transoceanic shortwave radio.
The face in the mirror seemed the face of a stranger, even though it was my own.
The Nicaraguan rum I drink is Flor de Cana—Flower of Sugar Cane. It is a superb rum; hard to find. I held the bottle in my hand and amused myself by drinking from the bottle, my eyes never leaving the mirror.
See the stranger drink. See the stranger swallow. See how ugly the stranger is with his thick glasses, crooked nose and scars. See what an absurd and meaningless little creature the stranger is.
Still holding the bottle, I walked outside and stood on the deck.
It was after midnight. The lights of the marina created conduits of shimmering brass on the water, linking my stilt house with the darkened trawlers, sailboats and houseboats, and to the solitary lives within.
To the east, a bulbous moon, a week past full, was illuminating far mangroves, creating silhouettes and shadows. With the rising of the moon came a freshening northwest wind. It was blowing an uneven fifteen, gusting out of a high-pressure-system blackness domed with stars—the frail, ancient light of distant suns, incalculable solar systems.
Standing there, I felt as if I were staring into a funneling abyss that began within my own dark soul and expanded into the infinite. I took another gulp of rum, unzipped my pants, and pissed into the darkness below, watching the bioluminescent sparks my stream created; sparks that, in shape and brilliance, were not dissimilar to the starscape above.
For some reason, I found the parallel heartbreaking.
The wind gusted, messing my hair, blowing harder now.
That gave me an idea.
I started windsurfing a little less than a year ago. I keep my sails rigged, hung beneath my house so they are always ready when I want them. On other moon-bright nights, I’d considered windsurfing—but always dismissed it as idiotic. Too many oyster bars, crab pots and old pilings out there to hit.
Now, though, windsurfing in moonlight seemed a superb idea.
I tripped going up the steps; nearly tripped again when I banged my shoulder against the wall, entering my lab. I touched the wall switch, and stared at the rows of aquaria; could smell the sweet ozone odor created by the systems of aerators. I was aware that, from within some of the glass tanks, certain animals—octopi and squid—were staring at me just as intently as I stared at them.
A couple of months back, at a party, Tomlinson and I got into one of our complicated debates. It was about the mandates of scientific method. The debate was unusually heated and, at one point, I told him, “It’s the way I’ve been trained. I’d rather be precisely wrong than approximately right about almost anything.”
He found that hilarious. A week later, he’d presented me with a wooden sign with the silly phrase engraved on it. I’d tacked the thing on the north wall of my lab.
Now I looked at the sign, reading it—I’D RATHER BE PRECISELY WRONG THAN APPROXIMATELY RIGHT—and the welling heartbreak I felt earlier was transformed inexplicably into fury. An absolute cold and loathing fury.
That’s when it happened. That’s when I snapped. It was like a flashbulb going off behind my eyes. I took the rum bottle, hurled it hard at the sign, and turned away, hearing an explosion of glass.
In that isolated space between what I was, and what I had become, the stranger within spoke for the first time: You are insane.
I wobbled back down the stairs, strapped a harness around my waist, then rigged my surfboard. I chose my favorite board—an ultrawide Starboard Formula 175. It’s built for big, clumsy people like me. I locked on my largest, fastest sail, a 10.4-meter Neilpryde Streetracer.
It took me lots of fumbling and falling to get the sail up. When I had the boom under control, I tilted the mast forward to gain speed. Then, as I sheeted in, I walked the board beneath the sail, feeling the wind on my face, feeling the board lift itself off the chop as I accelerated onto plane, the elastic up-haul line thumping rhythmically against the mast. Thumping, it seemed, as if my heart were echoing off the far stars, beating fast enough to explode.
With a little kick, I arched my hips and belted myself to the boom. With my bare feet, I searched the board until I found the foot straps. I wiggled my feet in tight.
Board, sail, boom, mast and I were now a single, connected unit. Tomlinson once told me that the wind does not push a sailboat, it pulls it. I could feel the wind’s inexorable pull now as I flew across the water, sailing toward the moon at close to twenty miles per hour.
Then the moon disappeared behind clouds, and I was speeding through mangrove shadow, hearing wind and water in the caverns of my ears. The bioluminescent wake I created was an expanding silver-green crescent. The sensory combination was that of riding a comet across a liquid universe. Off to my right, I saw a mobile galaxy of green streaks: a school of fish. I watched the school explode in a firestream of color; then explode again.
Something big was beneath the fish, feeding.
I turned my board downwind, jibbed, popped the cams to fill the sheet, accelerated quickly and sailed toward the school.
They were mullet—a silver, blunt-headed fish with protuberant eyes. Thousands of them in a tight, panicked herd in waist-deep water. Three or four pounders. As I approached the edge of the school, they began to jump—gray, arching trajectories in the darkness—banging off my board, hitting my legs, landing on the board, then flopping wildly until they were free.
