Randy White - Ten thousand isles

I stood behind him and slightly to his right, memorizing the faces of those in attendance. Ivan Bauerstock stood at the front, bracketed by his men. Silver-haired, aloof, hands folded, long fingers moving as if attempting to scurry away on their own. He had an air of impatience and superiority, gray suit cut perfectly, face angular, square-jawed like a model for expensive clothing.

To his right was Teddy, the son running for the state senate-my guess, anyway. Similar genetics. Well over six feet tall but broader in the shoulders, a linebacker size to him, but a quarterback's cleft chin. A more expressive face, listening to Tomlinson's words, showing pain, nodding his understanding and interest. Black hair combed back TV anchorman-style, razor-cut, blow-dried to form, flawless. His face reminded me of someone, some actor, or maybe a politician who was often on television. The nose was distinctive, but I couldn't match the face with the name. Not surprising. I don't own a television.

I watched the would-be state senator's expression flex with attention as Tomlinson said, "Dorothy had a kindred relationship with the people who built mounds on this island. An archaeologist said she had a great gift for finding things. But she didn't find things; she was called to them. The people who built the mounds spoke to her. It is fitting that she go back to be among them."

He took up a book, saying, "In 1568, Father Juan Rogel, a missionary to the Calusa people, wrote, 'The King of these islands told me that each person has three souls. One is in the pupil of the eye. Another is in our shadow. The last is our reflection in a calm pool of water. When a person dies, two of the souls leave the body. But the third soul, the truest soul, lives in the pupil of our eye and remains in the body forever."

The four punk rockers stood at the back of the circle, off by themselves. Two guys, two chubby girls with bad posture, their body piercings gleaming like surgical staples. I guessed the guys to be in their early twenties, the girls younger, maybe still in their teens. All of them with an attitude, hanging with their leader, the tall, knobby guy who had a dragon tattooed on his forearm. The other male, shorter but much thicker, had what looked to be the tail of a snake winding up his bi-cep; the four of them whispering among themselves as Tomlinson spoke, which I found irritating as hell.

The others there were pretty easily labeled. Several newspaper types, all female. One late forties and very fat-from the Enquirer, judging by her brightly flowered look-at-me caftan and floppy straw hat. Two in their early twenties, serious expressions, journalism school aloofness. A photographer, male, late twenties. A cameraman from a local TV station and a female reporter who kept checking her makeup; she carried lipstick and hairspray in a little pouch.

Two men, however, were not so easily assessed. One was massive, with florid cheeks and nose, a beer drinker's paunch, deep into his forties. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, as if this were a recreational event, part of the Marco Island tour.

The other stood off by himself in the shade listening. Abe Lincoln face, black Navaho hair, dark eyes, wrists protruding from a cheap dress shirt that was too small, baggy pants belted around his waist. He had the shrunken look of a whiskey alcoholic, a pack of Marlboros showing through breast pocket, his hair greased back.

I moved slowly toward Detective Parrish as Tomlinson finished, saying, "What better proof of God and immortality than Dorothy's great genius? Than all the fallen Calusa who spoke to her? Their truest soul, the soul that lives in the pupil of their eyes, will be comforted by her return."

After a prayer and an appropriate silence, I spoke in a low voice to Detective Parrish, "Who's the man in the white shirt? The skinny guy."

Parrish was standing, arms folded. He was wearing Ray-Bans now that the service was over. He said, "You didn't already find out your ownself? I'm surprised."

"It's what I'm doing now," I said. "A smart cop is the logical place to start, right?"

He pursed his lips, smiling. "The skinny man, he's the girl's father, the one run off and left them. Ms. Copeland, she asked me not to let him near her, wouldn't speak a word to him. Said he didn't care 'bout the girl when she was alive, why bother now she's dead? I took him aside and told him stay away, and he just said, 'Fine, fine,' like he didn't have much fight left in him anymore. Said his name is Darton."

I'd watched Darton Copeland stop and say something into the ear of Ivan Bauerstock. Watched Bauerstock turn as if Copeland didn't exist, then walk away from the smaller man.

Now Darton Copeland was crossing the street toward the 7-Eleven, a scarecrow figure, diminished in size by distance.

"How about the guy with the red face? He looks like he just got off a cruise ship."

"Man with the belly? No, he's local. Got that hard-ass, I'm-a-tax-payer attitude. Wouldn't tell me nothing. Gave me the Negro cop look, like why waste his time? So I asked around and his name is Rossi, has a construction company on the island. Apparendy got some money. Guess he just came for the show. Next you're going to ask me about the freaky kids, the ones with green and purple hair. Why they here?"

I nodded.

Parrish was looking at them, taking in how they reacted to his stare. "Some coincidence, huh? how I already checked what you think needs to be checked."

"Like you're a mind reader."

"Uh-huh. What the tall one told me was, the one with the thing in his lip. Like a silver horseshoe? He told me they read about the girl in the paper, how cool it was she could find things, things that was lost. Like maybe she had psychic powers or was a witch or something, so they were curious. Decided to come and watch the psychic girl get buried, that's what he told me. Only they're kind of disappointed they didn't get to see her body when the casket was open. They said that was pretty much a bummer-the short fat girl, she told me that. We're kind of, you know, bummed 'cause we waste all this time and, you know, don't even get to look inside.' Know what the fat girl asked me? 'Is she like a skeleton now or just rotted?'"

I said, "Indignant because they'd been left out, that was her attitude? They couldn't even shut up during the service."

Parrish allowed a confidential chuckle. "Oh yeah, man. These kids today, everybody owes them something, huh? Makes me want to move to my cabin in Colorado, go up there and wait for the end to come. You white people, you're bad enough. But it's gotten so I don't even like my own kind no more."

One of the women I'd guessed to be a newspaper reporter stopped us in the little parking lot, saying, "Excuse me, Mrs. Copeland, I'm with Everglades University, Museum of Natural History. Any chance we can sit down and talk about your daughter, how she did what she did? At your convenience, of course."

Long minutes before, we'd had to wait while Delia was comforted by Teddy Bauerstock, Ivan's politician son, the two of them embracing, swaying back and forth, while she sobbed, "You were the only one who was kind to her, treated her like she wasn't strange. It's so sweet of you, Teddy, to even remember. I thought you forgot about us years ago," as he patted her back, tears in his own eyes, camera shutters making their scissors sound.

We had to wait a little longer as he spoke to reporters, his arm around Delia's shoulder, a protective posture. "Dorothy was my friend. No… she was more like my little sister. I didn't know her well. We didn't spend a lot of time together, but enough to become close. Her brilliance made her seem different, and we all know how cruel kids can be to those who are a little different. More than once I had to step in and tell the local bullies to back off, leave her alone."