Randy White - Everglades

“That’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, man. Doc, there’s something been chewing you down to the core. You’re not yourself, and we all know it. A couple of days ago, I walked into your galley. You weren’t there. There was a gun lying out, bullets on the table. A square black pistol. Why?”

I waited for a moment before I said, “Cleaning it. That’s all.”

“Cleaning a gun for no reason.”

I didn’t reply.

Tomlinson said, “I don’t buy it, my brother. That’s why I want to tell you this. I’m drunk, but not too drunk to say what’s true. I’m aware that you have blood on your hands. But so do I. You know it now, you’ve always known it. Since we met, you’ve always known what I really am.”

I said, “Yes.”

“And you were assigned to take care of me. Right? Right? Like you took care of Jeff Ruben at the Slope Bar in Aspen.”

I said nothing.

“Well, guess what, man. I’m guilty. Guilty as sin. But not you. Guilt requires malicious intent. You were an employee. A messenger. ”

I chuckled. “Tell that to Amelia Gardner. Or about fifteen other people.”

Tomlinson put his hand on my shoulder. “Billie Egret called me yesterday. We talked about Shiva. We also talked about you. Because of her father, what you meant to Joseph, she takes her relationship with you very seriously.

“Know what she told me? She said that balance and equilibrium are the central elements of the Maskoki universe, the Seminole world. Reciprocity, she called it. If you give bad, you get bad in return. If you take, you have to give.

“Doc, you give as much as any person I’ve ever met. There’re a bunch of us who depend on you, count on you. Goddamn it, you’re the strong one. It’s scaring us that you’re acting weak. You’ve given back a hell of a lot more than you’ve taken.”

I steered silently, the stainless-steel wheel cool beneath my fingers, seeing a sprinkling of lights in the mangrove lake darkness: Dinkin’s Bay Marina.

Tomlinson said, “Billie told me to tell you that. I don’t know why. Something else I’m supposed to tell you, too: After that little tremor on Sunday, water level in the marsh around Chekika’s Hammock dropped. Remember James Tiger saying they could only find Lost Lake when the water’s down? Well, the lake’s visible now. The tarpon have shown up. She wants you to come with me Sunday, and see it.”

I said, “I’d like that. It’s something I’ve always heard about. A hole in the Everglades that opens out to the ocean. Maybe take some dive gear if there’s any visibility.”

Then I said, “Hey, why Sunday? The traffic will be a pain in the ass, and we can’t go by boat.”

Tomlinson said, “I don’t know. A strong woman like Billie, she didn’t leave much room for discussion.”

“But we’ve got a game. Baseball at Terry Park.”

“Not this Sunday,” Tomlinson reminded me. “This Sunday, we’re off because it’s Easter.” chapter twenty-four izzy

On the morning of April 18th, Good Friday, Izzy Kline took a cab to E-Z U-Haul Rental Center off Powerline Road and S.W. 10th Street, Deerfield Beach. He used a postal money order, a Social Security number he’d lifted from the Internet and a newly counterfeited driver’s license to rent a truck.

He’d already given them his assumed name, a credit card number and expiration date over the phone.

What he chose was U-Haul’s four-wheel-drive, five-ton “Thrifty Mover,” a medium-sized diesel with a fourteen-foot cargo trailer built over the back. Its maximum load capacity was three thousand pounds. That was more than enough for what Izzy needed.

As he left, the clerk said, “Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson. See you on Monday.”

Izzy, wearing a baggy, knitted Rasta hat, and an expensive theatrical goatee, waved to cover his face, and replied, “Save the Earth, brother! Fight the madness!”

The hat and goatee were in a 7-Eleven trash Dumpster before he got back to the Interstate.

After that, he went straight to his condo in West Palm Beach, and moved the last of his personal items-a DVD player, a big-screen TV, similar electronic stuff-into the truck, and drove to Port of the Everglades. He paid three Mexican illegals to pack it all in boxes alongside his Astro van, his Suzuki motorcycle, all his furniture and clothing, in a semi-sized container that was already loaded on a cargo ship. The ship was scheduled to leave tomorrow, Saturday, for Central America.

With the truck empty, Izzy drove south on I-95, headed for Sawgrass. He had the speakers turned loud, playing one of his favorite CDs, World’s Most Beloved Waltzes.

“Edelweiss” was playing now, the Boston Philharmonic, one of the classics. That one-two-three beat made him want to dance, so he pounded out the rhythm on the steering wheel, feeling good; pleased with himself and smiling, until his cell phone rang.

A minor irritation.

He checked the caller ID. It was Shiva’s private number.

Izzy turned down the volume, pressed the talk button and said, “Talk to me, Jerry!”

He could call Shiva by his first name now. The Bhagwan was delighted by the results of the coordinated explosions on Sunday. The two men had never been on friendlier terms.

Izzy listened to Shiva say, “I’m spending the weekend at the Cypress Ashram. We still all set for the second service?”

“Service” meant “detonation.”

Izzy said, “I’m on my way there now.”

“Easter Sunday at sunset?”

“Yep. Seven fifty-seven sharp. I checked the almanac.”

“The church appreciates your dedication.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said. “One more thing: Make sure to remind Mr. Carter to answer his cell phone when I call. If he doesn’t, I’ll be seeing both of you on Monday.”

They had reason to be encouraged. The first series of explosions had been more convincing, and had received wider attention, than Shiva anticipated.

A reporter for the Seminole Tribune, “Voice of the Unconquered,” had interviewed a number of people, including Shiva, for a story they were doing on the recent earthquake. Izzy didn’t know or care about the particulars, but Shiva had jabbered on and on because the Indian writer knew about Tecumseh right away; what he’d predicted.

The real reason Shiva was so happy? It was because the Seminole Tribe of Florida were at least talking to him. They’d treated him like a con man right off the bat.

That might impress the less savvy tribe of Egret Seminoles.

Izzy was kicked-back, pleased with himself. He’d pulled it off. It had all gone so damn smoothly. And so far, the Feds hadn’t come snooping around.

Not that it was all luck. No.

First off, he’d taken the trouble to make certain Tomlinson, Ford and the Italian dick-Frank something-hadn’t eyeballed him when he was down there in the rock quarry, scoping out where to park the U-Haul while he was filling boreholes with ammonium nitrate. Which was a risky pain-in-the-ass, but had to be done.

They hadn’t. Didn’t say a word about him when they were sitting alone in the waiting room.

He’d taken his time learning how to do explosives, too. Did all the reading. Found out how to do it right. He’d put together a booklet of Bureau of Mines publications describing research on acceptable levels of underground disturbance. Cross the lines, you were inviting scrutiny.

He’d also learned that there was a subscience to achieving maximum efficiency with fewer explosives by drilling several “shot holes” or boreholes in a precise semicircular pattern. The holes had to be five to fifteen feet deep or so, with small diameters. Then the boreholes had to be “stemmed,” or packed tight with rock.

No problem.

For his Easter Sunday’s fireworks-the grand finale-Izzy had drilled thirteen boreholes in a sequential pattern (“delay intervals,” the literature called them) and in the exact semicircle shape of the Cypress Ashram’s elevated stage. Even though each of the boreholes was more than half a mile away from the outdoor theater, the series of explosions would rock the place in precisely connecting gradients-and much of the Everglades as well.