Randy White - Everglades

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.

One Bloody Mary later, Izzy was lounging in his first-class seat, looking out the starboard window as the plane lifted off, ascending and banking. He was looking west into a blazing aftermath of a sunset sky. He could see domino rows of houses that thinned, then ended abruptly on a demarcation of unbroken light that he knew was the edge of the Everglades. It was a golden void connected to a golden sky, prairie and sky linked by a thin black tether of horizon.

He checked his watch.

Eight-twenty P.M.

He’d left the Merry Widow, Sally Minster, with her hands and legs tied, mouth taped, in the front seat of the U-Haul, doors locked, engine running so to produce the necessary voltage to detonate the barrels of ammonium nitrate loaded into the rear.

Hey-if she’d been more cooperative, he’d have gone easier on her.

So much for the evidence.

The Feds, though, would be all over it. The underground stuff would be harder to find. But chunks of a U-Haul lying around?

Too bad for the supercilious hippie. Too bad for Jerry Singh.

Izzy had grown to despise the man.

Now he held up one finger to get the attention of the lean, redheaded flight attendant-service was always so much better in first class. He smiled his lady’s-man smile, dimples showing, as he said, “When you get some time, how about another Bloody Mary?”