Randy White - Everglades

Then Izzy Kline sat back and released a long, slow breath, the tension flowing out of him, replaced by a feeling of liberation so powerful that it seemed a mix of serenity and deliverance.

We rounded a stand of cypress, the hull of Chekika’s Shadow skidding, then catching on its starboard chine. A half-mile or so ahead, I could see the elevated rim of the abandoned limestone quarry.

We were back in karst country. For millions of years, rain and flowing water had created conduits, caverns out of rock; a slow geologic cataclysm that showed in the gray limestone piled high above sawgrass.

In my earphones, I heard Tomlinson yell, “There it is! We’ve got to go faster, man. Can’t you go faster?”

No. Running at sixty miles per hour in an airboat is like turning a boat with a flat hull into a hurricane wind. I’d already come close to wobbling out of control a couple of times. Any faster and I feared we’d hydroplane into the air, then pitch-pole to disaster.

Within the last four minutes, we’d felt the boat rock with two, perhaps three or more tremors. Hard to tell for certain, because these explosions-and that’s undoubtedly what they were-seemed to come from behind us, at opposing spots on the perimeter of the outdoor amphitheater, Cypress Ashram.

Long ago, I’d spent months training with various explosives, and I’d used them, when required, for several years afterwards. Pros with explosives have zero tolerance when it comes to the people whom they teach. You learn, you remember or you get the hell out. So I’d learned.

Izzy Kline had, apparently, bracketed the amphitheater with underground charges. He’d staggered the timers to go off every one or two minutes. With the shock of each tremor, Tomlinson would cry out as if in pain, but I found the pattern of explosions encouraging. If the first explosion occurred at 7:48 P.M., the last explosion would almost certainly occur as predicted by Shiva-at sunset. Maybe a minute or two later, just for better effect.

I checked my watch again: 7:52 P.M.

If I was right, we had five minutes. With luck, we had a little longer.

Against my better judgment, I pushed the accelerator closer to the floor and held it there. I felt my cheeks begin to flutter with wind torque; felt the hull beneath me rise as if elevated by the razor edge of sawgrass.

Standing between us and the limestone quarry was a marsh of swamp maples, cattails and arrow plants. The trees and cattails were coated in golden light, casting black shadows eastward. If there were old lighter pine stumps in there, or hidden cypress knees, and we collided, we were dead. Even so, I kept the accelerator mashed flat, right hand sweaty on the joystick.

Instead of hitting stumps, though, we flushed a hidden populace of wildlife. Two gigantic gators bucked out of our way, one of them hitting the hull so hard with its tail that he nearly flipped us. A cloud of snowy egrets flushed before us, too: white wading birds that angled away, banking, then igniting as a single, flaming pointillism in the burnished light.

In my earphones, I heard Tomlinson say, “Panthers! Two of them!”

There they were: two flaxen-colored animals the size of retrievers, running fast, their long tails swinging like rudders.

I kept my eyes fixed on the rim of the abandoned quarry, and noted that there was something different about the area. It took me a moment to identify the change, and then connect it with what Billie Egret had already told me.

The previous week, the quarry had been on the edge of a shallow marsh. Now the marsh was dry but for a small, crater-shaped lake. The lake was several hundred yards from the quarry, at the terminus of a descending ridge of limestone that was overgrown with scrub grass and small melaleucas. The perimeter of the lake was as round as the rim of a volcano. It held water that mirrored a molten sky.

James Tiger had also told us about it. Lost Lake. The lake that was visible only when the ’Glades were nearly dry. The lake to which, Billie had said, tarpon had returned. She’d wanted me to see it.

Maybe I would. Later.

Still traveling near top speed, I angled the airboat toward the access road that climbed the ridge. Then I turned hard onto the road, banging our way up marl and limestone, the hull shuddering. As we breached the top of the ridge, Tomlinson was already shouting, “It’s there. The truck’s there!”

A medium-sized U-Haul, with a bed that extended over the cab, was backed in tight against the wall of limestone where, a week before, we’d seen the white GMC pickup.

Sliding to a stop, I yelled, “We’ll gut the hull if I try to jump across that rock. Stay here; I’ll run for it.”

But Tomlinson had already bailed while the boat was still moving, throwing his earphones off, sprinting hard down the incline toward the truck.

I looked at my watch: 7:54 P.M.

Three minutes until sunset.

Tomlinson has always been faster than I. Now, though, in the worst shape of my life, he left me far behind as he sprinted the hundred yards or so to the U-Haul.

“Doc, she’s here! She’s in the truck!” He was pulling at the door handle on the driver’s side. It was locked. Still pulling at the door, he banged on the window. “Sally. Are you okay? Sally! ”

He ran around to the other door, saying, “Oh God, I think she’s dead!”

I ran harder, feeling an appalling sense of loss and failure; was also aware that, in three minutes or so-maybe less-the truck was going to blow up. I’d made Tomlinson come with me. I was responsible, and now I was going to get him killed, too.

Still running, I yelled, “Are you sure she’s dead? Get away from there. I’ll try to get her out.”

He was pulling at the passenger door now-it was also locked. I leaned and picked-up a baseball-sized chunk of limestone and was coming around to the driver’s side of the truck as Tomlinson, banging on the opposite window, yelled, “Sally! We’re going to get you out.” After a pause, he then said, “Doc, she’s alive. ”

And there she was, my friend from childhood, lying naked on the seat, her hands and feet tied, her mouth and most of her face covered with duct tape, a purple swelling on her left temple, her jade-blue eyes wide, tears welling-an expression of joyous disbelief-staring back at me.

I yelled to her, “Close your eyes!”

The chunk of limestone broke in my hand when I smashed it against the door’s window, but the glass shattered. It became a pliant, plastic shield. I used the remaining chunk of rock to knock the window open, calling to Tomlinson, “Check the back of the truck. If it’s not locked, I might be able to disconnect the detonator.”

Unconsciously, I’d already assessed the situation; the steps I’d have to take. The truck’s engine was running-there could be only one reason: voltage. If the bed was full of ammonium nitrate, Kline had probably rigged some kind of high-voltage detonator to back up, or assist, a standard, timer-rigged blasting-cap-type detonator.

With the truck’s engine running, there would be a small boom followed by a horrendous explosion. Shut the engine off, the nitrate would still blow, but a markedly smaller portion of it.

Tomlinson yelled, “The back doors are padlocked! I can’t get in.”

Damn it.

I used my hands to rip the sheet of glass away, reached in, found the lock and yanked the door open. Tomlinson was already behind me as I took Sally by the shoulders and pulled her out. He took her gently into his arms as I said, “Try to find some cover. Get her away from here.”

I jumped behind the steering wheel, and reached to shut off the engine-but the key wasn’t in the switch. It took me a long, dull moment to realize why: Kline had broken the key off in the ignition. If the woman managed to get her hands free, he didn’t want her to be able to foil the explosion.