Everglades (12 page)

“Karlita,” I said. “She’s the point. I’ve got no interest. I don’t want her in my house. I don’t want her in my lab. I don’t want to spend more than a minute or two listening to her bullshit. As long as we’re clear on that.”

He held up an index finger, asking me to pause so he could ask a question. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting a very negative vibe here. You don’t like the lady?”

“No. I don’t like the lady.”

I watched my old friend sigh heavily, eyes drowsy, his whole body drooping as if he were about to fall asleep. Or pass out—a more accurate term.

I hoped it was my imagination, but lately, it seemed, Tomlinson was absolutely smashed after only nine or ten beers—a historically light night for him.

Not a good sign.

I am not a fretter, but, of late, I’d been worried about him. He was killing himself. Slowly and surely, he was destroying his own body, his own first-rate mind, by overindulging in a garden variety of legal and illegal drugs.

He’d gotten worse in the last year or so. My personal guess was that it was his way of dealing with the pressure of his growing notoriety. A way of re-creating an insular privacy that he no longer enjoyed.

So he was staying drunk most of the time. Or hiding out on his boat. Or on the Florida Keys: Key Largo, renting the little apartment overlooking the Mandalay Bar, Mile Marker 97.5. Or in Key West, moored at the Conch Republic Fish Company docks, or staying at Simonton Court, or Old Cypress House, doing happy hour with Dave, then drinking all night with Chris Robinson at Louie’s Backyard.

Or exploiting absurd excuses to retreat to the Everglades.

Every day by sunset, he was out of control. Mostly, it was alcohol—which is why the fact the he seemed to be getting drunk on fewer drinks was a troubling symptom.

Chronic alcohol use causes the liver to become fatty. The fat chokes off blood that delivers oxygen to liver cells. Those cells are replaced with scar tissue called cirrhosis. Result? A drinker can tolerate less and less alcohol because there are fewer liver cells to process it.

Of course, it was also probable that he was supplementing his alcohol intake with marijuana, illegal pharmaceuticals, psychedelic fungi, even surgical halothane gas when he could get it.

Tomlinson made friends quickly, and he had a long list of medical professionals he could call on for special fun and favors. Because he knew I didn’t approve, he rarely confided in me when it came to his current drug of preference.

The height of paradox was this: A couple of months back, he took me aside and said, “Doc, I don’t want to offend you, but I’m telling you for your own good. The whole marina’s worried because of your drinking.”

I said,
“What?”

“Used to be, you’d have a couple of beers a night. Now you’re drinking that black Nicaraguan rum. Getting drunk, too—that’s the rumor floating ’round. That’s what I
suspect.
”

Trying my best to be patient, I told him, “Tomlinson, you know exactly what I drink because you’re right there with me. Drinking rum on my porch at sunset, or your boat, almost every night.
Geezsh.
”

Which made him pause a few beats, thinking about it, before he replied, “
Oh.
In that case . . . well, you’re in the hands of a professional. Enjoy!”

 

 

Standing near the marina’s picnic tables, where there were trays of crab cakes, bowls of ceviche, steamed shrimp and fried fish, Tomlinson told me, “Last night, when you two were out canoeing, Karlita said she had a psychic vision. That you were destined to become lovers.”

I answered, “The lady’s wrong. Count on it.”

He wagged his finger at me, having fun. “Um-huh, the Ford Theory of Reality. You only accept as fact that teeny weenie bit of ignorance that can be measured, weighed and classified.

“One day, though, you’ll step through the veil and experience the spiritual world. When you’re ready, man, when the
student’s
ready, your teacher will arrive. You put out such good vibes, my brother, I’m willing to bet cash money that your spiritual teacher will come complete with a really great ass. So maybe it’s Karlita.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So now I have something to look forward to.”

I turned and began to walk toward the docks, where I could see Sally and Frank DeAntoni standing among a group of liveaboards, red plastic cups in hand. Yet, by the way they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, facing one another, talking intensely, they effectively isolated themselves. Two people alone in a crowded space.

Behind me, Tomlinson said, “If Karlita says you two are going to end up lovers, my money’s on her. Might do you some good. Step into the Karlita cage and take a few swings.”

First sailing metaphors, now baseball: two of the man’s great loves. But all drunks become tiresome after a while, and I was getting irritated.

I told him, “I’m still seeing Grace Walker, just in case you’ve forgotten. I try to focus on one partner at a time.”

“Focus,” he said. “I’m with you there. There are men who choose the vagina as their only telescope to the world. Bad choice. Poor light gathering capabilities and unpredictable resolution.” He stopped. “Hey, what’s that you got in your hand?”

As I continued to walk, I held up the glossy photo DeAntoni had given me. “Nothing. No one you’d know.”

“See? There you go being purely logical, which can be a bummer. That’s why you’re always surprised by the unexpected.”

He took the photo from my hand, holding it up to the dock lights. Stood there weaving, studying it before he said, “This man’s name is . . . hum-mmm . . . it’s coming back to me. His name is Minster something. Jerry Minster? No . . . Geoff Minster. See? I
do
know the guy.”

 

 

Surprised by the unexpected. He was right about that. And Tomlinson
often
surprises me.

I said slowly, “Yes. It
is
Geoff Minster. Exactly. Sally Carmel’s Miami husband. When did you meet him?”

“Whoa, wait—Sally’s husband? That, I
didn’t
know. Very weird, man. A very far-out karmic linkage. To meet him yet not know he was married to our old buddy Sal.”

Tomlinson has the amazing ability to react as if sober when the subject is sufficiently serious. He’s developed what he calls a “lifeguard twin” that is always waiting and ready, hidden within his brain. In an emergency situation, when drunk, Tomlinson calls upon the twin to speak articulately, to walk steadily, to be extremely courteous to law-enforcement types and attentive to attractive women.

He seemed to be sober now, as I said, “Then explain how you know him.”

“Remember I told you about the two pre-Columbian circles they found over in Dade County?”

“I remember,” I said impatiently. “How does that have anything to do with Minster?”

“Because Minster was the developer who was trying to build some mega-million-dollar high-rise luxury condo on the site. Built-in Starbucks, a little mall, high-tech security. You know the place, Brikell Pointe, located where the Miami River joins Biscayne Bay. Right near downtown Miami.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A little more than two years ago. I remember telling you about it.”

I nodded. “So that’s the connection.”

“Yep. Do you know where Cassadaga is?”

Cassadaga is one of Florida’s stranger towns. It is northeast of Orlando, and well known for an enclave of oddballs who claim to be witches and warlocks.

Tomlinson said, “In Cassadaga, there’s a group of mystics. A tight bunch of truly enlightened beings. I can’t tell you the name of the group. I took a vow of secrecy. This is an extremely successful, solid bunch. Not the usual flakes that I love so much.”

He said, “Unlike the usual ones, the fakes and pretenders, they actually have the gift of telepathy, clairvoyance, all kinds of powers. Which means making money is easy for them. And they’ve made lots of it. Prescience. Don’t you love that word? What it combines and implies?”

“What you’re telling me is that you’re a member of the group,” I said.

“If you choose to come to that conclusion, I’m not going to argue,
mi compadre.
The point is, they—
we
—couldn’t allow Minster and his corporation to destroy something that’s not only an important archaeological site, but also a major Power Place. It’s an earth vortex, both the circles. Very powerful vortices. You’re familiar with the term?”

“No, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear about it. All I’m interested in is how you know Minster.”

Both of us walking again, Tomlinson made a calming motion with his hands. “I’ll make it quick. But you need to know what I’m talking about to understand how I met the guy. Okay?”

When I didn’t reply, he said, “Okay, a quick lesson in earth energy. There are focal points for electromagnetic power. Hot spots you might call them, or vortices. Sometimes they’re rocky areas, water places, whole biospheres. Or sometimes they’re built by man. Pyramids or Indian mounds. A deep water spring, for instance. Volcanoes.”

“Volcanoes,” I said. “That’s enough. I get the idea.”

“Wait, you need to hear the rest. Vortices have a dominant force, either electric or magnetic. A very few possess both—Power Places we call them. Over the centuries, mystics, psychics—even alien visitors—it’s where they go to replenish their energy reserves. The Everglades? The Everglades is one of the world’s great Power Places. All those springs and vortices; no other place like it.”

“Tomlinson, please don’t start talking about the Swamp Ape again. I’m still pissed off about you getting my truck stuck.”

“Ahh-h-h. The skunk that nailed you when you were trying to push me out of the ditch. A touchy subject, yes.”

I interrupted, “I don’t blame the skunk. I blame you.
Only
you. So do us both a favor, please don’t dwell on it.”

He said, “Okay, okay, so back to the energy deal. It’s part of a force field that links everything. The earth. Our own bodies. Our
souls.
The energy’s produced by three key elements: iron, oxygen and silicon crystals. Quartz and silicon; it’s the same thing. Silicon Valley? That’s why computers will ultimately evolve to the point where they have their own spirituality, their own crystal souls.”

I interrupted, hurrying him along, saying, “Okay, Minster was going to build on what you’d call a Power Place. I understand that, too. So what happened?”

“What happened is, this group of Cassadaga mystics preformed a spiritual intervention. On Minster. Minster and his major partner.”

“His partner. Okay, now we’re back on track. His business partner, was it a cult leader who calls himself Bhagwan Shiva?”

It was my turn to surprise Tomlinson. His facial expression is normally passive, always congenial. Now, though, his face illustrated an uncharacteristic distaste—maybe even a little touch of anger in there.

“Shiva,” he said. “Bingo. That’s what he calls himself. But it’s not his real name. He chose the name, like . . . like a Halloween mask. A disguise. It’s something to hide behind. Bhagwan means ‘Blessed one.’ Shiva means ‘Prophet.’ The dude we’re discussing, he’s neither.”

I began to smile, “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you saying a bad word about anyone. You really
don’t
like him, do you?”

“Never met him; never
want
to meet. He’s a cult leader, and you know me, man: I’ve never found a religion I didn’t like. Do you know what religion
really
is? Religion, any legitimate religion, it consists of rules of morality linked by love. That’s it.

“What Shiva’s done is steal the worst parts of three or four faiths, and he uses them to feed on weakness. A lot of it’s taken from Scientology; the science-fiction writer deal? There’s a very heavy indoctrination program. They do what they call ‘cross-auditing,’ trying to rid themselves of a kind of virus implanted in humans by space aliens a billion years ago—which is cool. I’ve got no beef with Scientology. But what Shiva does is use it to control people, not elevate them.

“The guy he really models himself after, though, is Bhagwan Shree—he’s dead, now—but he had a couple of hundred meditation centers around the world. He preached free love, that getting rich was
good.
So Shiva’s stepped in, made himself the new Bhagwan. He’s part carnival act, part like those motivational shysters you see on late-night TV. It’s still all about energy, man. Negative and positive. The guy who calls himself Bhagwan Shiva, he’s a black hole. A power-zapper, and he just can’t get enough. The
non-
Bhagwan, that’s the way I think of him.
Evil
—I think of him as that, too.”

“You and your group of mystics confronted him and Minster? But you said you never met Shiva.”

“I said we performed a spiritual
intervention
to stop construction. The group I’m talking about, they can get into some dark mojo if it’s required. You ever hear of a voodoo thing called an ‘assault obeah’? Get the right shamans involved, you can suck the life energy right out of your target.”

I said, “You can’t be telling me your friends are capable of murder.”

“What I’m telling you is, someone can die without being murdered. But what they decided to use on Minster was all positive, man. Lots of meditation and some heavy-duty prayers.

“But Minster had been drained by the non-Bhagwan. Shiva, he’s like . . . well, remember, in the movie
The Wizard of Oz
? That scene with the witch’s soldiers, the ones with the tails and spears? They’re marching into the castle, shouldering their spears, chanting what you think is ‘OH-eee- ohhhhhh . . . weeee-OHHH-one.’”

Tomlinson was singing it now. “‘OH-eee-ohhhhhh . . . weeee-OHHH-one.’”

I said, “Sure. Even I know that scene.”

Tomlinson said, “What the witch’s soldiers are actually singing are lyrics. Only you have to listen close to understand them. What they’re singing, over and over, is: ‘Oh, we loath-h-h-h-he . . . the OLD one.’ We
loathe
the Old One. Meaning the Evil One. That’s Shiva. He’s evil, man.”