Everglades (18 page)

I said, “What’s that?”

“Trustworthiness. You can’t trust them. Whatever they hear, whatever they see, they’ll take straight to Jerry if they think he should know. Which is why I’m sure he’ll hear that the four of us were talking about Minster. Tonight at the latest, if that lil’ Yankee hasn’t called Jerry already.”

DeAntoni asked, “So what’s wrong with that, Mac? It’s a free country.”

“I know, I know, I’m just warning you. Jerry’s ruthless—you have to be ruthless to run an organization the size of his. He’s not going to be happy about a member talking to outsiders—especially me, ’cause he knows how I feel. First time I heard about it, the way Minster supposedly fell off that sports fisherman at night, I never did believe it. Personally, I’ve always believed Geoff’s still alive.”

Carter McRae told us he’d been suspicious of Minster’s disappearance for a simple reason: He was acquainted with the three men who were with Minster that night. He told us their names. One was a well-known Florida politician, another was an international investment banker, the third a retired State Supreme Court judge. They all lived in the same exclusive little Coconut Grove community, Ironwood.

“Know what else those three had in common?” McRae asked. “They didn’t much like Geoff. Don’t misunderstand me—they didn’t hate him. Just didn’t particularly care for him, which I can understand. Before his religious conversion, Minster was a hard-ass businessman who didn’t give a damn about making friends. After his conversion, he was so touchy-feely-spiritual that a real man wouldn’t want to waste time talking to him.”

According to McRae, he’d spoken with all three after the disappearance. Each of the three men told him that the only reason they’d gone on the fishing trip was because Minster had pushed and pestered until they finally agreed just to fulfill a social obligation they would never have to endure again.

McRae asked us, “Now why would Minster choose three men who didn’t much like him to go on that boat?”

“Witnesses,” Tomlinson said immediately. “Three of the most respected men in the state. He wanted witnesses. The kind no one would ever doubt.”

McRae was nodding, smiling; a man who was at the head of the table no matter where he sat, sober or drunk. “You, sir, have an intellect that is not implied by your physical appearance—unlike your politics. I have a little granddaughter who uses the same kind’a combs in her hair, and that shirt you’re wearing reminds me of Derby Day in Lexington. All the pretty, flowered bonnets.”

Tomlinson took it as a compliment. “Thank you, Mr. McRae. But I can’t take credit for the witness theory. Doc was the first to think of it. Invite three solid citizens, then fake your death by jumping overboard. A second boat’s in the area, lights out, waiting to make the pickup.”

I’d considered the possibility, but didn’t remember mentioning it to Tomlinson.

I listened to McRae say, “I haven’t followed it that closely. Perhaps you gentlemen know more details. Did anyone ever ask the boat’s captain if he had his radar on that night? If there was a second vessel following, or waiting close enough to pick up Minster, the skipper would’ve seen it on the screen.”

DeAntoni said, “I interviewed the captain. So’d the cops. He had radar, yeah, but he told me he didn’t notice. It was such a clear night, plenty calm, that he was running the thing all by himself, no need to use the electronics. Plus, he had no idea what time Minster went overboard. The last person to see him was the retired judge, and that was around nine P.M. They didn’t realize he was gone ’til the next morning, when they woke up in Bimini.”

I asked, “Can you think of any reason why Minster would want to stage his own death?”

McRae said, “There’re only two reasons a man disappears on purpose, and both’re because he feels he has to escape. He’s trying to escape from someone who wants to kill him, or he wants to escape his old life. Too many bills, too much pressure. Leave behind a life he just can’t stomach any longer. Or maybe escape into the arms of a different woman.”

DeAntoni said, “Minster was sick of his old life, his wife told us that. Was he screwing around on her?”

“Sorry, that’s the sort of question a gentleman doesn’t answer. Not that I approve of such behavior. I’ve been married for fifty-two years and was unfaithful to my wife only once. That was a long, long time ago. It was the saddest, sickest thing I’ve ever done, and the only true regret I have in this life.”

After a few moments of reflection, McRae added, “Was Minster screwing around? I will say this. In the Ashram faith, I hear communal sex is allowed. Maybe even encouraged. All I’ll tell you is, the month before he disappeared, Minster lived here in the club’s bachelor quarters. He almost never went home to Sally. I also know he had a special friend, an Indian woman. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.”

“Would you tell us her name if you knew it?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else that suggests to you that he intentionally went missing?”

“As I said, there’re only two reasons a man chooses to disappear: to start a new life, or to get away from someone who was trying to kill him. Could be, both reasons applied to Geoff.”

That was a surprising thing to hear. DeAntoni said, “He was afraid of being killed? By
who?
”

“Figure it out for yourselves. Toward the end, he and Jerry weren’t getting along. They sat here one night, screaming at each other. Kurt about soiled his pants, he was so quick to shut the restaurant down. The holy man, Bhagwan Shiva, acting like a drunken bully. We can’t let the faithful see something like that, now, can we?”

“Do you know what the argument was about?”

McRae had begun to weave slightly, his eyes even blur rier. Now, with a slowly marshaled effort, he straightened himself, giving it careful consideration, before he told us, “Gentlemen, I think our little barter session has come to an end. I have reached the point where this very fine Scotch has turned to common whiskey on my palate, and that’s a sin against all that I hold dear. Besides, the subject’s too serious for drunk talk.”

He was pulling his wallet out, from which he produced a business card. “You write your phone numbers on this little piece of paper. Give me some time to think it over. Maybe I’ll call. Maybe I won’t. Let’s just leave it at that.”

As we paid the tab, I noticed that Tomlinson had his hand on McRae’s shoulder, leaning toward him, talking into his ear.

I watched the distinguished man frown, shaking his head. Then McRae closed his eyes, listening . . . then it appeared as if he were fighting back tears, patting the top of Tomlinson’s hand with his own. He spoke a few words as Tomlinson continued to whisper, and then McRae was nodding, smiling a little.

Outside, I dropped far enough behind DeAntoni to ask Tomlinson, “What were you saying to him back there?”

“Mr. McRae’s wife, Gwendie, was operated on for a cerebral aneurysm six months ago. She’s been in a coma; on life support ever since.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I didn’t. I had a strong sense that he was in pain. He’s a good man, too. Not
my
kind of man. Not the kind I’d choose for a friend. When he described Shiva as ruthless? He was describing himself just as accurately. I suspect you realize that. But a good man, even so.

“His driver takes him to Naples Community Hospital every night at six, where he sits beside Gwendie for as long as he’s allowed, holding her hand, whispering into her ear. Every morning, he comes here and drinks single malt until he’s drunk enough to go home and get some sleep.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I got his e-mail address. Told him I’d send him a paper I wrote a long time ago. Maybe it’ll give him some comfort.”

I knew exactly what paper he meant—“One Fathom Above Sea Level.” But I said, “What paper’s that?”

“Just a paper. I’d almost forgotten I’d written the thing until strangers starting e-mailing me, asking questions about it. Pretty weird, man. The present meets the past. Unfortunately, the brain cells that did the writing are long, long gone. Oh”—he was walking beside me, twisting his yellow goatee into curls—“something else I told him was that my instincts are pretty good. I told him I was getting strong vibes that Gwendie’s gonna wake up soon. It might take awhile, but she’s going to be okay.”

I said, “Do you think that’s a responsible thing to do—give the man false hopes? You could end up hurting him more.”

“In the paper I mentioned—this is just an example, and I’m paraphrasing. But I wrote something about selfless hope. I said hope is the simplest proof of divine origin. When I told him that, he seemed to appreciate it.”

I said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing how you come to that conclusion. Why don’t you send me a copy. I’ll read it.”

That much was true. I
hadn’t
read it. For some reason, to do so without Tomlinson’s permission had seemed an invasion of his privacy. It was something a stranger could do, but not a friend.

“Know what, Doc? Considering all you’ve been through, I came
this
close to asking you to read it fifty, sixty times. But it seemed like an imposition. Like you’d have to read it just because we’re pals.” Then he stopped talking and, in a different tone of voice, he said, “Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.”

He meant the golf cart speeding toward us, two men aboard. Pith helmet, the guard from the front gate, was sitting beside a driver who wore a black T-shirt and black cap, SECURITY printed on both in yellow letters.

I remembered Sally telling us about Shiva’s Archangels, the security people who always dressed in black.

DeAntoni saw them, too. He stopped, waiting, when pith helmet said loud enough for us all to hear, “There they are; it’s them. Those’re the ones.”

chapter fifteen

The
golf cart came at us full speed, then turned in front of DeAntoni so abruptly that it almost hit him. He backed up reflexively a couple of steps as the two men bailed out even before it stopped. Pith helmet was already talking, speaking to us as a group in his cop voice, very officious.

“You individuals are on private property. I warned you. I told you that you weren’t permitted on the grounds, but here you are. So we’re going to detain you until we’ve contacted the sheriff’s department—”

At the same time, DeAntoni was saying, “Whoa, Mac, stop right there. Not another step closer,” because they were coming toward him.

Pith helmet had a leather sap in his hand, and appeared ready to use it. The man in the black cap held what looked to be a cell phone, but the shape didn’t seem quite right. Then I realized what it was: a taser gun. A taser shoots twin, dart-pointed probes that produce a pulsing, high-voltage current when they make contact with human flesh.

Pith helmet was saying, “The smart thing for you people to do is shut your mouths, just come along peacefully. Put your hands behind your heads—” as DeAntoni stopped backing up, his expression was changing; a sort of game-face transformation that I know too well.

“Mac,” he said, not very loud, “you lay a finger on me, you’re going to be shitting little pieces of that sap for the next three weeks.”

Which is when Tomlinson rushed forward, trying to intervene. He was walking fast toward the security guards, his palms held outward—
slow down; stay calm
—telling them, “It’s okay, it’s okay, we have permission to be here. Call Carter McRae. He knows us. Mr. McRae, or even the bartender, Kurt. He saw us together.”

Black hat had been focused on DeAntoni, but now he turned his attention to Tomlinson, holding the taser in his hand like some kind of space-age revolver. Black hat was taller, leaner than pith helmet; had a look of forced stoicism, as if he were trying hard to behave professionally, but was actually excited, enjoying himself.

“You’re friends of Mr. McRae, huh? Just like you’re good friends of the Terwilligers. I called Mr. Terwilliger and checked. They’ve never heard of you people. Which is why we’re detaining you. So put your hands behind your heads.
Now.
”

At the same time, black hat was talking to Tomlinson, telling him, “Stay back, stay back, don’t come any closer—I’m warning you,” as Tomlinson continued to walk fast, trying to position himself between DeAntoni and the two guards.

Then black hat shot Tomlinson in the chest with the taser. I heard a blast of compressed air; saw the probes snake toward him. Tomlinson was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, pink surfboards on purple silk. It was very thin material, and I could hear the sickening thud of the darts impacting upon muscle and bone.

It was a grotesque scene to witness. Tomlinson dropped like a rag doll, landed on his side and rolled to his back, his arms and legs flailing, the muscles of his face spasming as his eyes fluttered back in his head.

DeAntoni and I had begun to sprint toward black hat the instant he aimed the taser, but pith helmet intercepted DeAntoni—or tried to. I heard pith helmet give a shriek of pain, but didn’t see why because I was concentrating on black hat, who held the taser in his left hand like some macabre puppeteer, Tomlinson twitching wildly at the end of two black strings. With his right hand, though, black hat was now un holstering a revolver.

The sign at the gatehouse had warned that the staff here was authorized to carry firearms, but what kind of idiot would draw a weapon under these circumstances? The answer was unnerving: the kind of idiot who was eager for a reason to shoot someone.

I vaulted over Tomlinson and drove my shoulder into black hat’s chest, pinning his right wrist against his holster as I pushed him backwards, then lifted him high off the ground, his feet kicking. I held him there for a moment before I turned and body-slammed him onto the brick sidewalk. He hit with such force that it knocked the wind out of him: The wide, bulging eyes were symptomatic. It’s a terrifying thing to be unable to breathe, and his expression reflected that terror.