Everglades (27 page)

There was one small revelation when he said, “Am I convinced that Geoff’s dead? Probably, but I’m not
certain
of it. He had a lot going for him here. I was about to appoint him to my Circle of Twenty-eight—a group of my most trusted advisors worldwide. That’s quite an honor.

“In terms of business, Geoff was doing better than he’d been doing for the simple reason that he’d turned over almost all decision-making responsibilities to me and my staff. If that sounds immodest, I apologize. But the fact is, we are good at what we do.”

Shiva added that, emotionally, though, Minster was having some problems. “I’m not a gossip, and I’m certainly not going to breach the confidential nature of my relationship with a student. But I will tell you what is publicly known: Geoff was not happy in his marriage. It’s possible that his unhappiness was reason enough for him to intentionally disappear.”

DeAntoni said, “What you’re saying to me is that the guy was having an affair. That he maybe ran off to be with another woman.”

Shiva said, “I’m suggesting no such thing. We teach that sex is healthy. He had no reason to hide it.”

“Then why do you consider it a possibility?”

The blond girl in the white robe was walking toward us, motioning for us to follow—they were ready for us on the skeet range.

Shiva said, “I’m suggesting it because, two months before he disappeared, he used one of our Ashram computers to transfer slightly more than a hundred thousand dollars in cash to a private account on Grand Cayman Island. I told the police. Check, and you’ll see—it’s already part of the public record.”

chapter twenty-one

The
Sawgrass trap range was a professionally designed complex of courses, sporting clays and authentic field stations, all approved by the Amateur Trapshooting Association—or so said the laminated notice on the wall of the range master’s office.

There was no range master in attendance, though, which I found odd—until I learned the sort of targets Shiva preferred.

The facility was, in fact, deserted. Shiva insisted on having the grounds to himself, he told us. In hindsight, I understood why. He didn’t want witnesses.

We got our first hint as he walked us through the shooting course, briefing us on the history of what he called his newest “path to awareness.”

“Are you familiar with the Japanese art of
Kyudo
? It’s longbow shooting—a beautiful form of archery practiced by Zen Buddhists.
Kyudo
demands the precision of ballet and extraordinary concentration—yet, to perform well, the shooter must calm himself, empty his mind and allow his body to react automatically.
Mushin
is the Japanese word for it. It’s a Zen expression that means ‘no mind.’”

Tomlinson replied, “I think I’ve read somewhere or other about
Kyudo,
and
Mushin.
” He said it with a hint of irony so subtle that I was the only one to detect it.

Shiva said, “Then you may be able to appreciate my new love of shooting. To hit a moving target with a shotgun, it requires the same . . . well, the same letting-go of conscious control. If you know anything about how our right brain and left brain work, you’ll understand that shooting uses primarily the right brain. That’s why it’s such an effective tool for meditation.”

Shiva added, “As I tell my students, ‘You cannot think linearly or logically about shooting. If you do, you will never hit a thing.’ When the target appears, you must apprehend the spatial situation instantly and, at the same time, shoot. This truly is the Zen of sport.”

DeAntoni said, “You’re telling us that you think popping off a few rounds is some kind of religious deal, huh?” His tone, his expression, said,
Jesus, now I’m dealing with two weirdos.

Shiva laughed. We were walking toward the shooting course. Dimple-chin was already at the trap house, opening gun cases and filling shooting aprons with shells.

Shiva said, “For me, shooting’s part of my religious discipline. For you, though, it might be just a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. Even the history of the sport is fascinating!”

Like most men accustomed to being in control, Shiva was prone to lecture. He gave us a brief lecture now, telling us that trap-shooting dated back to the 1700s, when English gentlemen would walk a course upon which their manser vants had hidden wild birds in holes. The holes were covered with silk top hats.

“Jolly good fun,” Shiva said, demonstrating that he had a puckish side.

“But these days,” he added, “the most common targets are called clay birds—although they’re actually made of a limestone composite.”

He motioned with his hand. The ground was littered with orange shards. “They’re thrown from trap houses at a variety of angles. In trap, you shoot from five different positions. In skeet, you shoot from eight positions.” He gestured again. “All shooting is done between the two trap houses. It’s fun. But it’s not my favorite. If you like, I’ll
show
you my favorite. It’s called sporting clays.”

As Tomlinson and I exchanged looks—
Why is he telling us this?
—Shiva explained that sporting courses were laid out in natural surroundings. Typically, they included ten shooting stations.

“It makes you get out into the bush,” he said, “and interact with nature. You have to walk from station to station. The target can fly out from anywhere. Or run—a rabbit or even a deer target. It’s exciting. Something else: When I come to shoot, staff always adds an interesting little twist. Just for me.”

Shiva was loading what appeared to be a 12-gauge over-and-under Weatherby. When he finished, he looked up and smiled. “I expect you gentlemen to join me. We have plenty of guns and ammunition.”

Tomlinson told him, “I’ve never shot a gun in my life. I don’t plan to start now.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten—your oversized ego. You’re afraid you won’t shoot well.”

“No, Jerry. Fact is, man, it’s the company.”

Shiva wasn’t going to allow himself to be baited again. He stood with the shotgun, breech open, cradled beneath his arm. “Then come along and watch. Once you get into the spirit of the sport, I’ll bet you change your mind.”

As they walked away, I knelt as if to tie my boating shoes. Actually, I stopped so as to use two careful fingers to pick up a 12-gauge shell I’d seen dimple-chin accidentally drop. I slid the shell in my pocket, then followed along.

There was something
wrong
about the guy. . . .

 

 

Shiva didn’t use clay targets on his sporting course. He used live birds. It explained why his staff raised pigeons, and also his insistence on referencing trap shooting’s history. It gave the practice veracity.

The first station was at a pond fringed with swamp maples. Shiva touched a hand to his turban, readying himself, then yelled, “Pull!”

Two birds came flapping out of a camouflaged station, zigzagging wildly, struggling to gain altitude. Shiva shot the first bird cleanly, but wounded the second. It spiraled to the ground, and then lay there, flapping with one damaged wing.

After a moment of dumb shock, Tomlinson began to run toward the floundering bird, yelling, “What the hell are you doing? You
bastard.
You killed them for no reason!”

Shiva popped the spent casings out of his Weatherby, and said very calmly, “All my targets are alive—that’s the spiritual component. To create a precise intersection between life and death. Birds, rabbits, deer. That’s the
Zen
of it. What possible enlightenment could anyone gain from shooting at miniature
Frisbees.
”

Dimple-chin, I noticed was staying close to Tomlinson, walking fast. Why was he still carrying the digital recorder in his hand?

Shiva looked from DeAntoni to me. His expression of tolerance seemed a careful affectation—a mask for elation. I couldn’t tell if he was happy because he’d killed something, or because he’d finally infuriated Tomlinson. To us, he said, “I think it’s far more humane to give animals a chance to escape rather than simply kill them in their pens.”

I heard DeAntoni say, “Oh yeah. You’re a real fucking sport,” as Tomlinson knelt and cradled the wounded bird in his hands.

Then he walked toward us, carrying the bird, saying, “Guess what this asshole’s using to get his little rocks off, Doc. It’s a white-crowned pigeon. Singh—are you telling us that you’re raising white-crowned pigeons?”

Shiva was reloading, unconcerned. “First of all, I don’t appreciate your tone of voice, or your vulgarity. And yes, we
are
raising pigeons. They nest in the mangroves. Staff collects the eggs, and we incubate them. See? We’re helping the environment.”

DeAntoni didn’t understand the significance of it, but I did. Florida’s white-crowned pigeon has little in common with the tame pigeon you find in parks. It is a wild Caribbean dove that migrates between Florida and the West Indies, making long open-sea crossings. The gray-blue body makes the bird’s white crest conspicuous. I’ve seen them off the Dry Tortugas, far out at sea. I’ve seen them in Key West, sitting at the Green Parrot Bar, too.

Up until the turn of the previous century, white-crowned pigeons nested in colonies of thousands. But they were hunted almost to extinction until laws were passed to protect them. Even so, they are not a bird that is commonly seen.

Shiva told us, “I prefer the white-crowned dove to the common pigeon because it’s faster. A more difficult target. The challenge is part of the meditative exercise.”

Tomlinson was facing him now, and Shiva sniffed, shrugged, indifferent as Tomlinson yelled, “Meditation, my ass, you ridiculous phony. It’s murder. Why are you killing these birds?”

Shiva’s smugness seemed calculated, an intentional technique to exasperate. “There’s a basic spiritual concept,” he replied, “that you clearly don’t understand. Death is an
illusion.
Meaningless. The bird you’re holding—you, your friends,
all
living things—we don’t die. We simply change forms.

“The kindest thing you could do for that bird right now? If you really do
care
about suffering. The kindest thing you could do for it is snap its neck. Allow it to move on to its next incarnation.”

Shiva turned and looked at dimple-chin. “Or let Izzy do it. He wouldn’t mind at all.”

Dimple-chin smiled, enjoying himself. “My pleasure.”

So the Bhagwan’s assistant had a name. The man whose fingerprints, presumably, were on the shotgun shell I’d collected.

 

 

I’d never seen Tomlinson so furious. His skin was blotched red, his eyes fierce, as he said, “You’re doing this intentionally. You’re trying to make me angry.
Why?
”

Shiva said, “I’m trying to instruct you, not anger you. I’m a teacher. Why can’t you let go of your ego? Open yourself up to wisdom, and allow yourself to be our student. There’s much we can teach you.”

“
You
pretend to be able or worthy to teach
me
?”

“Why does that frighten you? You are a young soul. I’ve been sent here to help people such as yourself. People who are lost.”

To Tomlinson, I said, “You’re right. He’s doing it intentionally. And they’re recording every word, so don’t say another thing. Let’s get out of here.”

But he waved me away, holding the bird in one hand, staring into Shiva’s face. “You said there are ten stations on this course. Does that mean your going to try to kill eighteen more birds?”

“Actually, there are sixteen doubles—birds, naturally. And two rabbit traps. I was hoping you fellows would shoot with me. So staff has quadrupled the number of targets.” Smiling at Izzy, Shiva added, “It looks like I’m going to have a lot of shooting today.”

Tomlinson said, “Then why do you have that gizmo loaded with targets?”

He pointed at a manual, spring-operated trap catapult that sat on wheels fifteen yards or so from the shooting deck. In the machine were stacked several dozen clay plates.

“The clay birds are for members. Not everyone gets to shoot live pigeons—it’s a rare opportunity that I’m offering. A chance for real spiritual exploration. Are you
sure
you won’t give it a try?”

For a moment, Tomlinson focused his attention on the bird he was holding, stroking it as he made a low cooing sound. Then he lifted the dove in both palms, blew softly into its face, and said, “You’re not hurt. You’re okay, now,” and tossed it upward.

The bird flapped unevenly for a moment, came close to tumbling, but then seemed to feel air beneath its wings, and righted itself.

Surprised, I watched the bird fly toward the swamp maple horizon where, I noticed, a much larger bird was perched. It was a snail kite. The snail kite, I noted, was the same size and color of the rare bird we’d seen standing on the mahogany tree at Chekika’s Hammock. The kite looked like a blue hawk.

Tomlinson’s manner now became oddly buoyant as he said, “Looks like you’re only batting five hundred, Jerry. One of your savage animals got away. You say you enjoy sports? I’ve got a sporting offer for you.”

Shiva said, “Really? Sporting. A kind of wager?”

“In a way. How about this: Let me try to break a target. Load a gun with two bullets and let me try. If I hit at least one of the targets, you agree not to shoot any more pigeons.”

Shiva began to chuckle. “First of all, shotguns don’t fire bullets, they fire pellets from a cartridge. Which is why that hardly seems fair. Even if you’ve never shot a gun before, it’s possible that you might get lucky. One target in two shots?” He was shaking his head now, seeming to relish the circumstances. “No, I don’t like those odds.”

Tomlinson’s voice became steely as he said, “Then how about giving me one cartridge? One group of pellets, and I’ll break
two
targets. If I break any fewer than two targets with one cartridge, I’ll shoot the rest of the stations with you. I’ll kill live birds. I give you my word.”