Everglades (7 page)

“It was more than that, Doc. I think . . . I think
God
was there. I think He helped me and I didn’t even know it. That’s why I pray so much. Even now. You asked me, so I’m going to tell you.”

She said, “You’ve been to Coconut Grove, south Miami. It’s kind of an old Bohemian kind of village, so it changes every couple of blocks. That’s one of the reasons I love it.

“The reason I know God was with me is, not far from our house, three blocks off Dixie Highway, there’s this little Pentecostal church. A couple of days after I got out of Shiva’s compound, a Sunday afternoon, I was about at the end of my rope. I was alone, wandering around like a crazy person, and I heard an organ. It was like angels playing. I followed the music to a two-room church. Inside, I could hear people singing. I walked in—just like someone’s hand was steering me.

“It’s a poor church. Mostly Haitians, Cuban refugee types and poor whites. But that little church changed my life. I’ve never felt such unconditional love. It became my lifeline, Reverend Wilson and his wife, the whole congregation. Lots of clapping and dancing and hugging. That pretty little white church is still my favorite place in the world.”

Sally had been staring at the deck as she spoke, but now she looked up at me with eyes that were shadowed, dark. “Look, Doc, I know that lots of people make fun of religion. Us Born-Again types. We maybe scare them for some reason. But it’s changed my life. I think it saved my life.”

I smiled at her, as I said, “A person who makes fun of anyone’s religion lacks the brains to be taken seriously.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ve accepted Jesus as my savior? That I’ve changed?”

Yes, it bothered me that she’d changed, but only because her transformation exceeded any new passion for religion. There was pathology involved—to what degree, I didn’t yet know. But I told her, “We’re friends. So, no, it makes no difference. Right now, I’m more concerned with why you’re here. Something weird’s going on, or the insurance company wouldn’t have hired DeAntoni to follow you.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “My gosh, I’d already forgotten him. He’s going to be here soon, right?”

“If you want to talk to him, yes. If you don’t, no problem. I’ll send him away.”

She said, “That’s another symptom, by the way. More inappropriate behavior. A bad memory, a short attention span.”

She walked across the deck, retrieved her purse from a teak table and checked her watch. “No wonder,” she said. “I forgot to take my medication. The doctor’s been giving me Neurontin, plus some Valium. That’s how bad Shiva’s group screwed me up.
Shiva.
I even hate the sound of his name.”

Her smile seemed too theatrical, her laughter too loud, as she added, “But the pills can’t work if Miss Forgetful doesn’t remember to take her meds on schedule!”

chapter six

izzy

 

Lying
on a table in a steam room built of herbal wood and tile, Shiva opened his eyes, lifted his left arm toward his eyes and looked at a bare wrist.

He’d dozed during the massage, and now remembered: His watch was outside, on the vanity.

To the oldest of the three women attending to him, he said, “Sister Mary, please check. What time is it?”

The women were naked beneath white robes, but Mary still wore her rubber Timex.

“It’s a little after six, Teacher.”

Shiva closed his eyes again, relaxing. The office at his Ashram Center in downtown San Francisco closed at five on Fridays, and he had a conference call scheduled with the office manger and two advisors at four-fifteen Pacific time. The
Sacramento Bee
had just published the last of a scathing, three-part series on the International Church of Ashram Meditation Center, in which three former women disciples claimed they had been drugged with something, then raped by “one or more church leaders.”

There were quotes from the L.A. County District Attorney’s Office promising an investigation, and quotes from an IRS spokesman saying that the personal files of Bhagwan Shiva and the files of the San Francisco Ashram were already being subpoenaed.

Devastating.

But they hadn’t ruined him yet, The American legal system, Shiva knew, was a calculator of wile, not a scale of justice, and it could be manipulated—if you had enough money.

He needed cash. Lots of cash. He knew how to get it.

Shiva stretched, irked by yet another problem. He had about an hour before the conference call, then he had to meet with Izzy again, go over some details. So why not enjoy the little bit of free time? One of the maxims he required all initiates to learn was a favorite:
Grasp the moment and you will capture eternity.

Something to relax him, that’s what he needed. Something beyond a massage.

To Mary, he said, “My sister, please tell me. This person, the pale blonde—” He used his finger to point at a girl who could have been sixteen, could have been twenty. “Is she new? I don’t remember seeing her in the compound. What’s her name?”

When the blonde began to answer, “I’m Kirsten Williams from Lauderdale—,” she was shouted down by the older woman, who yelled, “You may
not
address Shiva directly. Have you already forgotten? Until you finish Basic Auditing, you’re not even
alive.
”

“Temper, my dear Mary,” Shiva said. “Learn patience. Be patient, and our cause will be stronger.”

The older woman bowed at the waist, touching both palms to her forehead—an ancient gesture of deference. “I know, Teacher. But I work so hard with these new ones. It’s like my words bounce off their idiotic heads.”

To the blonde, Shiva said, “You have not yet been given a name.”

Sister Mary said, “She is worthless, so she is nameless. It will be another three weeks before she has earned a name.”

“How did she come to us?”

“Another runaway. Tired of the imaginary world, no place else to go.”

“Have the parents tried to find her? Or friends?”

“The father came twice. We sent him away.”

Shiva addressed the girl. “I give you permission to speak to me. Are you happy here?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“Do you understand that I care more for you now, about your happiness and spiritual contentment, than your mother or your father ever cared?”

“Yes . . . I’d like to believe that.”

Shiva said, “Please remove your robe.”

He watched the girl hesitate, then pull the white robe over her head, willing but self-conscious. He looked at her for a few moments, smiling, before he said, “God has given you a beautiful body. It’s a gift to be shared. Your breasts—like white pears tipped with berries. My body desires my hands to touch them. Come closer, girl.”

Averting her eyes, the pale blonde moved uneasily from Bhagwan Shiva’s feet to his side, her breathing slightly more rapid as the man’s long fingers moved up the ridges of her ribs, and touched the underside of her right breast. Then he squeezed her left breast, fingers creating streaks of sweat on the swollen curvature of flesh.

His tone still conversational, he said to Mary, “What level are you now running in your search for enlightenment?”

“I’m at Level Three. I hope to soon advance.”

“Excellent, ” said the Bhagwan.

He looked at the older woman. She’d been his bed partner many times. Though she was never outwardly jealous of other disciples, having her so close was taking the pleasure out of touching the blonde.

“Sister Mary,” he said. “Please take your assistant and leave me with this nameless thing.”

 

 

Two hours later, showered, dressed in white linen, sitting at the desk in his bedroom office, Shiva listened to Izzy say,

“I’ve decided on two explosions, not three. Each one a chain of several smaller blasts. For
effect,
I’m saying. That’s why I came back, to let you know.”

Shiva said, “
You
decided.”

“That’s right, me. I decided. Two’s risky enough. I’ve done the research. I can explain it if you want. Two blasts, seven days, maybe fourteen days apart—no longer. Then I’m out of here.”

Using great patience to emphasize his sarcasm, Shiva said, “Do you mind if I know the dates? I should probably know the dates—since I’m risking the future of my entire
fucking organization.
”

Used to Shiva, his bullying, Izzy remained composed. “Just give me the word. Sunday, if you want. Day after tomorrow. The first will be small. A series of three or four minor blasts—we don’t want too much attention. The second will be the big boom. Earthquake in the Everglades.”

The reality of it—it was going to
happen
—startled Shiva. He’d been thinking about the illusion for three years; planning, doing the groundwork, seeding it in people’s minds for more than two years.

Now here it was. He said to Izzy, “You’re serious.”

“Yep. Serious as an undertaker. Did it all by my lonesome, no witnesses, no helpers, no baggage.”

Izzy had been busy during his month away, on the road.

Shiva said the word softly—
Sunday
—then louder, showing some enthusiasm. “Okay.
Okay.
Day after tomorrow. April thirteenth, that’s Palm Sunday, isn’t it? I
like
that. The sooner we do it, the sooner I see results.”

Izzy told him fine, invite any of the Seminole and Miccosukee bigshots who would still take his phone calls.

Shiva said, “No, I’m done with them. To hell with those assholes, they treat me like a disease. I’m not trying anymore. Billie Egret’s people. The Egret Seminoles, her aunts and uncles. They’re the important ones.”

Shiva thought for a moment, concentrating, before he added, “We’ll let the first blast be a surprise. They’re out there in the ’Glades, not thinking about it, when they feel the earth shake. The second time, though, that’s when we make sure they’re at Sawgrass.”

Izzy told him, okay, invite Billie Egret and her relatives, anybody he wanted. Told him to get a couple hundred of his Ashram disciples, too—a thousand if he could—at his resort in the Everglades.

He said, “You start your group meditation. Use the breath drummers, all the bells and whistles. I’ll detonate whatever time you say. Morning’s good. Cameras going. Act surprised. Then like you
knew
it was going to happen—all that spiritual power focused. You’re good with facial expressions. Like a politician.”

Shiva said, “I don’t have to give any hints. It’s prophecy. Seminole prophecy from Tecumseh.”

Izzy said, “What
ever.
I leave all that to you. Best-case scenario, they accept you as the real deal. Worst case, you’re the victim of another eco-terrorist attack. Public sympathy. Either way, the timing’s important.”

Shiva was nodding, “Yes, timing . . . which is why I’m thinking . . . what I’d
prefer
to do is make it later in the day. This time of year, we might get an afternoon storm. Lightning would be nice. Lots of lightning and thunder.” Shiva paused. “That far away from the blast site, will we hear the explosion?”

“I’m setting it a half mile or so from the resort, but it’s all underground. So a rumble maybe, not much. I’m
guessing.
I’m new at faking earthquakes, so who knows?”

“But we’ll
feel
it. On the reservations, the Miccosukee and the Seminole,
they’ll
feel it?”

Izzy said, “Oh, they’ll feel it. At Brighton and Big Cypress, twenty, thirty miles away. A little tingle through the ankles. The National Seismic Network has a monitoring station in Orlando, and the University of Florida has a tele-dyne, a seismograph, in the ’Glades near Flamingo. Their equipment picks up quarry blasts. So you’ll have proof. No one can say it was mass hypnosis, any of that bullshit.”

On Shiva’s desk were the notes he’d made during his conference call with his San Francisco people.

It had not gone well. They could not speak openly, of course—he had reason to believe that the Feds were monitoring his phone calls. But Shiva could hear the fear in the Ashram manager’s voice when he asked,
“Do you know what the average prison sentence is in California for rape?”

Shiva got the clear impression that the manager would choose to turn state’s evidence against the Ashram rather than fight a felony charge.

Shiva looked at his notes briefly, then pushed them aside. He said, “Izzy, there’s one thing you need to understand here. We’ve
got
to make this work. Nothing—absolutely nothing—we can’t let
anything
get in our way.”

Izzy was sitting on an orange sofa that had carved teak armrests: elephants and jackals. He’d changed clothes. Was now wearing dress slacks, a satin dinner jacket, black-and-white loafers, his hair blow-dried and sprayed in place.

Coming into the room, he’d checked his watch: eight-fifteen. He wanted to wrap this up; hit the Friday night meat markets, have a few drinks and do some dancing.

Or maybe drive down to Coconut Grove, hop in the boat and check out Sally Minster’s house, see if she really had gone to Sanibel. The woman liked to walk around her bedroom in bra and panties; no idea someone could watch her from the water. He liked the thought of that.

Plus, he’d installed the two minicameras in her bedroom. Those videos could be
interesting.

Sitting comfortably, showing how relaxed he was, Izzy replied, “I’m not letting anything get in my way, Jerry. I’ve got a lot on the line myself.”

Shiva said, “That means communication between the two of us is damned important.”

Izzy waited, thinking,
Oh, shit, here we go again.

“I’m impressed with what you’ve got going, all the planning you’ve done, but I’m going to be frank. I don’t like the idea of you changing plans without even consulting me.”

“That’s what I’m doing now. Consulting—”

“No, no you’re not. You’re
telling
me. Two blasts, not three. In eighteen eleven, when Tecumseh prophesied the Mississippi earthquakes, there was a series of tremors—”