On our way to the skeet range, dimple-chin drove past the private airstrip, the Sawgrass minimall where trams were shuttling vacationing members, then into what Shiva called, “our nature preserve and the Cypress Ashram Center.”
The nature preserve consisted of several dozen Everglades animals caged in fiberglass dioramas that were constructed to resemble natural habitat. The zoo was on a boardwalk. The boardwalk was part of a self-guided nature tour. There were birds, mammals, gators and snakes. In one of the larger cages, an oversized male Florida panther watched us with glowing yellow eyes as we rolled past.
What Shiva called his “Cypress Ashram” was really an outdoor amphitheater. It was a stage attached to an acoustic dome that was elevated above concentric levels of seating. The place was big; had to seat a thousand or so people. The theater was built at the edge of what must have been a cypress stand, though only a few cypress trees remained growing knee-deep in red water.
At what was the equivalent of a ticket house, a life-sized bronze statue of a bearded and smiling Bhagwan Shiva welcomed visitors. In one hand, he held a lantern, in the other a globe. The statue stood along the cart trail entrance, and Shiva ignored it with a practiced and bored disinterest as we rolled past.
To Shiva, Tomlinson said, “Hey, Jerry! Has there ever been a time in your life when, just once, you’d love to be a bird?”
Shiva reacted as if it were a good-natured joke; played right along. “Do you like birds? Then you’ll enjoy our next stop.”
Which made no sense until dimple-chin steered us down a gravel service path where a wooden sign read COMMUNAL FARM.
It was an oversized garden, really, laid out in an odd shape-a pentagon, I finally realized. Two acres or so of tomatoes, beans, squash, corn and other vegetables planted in rows. There were compost bins, equipment lockers and a shed for a small John Deere tractor. There was also a long hutch screened with chicken wire.
“We grow a lot of our own food,” Shiva told us. “Organically, of course. For our restaurants, and for our church members. Plus, we raise chickens and our own special variety of pigeon.”
DeAntoni said, “Pigeons? Those things are like rats with wings. Why’d anybody want to raise pigeons?”
Shiva was getting out of the cart and used his hand to tell us to wait for him. “You’ll see,” he said.
There were three women working in the garden. All were dressed in white robes belted at the waist. Shiva called to one of them, “Kirsten! You are needed.”
I watched an attractive blond teenager hurry to him, her head bowed, not making eye contact. Then she knelt before the bearded man, reached, and kissed the back of Shiva’s right hand. She nodded as he spoke to her-I couldn’t hear what he was saying-and she remained on one knee as he turned and walked away.
Back in the cart, Shiva said to dimple-chin, “They’ll be ready for us in about twenty minutes.”
Then he turned and spoke to DeAntoni, saying, “Now’s a good time if you want to ask me about Geoff Minster. I don’t know what I can add, but I’ll help in any way I can. There’s a favor I need to ask in return, however-” Shiva turned his eyes to Tomlinson, then to me. His eyes were an unusual color, I realized-a luminous amber flecked with brown-and they jogged a recent memory.
It took me an instant to make the association. The panther we’d just seen; the caged animal with the golden, glowing eyes. Shiva’s eyes possessed a similar lucency.
Shiva said, “The favor I’m going to ask is that you allow us to record our conversation. A legal precaution-I’m sure you understand.”
I watched dimple-chin remove a digital recorder from his pocket as Shiva added, “So, if you wouldn’t mind stating your names and home addresses for our records…”
At first, Shiva said nothing about Minster that was unexpected. His versions of their first meeting, and of their business history were similar to Sally’s versions.
He talked along freely, answering all DeAntoni’s questions. But his manner was disinterested, almost bored. It was as if he were just marking time, waiting for something more interesting to happen.
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.