If he knew the truth about DeAntoni, that he was dead, I’d be able to hear it in his voice.
But the woman refused to put me through, saying, “It’s church policy that we can only take messages for members or staff. It’s their decision to call you back.”
So I took a chance, called the Cypress Restaurant at Sawgrass, and had them transfer me to the Panther Bar. In any organization, the best jobs are awarded in order of rank or seniority. At a place that catered to wealthy sportsmen and big tippers, bartender would be the most coveted of all service jobs.
Kurt, most probably, was a higher-up in Bhagwan Shiva’s organization. He’d have insider information.
The stuffy bartender answered. He told me, no, Mr. Carter McRae wasn’t in. He told me he couldn’t give me Mr. McRae’s home number, and he played dumb when I asked him about Izzy.
But he knew who Izzy was. I could tell by his evasive manner.
Then he surprised me by saying, “The Bhagwan and his staff aren’t here tonight, but they’ll all be here tomorrow for the sunset Easter service. The public’s invited. It’s going to be quite an impressive event.” In his infuriating, superior tone, he added, “You and your friends should come. Perhaps you’ll learn something.”
I’d been invited to the ’Glades by Billie Egret, anyway, to see the inland tarpon. Now, though, I had a more pressing reason to go-to find Izzy.
To Kurt, I said, “I’ll be there. Count on it.”
Then, even though it made no sense, I got in my truck and drove across the Everglades to Coconut Grove. It took me awhile to find the exclusive enclave that is Ironwood. There was a Miami Police squad car at the electronic gate, and two uniformed officers. Only residents were being allowed to enter. When I asked to speak to Detective Podraza, they told me he’d just left.
I gave them my Sanibel Biological Supply business card with a brief note on the back.
Please call immediately with any news about Sally Minster.
That I’d visited the crime scene would assure me of special attention from the detective. Which is exactly what I wanted.
I drove past Vizcaya with its formal gardens, past Mercy Hospital, then headed up the hill into Coconut Grove-clothing boutiques, sidewalk restaurants. On Main Highway, with its tunneling banyan trees, I found a sizable church built of coral rock, then a slightly smaller church, which I guessed to be the church that Sally had described. White clapboard; white steeple. Beside the sidewalk out front was the kind of glass-encased signboard with plastic lettering that can be changed.
In large letters it read: ALL NATIONS CHURCH OF GOD OF PROPHECY.
Below, in letters that were only slightly smaller, someone had recently added, Pray for our Sister Sally!
I teared up when I saw the sign. I slowed, staring at it, until a line of cars behind me began to honk.
Then, for absolutely no rational reason, I drove north to Miami Springs and found the Pink Palm Apartment complex where Frank had lived: four rows of stucco condos with numbered carports, speed bumps, a miniature swimming pool, and a couple of kids riding tricycles outside near trash Dumpsters and a mulched playground.
It seemed important to find DeAntoni’s apartment. I thought it would take me awhile. It didn’t. His was the one with the yellow Crime Scene tape across the door and combination padlock on the doorknob.
I stopped at the door. Peeked through the blinds and saw a vinyl couch, no other furniture, and the kind of double-handled exercise wheel that people use to do abdominal crunches.
A bachelor fitness freak.
I checked my watch. A little before five. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, but wasn’t hungry. I decided that, if I got in my truck and left now, I could be back at Dinkin’s Bay while there was still enough light left to get out in my skiff.
Then maybe I’d find Tomlinson, and make a few bar stops by water before watching the moon rise.
That night, something inside me snapped. Something within the core region of my brain. It was ignited by a growing, withering pressure without vent. Intellectually, emotionally, I felt the scaffolding that defines me fracture, then break.
The moment of its occurrence was so precise that I felt it move through my nervous system like an electric shock.
I’d gotten back to Sanibel a little after eight. Lights were already on at the marina, but the sky was still bright with sunset afterglow. To the east, cumulous towers were layered in volcanic striations of rust, Arizona purple and peach.
I checked my main fish tank, the aquaria in my lab, fed Crunch amp; Des, then took a quick shower.
By the time I idled out of the marina harbor, the clouds had changed to shades of pewter and pearl. I saw that Tomlinson’s dinghy was tethered off No Mas -he was aboard. I headed toward the sailboat, then decided, no, I didn’t feel like company.
I’d made myself a traveler in an oversized plastic cup: ice, rum, fresh lime. With the big Mercury rumbling, I pushed the boat up onto plane, then throttled way back, traveling at a comfortable 2,600 RPM-“wine speed,” Dewey Nye calls it, because it’s fast enough to get you to dinner, but slow enough so it’s still possible to sip a glass of wine. I ran across the flat past Green Point, then Woodring Point.
My cousin, Ransom Gatrell, was out on Ralph Woodring’s dock, wearing shorts and a pink bikini top, a sunset beverage still in her hand.
I waved. She waved.
Ransom has Tucker Gatrell’s blue eyes, but she’s a caramel-colored woman, a color she calls “Nassau chocolate.” She wears her hair in braids, tells fortunes, believes in Obeah-a variation of voodoo-and is already making a small fortune selling real estate on a part-time basis. During the day, she works behind a cash register at Bailey’s General Store, or at She Sells Sea Shells on Periwinkle.
Ransom tells people that she’s my sister. I no longer bother to correct her or them. We’ve become that close.
Even so, I ignored her beckoning wave- Come talk for a spell! -and turned beneath the power lines, then beneath the Sanibel Causeway, seeing the bright high-rise lights of Fort Myers Beach to the south.
One of my favorite places to eat and drink is a bayside cafe that almost no one knows about, and where only locals go. It’s in the old shrimp yards of Matanza Pass, a funky, quirky outdoor restaurant and bar built beneath the sky bridge that joins Fort Myers Beach with tiny San Carlos Island. It’s called Bonita Bill’s, and it may be the only restaurant in Florida with an unlisted phone number.
Kathy and Barb were working the bar. I sat beneath tiki thatching, drinking rum, staring out at the dark water, seeing the development glare of Fort Myers Beach beyond.
At one point, Kathy said, “You don’t seem real talkative tonight, Doc. Something wrong?”
Yes, there was something wrong. Frank DeAntoni had moved into my head and would not leave. His voice had become a refrain:
I’ve got to have someone who knows how to take care of himself. A guy who can bust a head or two if things get tough.
I told Kathy, “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Around ten, a bunch of the guys from the Fort Myers Beach Coast Guard station came in. They’re a good group. Well trained. Dedicated. I tried to force myself to be jovial, conversational, but my heart wasn’t in it.
I bought one more rum for the road, then idled out toward Bodwitch Point, the Sanibel Lighthouse flashing in the darkness beyond.
My next recollection was of standing in my house, staring into the little mirror that is tacked to the wall near my Transoceanic shortwave radio.
The face in the mirror seemed the face of a stranger, even though it was my own.
The Nicaraguan rum I drink is Flor de Cana -Flower of Sugar Cane. It is a superb rum; hard to find. I held the bottle in my hand and amused myself by drinking from the bottle, my eyes never leaving the mirror.