“We have no choice. Something big’s going on, so we’ve decided to do another spiritual intervention. The Non-Bhagwan has Billie’s people conned. They’re almost convinced they should go into partnership with him. All of them except Billie. She’s still standing strong, but she needs our help. She’ll be really glad you’re there.”
I had a different kind of help in mind.
That morning, during my run with Dewey, I’d nearly collapsed from exhaustion. But I’d completed the three miles-and at her brutal pace. The swim didn’t go much better. I stopped twice to vomit salt water.
But I finished the swim, too.
I was tired; still had a trace of hangover shakes. For the first time in months, though, I felt focused, energized by purpose.
So now it was 6:30 P.M. The parking lot adjoining Sawgrass’s outdoor amphitheater was jammed, and we were being swept along by the crowd. Tomlinson had come for his reasons. I’d come for my own. I was going to find Izzy.
Once I found him, if I got the slightest whiff of suspicion that he was involved with Frank’s death and Sally’s disappearance, I would devise a way to separate him from the group, isolate him, and I would then do whatever was required to make him talk.
It was something I was good at.
Why had it taken me so many years to admit it?
As we walked along, Tomlinson said, “We’re plenty early. Billie told me the main show’s supposed to start a little before sunset. That’s at eight, right?”
He knew that, every morning of my life, I check the tide tables.
I said, “Around eight, yeah. Seven-fifty-seven, to be precise.”
Actually, the show had already started. The Cypress Ashram had become a mini-stadium. The stepped levels of seating were already half full, and more people were rivering in, trying to get as close as they could to the stage.
The stage was attached to an acoustic dome that looked like a giant clamshell. The first time I’d seen it, the theater had seemed to consist of nothing more than tile, wood and stucco, built at the edge of a cypress pond. What was not readily evident was that the structure was a technological marvel, loaded with computers, lights and sophisticated electronic equipment.
I remembered Carter McRae telling us that Shiva’s show was better than anything we’d find in Vegas. I now got the first inkling of a confirmation.
The stage was bare, yet it was not bare. Standing, facing the growing audience, were three translucent men, twice normal height. They had glittering skin and flowing, brightly colored robes. Yet, you could look through them and see the wall beyond. One was Jesus-the standard image you see in children’s Bibles. The other was of a smiling, then laughing, Buddha. Standing between them was an equally happy Bhagwan Shiva.
The men were animated. Walking. Hugging. Spreading their arms wide as if to embrace the audience.
Orbiting above the three was a perfect miniature solar system; nine planets revolving around a smoldering sun, the earth a brilliant, lucent blue-green. The planets orbited to the slow wash-and-draw sound of waves on a beach. The sound seemed to come from every direction-behind us, from the stage, from the tops of the cypress tress as well, even from the ground below.
As I stopped, trying to comprehend what it was I was seeing, what I was hearing, Tomlinson said, “They’re holograms, man. Animated laser photos. And they got this whole place wired for sound. Disney World in the Everglades. Amazing.”
We were standing at the top of the bowl of seats, near the life-sized bronze statue of Shiva. The sound of the waves was hypnotic. If I allowed my mind to drift even for a moment, the pace of my own breathing began to match the rhythm of the waves.
I noticed that men and women in the stands were all sitting quietly, hands folded with palms upward in their laps, as if eager to join the rhythm, to give themselves over.
We stood and watched for a couple of minutes. As we did, a recording of Shiva’s deep voice joined the sound of the waves. I listened to his voice say, “A hologram is a three-dimensional photograph created by lasers. Like all things, it possesses a spiritual lesson to be learned. To create a hologram, an object is first bathed in the light of a laser. Then a second laser beam is bounced off the reflected light of the first before a third beam is added.
“Three-dimensionality is not their only remarkable characteristic. If the hologram of an apple is cut in half and then illuminated by a laser, each half will still be found to contain the entire image of the apple. Every part of a hologram contains all the information possessed by the whole.
“The nature of a hologram provides us with a new way of viewing the nature of existence. Western science and religion have always labored under the bias that the best way to understand the physical world, whether a frog or an atom, is to dissect it and study it. Like our faith, our brotherhood, the hologram proves that separateness is an illusion…”
As the recording continued, I said to Tomlinson, “He sounds like you.”
Tomlinson replied, “Yeah, but do you know what the difference is? I live it. He uses it.”
Apparently, even the wealthy residents of Sawgrass were attending Shiva’s show. Or maybe they just went home; locked themselves away from the devoted.
The Big Cypress Restaurant had a few tables seated for dinner, but the Panther Bar, with its granite fireplace and walls adorned with skin-mounted fish, was nearly empty. Four men were sitting at a table, bottles of beer and a basket of nachos between them.
I was hoping to find Kurt behind the bar. On the phone, he’d evaded my questions about Izzy. In person, I’d be more persuasive.
I’d left Tomlinson back at the outdoor theater, next to Shiva’s statue, where he was to meet Billie, Ginny Egret, James and the other board members of the Egret Seminoles. I told him I was going to visit the bar and later, if we couldn’t find each other in the crowd, I’d meet him back at the truck.
As I walked away, he’d said, “Have a rum for me.”
I didn’t smile. “Nope. I’ve had enough.”
So I was alone. Which is exactly what I wanted. But Kurt wasn’t working. Instead, there was a haggard-looking woman in her early thirties-maybe younger-wearing an apron and sleeveless blouse, a butterfly tattoo visible on her right shoulder.
She didn’t have the manicured look that I’d come to associate with Shiva’s followers.
When I sat at the bar, she said, “What can I get for you, hon?”
I told her iced tea would be just fine, then I said, “Where’s Kurt?”
Walking away, she said, “Give me just a second, hon.” A moment later, when she returned with a pitcher of tea, she said, “Kurt’s off tonight. The whole staff, they’re all off because they got some big whoop-de-doo going on. It’s like this religious thing they belong to. So we’re all temps. We work through a Naples agency. The restaurant’s only doing a limited seating, and they told me to close the bar at nine. Easter Sunday, the place should be packed, but look at it.”
She shrugged in a way that passive-aggressive people do. “But I guess they don’t want the business. And what do I care? It all pays the same to me. Accept for the tips. I’m not gonna make crap for tips.”
I said, “You’ve got to wonder how some places stay in business.”
“Can you believe it? A holiday weekend, they close the bar early.”
I sipped my tea. “Too bad. This guy I met-his name’s Izzy something-he told me to stop in, say hello to Kurt. We’re both from the Boston area.”
Kurt’s name tag had read: Lincoln, Mass.
I added, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a staff list back there. I could give him a call, say hello.”
“They gave me a list just in case there’s trouble, but it’s not going to do you any good. They already told us. In staff housing, they don’t got phones. So you can’t call ’im.”
I had my billfold out. I decided a twenty would make her suspicious, so I put a ten on the counter. “Can I have a look at the list? I’ll walk over and surprise him.”