Kurt’s name was on the list. He was in Cell B, Apartment 103.
Izzy’s name wasn’t.
Sawgrass staff housing consisted of a circular village of small, modular apartments positioned in three clusters, at the center of which was a swimming pool and barbecue area.
The place looked deserted. I worried that I was too late; that Kurt Thompson was among those already taking seats at the outdoor theater. From the direction of the Cypress Ashram, I could hear a muffled heartlike pounding, as if hundreds of people were beating drums in unison.
The sun floated above the canopy of cypress trees. I checked my watch. It was 7:05 P.M.
The middle cluster of apartments was labeled B. I found 103 and touched the doorbell.
I waited through a long moment of silence before I heard a rustling within. I stepped back to let the door open, then I quickly stepped forward, blocking the doorway so that the door could not be closed.
Yep, Kurt was one of the higher-ups; a senior member in this strange church. He wore an orange toga with a ruby sash. His hair was brushed to a sheen, tan face glistening, and he held a towel in his hands, as if he’d just finished shaving.
When he saw me, realized who I was, his expression changed briefly from indifference to surprise, but he recovered quickly.
“Yes? May I help you?”
He said it in his infuriating, superior tone.
“Remember me, Kurt? On the phone, I told you I’d be here.” I smiled broadly. “So here I am!”
“Is that supposed to be funny, sir? Just because I told you about the service doesn’t mean I invited you. What I suggest is that you go to the restaurant and ask anyone. They can tell you how to get to the Cypress Ashram. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”
He tried to close the door, but I blocked it with my shoulder.
I said, “Naw, Kurt. I’m looking forward to going with you. We can have a little talk on the way. I’m really interested in the church. I’ve got lots of questions.”
He’d heard about our fight with the Archangels. I could see it in his face, a mottled paling of skin: fear. “Mister, I’m not going to ask you again. Please leave immediately, or I’ll call security. I’m late. I don’t have time for this kind of silliness.”
Once again, he tried to pull the door closed. When I blocked it again, he tried to push my shoulder away. I lunged forward and hit him so hard in the chest that he backpedaled across the room and fell backward over the couch.
I stepped into the miniature living room, closed the door behind me and locked it with the deadbolt.
“Why are you doing this?”
Kurt was on one knee, getting to his feet. He held his hands up, palms out, as I walked toward him. I grabbed his left wrist with my right hand, yanked him to his feet, spinning him at the same time so that I was behind him. I had his left arm levered up between his shoulder blades, applying pressure, but not much.
“You’re hurting me, goddamn you!”
Into his ear, I said, “Language, Kurt. Pretty rough language for a man dressed in a robe.”
I was walking him across the room, moving slowly, in control, and then I pinned him against the wall.
“I want you to answer some questions. If you answer my questions, I won’t hurt you, Kurt. If you don’t answer, or if you lie to me, I am going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you bad.” For emphasis, I took his left pinkie finger and twisted it.
“Stop. Please stop! You’re going to break my fucking hand!”
I said, “That’s right. One finger at a time. I’m going to break your hand.”
Kurt, the aloof and superior bartender, suddenly became an eager, nonstop talker. Most people are strangers to violence, and so behave unpredictably, often oddly, when subjected to it.
He wanted to be my friend. He wanted to understand why I was interested in Izzy. When I told him, “He may have had something to do with a friend of mine who disappeared,” Kurt’s sympathetic expression said, No wonder you’re upset.
Truth is, he was terrified.
He sat across from me in a chair and told me about Izzy Kline. For a time, Izzy had been in charge of organizing church security. Then he became Shiva’s special assistant-Kurt wasn’t certain why.
“I’ve been with the church for six years,” Kurt said, “and Izzy has always been kind of a mysterious figure in the brotherhood. We almost never see him at the Ashrams or services. He’s not a believer and doesn’t pretend to be. He spends a lot of time away. What he does, I don’t know. But he’s close to the Teacher-our Bhagwan.”
I said, “I’ve heard rumors that if someone pisses off Shiva, he finds ways to get even. Maybe that he’s even had some people killed. Would that be part of Izzy’s role?”
Kurt began to move uncomfortably in his chair. He’d been maintaining a kind of fraternity-boy eye contact. No longer. “Our Teacher is a man of peace. He’s one of history’s greatest prophets. I’ve heard those same rumors-and there is Ashram scripture that tells us that the souls of many are worth the lives of a few. But I don’t believe our Teacher would resort to violence. I’ve never believed it and never will.”
“But if he did, would that be part of Izzy’s job?”
After a long moment, Kurt said, “Yes. That would definitely be something that Izzy would do.”
“Where’s he now?”
“I saw Izzy this morning. I was surprised because I didn’t see him here last night. He was driving a big U-Haul truck.”
I said, “A U-Haul? Why?”
“I can’t say for certain, but it’s almost impossible-we’re all very close-to keep a secret from the brotherhood. I heard that Izzy resigned his position. That he was leaving for Europe. So maybe he had some personal possessions here and he was moving them.”
“When’s he supposed to leave?”
Still eager to please, Kurt said he didn’t know, adding, “If I knew, I’d tell you. I really would. ” chapter twenty-eight
I was right about the drums.
Several dozen men and women, wearing green or white robes, formed a semicircle on the highest steps of the amphitheater. They held skin drums between their knees, and used their hands to pound them in a slow, deliberate rhythm. About one beat every three or four seconds.
The rhythm reminded me of night markers flashing on the intracoastal waterway. A similar space of time.
The percussion of the drums vibrated through the ground, through the speaker system, through the tops of cypress trees and into a bronze-bright late-afternoon sky.
As I got closer, I could see that there wasn’t an empty seat in the theater. Had to be more than a thousand people.
Shiva’s people were recording the event, too. There were no fewer than four videographers moving among the crowd, holding small, digitized cameras to their eyes.
Despite the crowd, the little Seminole contingent was easy for me to pick out: four or five men and women in traditional dress, seated on the aisle in the front row, their rainbow-colored shirts and blouses much brighter than the robes worn by the people around them.
I didn’t see Tomlinson, though. And it didn’t look as if Billie Egret was among them, either.
A minute or so later, I realized why. On the outskirts of the arena was a grassy area landscaped with cypress and oak. It had a good view of the stage. There they both stood among trees, several people nearby.
Karlita. She was with them, too-and looking reasonably normal in jeans and a white blouse, her long black hair braided like a rope down her back.
The three of them, I noticed, were holding hands, joined in a chain with six or seven others.
Billie was the first to notice me approaching. She nodded at me, her eyes intense, then nodded toward the amphitheater.
Shiva was on center stage. He wore an elaborate purple robe with orange, green and white bands on the sleeves. His turban was golden, and he sat in full lotus position on a red cushion the size of a mattress. Behind him, in a semicircle, were several dozen men and women, all in orange robes, carrying candles and what appeared to be bundles of red sticks, walking in slow step to the pace of the beating drums. One of them, I noted, was the attractive blond teenager named Kirsten.