Ten thousand isles df-7 Page 8

  I turned and studied the back of the carving, saying, "They didn't get to her." Meaning the grave robbers.

  "That'll make Delia feel better. A little, anyway."

  "We need a small sack or a cloth. I want it wrapped."

  "You're going to leave the Bible?"

  "The people who did this have no interest in stealing a Bible."

  "We walk out of here with a sack, they'll know we found something. The fact that it's wrapped will tell them it's personal or valuable." Tomlinson leaned a little closer to me before he added, "They're here, you know. The ones who dug her up."

  I said, "I know."

  I looked at the girl once more, her pale face in repose. The moon-shaped locket drew my attention. I took it between thumb and forefinger, touched the clasp and the locket opened. Staring out at me was an older Dorothy Copeland, this one with blue eyes and very much alive. There was a strange intensity to those eyes. They did not seem to stare into a camera, they seemed to look directly into me. Her expression was confident, knowing, yet touchingly wistful, as if she longed for something.

  What?

  There are certain adolescents, usually female, who possess wisdom far in advance of age or explanation. That wisdom fades quickly when reproductive hormones kick in, but it is there for a while and the few who possess it seem to carry it like a weight.

  That wisdom and the weight of it were in the face of the girl who looked out from the locket. Her eyes were in mine, sharing both with me.

  "Keep it, Marion. She'd like you to have it."

  I was so captivated by the photograph, I'd momentarily forgotten that Tomlinson was still beside me. His voice was a startling intrusion.

  I said, "Keep what?"

  "The locket. Dorothy would be pleased if you took it and kept it near. Delia won't mind."

  I turned to him. "What're you talking about? You didn't know this girl, let alone what would please her."

  He was looking down into the casket. Very softly, he said, "No. But maybe you did. Maybe you knew her. I sensed the possibility. It didn't become real until just now. Seeing her, seeing your reaction."

  "My reaction-? I have no idea… look, I never met this child."

  "Maybe not. But I think you have."

  "Impossible. Fifteen years ago, I was…" I had to think for a moment. "Fifteen years ago, I was in Central America. Nicaragua, Panama, all around. There was a war going on. Far away from Marco Island."

  "Not in this lifetime. I didn't mean that."

  Finally, I understood. I said, "Oh, please. Don't start."

  "You two… the energy is unmistakable. That's what I meant. Different samsaras. Different incarnations. You don't feel it?"

  I hesitated for a moment before I answered, "No. No, I don't. I don't feel anything."

  "Are you certain? It's… there. The connective energy, like a switch being thrown. Or a circuit that's just been completed." After a few seconds, both of us looking at her, he added, "It must have been very, very powerful. You two as a couple, I mean. To have lasted through this many transitions."

  The man was maddening. "I don't know what you're talking about. Knock it off."

  "Look at her, Marion. Look at her and tell me you can't feel it. You and Dorothy. This time around, you only missed by a decade or so. You both keep trying to find each other and you're getting closer."

  Ridiculous. Even so, I concentrated on the child's sleeping face and then the photograph, those wistful eyes staring out. Was there something familiar? Something far away, on the distant fringe of memory, but always and forever important?

  No… of course not. Yet, it was difficult to explain my feelings of loss and the powerful sadness that was now in me.

  "Let her be, Tomlinson. Enough of your talk."

  "Had she lived, it would have been the ideal time. The perfect age for you to meet. Again. Someone took her from you, Marion. Took her too soon."

  My head snapped around, and he saw in my eyes that he'd gone too far. "Go find something to wrap the carving," I said. "A shirt, a shopping bag, I don't care. Let people see what you're doing. Make a show of it. Act secretive, that'll be sure to get their attention. And tell Delia that no one's bothered her child."

  "You're not going to even consider what I'm saying."

  "When you stop talking nonsense, I'll give consideration."

  "I've never had such a strong sense of the inevitable. Now it's up to you." He was chewing at one of his Rasta braids, an old nervous habit. "I have a feeling they keep hurting her over and over. For how many lifetimes? This may be your only chance, Doc. Out of all the incarnations, it may be the only time you can stop them."

  "No more! Get moving!"

  As he left, he said, "The locket. You should keep the locket."

  When he was gone, I touched Dorothy's folded hands lightly, a farewell gesture.

  I looked at her sleeping face one last time. Then I closed and bolted the heavy lid.

  Tomlinson was standing at the head of the casket, people gathered in a semicircle before him, heads bowed slightly. Delia was seated next to Betty Lynn, leaning her weight against JoAnn, who had an arm around her, all three of them weeping but listening as Tomlinson spoke articulately and with sincerity. The man had a genius for knowing what gave people comfort and peace of mind.

  I stood behind him and slightly to his right, memorizing the faces of those in attendance. Ivan Bauerstock stood at the front, bracketed by his men. Silver-haired, aloof, hands folded, long fingers moving as if attempting to scurry away on their own. He had an air of impatience and superiority, gray suit cut perfectly, face angular, square-jawed like a model for expensive clothing.

  To his right was Teddy, the son running for the state senate-my guess, anyway. Similar genetics. Well over six feet tall but broader in the shoulders, a linebacker size to him, but a quarterback's cleft chin. A more expressive face, listening to Tomlinson's words, showing pain, nodding his understanding and interest. Black hair combed back TV anchorman-style, razor-cut, blow-dried to form, flawless. His face reminded me of someone, some actor, or maybe a politician who was often on television. The nose was distinctive, but I couldn't match the face with the name. Not surprising. I don't own a television.

  I watched the would-be state senator's expression flex with attention as Tomlinson said, "Dorothy had a kindred relationship with the people who built mounds on this island. An archaeologist said she had a great gift for finding things. But she didn't find things; she was called to them. The people who built the mounds spoke to her. It is fitting that she go back to be among them."

  He took up a book, saying, "In 1568, Father Juan Rogel, a missionary to the Calusa people, wrote, 'The King of these islands told me that each person has three souls. One is in the pupil of the eye. Another is in our shadow. The last is our reflection in a calm pool of water. When a person dies, two of the souls leave the body. But the third soul, the truest soul, lives in the pupil of our eye and remains in the body forever."

  The four punk rockers stood at the back of the circle, off by themselves. Two guys, two chubby girls with bad posture, their body piercings gleaming like surgical staples. I guessed the guys to be in their early twenties, the girls younger, maybe still in their teens. All of them with an attitude, hanging with their leader, the tall, knobby guy who had a dragon tattooed on his forearm. The other male, shorter but much thicker, had what looked to be the tail of a snake winding up his bi-cep; the four of them whispering among themselves as Tomlinson spoke, which I found irritating as hell.

  The others there were pretty easily labeled. Several newspaper types, all female. One late forties and very fat-from the Enquirer, judging by her brightly flowered look-at-me caftan and floppy straw hat. Two in their early twenties, serious expressions, journalism school aloofness. A photographer, male, late twenties. A cameraman from a local TV station and a female reporter who kept checking her makeup; she carried lipstick and hairspray in a little pouch.

  Two men, however, were not so
easily assessed. One was massive, with florid cheeks and nose, a beer drinker's paunch, deep into his forties. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, as if this were a recreational event, part of the Marco Island tour.

  The other stood off by himself in the shade listening. Abe Lincoln face, black Navaho hair, dark eyes, wrists protruding from a cheap dress shirt that was too small, baggy pants belted around his waist. He had the shrunken look of a whiskey alcoholic, a pack of Marlboros showing through breast pocket, his hair greased back.

  I moved slowly toward Detective Parrish as Tomlinson finished, saying, "What better proof of God and immortality than Dorothy's great genius? Than all the fallen Calusa who spoke to her? Their truest soul, the soul that lives in the pupil of their eyes, will be comforted by her return."

  After a prayer and an appropriate silence, I spoke in a low voice to Detective Parrish, "Who's the man in the white shirt? The skinny guy."

  Parrish was standing, arms folded. He was wearing Ray-Bans now that the service was over. He said, "You didn't already find out your ownself? I'm surprised."

  "It's what I'm doing now," I said. "A smart cop is the logical place to start, right?"

  He pursed his lips, smiling. "The skinny man, he's the girl's father, the one run off and left them. Ms. Copeland, she asked me not to let him near her, wouldn't speak a word to him. Said he didn't care 'bout the girl when she was alive, why bother now she's dead? I took him aside and told him stay away, and he just said, 'Fine, fine,' like he didn't have much fight left in him anymore. Said his name is Darton."

  I'd watched Darton Copeland stop and say something into the ear of Ivan Bauerstock. Watched Bauerstock turn as if Copeland didn't exist, then walk away from the smaller man.

  Now Darton Copeland was crossing the street toward the 7-Eleven, a scarecrow figure, diminished in size by distance.

  "How about the guy with the red face? He looks like he just got off a cruise ship."

  "Man with the belly? No, he's local. Got that hard-ass, I'm-a-tax-payer attitude. Wouldn't tell me nothing. Gave me the Negro cop look, like why waste his time? So I asked around and his name is Rossi, has a construction company on the island. Apparendy got some money. Guess he just came for the show. Next you're going to ask me about the freaky kids, the ones with green and purple hair. Why they here?"

  I nodded.

  Parrish was looking at them, taking in how they reacted to his stare. "Some coincidence, huh? how I already checked what you think needs to be checked."

  "Like you're a mind reader."

  "Uh-huh. What the tall one told me was, the one with the thing in his lip. Like a silver horseshoe? He told me they read about the girl in the paper, how cool it was she could find things, things that was lost. Like maybe she had psychic powers or was a witch or something, so they were curious. Decided to come and watch the psychic girl get buried, that's what he told me. Only they're kind of disappointed they didn't get to see her body when the casket was open. They said that was pretty much a bummer-the short fat girl, she told me that. We're kind of, you know, bummed 'cause we waste all this time and, you know, don't even get to look inside.' Know what the fat girl asked me? 'Is she like a skeleton now or just rotted?'"

  I said, "Indignant because they'd been left out, that was her attitude? They couldn't even shut up during the service."

  Parrish allowed a confidential chuckle. "Oh yeah, man. These kids today, everybody owes them something, huh? Makes me want to move to my cabin in Colorado, go up there and wait for the end to come. You white people, you're bad enough. But it's gotten so I don't even like my own kind no more."

  Ten

  One of the women I'd guessed to be a newspaper reporter stopped us in the little parking lot, saying, "Excuse me, Mrs. Copeland, I'm with Everglades University, Museum of Natural History. Any chance we can sit down and talk about your daughter, how she did what she did? At your convenience, of course."

  Long minutes before, we'd had to wait while Delia was comforted by Teddy Bauerstock, Ivan's politician son, the two of them embracing, swaying back and forth, while she sobbed, "You were the only one who was kind to her, treated her like she wasn't strange. It's so sweet of you, Teddy, to even remember. I thought you forgot about us years ago," as he patted her back, tears in his own eyes, camera shutters making their scissors sound.

  We had to wait a little longer as he spoke to reporters, his arm around Delia's shoulder, a protective posture. "Dorothy was my friend. No… she was more like my little sister. I didn't know her well. We didn't spend a lot of time together, but enough to become close. Her brilliance made her seem different, and we all know how cruel kids can be to those who are a little different. More than once I had to step in and tell the local bullies to back off, leave her alone."

  That caused Delia to smile as she dabbed at her eyes.

  He wasn't finished.

  "As some of you know, my family's beach house is on the east point of the island, near Indian Hill. There're a lot of mounds on our acreage. Dorothy liked to walk up there by herself and just sit. Sit there and look out over Barfield Bay. That's what I'm going to do right now. Before Dad and I head back to the ranch, I'm going to sit on one of those old Indian mounds and think about Dorothy, and what's happened to this great state of ours. Think about what a sad thing it is that thieves and bullies can do what they want to innocent people when there's no one there to protect them."

  Bauerstock had the ability to grit his teeth and flex his jaw muscles in a way that suggested resolve. He flexed jaw muscles now as he added, "It's time we put a stop to this sort of thing. Dorothy had a lot to teach us. I think she's teaching us still."

  Which got more tears from Delia, Ivan Bauerstock standing in the background, nodding at the way his son was handling himself, and no wonder: Teddy Bauerstock was very, very good. A compelling voice, lots of eye contact, forceful in the right places but also a self-deprecating way of smiling that suggested boyishness over a core of strength.

  Earlier, I'd watched him shake Tomlinson's hand, speaking animatedly as Tomlinson nodded a solemn understanding. Same with the journalists, one by one. Got them off alone, face-to-face, slightly closer than the thirty-three inches of comfort space that behaviorists say we require.

  But me, he'd dismissed with a frank glance of assessment: I am a person without politics, and he was able to read that. There was no way I could help him, so I was an unproductive investment in time.

  I'd stared back into Teddy Bauerstock's congenial face with its congenial smile and I saw eyes that were as expressionless as holes in a small-bore rifle. I had seen eyes like his once before.

  Where?

  The man had a future in Washington. No doubt about that.

  Now this woman from Everglades University wanted attention, which I found irksome. I'd had enough of cemeteries and crowds. I was eager to get on the road, change back into canvas shorts and T-shirt, put my boat in the water as soon as possible and feel wind in my face.

  But no, we had to stop again. And this woman wasn't even a reporter.

  Talking to a reporter, at least, was something that I planned to do willingly…

  Her name was Nora Chung, an Amerasian, probably half Vietnamese with some Indian in her, too, though I'd already misjudged her once and was reluctant to make any more assumptions.

  The card she handed us said she was assistant director of anthropology, and a Ph. D. Impressive for a woman who looked just a couple of years out of her teens. Tall with broad shoulders-maybe a competitive swimmer at one time. Very long legs in beige dress slacks; a lean upper body, thin and bony beneath a dark blouse with pearl buttons; wire-rimmed glasses over sloe eyes and an Anglo nose; hair cut rice-bowl style, advertising her ethnicity.

  Delia Copeland had the voice of a veteran waitress, deepened and slowed by smoky bars and sore feet. She took a cigarette from her friend Betty Lynn and lit it now, letting her breath out slowly as if she'd been wanting to do it for a while; making the feeling last. Then she looked at the anthropolo
gist through a haze of blue, saying, "We already talked to a bunch of archaeologists. Back when my Dorothy was still with us. We talked to a couple people they sent down from Tallahassee. I don't know what else I can tell you."

  The younger woman said, "I've read the transcripts, the interviews with Dorothy, but there are some other things I'd like to ask. Not now, though. It's not a good time, and I sincerely don't want to impose."

  Delia's eyes were red from crying. She was probably short-tempered, too, from the heat and a week of emotional abrasion. "What I suppose you really want is to find out what valuable things might have been buried with my little girl. Something nice for your museum. You get me off and make nice to me, hoping I'll say, 'Here, take it for free.' That's what Dorothy and me used to do. Gave it away. We gave it all away, not a penny for ourselves."

  The anthropologist stayed cool, nodding her empathy. "That's in the records, too. Your generosity. I'm not going to pretend I wouldn't love to see anything your daughter found. But later, when you've rested. Can I call you? Thing is, I don't have your number."

  Delia made a sound of exasperation and opened her purse to find a pen and paper. "You scientific types," she said, "you never get tired of asking."

  A couple of people had stopped close enough to listen: two other women I assumed were journalists, including the one in the caftan who now had a little camera in one hand while she waved for attention with the other, calling, "Mrs. Copeland? Mrs. Copeland! The thing the gentleman's holding"-she pointed to me-"why's it wrapped in a handkerchief?"

  Delia took a deep drag on her cigarette as she handed her number to the anthropologist, dark eyes focusing. " 'Cause maybe what my friend's got there is private. Maybe something just between my little girl and me. Which means it's nobody's business but my own, lady, and sure 'nuff none of yours."

  The woman's voice had a bellows quality that I have come to associate with a predisposition to hysteria, neutered cats and astrology. "Your friend took something from your daughter's casket. Is that what you're telling us?"