We were sitting on the stern of Tomlinson’s trunk- cabined, salt-bleached Morgan Out Island sailboat, No Mas. He’d recently had her hauled, scraped, painted and refitted for an extended cruise he had planned—another symptom of his desire to escape.

She now had a new little Yanmar diesel (though the man seldom resorted to using power), a high-amp alternator, inverter, wind generator, an autopilot and a very powerful Bose sound system. Even so, the cabin retained the familiar odors of oiled teak, kerosene, electronic wiring, patchouli incense, sandalwood and the musky smell of marijuana.

It was crowded. There were five of us sitting around the stern cockpit and on the roof of the cabin bulkhead: Karlita, Tomlinson, DeAntoni, myself and Sally. Tomlinson was sitting cross-legged, meditation style to my right. When Karlita spoke, I nudged his knee with mine and, in the glow of blazing moonlight, did my best to glare at him.

The entire evening, I’d tried to avoid her, yet, over and over, Tomlinson had steered her to me, smiling his mild, Buddha smile. Which is how she’d met Sally, then DeAntoni, who, it turned out, was a fan of her weekly television show as well as of her nightly cable TV infomercials.

“I got what you call insomnia, Miz Karlita, so you and me, we’ve spent lots’a late nights together.”

The woman loved that, vamping a little as she replied, “Oh really? You lying there in bed all alone? I bet we’ve shared some very special moments, just you and me. Am I right?”

DeAntoni missed the implications of that; continued to smile and nod as he told her, “I think you’re one of the most beautiful women on the tube. Honest. I’m not just saying that.”

Which guaranteed Karlita would be with us the rest of the night, tagging along, listening to everything we had to say and not shy about commenting.

Now here she was on Tomlinson’s boat, hair hanging long over her right shoulder, dressed in Arabic-looking scarves, red and black, that showed that she was braless, very comfortable with her body, bare legs and thighs visible when she walked or sat with legs crossed, which she was doing now.

DeAntoni said, “Know what the weirdest thing is? I almost called you. It was the night you had the guy on who could bend metal just touching it. I’m sitting there and it comes to me: Hey, maybe the beautiful psychic could help me with Mrs. Minster’s case.”

He’d already told her about Sally’s husband, and the photo.

Sounding flattered, Sally said to him, “You really seem to care.”

DeAntoni said, “Sure, it’s my job. Plus, I think you’re one nice lady.”

“That’s a very kind thing to say.”

“I mean it. Which is why I’ve started feeling, well, I guess protective’s the word. It’s the kind of guy I am. I live alone, not even a cat, so who else I got to look after? All that insurance money involved, you could attract every kind of shark and con man around. Plus, your husband was hanging with a rough crowd. You ever do any reading about the Church of Ashram?”

“Enough to know that the people there scare me.”

DeAntoni said, “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. From what I’ve read, they’re nasty when it comes to revenge. People who piss them . . . people who cross them, make them mad. Out west, in this one little town, his followers went to the only restaurant and contaminated the salad bar with salmonella. The whole town got sick, so they couldn’t get out and vote. Murder, too—they’ve been accused of that. Of making people disappear.”

“Like Geoff,” Sally said softly.

DeAntoni said, “Yeah, like your husband. So I’ve been keeping a real close eye on you.”

To the television psychic, Sally said, “You’re right. He’s kind.”

Then, looking at me, she said, “I’d like her to hold the photograph. If she has a power, it was given to her by God, not any sort of witchcraft. So let’s give her a chance.”

Holding the photo in both hands, eyes closed, the television psychic did her act.

It took her half an hour to tell that Minster was dead; that he really had drowned.

She ended, saying, “It was his penance, his own way of finding salvation and deliverance. You can rejoice in that.”

As she finished, a warm gust of air bloomed out of the mangroves, dense with iodine and sulfur. No Mas, at anchor, shifted beneath the stars like a slow weather vane.

“People change,” Tomlinson said gently. “No one really knows what goes on in the heart of another human being. We probe and pretend. But few of us ever truly connect with another.”

I said, “It seems odd for someone like your husband, the entrepreneurial type—an intelligent guy—to be taken in by a cult leader.”

“I would’ve agreed until I started learning about it,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how many successful people join the Ashram. Some of the names—famous people; people with money—I was shocked.”

Still speaking softly, in his reflective mode, Tomlinson said, “She’s right. The Ashram and organizations like it appeal to two basic types: the successful, proactive sort and the homeless.

“I was telling Doc, a lot of it’s stolen from Scientology. If you work hard, stay disciplined, do what they call your ‘au diting,’ you’ll keep moving up the spiritual ladder. Goal-oriented people like that.”

He added, “I think for some of them that there’s so much pressure in their professions, it’s a relief to finally let go. To stop worrying, and have someone tell them what to do for a change.”

Sally said, “That’s what happened to Geoff. He’d already started building his theme villages. Worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days, then couldn’t sleep at night, worrying over details, money.”

I said, “Theme villages? I thought he did shopping malls. That sort of thing.”

“In the beginning, yes, malls were his specialty. But then he came up with this theme-village idea—he was a genius when it came to marketing.”

Geoff’s idea was a variation of the theme-park industry that has become synonymous with the plasticized, theater ized and stucco grotesquerie that too many people believe is Florida. It was to buy up large tracts of raw land in Florida and south Georgia, and build gated, turnkey villages. Each village would have a unique theme, built to attract people who shared passionate interests.

He built his first theme community in the rolling pasture-lands north of Gainesville. It was called Cross Country—a lush, secure village designed to appeal to fitness hobbyists.

There were miles of wooded running trails and bike paths. There were lap pools and fitness centers. There were artificial rock towers designed to challenge beginner, intermediate and expert climbers. The village employed its own staff of triathlon, marathon and fitness coaches—all part of the monthly maintenance fees.

Cross Country was such a success that Minster began to build three carbon-copy villages—one outside Atlanta, another near Lauderdale, the third, north of Cape Coral.

“It was way too much, too soon,” Sally said. “That’s when he began to have cash-flow problems. It got worse and worse until he just couldn’t handle it anymore. Instead of hustling off to the office every day, he began to avoid work. Hated the mention of it. Same with his obligations.

“He bought a Harley; stayed out all night sometimes. He began hanging out with what I’d call weirdo types—” She turned and looked at Tomlinson. “Old hippies, no offense.”

“None taken,” Tomlinson said, amused.

“It was like he went through the adolescence he’d never had. He was smoking marijuana, going to bars, hanging around Coconut Grove and South Beach. Then he took up the martial arts, and started studying meditation.

“By that time, I was in my corporate-wife mode. So I’m the one who actually ran things, took care of all the details. What a strange reversal, huh?”

It was around that time that Geoff met Bhagwan Shiva—the most important “karmic event” of his life, he told Sally. He found the Church of Ashram “fascinating.” Better yet, Shiva was looking for big-profit investment opportunities. He had cash, and he was enthusiastic about Minster’s theme communities.

Shiva perceived an additional advantage: He suggested that each community also have a “Meditation Center” staffed with Shiva’s followers.

“At first, he wanted to call them Ashram Centers, but there were some legal problems with that. So they settled on Meditation Centers, but they were the same thing.”

Other theme communities were built. Audubon Estates was designed to attract people who loved bird-watching, natural history, astronomy. There were butterfly gardens, landscaped sections of rain forest and cypress swamps, all built far inland in what was once cattle and sugarcane flatland, so there was no light pollution.

It was even more upscale than the Cross Country projects.

In the Everglades, closer to Miami, they built their most exclusive community, Sawgrass. Sawgrass was designed to attract the adventurer types, the sporting market. Fly-fishing, hunting and shooting. Several well-stocked bass lakes, quail-shooting from horseback, a landing strip, a hunting lodge, a restaurant with mahogany beams, stone fireplaces, animal heads on the wall.

According to Sally, Sawgrass was Shiva’s favorite, and so it became Geoff’s favorite.

“The hunting and fishing, it attracted the big-money guys. The heavy drinkers, the gambling and hard-living types. The best Scotch whiskey, the best Cuban cigars and the main restaurant serves nothing but prime beef. It was so exclusive, Shiva and Geoff could both let their hair down a little. He began to spend more and more time there. In fact, the month before he disappeared, he didn’t spend more than a night or two at home.”

DeAntoni said, “That’s where I was headed next. Sawgrass. I’m going to talk to people who knew your husband. There’s a little redneck town nearby. I hear they aren’t so happy about rich Yankees and Shiva’s followers taking over the area. People like that might be a good source of info.”

Sally told us that Sawgrass was southeast of Immokalee, in the Everglades region between Alligator Alley and the Tamiami Trail. It was near a crossroads settlement called Devil’s Garden, out in the middle of nowhere. There was a bar, a feed store, a couple of houses.

She added, “About the people who live around Devil’s Garden—gator poachers and Seminole drunks is the way Geoff described them—you’re right. There’ve been some nasty scenes between Shiva’s people and the locals. It’s because the Ashram owns most of the land around Devil’s Garden; a couple of thousand acres. It’s where Shiva wants to build his casinos.”

DeAntoni looked at me, and said, “That was my deal with the chewing tobacco. I was experimenting with ways to go down there and maybe blend in a little better with the rednecks.”

I said, “Shrewd. No way they’d recognize your New York accent while you’re throwing up.”

“Funny. Maybe what I need is some local cover. You talk like a college professor, but you still got a little bit of Florida boy in your voice. You want to come along?”

I told him no, I had a business to run, but then Tomlinson spoke up, saying, “Count me in. I’d love to go back to the Everglades. What about you, Karlita?”

As she was telling him, yes, they could go there and try to tune in to Shiva’s dark vibes, Tomlinson was staring at me. He waited for her to finish before he said, “I wonder how those gator-poaching types are going to react to two enlightened visitors like me and Ms. ’Lita? A couple of long-haired flower children.”

Trying to disguise his distaste, but not doing a very good job, DeAntoni said, “If this guy, your hippie pal, tags along, I can’t be responsible.”

Meaning I had no choice.

I listened to Frank add, “Sally, I’d appreciate it if you’d drive home and stay there. Just to be safe. Not tonight. Tomorrow, I mean.”

I liked the man even more when he added, “I don’t want a nice woman like you getting hurt on my account.”

We were alone.

She said, “Do you know who I miss from those times?”

I had an idea, but remained silent.

“I miss your uncle, Tuck, and Joseph Egret, too. Tucker was such a funny, wild, old flirt. But Joe, I miss him the most. What a dear, sweet man. The gentle giant. Him and his horse, the way he’d ride without a saddle. Cowboys in the Everglades, that’s the way I still think of both of them.”

“Joseph,” I said. “Yeah, I miss him, too.”

It was an uncomfortable topic for me, and because it was something I wanted to ask anyway, I changed the subject, saying, “On the porch, you started to tell us about your dog. What happened?”

She slipped her arm into mine—allowing intentional contact for the first time. “It’s hard for me to talk about without bawling, and I didn’t want to do it in front of a stranger. It’s why I had to get out of Coconut Grove. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

She’d been doing volunteer work at her local animal shelter. They took in a skinny little golden retriever-cocker mix. He was at the shelter for more than a month. His time ran out. They were going to euthanize him, so Sally adopted him. It was about a month after her husband’s disappearance. She named him Mango after the village where we’d both lived, and also because of his reddish-gold color. In her big, empty house, the two bonded quickly.

She was right. She couldn’t tell it without crying.

“Last Friday morning,” she said, “I went to Publix, came out and found I had another flat tire.”

It was hour before Triple-A got the thing fixed.

“I knew right away something was wrong when I unlocked the door, because he wasn’t there to meet me. Mango knew the sound of my car. He was always at the door. I dropped the groceries and went running, calling for him.”

She found her dog floating in the pool. The policemen who took the report guessed the dog had gone swimming and maybe had a seizure.

“That’s not what happened,” she said. “I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Someone broke into my house again. They killed Mango—and for no reason. He was the sweetest dog. What kind of person would do such a thing?”

I had my arms around her, holding her as she wept. I didn’t reply, but I was thinking, A very, very dangerous person.