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  The color drained from Detective Williams’s face. “Why?”

  “I think Mr. Gonzales may have been one.”

  “You need to talk to Father Rafael,” she answered in a shaky voice.

  “Okay, after we catalogue Ms. Morales’ things and decide what we’re doing about the mercury and—”

  “No. Now,” she insisted. She turned to Dr. Ashland. “Joel, you can handle this, right?”

  “Um, sure.” His face was a study in bafflement.

  “Give him the key,” Detective Williams directed.

  Bodhi handed it over. “I wouldn’t go back in the other room.”

  “I’m not planning to, don’t worry. I’ll make some calls to the hazmat folks and see what they recommend. In the meantime, I’ll photograph the items in here and write up an inventory. I have no idea what’s going on, but it seems like good luck might be in order. So, good luck.” Dr. Ashland gave him an encouraging smile.

  “Let’s go,” Detective Williams said impatiently as she dragged him out into the hallway.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.

  Ephesians 6:11

  Think not lightly of evil, saying, “It will not come to me.” Drop by drop is the water pot filled.

  The Buddha, Dhammapada

  Detective Williams commandeered Golden Shores’ speedboat for the return trip to Big Pine Key. As the small boat cut through the waves, churning up spray, she shouted over the wind, “Maybe we should just take the boat straight to Key West. It’ll be faster!”

  Bodhi leaned in close to her ear so he could respond without yelling. “Whatever you’re concerned about is clearly important, maybe even critically so. But there’s no emergency here. Dock the boat in Golden Island’s slip on Big Pine so Cleo doesn’t report it stolen, please. A police chase on the open sea isn’t going to get us to Father Rafael any sooner. You can slap your light on the top of your car and drive like a madwoman if you feel it’s necessary.”

  “It probably is.”

  She was concentrating on piloting the boat and didn’t turn to face him when she answered, but he could see that her expression was grim.

  He fell silent until they reached the pier. They wriggled out of their life jackets and stowed them. Then Detective Williams handed the speedboat key to Golden Island’s steward and sprinted toward the parking lot.

  Bodhi followed behind at a deliberate pace. Not to slow her down, but because he knew she’d need to radio to dispatch and set up her light before she was ready to go. He reached the car just as she was ending her radio call.

  “I asked dispatch to call ahead to Father Rafael and let him know we’re coming,” she said as he buckled his seatbelt.

  Before he could respond, she gunned the engine. The car lurched forward. She hit the lights but, thankfully, not the siren as she sped out of the lot and into the traffic traveling south on Route 1.

  As they rocketed toward Key West, Bodhi took a moment to notice the blurred landscape outside the window.

  “I don’t have my land legs yet, so I guess if I get sick in your car it’ll be seasickness, not carsickness,” he said mildly.

  She glanced at him as if to judge how serious he was. His face must have looked as green as he felt because she eased off the gas and reduced her speed.

  “Sorry. But we need to talk to Father Rafael.”

  “I gathered that much, detective. Why don’t you fill me in just a tiny bit so I can prepare for our discussion. What’s a palero?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head.

  He tried another tack. “I know Father Rafael’s not just a priest, he’s a santero, too.”

  Her eyes went round. “You do? How?”

  “Do you practice Santería?”

  “No.” She laughed at the thought.

  “Then how did you know that about Father Rafael?”

  “It’s pretty much an open secret among certain people. I really am just a garden-variety Catholic. But Santería and Catholicism are closely intertwined where I grew up. Lots of my aunts and uncles follow both religions. It’s all over the Keys. Those colorful, so-called novena candles in all the grocery stores are really Santería candles. And you can’t walk through Miami without tripping over an offering to an orisha.”

  “An orisha?”

  “A saint.” She waved her hand in a helpless gesture. “Look, I’m really not qualified to explain it, but Father Rafael will be able to answer all your questions.”

  “Is that why we’re going to see him?”

  She didn’t answer. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  “Felicia?”

  She looked away from the road and met his eyes. “A palero is someone who practices Palo mayombe, Bodhi. It’s the dark side of Santería. It’s black magic. If Mr. Gonzales really was a palero, Father Rafael can help us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The six o’clock bells were ringing when they pulled into the small lot behind Saint Lazarus’s Shrine. As they stepped out of the car, Bodhi gazed up at the white stucco structure. It had a gabled teal and pink roof and was topped by a stained glass crucifix. It reminded him of the churches he’d seen in the Dominican Republic. It most certainly didn’t look like a Catholic shrine in the United States.

  “Is the architecture Cuban?”

  Detective Williams craned her neck back and studied the building as if she were seeing it for the first time. She shrugged. “It’s looks like a regular Floridian building to me.”

  As the last bell pealed, her stomach rumbled loudly. She gave Bodhi an embarrassed smile.

  “Sorry. I just sort of realized I haven’t eaten today. Have you?”

  Bodhi rewound his day. “No. Actually, I haven’t.”

  “Good. I know an authentic Cuban place. It’s off the beaten path. Cheap. Good. And we’ll be able to talk freely. Let’s take Father Rafael out to dinner.”

  A small side door opened and a tall, dark-haired man wearing tailored black pants, a short-sleeved black dress shirt, and a white clerical collar stepped into view.

  “Felicia!” He waved energetically, took the short set of stairs two at a time and, to Bodhi’s surprise, swept Detective Williams into a hug.

  “Father Rafael, this is Dr. Bodhi King.” She smiled at the priest and gestured toward Bodhi.

  “Bodhi, this is my cousin, Father Rafael Betancourt.”

  “Your cousin?” Bodhi echoed.

  “Well, sorta cousin. His aunt is my aunt’s sister-in-law. Is that right?”

  “Close enough.” The priest grasped Bodhi’s hand with his right and covered it with his left. “I’m very happy to meet you, Dr. Bodhi King.”

  “Please, call me Bodhi, Father Rafael.”

  The priest smiled. His white teeth and his white collar were stark and bright against his dark skin. “You’re a Buddhist, Bodhi?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why don’t you call me Rafael then, eh? Especially because I understand you want to talk about Santería.” As he spoke, he carefully removed his collar and placed it in his pants pocket.

  “If you like.”

  Detective Williams looped her arm through her cousin’s elbow. “We haven’t eaten. Can we take you to Tita’s for rice and beans?”

  Rafael smiled. “Always.”

  They walked a short distance. Detective Williams pointed out roosters and gypsy chickens. She was as relaxed as she’d been the first day on the yacht.

  They stopped in front of an enormous gnarled tree. The thick, twisted trunk was massive, and the limbs reached toward the heavens.

  “It’s the kapok tree,” Rafael explained. “They can grow to be well over one hundred feet. There’s a sign around the corner that tells the history, the biology, and the mythology of the tree, if you’re interested.”

  Bodhi was. So he stepped over the large roots snaking out of the ground and stood on the
intersecting sidewalk. The sign detailed how the tree’s large, foul-smelling, bell-shaped flowers opened once or twice a decade to be cross-pollinated by bats and explained the ancient Mayans’ belief that the dead climbed a sacred kapok tree to reach heaven.

  He rejoined the others, shaking his head. “What an amazing tree.”

  “It’s a beautiful and awe-inspiring tree—a sign of God’s hand in nature. But the thing I’ve always found funny about the sign is the mythology it leaves out.” Rafael twisted his mouth into a wry smile.

  “What’s that?”

  “The kapok tree is also found in Cuba. There, we call it the ceiba tree. It’s venerated, maybe even worshipped, in Santería because the orishas and deities are believed to live in the branches. When someone is sick or dying, the sacrifice of a black-furred animal at the base of a ceiba is thought to pass on the animal’s life to the ill one. And the Palo mayombe also worship the tree. They believe powerful spirits live in the tree. Bad spirits in some cases. So children in Cuba are warned by their parents to avoid the trees, not to play around them.”

  Bodhi looked up at the tree again. He could see how the imposing tree could be feared as well as revered.

  “The duality of nature. Everything is both good and bad.” He fixed Rafael with a look. “It doesn’t make for the most uplifting cultural marker reading, though.”

  Rafael chuckled.

  Detective Williams clicked her tongue impatiently. “Are we finished looking at this blasted tree? I want to eat.”

  It was never clear to Bodhi if Tita’s was a licensed restaurant or if the tita in question was an actual aunt to Detective Williams, Rafael, or both.

  He found himself in the front room of a small brick building tucked into a narrow, dusty alley patrolled by chickens. No sign hung in the window. No menus were handed out.

  The tiny dining room was loud, dark, and crowded. Afro-Cuban jazz music played from a squat CD player balanced on a windowsill. The rice and beans were flavorful and plentiful. And the red table wine flowed freely.

  His repeated requests for a glass of water were met with still more wine. Eventually, thirst won out.

  Rafael seemed content to talk about music and food and people whom Bodhi didn’t know, but Detective Williams’s earlier agitation returned in full force about an hour into the leisurely meal.

  She leaned across the table. “Listen, this is serious. Bodhi thinks José Gonzales may have been a palero.” Her drawn face looked haunted in the shadows thrown by the flickering candle in the center of the table.

  “There’s no maybe about it. He was a palero.” Rafael wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “You knew? And you didn’t do anything about it?”

  “Leesh, tell me what could I do? Bryce Scott was reluctant to allow me to perform Catholic services in his temple to mammon. You think he was going to let me put on my santero robes and come in and do a protective ritual? Not that I didn’t suggest it.”

  “I thought no one is supposed to know you practice Santería?” Bodhi furrowed his brow, puzzled.

  “That’s right, officially. The diocese would be … displeased.” He swept his arms around the room. “The community, they couldn’t care less. The vast majority of my parishioners combine the two. But, that wouldn’t fly in 99.9% of the churches in North America. And I understand that. So, when Cleo Clarkson called to see if I could perform an exorcism, I suggested they bring in a santero. If they’d agreed, I wouldn’t have done it myself, of course. Tito Juan would have done it.”

  “Wait. Cleo Clarkson wanted you to perform an exorcism?” Detective Williams blinked at him.

  “She was calling on Pastor Scott’s behalf. Apparently, the residents were concerned that the building was under the control of demons. I explained that in the Catholic faith demonic possession happens to a person, not a structure, and that there are rules about exorcism.”

  He paused and sipped his wine before continuing. “Besides, my study group informed me that the rumors of Satanic possession were being spread by Pastor Scott’s own lay ministers.” He shook his head. “Julia Martin’s grandson included. But, in a way they’re not wrong.”

  “You believe there are evils spirits at Golden Shores?” Bodhi kept his voice neutral. He knew what it was to hold minority religious views. He had no intention of judging Rafael’s beliefs, either as a priest or a santero.

  “Let me explain Palo mayombe.”

  Bodhi lifted his glass. “Maybe a little more background on Santería would be helpful first.”

  Rafael nodded. “You understand that the word literally means ‘Saint worship’? It has other names, especially in the Caribbean and in West Africa, but here, in the U.S., most people refer to it as Santería.”

  “I understand that it’s a syncretization of Catholicism and another belief system, but I don’t know anything about that other religion,” Bodhi admitted.

  “That’s fair. Most practitioners of Santería here in Florida don’t either. The two have become so closely mixed in Cuba that unwinding the strands is nearly impossible. West African slaves brought to the Caribbean and Latin America by the Spanish Empire, mainly those from parts of Nigeria, Benin, and Togo, practiced a religion called Yoruba. Yoruba spawned a host of syncretized religions. Santería is only one of many. But they have a lot in common.”

  “Detect—”

  Detective Williams laughed. “At this point, and in this place, you might as well call me Felicia. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

  He smiled. “Felicia said that Palo mayombe is the dark version of Santería.”

  Rafael tilted his head from one side to the other. “Eh, in broad strokes, sure.”

  “Well, excuse me. I’m not the religious scholar, now, am I?”

  Her cousin went on as if she hadn’t said anything. “Palo mayombe is viewed that way because, in Cuba and here, its practitioners have borrowed a lot of the symbolism from Santeria. But, in fact, it did not originate from the region of West Africa sometimes called Yorubaland. It traces its roots to the Congo basin in Central Africa.”

  “So, Palo mayombe is a syncretized religion with Santería?” Bodhi found himself wishing he had a pen and paper.

  “Not exactly. Followers of Santería don’t appreciate the connection. Unlike the Roman Catholic Church in Cuba, which recognizes Santería as a cultural force, if nothing else, Santería wants nothing at all to do with Palo mayombe.”

  “Can you speed this along a bit?” Felicia asked as a smiling woman brought over a platter laden with cafecito and flan.

  Bodhi thanked the server and inhaled the rich aroma of the Cuban coffee while the cousins bickered softly. Between the heaping portions of arroz congri, the plate of plantains, the wine, and now coffee and dessert, he was feeling more decadent than he had in years.

  Apparently, Felicia and Rafael came to some resolution while he was savoring a mouthful of flan.

  Rafael caught Bodhi’s eyes. “Here’s the deal. Leesh says I have until she finishes her dessert and coffee to give background. Then we need to deal with the actual issue at hand. So, I’m going to talk fast and gloss over a lot. Like Christianity, Santería is monotheistic. Just as in Christianity, there’s a Trinity. Instead of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, it’s Olodumare, Olofi, and Olorun. With me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. The orishas are the functional equivalent of the Catholic saints. In fact, that’s really how the two religions became intertwined. The West African slaves noticed the saints that their Catholic owners prayed to and honored bore a strong resemblance to their orishas. It’s important to note here that neither religion really ‘worships’ the saint/orisha. You worship God. You venerate the saints/orishas.” He paused. “I don’t know how any of this equates to Buddhism.”

  Bodhi shook his head. “It doesn’t. But I’m following you. My neighbor prays to Saint Anthony when she can’t find her glasses.”

  “Yes! Saint Anthony’s orisha counterpart would be Elegguá, for inst
ance. Each orisha was assigned a saint, so that the slaves could pray to them without detection.”

  Bodhi pictured the row of statues that Esmerelda Morales had owned. “So, when Ms. Morales prayed to Saint Anthony was she really praying to Elegguá?”

  “No. She was praying to both of them.”

  “Okay.”

  Felicia raised her eyebrows at how easily he accepted this duality, but he figured this was one area in which having no preconceived understanding was an advantage.

  “Now, the folks you met at Golden Shores, they all had”—he reverted to Catholicism here and made the sign of the cross when he mentioned his deceased parishioners—“or have a special affinity for the orisha Babalú Ayé, who we call San Lázaro or Saint Lazarus. Do you know the story of Lazarus?”

  Bodhi squinted as he tried to remember. “Jesus brought him back from the dead.”

  “Excellent! So that Lazarus is Lazarus of Bethany. There’s also a parable in Luke about a leper, who some people believe is Lazarus of Bethany and some people believe is a different man. Doesn’t matter. The important part is that sick or infirm Cuban Catholics pray to San Lázaro for healing, and practitioners of Santería pray to Babalú Ayé for the same miracle. These two in particular are very tightly connected. There’s a big festival every year for Saint Lazarus in Cuba, and it’s very much a Santería event. There’s a famous shrine to him there, which much like my old parish openly accepts Santería.”

  “And now you’re at Saint Lazarus’s Shrine here.”

  Rafael smiled. “Bingo. So, the social club would pray to San Lázaro—and other orishas, as needed—but he’s our guy, so to speak. They would light candles and leave offerings to him—fruit, flowers, what have you.”

  “Animal sacrifices?” Bodhi asked.

  “No. Not at Golden Shores. Too risky.”

  “But Mr. Gonzales had bones and bits of feathers and fur among his rather bizarre belongings. Along with skulls—at least one of which might be a human cranium. So what’s that about?”

  “Palo mayombe doesn’t recognize the orishas. Paleros appeal to the forces of nature. Animal sacrifice is much more common. So is ritual blood-letting and the use of human remains. It sounds like you found his nganga.”