Bermuda Schwartz Read Free Page B

a gazebo on the bluff overlooking the ocean. And I go mine—to where Boggy and Cedric kneel by the hole in the lawn.
    The two of them stand as I approach.
    Boggy says, “There is a problem, Zachary.”
    â€œYep, there is,” I say. “It’s called Aunt Trula. She’s a pain in the ass.”
    Cedric looks away, biting back a smile.
    Boggy picks up the shovel and pokes it in the hole. It only goes down a foot or so and then it hits something. Something that sounds like rock.
    â€œThat is the problem,” says Boggy. “Limestone. We cannot dig a hole that will be deep enough for the palms.”
    â€œWell, so much for your prediction, huh?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Zachary?”
    â€œI mean, that little scene back at the airport, where you held those stones in your hands and did your Taino-vision thing. You said what we planted here would grow strong.”
    â€œYes, that is what I said.”
    â€œSo this limestone thing is just a little bump in the road? We’ll work around it? The palms will be all right?”
    Boggy shrugs.
    â€œAbout the palms, I do not know, Zachary. Maybe they live, maybe they die.”
    I just look at him. An aggravation, a damn aggravation.
    â€œHow much hole do we need for these palms?” Cedric asks.
    â€œFive or six feet at least,” I say. “The root balls need to be covered with soil or else the palms will die.”
    â€œThen we’ve got some hard digging ahead of us. I don’t know that we have all the equipment here that we’ll need. I better go make some calls.”
    â€œI’ll go with you,” Boggy says.
    After the two of them have stepped away, I kneel beside the hole. I reach down and touch the limestone. Hard digging for sure.
    We might be better served by dynamite. And, if not that, then at least some kind of big drill.
    Which will mean renting heavy equipment, maybe paying for a couple of guys to help shovel out the rock and haul it away.
    I’m thinking that these are turning out to be some very expensive palm trees when I hear Barbara shout: “Zack!”
    She is standing in the gazebo with Aunt Trula, waving for me to come quick.
    I set off on a run across the big back lawn. When I get to the gazebo, Barbara points to the water.
    â€œOut there,” she says. “I think it’s …”
    I look to where she is pointing. A wave washes over a finger of jagged rocks that juts out from the beach. Sea foam sprays everywhere. I can’t see what she is pointing at.
    â€œDarling, please,” says Aunt Trula. “It’s just a bag of garbage. Probably off one of the cruise ships. It happens now and then.”
    Then the wave washes out to reveal something hung up on the rocks, something black and misshapen, something that is no bag of garbage.
    â€œStay here,” I tell Barbara and Aunt Trula.
    I scramble down the side of the bluff, stripping off blazer, shirt, and shoes as I go.
    There’s no reason for me to hurry. Not if the object in the water turns out to be what I fear it is.
    But pumped by the adrenaline of the moment, I hit the beach running, hurdle the first wave, and the next, and then land squarely atop a rock, one of those rocks that gave this particular beach its name.
    Knives slash the sole of my right foot and I twist as I go down, trying to break the fall. And then knives are slashing my shoulder.
    A wave rolls me over and I catch a glimpse of my foot, blood drizzlingfrom the heel. I grab for my shoulder, feel the gash, figure it must be bleeding, too.
    Another wave crashes in, and now the water is just deep enough for me to grab a stroke without scraping bottom. Then another and another.
    I close in on the finger of rocks that juts out of the water. And I can make out what I’d been dreading to see.
    The dead guy wears a black wet suit, a full-body one, with footies and a neoprene hood. He is hogtied, his arms and legs bound behind his back with a