Baja Florida (19 page)

We retrieved our bags from the house and headed down to the seaplane. The tide was up and the plane floated in plenty of water. We took off the shade-cloth camouflage, rolled it up, and stuck it under the chickee hut on the beach. Then we waded back to the plane and settled into our seats.

Charlie started the engine, let it warm up.

It was dark now.
Radiance
was still at the dock. It was too far away for me to tell for sure, but the salon lights were on and I could only guess that Mickey and the young woman were still sitting on the couch, talking.

Charlie said, “You sure about this, Zack?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Unless you've got a better idea.”

“I'm low on fuel,” Charlie said. “Ate up a bunch of it fighting that squall off Andros. I can't make it all the way to Harbour Island on what I've got.”

We had decided that the best course of action would be to connect with Lynfield Pederson and lay out everything for him. That way, maybe he could run interference while things got sorted out and I wouldn't get thrown in jail. Trouble was, if we called Pederson on the plane's radio it would alert other police to our whereabouts and, well, it could complicate matters. So that meant flying to Harbour Island to see Pederson in person.

“Where's the closest place to get fuel?”

“Airport in George Town.”

“Any chance of flying into there without the police knowing about it?”

“Chance is slim to none. And Slim, he's done left town. Got a police station right next to the terminal,” Charlie said. “Could try Barraterre, about a dozen miles north of George Town.”

“It got an airport?”

“No, but I used to keep some honey pots there.”

“Honey pots?”

“Fuel drums,” Charlie said. “Back in the day, I had fuel stashes all up and down the islands. Tuck in, fill up, and get the hell out. Still know folks in Barraterre. Might rustle up someone who could help out.”

“It's worth you giving it a shot,” I said.

“Especially when it's the only shot I got.”

Charlie motored the plane slowly offshore, putting
Radiance
farther behind us. We were approaching the south tip of Lady Cut Cay, bouncing gently along the water.

Charlie looked at me.

“You ready, Zack?”

“Let's do this thing,” I said.

I opened the door on my side. The air coming in was warm and sticky. Boggy handed me a waterproof bag. It held a pair of binoculars, a big beach towel, some bug juice, and a bottle of water.

“See you soon, Zachary,” Boggy said.

I stuck out one leg onto the plane's pontoon. Then I pulled the rest of myself out, balancing there with a hand on a strut.

“OK, what I'm going to do is flip off all the lights,” Charlie said, talking louder now to be heard above the engine. “That's when you jump. I'm only gonna leave the lights off a couple of seconds. Because there's a pretty good chance Mickey is watching us and if the lights are off any longer than that he'll notice it and think something is up. So jump and get your ass as far away from the plane as you can. And then I'm outta here. You got it?”

“Piece o' cake.”

“On three,” Charlie said.

He counted it down and when the lights flicked off I leaped from the pontoon and into the water. Not an Olympic-caliber entry—the Bulgarian judge would have given it a 6—but it put plenty of distance between me and the plane.

By the time I surfaced, the plane's lights were back on and it was speeding away.

The water was shallow, only up to my chest. I stood there, watching the plane take off. As it gained altitude, it made a lazy loop back toward Lady Cut Cay and passed right over
Radiance,
Charlie just making sure that Mickey spotted him leaving the island.

I slung the bag over a shoulder and waded toward shore.

The binoculars weren't the night-vision kind, so they didn't help at all.

Not that it mattered. There wasn't much to see.

I found a spot of high ground between the landing strip and the dock. The underbrush was thick but I stomped it down enough so that it didn't keep scraping against me.

I could look out between some wax myrtles and see
Radiance.
If I turned the other way and bent back the branches of a bramble bush, I could see up to the house.

All in all, a decent little hidey-hole. Not that I wanted to set up permanent house keeping. But it would do me well enough until Charlie and Boggy made contact with Lynfield Pederson and could get back here. In the meantime, it would let me keep an eye on things in case there were any visitors, such as so-called boyfriends in powerboats.

About an hour after I came ashore, I spotted a figure walking down the dock toward
Radiance.
Octavia. Checking on Mickey, making sure he took his meds, maybe giving him a shot.

Shortly after Octavia left, the lights went off in the boat's main salon and I saw Mickey and the young woman walking along the dock. They got into a golf cart and drove away.

A few minutes later,
Radiance
moved from the dock and came to rest at anchor about fifty yards out. I saw its dinghy putt-putting back to the dock and then Edwin and Curtis got into their golf cart and drove away.

The lights went off in the house not long afterward, and that was pretty much it for the evening's excitement.

I stripped down to my briefs, hung my shirt and shorts over a tree limb. The clothes wouldn't dry overnight, not with all the humidity, but at least it would air them out, get rid of some Zack funk.

The little biting beasties weren't bad, not with the breeze, but I lathered up with bug juice anyway in the name of pre-assault deterrent. I spread out the beach towel, wadded up the waterproof bag for a pillow, and stretched out on my back.

I was hoping to look up and find a majestic firmament unfolding on my behalf. No better place for stargazing than the Out Islands. But clouds had blown in from the west, and instead of an expansive view of the heavens, the sky was a soggy gray blanket, looming low and oppressive.

Funny how the mind works at times like this. Seldom did I recall much from my high school Latin class, but I did now. The Latin word for island is
insula
. From which we also get “insular” and “isolated.”

So here I was, on this island, where things had started out rosy enough then quickly gone to hell. And now I was feeling pretty insular and isolated.

An A-plus in vocabulary, Zack. Poor, poor pitiful you.

I rolled over onto my side and was rewarded with a glimpse of the rising moon trying to shine forth from behind a heavy haze. It was kind of like a burlesque queen performing a fan dance. The fact that the moon wasn't fully exposed made it larger than life and all the more alluring.

I stared at it for a while. I had no pretense of actually falling asleep. The ground was hard and I was wound tight. No way would I doze off.

Pretty moon, though.

Not quite a full moon.

The full moon still a few days off.

And by then I'd be home.

Home.

 

I like my dreams with a soundtrack. And for this particular dream, I had me some Marley:

Don't worry/'bout a ting/'Cause every little ting/Gonna be alright

I was in bed with Barbara, bouncing Shula on my stomach. Lots of giggling going on. The windows in the bedroom were thrown open. A baby cardinal landed on the sill and started chirping its fool head off.

Rise up this mornin'/Smiled with the risin' sun/Three little birds/Perch by my door step

Dreams. Sheesh.

Part collective unconscious, part the outside leaking in.

Then two more cardinals appeared. And they made this trio. Daddy sang bass, momma sang tenor. All that goofy crap.

Singin' sweet songs/Of melodies pure and true/Sayin', this is my message to you-ou-ou

It was the “you-ou-ouing” that finally roused me out of dreamland.

I jolted up. The sun was out.

And there stood Edwin, on the other side of the wax myrtles, in a clearing by a golf-cart path, an iPod plugged into his ears, singing his fool head off.

He was getting into it, too. Eyes closed. Hitting the high notes. Facing the east and waving his hands. Like he was conducting a sunrise reggae symphony.

I moved, trying to get deeper into the underbrush, so he wouldn't see me. It was the moving that caught his eye.

He jumped. I jumped.

He said something like, “Ou, ou, ou…”

I said, “Edwin, easy now.”

He kept backing off, looking like he might run. Couldn't blame him. Me showing up outta nowhere, on this little island where no one ever showed up unless everyone knew about it.

I stood up.

“Edwin, be cool.”

He recognized me. Still scared as hell. But he recognized me.

He pulled out the earbuds.

“What you doing here?”

“Just keeping an eye on things.”

Edwin thought about it.

“Something wrong?”

So I sat him down and told him everything he needed to know. When I was done we sat around and he thought about it some more.

Then he looked at me.

“You hungry?”

Edwin brought me johnnycakes wrapped in aluminum foil, still warm from the kitchen. There was a pork chop in there, too.

I sat in my hidey-hole, Edwin watching me gobble down food.

“You put the fright in me,” he said.

“Sorry. Wasn't expecting anyone to come out this way.”

“I come out here most every morning,” Edwin said. “It's my singing spot.”

“Your singing spot?”

“Yeah, it's a good spot. Look out that way you see the bay. Other way, you see the ocean. I come here, punch up a playlist on my iPod, put in my buds, and I sing.” He tapped his shirt, where the iPod was. “Got 2,763 songs right here in my pocket.”

“Whole lot of singing.”

“Got everything by Buju and Tosh. Got all the Marleys—Bob and all his sons, got Ziggy and Damian and Stephen and Julian.”

“Got Ky-Mani?”

“Yeah, I got him, but he goes a little too hip-hop. I like it roots, you know?”

“What about Rohan? You got him, too?”

“Rohan don't sing. You think he would. Married Lauryn Hill, had some kids. But mostly, Rohan he's all about the clothes. Runs that Tuff Gong line. Doing pretty good at that.”

“I met him once.”

“Oh yeah? How's that?”

“He used to play football. University of Miami. Then up in Canada for Ottawa.”

“Don't follow much football.”

“Yeah, well…”

Edwin looked at me.

“How you think I sound? You can tell the truth.”

“You sound like something out of a dream,” I said.

Edwin grinned.

“Yeah, I save up some money, I'm going to Miami and cut a CD. I already got my singing name, the one that'll be on the CD. You want to hear it?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Ex-Man Eddie. The Ex part that's for Exuma. And Eddie that's me. Edwin White. Ex-Man Eddie. You like that?”

“It's a good singing name,” I said.

“Sounds kinda hip-hop, but that's what'll fool 'em. They expecting something raw, maybe dancehall, or reggaeton even, and I give them some smooth old sounds. You know who I like best, who I model myself after?”

“Who's that?”

“Alpha Blondy. You know Alpha Blondy?”

“He's African, right? African reggae.”

Edwin looked surprised.

“You know some stuff. Old guy like you. Took you for some Parrot-head, but you know it.”

“My wife,” I said. “She knows it better than me. I just get it by osmosis.”

“Alpha Blondy. Comes from Ivory Coast. Sings in French, sings in English. Sings in Arabic and even Hebrew. He got da real Jah love, mon. Singing for all the world.”

I finished gnawing all the meat from the pork chop and wrapped up the bone inside the aluminum foil. Edwin took it from me.

“I told Daddy Curtis and Momma Rose you were out here.”

“And?”

“And they said if that girl's up to something then it's a good thing you didn't leave.”

“You think she's up to something?”

Edwin shrugged.

“Hard to say. You first see her you think she's all sweetness because she's got that smile and she looks fine and she says the right things. Then you study her and you watch her eyes and you see something else. Something cold inside.” He shuddered. “She was up late again last night, going through Mr. Mickey's office, wandering the house. Momma Rose caught her at it, only this time she said something. Told her she shouldn't oughta be going around doing that. The girl, she lashed out at Momma Rose. Told her if she didn't watch herself wouldn't none of us have a job.”

“Your grandmother should say something to Mickey about it. He needs to know.”

Edwin shook his head.

“Says it's not her place. She sees the way Mr. Mickey looks at that young woman, seeing his own flesh and his own blood. No good would come of anything she might say.”

Edwin said he had work to do, but he would come back around lunchtime and bring me something else to eat.

I told him I was hoping I wouldn't be sitting there much longer.

With luck, Boggy and Charlie had made it up to Harbour Island the night before. Only a matter of time, they'd be back, bringing Lynfield Pederson with them. And together we'd blow the cover off what ever it was Torrey Kealing was trying to pull.

The sun moved high and burned away the clouds. Shade became an elusive thing. The breeze punched the time clock and knocked off early. Heat settled in like the overnight guest who wouldn't go away, drank all your liquor, and expected three meals a day.

And so I passed the morning and no one came.

I kept watching the sky for a red seaplane, coming in low from the north. But all I saw were frigate birds circling on thermals and big silvery jets flying high and heading for the mainland.

The only boats moved well to the west, traveling the main channel south to George Town or north to wherever. All kinds of boats. Big boats, small boats. Some moving fast and some moving slow. The wake from the big ones would sometimes make it all the way to the island, reduced by distance and rippling against the beach below—tiny, perfect waves against the white, unblemished sand.

Edwin returned at lunchtime with a paper plate covered in foil—baked chicken, peas 'n' rice, some sheetcake for dessert. I took a few bites, then stuck it aside, wrapped it up in the towel so ants wouldn't get at it.  The day too hot for eating food. Even by my broad standards.

Edwin had brought along some ice water in a jug so I satisfied myself with that. I drank it too fast and felt my temples pound.

“What's going on at the house?”

“Just this and that. Mostly nothing,” Edwin said. “Mr. Mickey he's in his office doing work. The girl, she only just now got up. Momma Rose tried to feed her something, but the girl she said she wasn't hungry. Said she's going to go sit on the beach. I'm supposed to go down and rake it clean and put her out a chair.”

“Anyone call on the radio?”

Edwin shook his head.

“Just the usual chatter. Boats talking to other boats. People passing time.”

Edwin left and I moved to a spot a few feet away, where there was more shade under a gumbo limbo and I had a clearer view of the beach.

Where were Boggy and Charlie? They should have returned long before now. Either bringing Lynfield Pederson with them, or him coming along on his own, maybe bringing some of his people with him if he thought it necessary.

How would Pederson do it? Sit Torrey Kealing down and have a talk with her. Just the two of them, Pederson coming off like this big, black Bahamian cop with sleepy eyes and a slow way, letting Kealing work herself deeper and deeper into a hole thinking she could talk her way past him.

I would sit down with Mickey, try to mend fences. He wouldn't like it, how I'd gone behind his back. But he'd come around, he'd understand. Especially when Kealing's story started falling apart. Mickey would take it hard. It would tear him up and set him back. All of it made worse knowing that his daughter was still out there somewhere.

Had Torrey Kealing, this pretty impostor on the play, bossing the hired help like she already owned the place, had she killed Jen, she and whoever was working it with her? Killed Delgado, too? Torched the Dailey brothers' boatyard? Put Karen Breakell in a coma? Scorching and burning their way down the islands.

It would all come out.

But where was everyone? What was taking so long?

I looked down toward the beach, saw Edwin with a rake, making small piles of the wrack that had come ashore, gathering the piles in a wheel-barrow and carting it away. He came back with a beach umbrella, blue canvas with a white flower print, and planted it in the sand. Came back again dragging two lounge chairs, put them on either side of the umbrella. One for Kealing and one for Mickey, he felt like coming down and joining her maybe.

Half an hour passed. I took off my shirt, drenched it with ice water from the jug, and draped it around my neck. It worked for about five minutes. Then I was sweating again.

Torrey Kealing appeared on the beach. Same blue bikini as the day before, same big straw bag. She put the bag down on a chair and pulled out her cell phone. She looked at its screen. Then she tossed it into the bag.

She walked to the edge of the water and touched a toe to it, testing. She walked out about shin deep and waded along the shoreline. She kept looking out at the main channel as she waded, all the way to the dock, then turning around and wading back the other way and stretching out in the lounge chair.

She was fidgety. Getting out her cell phone and looking at it again. As if a signal would just magically appear. She dug holes in the sand with her feet. Then she got up and waded into the water, going deeper this time, swimming a few strokes, then just sitting low in the water so all I could see was her head.

She got out and shook her hair and gathered it into a long ponytail and wrung it dry. She walked to the other end of the beach, away from the dock, to where the beach ended and the mangroves began, about a quarter mile, directly below the spot in the shade where I sat watching her.

She stood there, looking out at the main channel. Then she shaded her eyes as if she saw something, waded out a little farther.

I picked up the binoculars and trained them on the channel. I saw a boat veering from the marker, heading our way.