The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  I point to it. “That’s my mother. She lived with an artist in Paris and posed for him before Father found her. Father only told me about it just before he died. He said, after she became his bride, he brought her back to the city and bought her whatever she wished, including all the paintings she wanted. She insisted that, no matter the cost, he had to buy this one.”

  “And you, Peter,” Elizabeth says, her voice turning coquettish as she goes from picture to picture, “can you afford to buy your bride whatever she wants?”

  “You’ll see,” I say.

  By the time we walk down the spiral staircase to the bottom floor, Elizabeth’s pace has slowed, her lips have settled into a partial smile, a show of polite, if indifferent approval. She gives the cells we pass only a cursory glance and hesitates when I enter the smallest one. “Peter, I’ve seen cells before. . . .”

  Her eyes widen when I pull the cot up and the passageway opens.

  “Where are we going?” she asks as we descend into the darkness.

  I say nothing, avoid turning on the lights at the bottom until the treasure room’s open. Elizabeth allows me to guide her into the small cold room, and I stand behind her and flick the switch once she’s in place.

  “Oh my,” she says, her hands to her face, her emerald-green eyes wide as she glances from chest to chest. “My father would do anything for this.”

  “As I promised—he’ll have some of the gold.”

  She picks up a handful of jewelry, holds it to the light, then turns to me. “We don’t have to be too generous, do we, Peter?”

  Outside, to my surprise, the garden thrills her even more than the treasure room. “Dragon’s Tear,” she says, examining the plants, pulling weeds as she looks. “Death’s Rose. Angel Wort. Why didn’t you tell me you had all of these?”

  I shrug. “It was my mother’s garden. Father and I mostly ignored it.”

  Elizabeth puts her hands on her hips. “With all this and the seeds that Mum gave me, we’ll have a proper garden in no time. There’s already enough Dragon’s Tear here for a good few quarts of wine. I’ll have some made within a few weeks.”

  “And then?” I ask.

  She gives me a sly grin. “And then I’ll teach you a few things.”

  I don’t even think of the Santos file until late in the day, after we’ve returned Jeremy Tindall’s boat and cruised home in my Grady White.

  Tired and weary of maintaining her human form, Elizabeth insists on reverting to her natural shape before she takes a nap. “I don’t know why you like the human form so much,” she says after she changes. “I always feel better like this.”

  “And I’m used to the other.”

  She helps me make a bed of hay for her on the far side of my room, lies down and motions for me to join her. I take in the soft green hue of her scales, the gentle curve of her tail, her delicate beige underbody and almost accept her invitation. But I refuse to revert to the thoughtless pattern of life that I’ve lived the last few weeks. After dark, there will be more than enough time for me to take my bride for her first hunt in the waters near my homeland, ample opportunity to let her taste fresh meat once more. For now I have other things I must do. Setting foot on my island, wandering the halls of my home has reminded me of my responsibilities.

  “You’re powerful enough to do what you want and take whatever you wish in your life,” Father taught me. “But so what? We live to build a future and only die when we haveno future left. Each of us has to find something more—a reason to our lives. In the end, the best of it is always about our families.”

  I lean over and kiss her scaled left cheek—running my hand over her underbody as she adjusts herself, thinking of the child growing within her, feeling the need to protect each of them. “I’ll wake you later,” I say, then leave the room and climb the spiral staircase to the third floor where Jorge Santos’s file remains unread on the oak table in the great room.

  Picking up the manila folder, I carry it over toward the windows facing the bay. I glance out at the water—squinting at the last rays the late-afternoon sun gives off as it rides lower in the sky, preparing to set over the mainland. I notice a large, white, cigarette-style speedboat floating just a few hundred yards off my island’s shore.

  I wonder why it’s stopped. . . .

  The impact spins me away from the window. Falling, the manila folder flying from my hand, I finally hear the crack of the rifle, the splintering of the middle window’s glass, followed by the throaty roar of the speedboat’s engines as they come to life, the drone they make as the boat races away. Pain sears through me and, “DAMN!” I yell, realizing a bullet has torn through my chest, just above the right corner of my heart, ripping flesh, muscle, ligaments—shattering a small part of my right shoulder blade.

  “Peter?” Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  “I’ve been shot.” I breathe deep, turn my mind inward, concentrate on narrowing blood vessels, slowing my heart, limiting blood loss.

  Roaring, my dragoness bursts into the room, rushes to the shattered window. “Was it a boat? A white one?”

  I grimace. “Later,” I say. “Help me move away from all the damned glass.”

  “But I still can see them!”

  “That boat can do at least sixty miles an hour. You’ll never catch it.”

  “I might.”

  “And then you’ll be seen and then we’ll both be dead. Help me!”

  After Elizabeth carries me to the oak table and lays me on it, she changes to her human shape. She picks glass shards from my hair, my clothes, my skin, while I go through the process of healing, guiding my cells to rebuild, working the bullet to the surface where Elizabeth can pluck it out.

  The sun has set by the time I’m able to sit up—the room dark, my bride sitting near me. “Who did it?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Who knows we’ve returned?” I say, getting up, walking to the wall switch, flicking on the lights.

  “Arturo does,” Elizabeth says.

  “And Emily and Jeremy and anyone else any of them told, including our friend, Mr. Santos.” I take a broom from the cupboard and begin sweeping up the glass fragments.

  Elizabeth gets up to help and I motion her back. “You’ll cut your feet,” I say, reminding her of her now-human vulnerability.

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “Not much right now. I’ll call Arturo, have him run a check on white speedboats, but there are probably hundreds of them, like the one they used, within cruising distance. If he’s the one, or Jeremy, my call will at least alert them to the fact that I’m not so easily eliminated. After that, I guess the main plan is to avoid standing near windows whenever boats are near . . . until someone shows their hand and we can get things resolved.”

  Elizabeth frowns. “You named four humans. If each of them were dead—I doubt we’d have to worry about any windows. . . .”

  I shake my head. “My father said, ‘Know your enemies before you try to destroy them.’ I won’t kill people who are useful to me without knowing they acted against me.”

  “But Santos? He’s nothing but a bother. . . .”

  Tired of Elizabeth’s questions, furious that someone would have the nerve to attack me in my home, I glare at my bride, spit my words at her. “But I don’t know enough yet.” Elizabeth grimaces and looks away.

  “Damn it, Elizabeth! What good will it do us to kill the wrong people? I promise you, whoever caused this will die. We will find who it was.” I sit and upend the envelope. A handful of newspaper photograph clippings flutter out, followed by a few sheets of paper stapled together.

  I study each picture, then pass them to Elizabeth.

  The first shows a woman holding the hands of a young boy and a younger girl as they attend a funeral. In the next, Jorge Santos, no older than eighteen, is pictured handcuffed, being guided into a squad car by two policemen. Santos is pictured alone in the third, older this time, grinning, standing in front of his Hobie Cat accepting a trophy. In th
e fourth, a group of men pose, dressed like Civil War soldiers with Santos brandishing an antique rifle in their midst. And the last presents a different image, another gathering, but everyone dressed this time in eighteenth-century military garb, Santos lighting the touch hole, firing a cannon in front of an old fort.

  I’ve no doubt the children in the first clipping are Maria and Jorge. Even the old black-and-white picture shows their shared resemblance, especially around their eyes and mouths. The woman, their mother I assume, has the same features. She and the boy look in pain. The little girl seems merely confused. I shake my head and sigh, no longer quite so angry, realizing the further anguish I’ve brought them all.

  I turn my attention to the report. Typed double-spaced on plain paper it bears no letterhead, no salutation, no indication for whom it’s intended or who has created it. Not that I would expect Arturo Gomez or Jeremy Tindall to want those things. I pass each page on to Elizabeth after I finish it.

  CONFIDENTIAL REPORT

  SUBJECT—JORGE SANTOS

  TYPE: COMPLETE

  DATE: 7/15/98

  Full Name: Jorge Miguel Lario Santos

  Address: 1213 Drexel Avenue, Apt. 13B, Miami Beach 32128

  Phone: (305) 555-7312 Fax: NA E-mail: NA

  Age: 27 Height: 5’10” Weight: 165 lbs. Eyes: Brn Hair: Blk

  Birthdate: 11/16/71 Race/Heritage: Cuban

  Education: Coral Gables High School (graduated 1988)

  Miami Dade Community College (one year)

  Occupation: Bartender

  Employer: Joe’s Stone Crabs (1993–present)

  Military Service: None

  Family: Father, Emilio (killed 1978 in raid on Cuba)

  Mother, Hortensia (never remarried)

  Sister, Maria (reported missing in March of ’98)

  Relationship(s): Casey Morton (eight months)

  Organizations: Hobie Fleet 36, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Tucker’s Brigade

  Hobbies/Interests: Sailing (Hobie Catamarans), Black powder shooting, Reenactor (Volunteer cannoneer at Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine)

  Note: This report was compiled through both document searches and personal interviews. While we are relatively sure of the precision of our findings, due to the short period of time we had to accumulate the information and the understandable secrecy we had to maintain during the investigation, we can’t guarantee all of our conclusions to be 100% accurate.

  History: Jorge Santos, the son of Cuban exiles, was born and raised in Miami. When he was 7, his father, Emilio, died while participating (it’s unclear whether he was killed in action or captured and executed) in an exile raid on Cuba. His mother, Hortensia, subsequently raised Jorge and his sister, Maria, by herself, supporting the family by working as a bookkeeper at Joe’s Stone Crab restaurant on Miami Beach (where she is still employed).

  Santos was an unremarkable student, graduating in the middle of his class without earning any special recognition or getting into anything more than normal adolescent trouble. People who knew him at the time report his only memorable trait was his outstanding devotion to his mother and his sister (possibly brought on by the early loss of his father).

  In college (Miami Dade Community College) he discovered drugs and was arrested on campus for possession of marijuana (which he was smoking at the time of his arrest). Ejected from college (he would have failed anyway), let off with a warning by the judge, Santos spent the next two years living at home, going from job to job from party to party, graduating from pot to cocaine, barbiturates and Quaaludes.

  Finally, confronted by both his sister and his mother, Santos agreed to clean up his act. He began to attend Narcotics Anonymous and looked for steady work. His mother, acting on his behalf, arranged for a job at Joe’s, one of the premier restaurants in South Florida. Ironically, they trained him as a bartender.

  Making good money for the first time in his life, Santos moved into his own apartment on Miami Beach. (According to his 1987 tax return he declared an income in excess of $38,000 for the year. He probably made much more than that in undeclared tips—all of this income earned in only 7 months, since Joe’s traditionally closes their doors from mid-May until mid-October.)

  Because of the long vacations each year, he was able to actively pursue his other interests. Santos bought his own sailboat (a 16-foot Hobie catamaran) and sailed and raced it, winning his class in the Miami to Key Largo race three years in a row. He also joined Tucker’s Brigade, a group of men who like to dress up in period garb and reenact historical battles, where he learned how to load and shoot replicas of antique, black-powder rifles and pistols.

  His interest in reenactments eventually led him to St. Augustine where he became enamored with the big guns at the old Spanish fortress of Castillo de San Marcos. Volunteering to become one of the cannoneers, he spent each summer (from June through August, from 1994 to 1997) in St. Augustine.

  Possibly because of the irregular lifestyle his work required, he developed an alcohol problem, entering AA in 1995 and subsequently suffering periodic lapses (the most recent a two-week binge in March of this year). Only his mother’s relationship with the owners of Joe’s and the tragic disappearance of his sister prevented his dismissal on this last occasion.

  He met his current girlfriend, Casey Morton (age 26, a graduate of University of Miami and a staff writer for the business section of the Miami Herald) at an AA meeting in December. Because Morton’s an Anglo and a recovering alcoholic, Santos’s mother disapproves of the relationship, which has been tumultuous at best.

  The disappearance of Santos’s sister, Maria, seems to have sobered Santos and drawn Morton and him closer. It also seems to have given his life a focus for the first time. Since his mother called him looking for her daughter, Santos has devoted all of his leisure time to looking for her or, as he loudly says he suspects, her killer. In this pursuit, Morton has been invaluable, both by using the Herald’s archives, using her own contacts at the newspaper and her coworkers’ contacts with the police to further their investigation.

  Santos personally found Maria’s car in the parking lot at the Dinner Key docks and has subsequently interviewed every wino and derelict who may have been in the vicinity that night, as well as every apartment owner or hotel guest whose windows overlooked the area.

  Two winos, Sam Pratt and Harry Watkins, have told him (and subsequently told the police) that late that night they saw a tall, blond man meet a young woman on the docks and take her away in a wooden speedboat. Watkins described it as a classic, like the one they used in the Fonda movie, On Golden Pond.

  (Both men decided, after our operatives interviewed them, that they would be better off leaving town.)

  Santos and Morton have visited every marina and dock in South Florida looking for such boats. They’ve found none whose owners might have been involved with Maria’s disappearance.

  That is not to say that Santos and Morton have no suspects. Shortly after Maria’s disappearance, Santos asked the police to take a close look at Peter DelaSangre. He informed them that his sister had expressed a romantic interest in Mr. DelaSangre and that DelaSangre met the description given by Watkins and Pratt. Adding to that the knowledge (thanks to Miss Morton) that Mr. DelaSangre lived on an island and, therefore, would have to use boats for transportation, Santos insisted he was the most logical suspect.

  Due to Mr. DelaSangre’s standing in the community (not to mention his political clout), the police refused to target him without any further evidence. Likewise the Herald and all the other media refused to carry any stories about the police’s refusal to investigate him. Furthermore, Herald management has assured us that Miss Morton has been cautioned to cease using newspaper assets to help further their quest.

  The lack of support has done little to dampen Santos’s zeal to bring his sister’s abductor to justice. He’s been very open in expressing his doubts that the system will do anything to support him. His intent is to administer justice himself.


  Toward this end, at a gun show in April, both he and Morton took and passed a concealed weapons course and applied for concealed weapon permits. Records show they purchased a nine millimeter Glock semiautomatic pistol, a two-shot forty-five caliber Remington derringer and a thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver.

  Sources, who’ve observed them practicing at Tamiami Gun Shop’s indoor target range, report that Santos wears the Glock on an ankle holster on his right leg and the Remington on an ankle holster on his left leg. Miss Morton carries her S&W in her purse. Both are passably decent shots.

  Peter DelaSangre has become something of a fixation for both of them, Miss Morton gathering information on him from any source she can (unearthing, by the way, DelaSangre’s connection with LaMar Associates) and Santos calling LaMar Associates on a daily basis thereafter, seeking an interview with Mr. DelaSangre. Santos also has made attempts to spy on Blood Key, Mr. DelaSangre’s island.

  After we received complaints that an ultralight seaplane buzzed the island four days in a row, we investigated and found that Santos had paid Tony Ribini, of Tony’s Seaplanes on the Rickenbacker Causeway, to overfly the island with him onboard as passenger. Ribini said Santos had expressed disappointment that overhanging trees had prevented him from seeing the entire harbor. Mr. Ribini also agreed (after conversation with our operatives) it would be unwise, should he be asked again, for him to participate in any more such intrusive overflights.

  We would caution Mr. DelaSangre that these people represent to him, at minimum, a threat of serious annoyance (including possible legal harassment) and, at worst, a threat of major, possibly deadly, harm. If he continues to insist on meeting with them, he should be advised to take utmost care (up to, and including armed bodyguards) in his dealings with them.

  After I finish, I put down the report and pick up the clippings again. It’s hard for me to see much danger in Santos’s face. I see too much of Maria in him. I shake my head and grin. The man has passion. I respect that. Maria deserves nothing less.