The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  He grins. “Sure, Boss. You want to make sure I didn’t slip any ground glass into it, huh?” Santos takes the fork, stabs a piece of meat and chews on it as he serves Casey. “Eat,” he tells her. “The man wants to see that it won’t kills us.”

  He spears another piece, chews on it. “That enough, Boss? You feel safe now?”

  I nod, look away as he serves me and wait for him to sit down before I taste the dish.

  “Come on,” he says after he sits. “It’s only food. Give it a try.”

  The aroma almost overwhelms me. I harpoon a small piece of meat with my fork and nibble on it. Even in such small quantity, the flavor explodes in my mouth. “Delicious,” I say, stab another piece and wolf it down. I consume bite after bite, Jorge smiling as I eat—and I wonder why I’ve never tried anything but plain meat and fish my entire life.

  Santos cautions me. “Take it easy, Boss. It’s spicier than you think.” But I don’t stop until just sauce remains on my plate. Only then do I feel the heat that’s building inside my mouth, my throat, my stomach. I grab my glass, drain the water in one sustained gulp then, momentarily speechless, motion for more.

  Casey and Santos both guffaw at my antics, even as they run to the kitchen. Elizabeth rolls her eyes. I gasp and wait. Thankfully, the Cuban and the woman soon return, each carrying a large flagon of water. I grab one from Casey, drain it at once. When I grab the other, a look passes between the two of them and I pause before I drink it down. But the heat begins to return and I dismiss my suspicions and gulp down that water too.

  “I told you to take it easy,” Santos says.

  “True.” I nod. “You did.”

  “Next time you’ll know how to pace it out.”

  “If there is a next time,” I say.

  “Come on, Boss. You liked it. You know it was good.”

  Now that the heat has subsided, the aftertaste seems to penetrate every tastebud I have. “It was good,” I admit.

  “And you’d like me to make it for you again. Wouldn’t you, Boss?”

  I smile and nod.

  The winter wind, surprisingly gentle this year, blows in small huffs against the windows. The hearth remains cold, the evening too warm for a fire. Momentarily full, relaxed, I stay in my seat and watch while Casey clears the table and Jorge sets up the chess board. Elizabeth rises, kisses me and goes downstairs to nap.

  Later, I know, after the humans are locked in their cells, my hunger will return. Elizabeth and I will take to the sky to hunt and to feast on fresh meat and warm blood. But for now I’m content. Casey turns on the television, settles down near us to watch a game show. Jorge chooses the white pieces, as he does each evening. Opens with his queen’s knight to the queen’s rook’s right.

  I smile. The move never works for him. The man opens aggressively then invariably turns timid, playing a defensive game, predictive and routine. Checkmate is already in my sight. In truth, I beat him each night. I wonder why he never loses heart.

  25

  February passes, then March, with Elizabeth growing larger and more moody each day. By the beginning of April, she refuses to change into her human shape at all. “It’s too uncomfortable,” she tells me, lying in her bed of hay. “When I take that form, my back hurts, my bladder feels as if its going to burst.” She pats the scales on her swollen midriff. “At least in my natural state, there’s more than enough room for our son.”

  I see no reason to argue with her or to try to bring her out of our room. Whatever oversight Casey requires, I can give. She knows well enough by now how to tend the garden. Because of the help Santos and his woman provide, I have more than enough time to maintain our bedchamber and to tend to Elizabeth’s needs—bringing her food from the kitchen, changing her hay.

  It shames me to admit neither I nor the humans miss her presence very much. Santos cajoles me into buying rods and reels and we begin to set aside a little time each day for fishing in the harbor.

  “My father used to take me fishing with him,” Jorge says. “I was still little when he died. He used to swap rods, give me his when a fish took his hook. He always made a big deal saying he couldn’t reel them in like I could. Sometimes at the end of the day, he’d build a fire for us and we’d cook our catch and eat it before we went home. Then, when we got home, we’d pretend at first to my mom, that we hadn’t caught anything. I always giggled and gave it away.” The Cuban shrugs. “Every time I fish, I think of him.”

  I nod, and think about my father. It surprises me to realize he did much the same thing. “When I was little, mine used to take me hunting. He would pretend he didn’t see the prey, let me take it down first. Or sometimes he would make believe he needed my help, call on me to finish the kill. . . . My proudest day was the first time he sent me out alone, knowing he trusted me.”

  Santos asks, “What did you hunt?”

  “Just game,” I answer.

  I begin to delay returning the humans to their cells at night so they can join me when I watch movies or other shows on the TV. Even when they don’t like the broadcasts, they’re never as indifferent as Elizabeth can be. I find that their company somehow enhances my enjoyment.

  One night when there’s nothing we want to watch, Santos suggests we play music. “Not that classical stuff,” he says, turning on the FM radio, finding a Cuban station, dancing with Morton. When he sees me watching them, tapping my foot in time to the beat, he motions for me to join them, teaches me the steps. To my surprise, Casey allows me to take turns dancing with her, even joining in with Jorge and me when we laugh.

  Except for going for food and other necessary supplies, I stay on the island. I tell myself, I don’t want to have to lock Santos and Morton in the cells any more than needed. But I know the truth. I’ve never felt less lonely in my entire life.

  Arturo calls a few days later, and asks, “Peter, is everything okay? You hardly ever come in anymore. Jeremy keeps asking when you’re coming to shore. He complains he can never plan when to see you.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I say. “I just don’t see much reason to leave the island these days.”

  “We need you here. There are decisions that need to be made.”

  “You can always call me.”

  “Peter, it’s not the same. You know that. Jeremy’s already made comments that, since we never resolved the attacks on you, you may be scared to come to the mainland.”

  I laugh. “Jeremy wishes I would be scared.”

  “Yes, he does,” Arturo says. “I’m worried, with you gone so much, that he may try something again.”

  “Have your people watch him.”

  “They already are.”

  I shrug. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

  Arturo calls again the next day. “You can start worrying now.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “My California friends inform me, your Chinese buddy is back in the country. They say he may be on the way to Florida.”

  “Can’t they take care of him?”

  “They don’t know where he is.”

  I sigh. Life has been too pleasant for me to allow it to be roiled by threats. “Well, let me know when there’s something to be done.”

  “Peter, there’s more—”

  “Damn it, Arturo, what?”

  “My sources came up with a name, Xian Lo Chen. On a hunch I went back and read the newspaper reports on the fire. One of the people burned to death was listed as a Benny Chen, an executive with a Mainland Chinese fan factory. I think Xian Lo may be a pissed-off relative.”

  I shake my head. “Arturo, I want you to take care of this for me. I don’t want to have to deal with some crazy Chinese bastard right now.”

  “What the hell’s come over you? This isn’t how you usually handle things.”

  I sigh. “And you usually take care of what I want. If you need me to hold your hand so badly, I’ll come in next week.”

  “That would be good,” Arturo says. “I’ll let Jeremy know we’re havi
ng a meeting.”

  “Do what you think is best. Just get rid of Chen for me.”

  I hang up, irritated that I let Arturo pester me into leaving the island. I wonder how he would react if he knew what my life has become. I smile at the thought. He’d be shocked to find who I spend my days with—and so much of my nights.

  My preoccupation with Santos and his woman still concerns Elizabeth. “I shouldn’t care. They’re going to die soon enough,” she says. “But you need to harden your heart to them. I’ve seen Chloe weep for days when Pa killed one of the servants. I don’t want your humans’ deaths to hurt you so.”

  The thought of their imminent demise weighs on me. I hate that the joy of my son’s birth will bring on the sadness of their deaths. I turn inward, try to find a solution which can leave me happy. None presents itself.

  I wake early the next Friday morning to a day without a cloud in the sky, without a ripple on the ocean. Rushing outside to the veranda, I luxuriate in the sun’s mild warmth, glance from ocean, to bay, to sky—take in the shades of blue, the streaks of green, the almost-purple of the deep water offshore. I breathe in deep, savoring all the varied, salt-tinged smells carried by the morning breeze. Then I remember my promise to Arturo and groan.

  The day is too splendid to waste inside an office. Arturo and Jeremy will have to understand. I have better things to do than to spend the day in their company. I’d rather sit outdoors and talk with Santos. Certainly, I think, he won’t object, if I tell him to forget his chores and join me for a day of fishing in our harbor.

  I call the office. Emily answers. “Oh, Mr. DelaSangre,” she says when I ask for Arturo. “You know Mr. Gomez doesn’t come in this early. Mr. Tindall’s here, of course. He’s in a meeting but if you want him, I’m sure he’ll come out.”

  “Not necessary,” I say. “Just tell them something came up. I can’t make it today. Tell them I’ll call next week.”

  “Too bad, sir, we were all looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Another time.”

  “Mr. DelaSangre . . . before you get off, I think you’d like to know a letter came for you yesterday. It’s marked personal and confidential. I thought it might be important. . . .”

  I shake my head. “I doubt it. It’s probably a sales pitch. Open it, read it to me.”

  “If you think it’s okay, sir,” Emily says. “Just one second.”

  I wait, listen to the rustle of paper, the opening of a drawer. Picture her getting her letter opener, sliding it into the flap.

  She mutters, almost to herself, “No return address. Postmarked from Malibu . . .”

  California! I think. Before I can say, “Stop!” I hear the rip of paper. A blast sears across the phone line, half deafening my ear. Only silence follows. “Emily!” I yell into the dead phone. “Emily!”

  Nothing.

  “No. . . No,” I mutter, dialing the office. The phone rings. No one picks up. I call Jeremy’s private line. That too goes unanswered.

  I dial Arturo’s cell phone, try him on and off for fifteen minutes before he finally picks up. “I was talking to Jeremy. He called me on his cell phone. All the regular lines are out at the office. We have a problem,” he says. I’ve rarely heard his voice so somber.

  “I know, I was on the phone with Emily.”

  “Oh, Peter, sometimes things are really shitty.”

  “Emily?” I ask.

  “She’s dead, Peter. Jeremy says it was one hell of a letter bomb.”

  “Damn it, Arturo, all she was doing was opening a letter for me. She’s no part of what you or I do. . . .”

  He sighs. “If it wasn’t her, it could have been you or one of us. These people seem very determined.”

  I think of the couple locked in the cells beneath my house. “At least we know it isn’t Santos.”

  “You might wish it were. This Chen character seems to have a good idea of your comings and goings. That letter was timed to arrive just before our meeting.”

  “If Chen is the one.”

  “Whoever it is seems to know a hell of a lot about you. Peter, Jeremy says maybe we were wrong to push you to come to shore. I think he’s right. I think you’d be better off staying on your island until we get all this resolved. You call me with what you’ll need. I’ll bring it out to you.”

  26

  What does a hunter do when he’s hunted? How does an attacker cope with being attacked? Every fiber of my being now cries out for me to take action, to take revenge, to strike and slash and kill. I no longer want to stay put on my island while others solve my problems.

  I call Arturo each morning, but Chen remains a ghost, a rumor, a name with no details, no history. One day he’s reported in Chicago; the next, he’s seen in New York.

  “My friends say he’s unreachable, deep in Chinatown,” Arturo says, after a week’s gone by. “The Chinese gangs are very protective of him. We’ll have to wait until he shows himself down here. If he does.”

  Elizabeth wants me to travel north and take care of it myself. As much as the idea tempts me, I reject it.

  “Father said more have died from action without thought than from sensible defense,” I tell her. “He always lectured me, ‘Know your enemy before you attack.’ I don’t know anything about this man or his friends. Until I do, I’ll wait for him here. No matter how much I’d rather be out hunting for him.”

  Arturo agrees, encourages me to turn my attention to my island, my home. Jeremy calls, saying, “Don’t worry, Peter. We’ll handle things here. Arturo will take care of your problem. Just relax and enjoy.”

  I frown. “I want that man dead,” I say. “I want to know where Chen is—where he’s going.”

  “Trust us, Peter,” Jeremy says. “Arturo and I will handle everything. Let us do the worrying. You just stay put, take care of yourself.”

  Jeremy is hardly ever solicitous of my needs. I find I prefer his normal surly self. “What makes you so nice all of a sudden?” I ask.

  Tindall barks a short, harsh laugh. “I think we’re all safer when you stay away, Peter. You know how close to Emily’s desk my office is? When that letter bomb went off, I thought I was dead meat. Hell, my ears are still ringing from that damn bomb blast. The truth is, Peter—the next time someone tries to kill you, I don’t want to be anywhere near you. As long as this bastard is out there, let us watch your back for you. Stay on your damn island, enjoy yourself—please.”

  I laugh and hang up. No matter Jeremy’s reasons, the advice is good, I think. Father chose this island and built this house to be able to withstand any attack. I can’t think of any place on the mainland where Elizabeth and I would be as safe.

  Resolving to follow Jeremy’s advice, I decide to live as normal a life as possible while I wait for the mysterious Mr. Chen to show his hand. Certainly I won’t pass any window or go outside without examining the water for suspicious boats. And I’ll pay more attention to the barks and growls of the dog pack, listen for any sign that intruders may have tried to land on the island’s shore. But Elizabeth and I will still hunt each night and I’ll still tend to my chores each day.

  My cell phone rings a few weeks later, while Jorge and I are in the midst of servicing the Grady White’s Yamaha engines. I put down my wrench and answer it.

  “Peter? I’ve got good news,” Arturo says.

  “Chen’s dead?” I ask.

  “No, not yet. But he is on the move. My people managed to find out he was flying down here yesterday. They missed him at Miami International by only a few minutes. Our sources say he’s hiding somewhere in South Miami now. It’s just a matter of time before we locate him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive,” Arturo says. “I have the surveillance films from the airport. Only one Asian got off that flight. Two others met him at the baggage claim. We know what all of them look like. I gave their pictures to our people and to our friends at Metro Dade police. The cops have a bulletin out on all of them. If any of them goes anywhere, d
oes anything, either the police or one of our people should spot him.”

  “Good,” I say, grinning, relieved that something’s finally being done. “Call me when you know anything further.”

  I hang up and turn to Santos.

  He stops lubricating one of the outboard’s prop shafts, stares at me, grease streaked on his face, and studies my expression. “Good news?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “If I were a drinking man I’d break out a bottle.”

  “So what do you do to celebrate?”

  Turning my head toward the veranda, I stare at the cannon pointed seaward and remember my late-night celebration a few days before I left to find my bride. “Jorge,” I say, “it occurs to me, we’ve never fired the cannon like I promised.”

  “No, Boss, we never have.” He resumes greasing the shaft.

  “It occurs to me that we should.”

  “Sounds good to me.” He pauses, then says, “Why don’t we do it late tomorrow afternoon? Afterward, I’ll make Carne’ Diablo for you again.”

  I wonder why he’s being so thoughtful. Still the man cooks food for me all the time. It’s not so unusual a suggestion. So I smile and say, “Good idea.”

  * * *

  That night Elizabeth surprises me by inviting me to her bed after our hunt. “Gently,” she cautions me and we make love as lightly as two feathers rubbing together. Afterward, she sighs and pulls me close to her. Her stomach contorts as the child rolls and kicks within her.

  She smiles. “Your son wants to come out,” she says.

  “So soon?” I ask.

  “Silly, it’s less than two weeks until June. Your son could come any time after that.”

  So soon, I think, picturing the looks of terror on Casey’s and Jorge’s faces when they realize their fate.

  “Aren’t you happy?” Elizabeth asks.

  “Of course I am,” I say.

  “We’ll have the house to ourselves again. No more humans to bother you. Just me, you, and our son.” Elizabeth grins. “I can’t wait. I’ll get my old body back and we can begin to enjoy ourselves again.”