Dragon DelaSangre

by Alan F. Troop

  Fighting the languor that always comes after feeding, I fly home to gather up my father and carry him to his wife's side.

  The island has changed little since Father and I last visited it. Stones, grass and weeds, a few clumps of scrub brush and even fewer scrawny pine trees are all that break the monotony of its sandy existence.

  Clutching Father beneath me, I have to fly over the entire length and width of the island four times before I find the pile of stones we placed to mark Mother's grave. It's on the highest point of land—a wind-built dune on the northern quadrant of the island, barely twelve feet higher than the beach.

  I land there, gently place Father down and survey Mother's resting place. Grass and weeds have overgrown any sign that a grave had been dug there. Only the stones, carefully piled to mark the grave, remain as testimony to our grief.

  A few of them have fallen and I place them back, on top of the pile, and sit and try to remember my mother.

  Funny, I think, when I realize all my images of her are of her human shape. I try to remember her in her natural state… but nothing comes. Even when we found Mother on this island, she had changed her shape back to human before she died, bleeding and gasping in the sand.

  "She wanted to be human," Father told me. "She preferred to live in that form."

  I wish now she hadn't. Our people keep no paintings, no photographs of ourselves in our natural forms and I have nowhere to turn, to know exactly what one of our women looks like.

  Father had laughed at me when I told him of this worry.

  "Peter," he said. "Trust your blood. You'll recognize her as soon as you see her. And believe me"—he chuckled—"you'll know just what to do."

  I hope so. My sigh seems louder to me than the ocean sounds filling the island air. Mother had insisted on me being schooled with humans, just as she was, and what did it get me? I'm not even sure how to pursue one of my own women.

  I dig the grave without tools, using my strong rear legs and clawed feet to shovel the earth. Then I lay Father's carcass at the bottom of the hole and cover him with dirt. I say no words, sing no prayers. What is buried below is a deserted carcass, skin and bones.

  My father once ruled kingdoms. He defeated whole armies singlehandedly. For over a century he commanded a pirate fleet that terrorized the Caribbean. I shake my head at the disturbed soil I've pushed over him, the final resting place of Don Henri DelaSangre, and hope his spirit's gone elsewhere.

  Afterward I search for rocks and build a marker for him, just a little higher than my mother's. Then I sit at the foot of their graves, stare at the stone piles, the surrounding land and the restless sea beyond it. Far north, on the horizon, the sky glows faintly from the lights on Bimini Island. Otherwise, there's no sign of man anywhere in sight.

  A good thing, I decide. A good place for them both to be buried. Don Henri's last kingdom is perhaps his smallest, but his to rule over in perpetuity.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  With Father gone, I'm left with no company but the wind, the waves and the island's roving pack of dogs. I go days without eating, wandering from empty room to empty room. The solitude torments me, disrupts my sleep. Father said she wouldn't come to term again until July and I wonder if I can wait that long.

  Just to have voices and noises in the house I turn on the television in my room and let it play twenty-four hours a day. I do the same with the FM stereo radio in the great room on the third floor. But rather than allow it to comfort me, I ignore the cacophony and stare into the shadows for hours.

  I take to inspecting each room of the house each day, dusting furniture, refolding linens. When nothing's left to be done, I turn my attention to the closets, sobbing when I open the door to Father's and find his and Mother's musty and mildewed clothes. It takes days for me to carry all of it to the third floor and burn it in the open hearth.

  More days pass and I finally take myself outside, working for the first time in years in Mother's garden, removing weeds, pruning growth, admiring the exotic herbs she planted—the yellow-green flowers of the Dragon's Tear plant, the deep purple shade of the Death's Rose. If I can't find the girl, I think, I can always crush the purple petals of the rose and brew a tea from it. Father told me the death that comes from it is very peaceful.

  The sun's rays and the ocean breezes seem to have a salutary effect on me and, after a day's work outside, my stomach reminds me how long it's been since I've eaten. I've no desire to change shape and fly off on a hunt but, thanks to the dog pack and their constant production of litters, there's always more than enough live meat on the island.

  I smile for the first time since Father's death as I stalk the pack, laugh when I single out my prey, a dark brown male which cowers, then runs while the rest of the pack still faces me and growls. It takes only minutes to bring him down. Afterward, I leave his remains for the pack and return to the house to lie down, rest and sleep the first true sleep I've had in weeks.

  The morning news wakes me and I'm surprised to realize the month of May has passed. I sit up at once, painfully aware that July will come in a few, short weeks. I have no more time to waste.

  Jamaica and Haiti lie too far to the south for a simple evening's flight. I refuse to sit still, waiting until her scent surprises me and only then traveling toward it. I can't risk losing her.

  Fortunately, Father kept the maps and charts from his pirate days. As I study the old parchment rolls, I immediately dismiss the possibility her scent might have traveled from an island as far away as Curagao. She most likely comes from either Haiti or Jamaica.

  I weigh the speed of air travel—man's, not mine—against the convenience of boating. Commercial flight will force me to stay in hotels, limit my ability to come and go without notice, change shape as I wish. Anchored offshore in my own boat, I'll be almost as free as on my island.

  Logically, I think, I have to start traveling toward her before she comes into heat again. With Father gone, I feel free to leave the island. It will be the first time in my life I don't sleep in my own bed and part of me can't wait to rush away. I realize now that Father gave me a present when he chose to die. For the first time in my life, nothing, no one, holds me to this place.

  In the morning, I grin as I steer the Grady White across the bay, anticipating the reaction I'll receive from my attorney and his associate. I haven't called for an appointment nor would I. Jeremy Tindall and Arturo Gomez owe their fortunes and their lives to the beneficence of my family. They will see me when I want and do what I say.

  In the Monroe building's lobby, the security guard eyes my sneakers and shorts, sunglasses and tank top. I ignore him. The man's obviously new and unfamiliar with my irregular comings and goings. He tenses when I approach the private elevator to LaMar Associates' penthouse offices, rests his right hand on his polished, black leather holster. I smile at him, let his discomfort build for a few moments, then show him my key before I insert it in the elevator switch's lock.

  "Mr. DelaSangre!" Emily, the receptionist, greets me as I exit the elevator. Her eyes don't meet mine and her thin lips struggle to hold her smile. Ordinarily, I appear every Friday afternoon, to check my mail, see if anything's needed from me. This time, five weeks have passed since my last visit.

  "Mr. Gomez has been taking your mail," she almost whispers, fluttering her hands, fidgeting with the papers on her desk. "I hope that's okay with you. He, Mr. Gomez, told me you wouldn't mind. It was okay for him to go through it. He said he had your permission."

  Her smile broadens when I shrug, and say, "He does."

  Emboldened, she stares directly at me, speaks up, "Also, a Mr. Santos has been calling for you… a lot. I finally referred him to Mr. Tindall. You might want to ask him about it."

  "Santos?" I search my memory, shrug again. "Did he say what he wanted?"

  "Only that he was looking for his sister."

  "His sister?" I say, remembering now the picture of the girl and her brother in Mar
ia's wallet, wondering how he found me. I hadn't even known the girl's last name. "How the hell did he get my office number?"

  The receptionist blanches. "Did I do something wrong? Mr. Tindall said it… everything was okay."

  "Everything's fine, Emily," I say, though knowing what he'll suggest, I dread hearing what Jeremy has to say. I wish Maria's fool brother had never called. I have little desire to bring any more death into Maria's family, even less to waste much time thinking of them. The girl's death belongs to my past. Today I'd far rather dwell on my future.

  "I'll be in my office," I say. "Let Arturo know I want to see him there."

  Of all humans, I trust Arturo most. He's the only human I've taught the bends and twists of my island's channel, the only one allowed to visit and leave unharmed.

  His ancestor, Xavier Gomez, sailed with Father when he left Spain centuries ago. Xavier's sons and grandsons served on Don Henri's pirate ships. They were the only members of his crew to survive his employ. "Some dogs will do anything for their masters, no matter how badly they're used," Father told me. "As long as they're fed well. When you find a beast like that, you keep it and use it."

  Gomez's offspring settled on the mainland, not too far from our island, and it became a tradition that one son from each generation worked for our family. At first they just cut wood for us, hauled heavy loads. But as Miami grew, they became useful for other, darker pursuits.

  "Peter!" Arturo enters my office, strides across the plush carpet to where I stand by the window, staring out at the bay and the wide sea beyond it. The smell of his Aramis cologne overwhelms me as he grasps my hand, pumps it in greeting, a broad smile on his square, clean-shaven, well-tanned face. "Glad to see you finally decided to grace us with your presence."

  I disengage as soon as I can, back up—as much to escape the thick aroma that surrounds him as to put a little more space between us. He continues to grin at me, watches as I fidget with the few pieces of mail on my empty, mahogany desk. In turn, I study his silk tie, the way his custom-made, thousand-dollar suit hugs his thick body, the easy confidence of his movements—as if he owns all that surrounds him.

  He knows that he merely runs the company I own. But still, he's far more at home here than I.

  "Arturo," I say, "I plan to go away for a while. I need you to watch the island, feed the dogs."

  His face clouds up, his barrel chest swells and I know he yearns to tell me of his importance. He's the president of the largest, richest company in the state. Besides massive investments in land developments, banks, office buildings, import and export businesses, resort hotels and banks, we own large shares of every newspaper and television station in the region. Their executives fawn over him, make sure, as he requests, that their editors never allow any stories on my family or our island. How can I expect someone who wields such power to be a house sitter and a caretaker to a pack of dogs?

  "You're the only one I can trust," I say. "You're the only one who knows how to navigate the channel. Jeremy will watch after things here. You can live on your boat in my harbor, leave food on the dock for the dogs."

  "I thought you were worried about Jeremy," Arturo says. "Remember, you were the one who called and asked me to check up on him."

  "And?" I ask.

  Gomez shrugs. "So far I only have suspicions. But you know, without me here, Jeremy will rob you blind."

  "I know he may try."

  The Spaniard shakes his head. "No, he will try."

  "And if he does, so what?" I ask. "We'll find him out as we have before, take back what is mine and punish him."

  "Sometimes I think you underestimate him," Arturo says. "And sometimes I think you underestimate me too."

  "Is that a threat?" I ask, locking eyes with him.

  Arturo knows better than to challenge me. "No, just temperament," he says. He runs his manicured fingers through his graying hair, shrugs, grins a grin wide enough to show off all his newly capped, white teeth. "I could use a vacation, I guess. I can keep in touch with the office by cell phone. I already have an accountant secretly going over all the books. I'll have some of my other people watch Jeremy while I'm out." Arturo pauses, straightens his silk tie, grins even more. "How long did you say?"

  Jeremy Tindall answers my summons and comes to my office after Arturo leaves. Where Gomez feigned pleasure to see me, Tindall's frown clearly shows he's annoyed to have his day disturbed. "Peter," he says, "you're holding me up from doing your business. I had to leave the mayor and two councilmen sitting in my office—"

  "Let them wait," I say, glaring at the tall man—so thin and pale that he looks like a walking cadaver. "If they're unhappy, you can always send Arturo to them with a few more paper bags stuffed with money."

  Tindall looks around the room as if he's worried someone's placed a wire. I smile at his show of concern, his never-ending paranoia. As my attorney, Jeremy handles all my legal activities, all my major purchases and sales. As my trusted retainer, Arturo takes care of my and the company's illicit needs, from money laundering and bribery to physical coercion.

  Jeremy's perfectly comfortable with availing himself of Arturo's aid, his connections to South Florida's underworld. He uses him frequently to lubricate the process of business, to intimidate those who threaten our interests, but he despises the mention of it.

  "We are what we are," Father used to say. "And we are what we do. The Tindalls just don't like to admit it."

  Father had traveled to Washington as soon as the government took control of Florida from Spain. "Under disguise, I wandered from lawyer's office to lawyer's office to lawyer's office, asking if the attorneys could help me circumvent the government's laws, bribe officials, help me conceal crimes. At those few offices that didn't ask me to leave, I escalated my requests, alluding to white slavery, even murder. Ethan Tindall was the only one who didn't even blink. He stated his price and I hired him. I told him to move to Florida, to make sure our land grants were honored and to handle our business interests after that."

  Jeremy's face flushes red. "So what's so important?"

  The memory of cinnamon and musk comes up in my mind and I'm tempted to tell him about the girl and my need to find her. But no matter how much I want to talk about her with someone, anyone, I control my tongue. "You can only trust the Tindalls to do what greed and fear dictate," Father taught me. "In all dealings with them, you must remember to be cautious."

  It took Father only a few months to catch Ethan Tindall betraying him. "The fool stole money from me," Father said. "I was glad to catch him at it early in our relationship. When I confronted him, he, of course, denied it. I grabbed his left arm and bit his hand off at the wrist. I don't believe he ever cheated me again."

  "Your boat," I say to Jeremy. "I need to borrow it."

  The man's face glows even redder. "My Grand Banks? You can't be serious."

  I nod, not at all surprised by Jeremy's reluctance. Pictures of the forty-two-foot trawler crowd the walls of his office, outnumbering photographs of his family by a ratio of five to one.

  "For Christ's sake, Peter, you can afford to buy one of your own."

  "No," I say. "I don't have time for that. I want to leave in three days. Have the boat fueled and provisioned for a long cruise. Make sure the GPS is working. I'll need charts and coordinates for the Caribbean."

  Jeremy clenches his jaw, and growls, "That's not what you pay me to do."

  I ignore him. "Bill my account whatever you think is fair," I say. "I'll come to your house three nights from now. Have the Grand Banks ready."

  He stares at the floor.

  "Don't worry," I say. "I'll be coming by water—on my Grady White. You can use it while I'm gone."

  Red-faced, curling his lip, Jeremy grumbles, "As if I'd be caught dead on a fishing boat."

  Tired of his recalcitrance, I snap, "You forget, I could arrange that too, any time I want."

  The attorney doesn't react to my threat. He says nothing. Neither do I. After years of experience
with the man, I know what to expect after a confrontation. He'll change his demeanor, change the subject, act as if nothing has occurred.

  After a few moments, his face returns to its usual funereal pallor. He looks up and grins a false smile at me. "Peter, do you know someone by the name of Santos… Jorge Santos?"

  I frown at the sly slant of Tindall's smile, shake my head. "Emily mentioned his calls. She said you talked to him."

  "He's a most insistent young man. Kept asking when you'll be back, demanding an appointment to meet with you. He said there were some questions about his sister he needs to ask you. He said she's been missing."

  Maria again. I hate the reminder. I sigh. "I don't have time for him now. Have Emily call him, tell him I'll be glad to meet with him shortly after I return to town."

  "I don't care about the girl. I'm concerned that he's learned that you can be found at this number. You're sure you just don't want me to have Arturo take care of him?"

  "I'm sure," I say.

  Jeremy cocks his right eyebrow. I know my refusal to harm the man has piqued his curiosity, but I refuse to issue a death warrant just to quiet the man's curiosity. "At least let me ask Arturo to have research done on him," he says. "It wouldn't hurt to know more about this Mr. Santos before you see him."

  I pause before I answer. Do I care what Tindall learns about Santos? He'll certainly read whatever report Arturo makes. Finally, I decide nothing harmful can come from it, shrug and say, "Okay, go ahead."

  "Good," Jeremy says.

  Something in the smugness of his tone annoys me, as if he thinks he's just gained the upper hand. I hate that I can never be sure that he will stay intimidated, despise the self-satisfied grin on his face. "Your car," I say, grinning at the effect I know my request will create.