9
Chloe spots the girl just before sunset, just after Henri and I have set up a pre-dinner game of chess on the dining table in the great room of the third floor of our house. “Peter, come look at this,” she says, squinting out the window, one hand up to block the glare of the setting sun. “I think there’s a young girl down in the water.”
I groan at the thought. “The last thing we need is more attention,” I say, Henri and I both getting up, joining her.
My mate points toward a shallow place near the end of the channel where a sandbar always appears at low tide. The late-afternoon sun’s rays, joined by the reflected brilliance from the water, burn through the window and obscure my view. Even squinting I can only make out the shape of a female sitting cross-legged on the sand, staring out across the water.
“I don’t think it’s a girl,” I say. “It looks more like a small woman.”
“Don’t you think we should take the boat out? See if she needs help?”
I squint out at the woman again. “She doesn’t look like she’s in any distress.”
“She could be dazed. She could be from one of those boats where everybody disappeared,” Chloe says.
I sigh. “I’ll take the Donzi. It’ll be quicker. There’s no need for all of us to go.”
Chloe nods.
Looking at Henri, I say, “Want to come? You can steer.”
“Sure, but she won’t be there when we get there,” Henri says.
Chloe and I both stare at him. “How do you know that?” she says.
The boy studies his feet, always a sure sign he expects to be in trouble. “I’ve seen her before,” he mumbles.
“Where? When?” I say.
Henri points to the end of the channel. “Not out there,” he says. He moves his hand to point at the windows on the side of the room, the ones that face north, toward the Wayward Island Channel. “Over there, on the rock.”
I nod. I know the rock well. It juts out into the channel, a perfect spot for a young boy to stand and throw things into the current without getting wet. When Henri was smaller he would spend hours throwing leaves and twigs into the water and watching them float away. I did the same when I was little. “You saw her there?” I say.
The boy nods.
“When?”
“Different times,” he says. “Usually for a few seconds. Then she wouldn’t be there anymore.”
“Did you see her go? Did she dive into the water or hide?” Chloe says.
Henri shrugs. “If I batted my eyes or looked away, she wasn’t there when I looked again.”
My wife looks at him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Eyes down, the boy shrugs, says nothing.
I squint through the glare again. The girl or woman turns, seems to face in my direction. Her image shimmers in the late afternoon’s light and I realize I can’t make out any sign of clothes on her body, not even the lines of a skimpy bathing suit. “Was she naked, Henri? Is that why you didn’t tell us about her?”
My son nods.
“What did she look like?” I say.
“She had long, black shiny hair,” he says. “I thought she was pretty.”
By the time we reach the end of the channel, only the last tip of the sun shows above the mainland, and the sky has turned gray, almost dark. We find the sandbar empty, the water lapping around it, and we sit with the Donzi’s motors in neutral, the boat bobbing with each passing ripple.
“See. I told you she’d be gone,” Henri says.
I nod, search the water around us. “She’s gone,” I mindspeak to Chloe.
“I know,” she mindspeaks. “I was watching her while you were going out the channel. She was there one moment and gone the next. She must have slipped into the water.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” I say, frowning. I motion for Henri to throw the motors in gear and turn for home. As soon as he does so, something large splashes behind us. I whirl around, find only a few rings of ripples expanding in the darkening water.
10
Boaters disappear the next three nights in a row. So many Coast Guard boats and Marine Patrol boats crowd the bay that Chloe and I find we can’t take our boats out without being stopped at least two or three times.
One of the evening patrols starts to take special interest in circling our island and shining his searchlights directly at our windows as he passes. “There’s no call for that,” I say to Chloe.
“Just ignore him,” she says. “He’s only on duty until midnight. None of the other boats bother us.”
I nod. Still I venture out the channel a few times in the next few nights, just to be stopped so I can see who’s on board the boat and note the numbers on the bow.
Ian Tindall calls at the end of the week. “Everything’s ready in Jamaica,” he says, his voice low, almost unsure.
“What’s wrong, Ian?” I say.
The man sighs and I can picture the gloom on his face. “Well, I have to tell you sooner or later.”
“Tell me what?”
“Those lawsuit threats you had me write look like they’ve really pissed off Jordan Davidson. And I’m sure Andy Malcandado telling him he was leaving for a new job in D.C.—for Arturo’s editor friend—didn’t help either.”
“So?” I say. “Sounds like we’re starting to pull his teeth like Arturo and you planned. Now if Toba Mathais can find a way to get Pepe Santos off my back.”
“Yeah,” Tindall says. “Good old Toba. Seems she’s already gotten very close to Mr. Santos. She called Claudia and told her he really believes you had something to do with both of his cousins’ disappearances. More importantly, Toba said that Davidson’s hired a lawyer to work with Santos. They’re planning to serve papers here for you on Monday. They’re naming you in a wrongful death lawsuit.”
“What? How can they do that?”
“Come on Peter, you know you can always find some lawyer willing to sue for anything. Look at the jerks who are suing the fast food restaurants for making people fat,” Tindall sighs again. “It’s going to be in this week’s Dish too. You’re going to be sued for the wrongful death of Maria Santos by her mother, Hortensia Santos, and her cousin, Pepe Santos.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I say.
“No, it’s all bullshit. I’m sure we’ll get it thrown out in a few months. . . .”
“A few months?”
“Yeah,” Tindall says. “But in the meantime it’s too big a story to keep out of the rest of the media. Arturo’s already making sure they play it down as a crank lawsuit.”
“Good,” I say. “You, Claudia and Arturo can take care of it. Now that the house is ready, I’m going to take my family to Jamaica.”
Tindall sighs yet again. I take a deep breath. I find I’m growing tired of his nonverbal sounds. “What?” I say.
“There are going to be depositions, Peter. You shouldn’t go. It will look better if you stay. Send Chloe and the children. You need to stay here. You really do.”
11
At first Chloe says, “No. We’ll stay here with you.”
But soon Arturo Gomez calls. “Sorry, Peter,” he says. “All of our guys at the newspapers and the TV stations have been calling. They say they can’t keep ignoring the story. It’s getting too big. They’ve all promised to try to keep the heat off of you as much as they can, but they have to cover the story.”
News helicopters show up only a few hours later, followed by boats crowded with reporters. They return each day, the helicopters hovering over our island, the press boats joining the other craft patrolling the waters off our island, and Chloe soon decides that leaving would be the best for the children.
It takes only a day for Tindall to finalize all their travel plans. Our last dinner together is a quiet thing, Henri morose and toying with his meat, Chloe touching me every time she passes close, even Lizzie too silent, barely babbling.
“Everyone’s not leaving until morning,” I say. “And anyway we’re only going to be ap
art for a few months.”
“I don’t care about the ’copters and stuff,” Henri says. “I don’t want to go.”
I study my son’s face, realize how much I’m going to miss him and my daughter and my wife. A searchlight from the evening patrol boat shines through our window, and a flash of anger burns through me. I think of my father’s words, “Only a fool acts because of anger alone,” and will them away. I don’t need to be mad to decide it’s time to make sure that no more searchlights shine into my home.
“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do,” I say. “But it will all be over faster than you think. And anyway, if everything works out maybe we’ll all have a treat together before morning.”
Henri looks at me, eyes wide. Chloe gapes at me too. In our house a late-night treat means just one thing. “Can I come?” Henri says.
“No, it’s too dangerous,” I say, smiling.
{What about me?} Chloe mindspeaks, masked.
{Of course,} I mindspeak. {You’re part of the plan.}
{And what part is that?}
{After the kids are asleep, you’ll see.}
Ordinarily Henri would resist going to sleep before ten, but with a treat promised for later, he goes to bed without protest. By ten-fifteen Chloe comes up to the great room, “Okay. They’re both asleep. Now what?” she says.
I look at her, sigh at the thought of being away from her for months. “Now you and I are going downstairs to prepare to hunt.” I pull her close to me, kiss her, marvel at how I love the feel of her lips against mine, the way she presses against me.
Chloe pushes away. “But you’ve been saying it’s too dangerous all this time.”
“Yes, I have, and yes, it is,” I say. “But I think I’ve figured out how to do it.”
“Where do you plan to hunt?”
“Not far from here,” I say. The patrol boat’s searchlight plays through the windows again and I curl my lip at it.
Chloe lifts an eyebrow and stares at me.
I shrug. “You had to know, sooner or later we’d have to do something about that.”
Chloe follows me down the circular staircase from the great room. She pauses at the second landing, where the bedrooms and the doors to the outside are, but follows me as I continue down the stairs. At the bottom, I head for the smallest holding cell.
“We’re going out that way?” Chloe says. “Isn’t that a little much?”
“No,” I say, entering the cell. “I don’t want any chance of us being seen.” I yank up on the foot of the prison cot in the cell and grin as it moves upward, a system of hidden counterweights and levers below groaning into life, lifting the bed and the slab of stone floor beneath it into the air.
While my father designed most of the cells to hold human prisoners so he could fatten them up for later meals, he built the smallest cell strictly to use as a hidden passageway. I’ve shown it to Chloe before, taken her down to the treasure room below and to the passageway that leads to a hidden doorway in the bushes near the dock.
I step into the dark hole beneath the cot, motion for her to pass me and go down the steep stairs first. Once she does so, I follow, pulling the cot down over us, the floor clunking into place, everything turning dark around us, so black that even we can’t see.
“This is way too melodramatic for me,” Chloe says, giggling as she feels her way down the stairs.
It takes only a few minutes for us to negotiate the passageway to the door, and only a moment more to stand in the night air. “Okay, Mr. All Wise Dragon,” Chloe says, “Now what?”
I reach for her blouse’s top button, undo it and the next. “We’re going swimming,” I say, undressing her, taking my time, pulling off her blouse, cupping her breasts in my hands.
“After that,” I say, kissing her. “I plan for us to hunt, maybe make love in our natural forms . . . You think that’s a good plan?”
“A fine one,” Chloe breathes, reaching for my clothes, pulling them off as I do the same to hers.
We remain in the bushes, pressing against each other, touching, kissing, until we hear the patrol boat approach, see its searchlight wash against our house. Once it cruises by our channel we cross the dock and slip into the water.
Chloe shivers at the coldness of it, says, “You just wanted to get me to go skinny dipping with you, didn’t you?”
“You found me out,” I say, concentrating on my body, willing it to change. Next to me Chloe does the same, both of us treading water as our skin ripples into scales, our wings and tails emerge.
“Now I’m going to be starving,” Chloe mindspeaks.
My stomach growls and I nod in agreement. Those of my kind may be blessed with an ability to change shapes, but it comes with a cost. Even the slightest shift burns enough energy to bring on hunger. Changing form completely always leaves me famished.
Chloe swims at my side, sculling the water with her tail, both of us gliding through the light chop, our bodies mostly submerged, only the tops of our heads out of the water. To my delight, dark clouds crowd the evening sky, blocking almost all sight of the moon and stars.
We reach the end of our channel before the next circuit of the patrol boat and I mindspeak, “I gave Claudia the evening patrol boat’s numbers. She found it’s based out of the Park Service’s docks next to Homestead Bayfront Marina. If we fly low, I think we can follow and take them without anyone discovering us. Sound okay?”
“Believe me,” Chloe mindspeaks, “even if I thought you were wrong, I’m too hungry now to argue about it.”
The patrol boat circles the island two more times before another patrol boat pulls alongside it. After a few minutes the first boat pulls away and angles off, speeding up, heading southwest toward Homestead.
As soon as both boats move away, Chloe and I break from the water, our wings almost slapping the wave tops as we strain to build speed without circling and gaining altitude. “Why do we have to do it this way?” Chloe mindspeaks, her breaths coming hard, her wings scooping air.
I breathe hard too, finding it tougher than I imagined. Watching the patrol boat’s lights move away from us, I wonder if I, if we, have the strength to pursue it. I breathe deep, concentrate on flapping my wings, a little bit harder each time. “We don’t know what radar they’re using or what airborne surveillance,” I mindspeak. “Just concentrate on building speed.”
Somehow we manage to find enough strength to start gaining on the patrol boat. Its lights no longer seem to be running away from us. By the time it reaches the Featherbed Channel that leads to the south end of the bay, we’ve drawn close enough to make out the silhouette of its dark form.
The boat slows to negotiate the channel and we slow down too, before we shoot past them. By the time the boat emerges from the channel and picks up speed, we’re close enough to smell the gas stink of its exhaust and make out the forms of the two men aboard it.
“They’re young and in good shape,” I mindspeak. “They’ve both been really nasty when they’ve stopped me, especially the jerk at the wheel. I think he’s the one that keeps shining the light.”
“So he’s the one you want to take, dear?”
I look around us, see no other lights anywhere near. Picking up speed, I say, “If you’ll take the other one at the same time.” Saliva floods my mouth. It’s been far too long since we’ve hunted.
Pumping my wings and taking deep breaths, I surge forward, the wind buffeting me, the wet salt spray behind the boat stinging my eyes and coating my scales. For the first time in weeks I feel completely alive. How I wish I’d done this the first time the patrol boat glared its searchlight through our windows. I’ve tolerated too much, controlled my behavior for too long.
Chloe flies alongside me, matching my speed, racing ahead too, both of us rocketing toward the stern of the boat. Neither man glances back or shows any awareness of our approach.
We almost scrape our undersides on the stern of the boat as we shoot over it, Chloe taking her prey an instant be
fore I take mine. My talons dig into my prey’s shoulders, and I roar into the night and yank him from the boat. Both men scream into the dark for only a few moments before Chloe’s and my sharp claws silence them forever.
The rich smell of fresh blood fills my nostrils and I find it hard to think of anything but my hunger. Rather than wait to land and let Chloe ritually select my first morsel, I tear a hunk of meat from the man’s carcass as I fly and gulp it down. Chloe does the same.
The patrol boat, now unmanned, continues to race ahead. With no one to guide it, it curves away from its course, speeding so far away from us that we can follow it only by watching the movement of its lights. They stop near land an instant before the loud, wet crunch of the boat’s impact with a sandbar carries across the bay.
“There’s going to be an uproar about this tomorrow,” Chloe mindspeaks.
“Tomorrow you and the children will be gone. That’s all I care about.” I mindspeak.
I turn and fly toward Sand Key, the island just to the south of Boca Chita. Chloe follows. “The island we’re going to has a lagoon in its middle—a little like ours but with its own beach,” I mindspeak. “The waterway leading to it is very shallow and almost completely hidden by the mangroves. Few humans ever try to go there.”
“Or we could take our prey home to the kids,” Chloe mindspeaks. “While it’s still warm.”
“We have plenty of time for that,” I mindspeak, skimming above the water, correcting course once I spot Sand Cut Channel in the night’s gloom. Too shallow and treacherous for most boaters, the channel barely separates Boca Chita and Sand Key by more than fifty feet. I shoot into it only a foot above the water, a black shadow racing through the dark night, Chloe just inches behind my tail.
Halfway through the channel I bank hard to the right, flying between two large mangrove trees, barely managing to avoid clipping my wings on the tree branches that crowd the sides of the narrow channel that leads to Sand Key’s lagoon.
The Seadragon's Daughter Page 7
