{No, Papa.}
Chloe looks at me. “Are there other bridges?” she says.
“Could be, but do you have any idea how many drawbridges there are in South Florida?”
“What are you guys talking about?” Claudia says.
The bridge begins to go down. On the screen the picture returns to the weather map.
“Drawbridges,” Chloe says.
{Papa?} Henri mindspeaks to me. {I hear a horn now.}
“Yes!” I slap the table, grinning.
Claudia starts, stares at me.
{That’s wonderful, Henri,} Chloe says.
“Which bridge was that on TV?” I say to Claudia.
She looks at me, her forehead furrowed. “Why?”
“Which one?” I growl.
Claudia says, “Didn’t you see the Hyatt on the other side? That was the Biscayne Boulevard bridge, over the Miami River.”
I nod. “How far upriver is the next bridge?”
“South Miami Avenue? Just a few blocks.”
“Do we own any property near there?”
“I don’t know. Why?” Claudia says.
{The bell just started.}
Chloe answers Henri, tells him to describe the sounds he hears.
I say to Claudia, “We think Henri might be near there.”
The girl’s eyes widen. She reaches for her cellphone.
Henri says, {There’s the rumbly sound again.}
“The drawbridge gears!” I say out loud. “He has to be close to the bridge to hear them.”
“How do you know what he hears?” Claudia says.
I frown at her question. “Just check to see what we own near there. Check if Ian owns any property around there too.”
Claudia nods. She punches a number into the phone while she walks toward her berth, away from the noise of the TV.
Chloe and I mindspeak to Henri while Claudia makes one call then another, then two more. Once the bell stops sounding, and the machinery sounds stop, Chloe asks Henri to tell us about the room he’s in. {It’s dark in here,} he says. {I can’t see anything. I don’t like it.}
{I know. I wouldn’t either. Henri, can you put your hands out and feel your way around?} Chloe says.
{Guess so.}
{Then I want you to walk forward until you feel a wall.}
Silence, then he says, {There’s some boxes.}
{Walk around them.}
A few moments pass and Henri says, {Okay, I feel a metal door.}
{Can you count?}
{Of course! I’m over five. My papa taught me that.}
{Then, Henri, I want you to turn around and walk from the door to the other side of the room. Take regular steps and count out each one to me.}
Listening to him count out each step, picturing him doing so, alone, in the dark, makes me grit my teeth. I hate my powerlessness to spare him this ordeal. Fortunately, it takes him only six paces. Chloe has him repeat the procedure from one side of the room to the other, with much the same result. “It’s not a very large room, maybe twelve-feet square,” my bride says.
I frown, shake my head. “Which leaves us not knowing much more than we did before.”
“We know he’s somewhere by the river’s South Miami Avenue bridge.”
“Which is smack in the middle of downtown Miami. There are hundreds of buildings and warehouses around there, dozens of cargo ships.”
My bride puts one of her fingers on my lips, as much to calm me as to silence me. “And we know more now,” she says, “than we did before.”
“It would be a lot easier if I were still at the office,” Claudia says when she rejoins us at the table. “If I could get to the phone numbers in Pop’s desk, I could get answers quicker. My people say it will be at least until this afternoon before they can tell me everything, for sure.”
She and my bride watch the TV as the hour turns and the news is replaced by a morning talk show. I’ve no patience for the hostess’s inane chatter with her guests, her promise that before the end of the hour all her guests will receive complete makeovers. I can’t believe that Chloe and Claudia seem content to watch it, discussing each person’s appearance.
Rather than sit in the cabin and watch the TV and them while we wait for the call telling us that Derek and the rest have arrived at LaMar Associates, I go above deck, stand in the cockpit, admire the day.
The sky shows little sign of the pending storm. Only a few gray clouds float overhead; otherwise, all is clear, the sun hot enough to make me reconsider staying above deck. Still, the wind has turned brisk and seems to be building between strong gusts, and while there’s a clarity to the sky, there’s also a hint of ions in the air that I know predicts a coming storm. Let the weathermen say what they will, I’ve been through enough hurricanes to realize when one can’t be very far away.
Not that Hurricane Eileen concerns me very much at the moment. I pace the deck, try to think of a good way to search out my son, should Claudia’s inquiries bear no results. The best thought that I have is that we can take handheld air horns and sound them as we go from block to block around the South Miami Avenue bridge, asking Henri how close the sounds seem.
I shake my head. There has to be a better way.
Claudia’s cellphone rings below. I rush into the cabin.
The Latin girl has already finished her call. She and Chloe look up at me from the table, Claudia’s cellphone and a massive, stainless-steel semiautomatic pistol on the table in front of them.
Claudia picks up the pistol. “Pop gave it to me for my last birthday. It’s a Desert Eagle, fifty caliber, magnum. It kicks like hell when I fire it.” She grins. “My hand aches for hours after I take it to the range, but the damn thing can bring down an elephant.”
I stare at the impossibly thick barrel on the pistol, made to look thicker by its shortness. No more than six inches, I calculate. “It looks like it could bring down a herd of elephants,” I say.
Claudia nods. She pulls back on the pistol’s slide mechanism, racks a round, the motion making a harsh, loud click. She snaps the safety lever, checks it and puts the pistol into a red leather handbag. “One of my people called,” she says. “Peter, Claypool, Rita and Tindall are all at the office now.”
28
The Monroe building sits on a corner only a few blocks north of Dinner Key Marina. The three of us walk the whole way, no one saying a word, more clouds darkening the sky as we walk. When we stop in front of the tall building, Chloe says, “This is it?”
I nod, point to the windows on the top floor, all overlooking the bay. “LaMar’s offices are up there. Let me do the talking this time.”
Both guards look up from behind the security desk in the lobby as we enter, their mouths open, each man gawking. The older guard, the balding one says, “Mr. DelaSangre, you were — ”
“I snuck out when you weren’t looking,” I interrupt, grinning. I certainly can understand their confusion. The other Peter, Derek, couldn’t have crossed this lobby more than thirty minutes before us.
“But she” — he points to Claudia — “Ms. Gomez isn’t allowed upstairs anymore. Mr. Tindall ordered it.”
“She’s allowed now,” I say. “Mr. Tindall will understand.” I walk to the private elevator, Chloe at my side, Claudia at hers, and realize, I have no key.
Claudia notices me pause, fumbles in her purse, the large red leather bag hanging from her left shoulder. After a moment, she fishes out a key. “They took mine,” she says. “This is Pop’s.”
When we get out of the elevator, in front of the receptionist’s desk in LaMar Associate’s offices, Sarah reacts much the way the guards had below. “Sir,” she says, looking toward the closed door to the conference room. “I thought . . .”
“Never mind,” I say, walking past her, shepherding Chloe and Claudia toward the meeting room. “I assume they’re all in there.”
Sarah stands. She’s younger than I would have guessed, heavier, her jowls frozen by the frown on her face. “But,
sir, Claudia’s been barred from the office. The meeting’s closed.”
“Sarah, they’re my offices aren’t they?”
She nods.
“That’s my meeting isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then sit down and do your job.” I open the door to the conference room and we enter.
Seated at the far end of the glossy, mahogany conference table, Derek looks up first. “Well, well,” he says. Rita, sitting to his right, and Tindall to his left, both turn their heads toward us and stare.
Leaning in a corner at the far end of the room, his eyes shielded by dark, thick sunglasses, Virgil Claypool gives us a mocking grin. “If it isn’t Mr. Ames. And this is your new fiancée, isn’t it?” he says.
I flash the older man a cold smile. “Actually,” I say, “it’s Peter DelaSangre and his wife, Chloe.”
Only Ian Tindall’s face registers any shock. I’m not surprised that Derek remains so calm. If Virgil is here, Derek has to know of our visit to the Jamaican’s Kingston office. But Rita Santiago’s lack of expression concerns me.
“Rita,” I say, nodding to her. “Ian.” I nod in his direction, study him, the papers spread on the table. “Going over the merger documents?” I say.
Tindall gathers up the papers, stacks them, and straightens them as he speaks. “It seems there are some things I don’t know about.” He looks from Derek to me and then to Rita. “Did you know about this?”
The redhead gives him a dead stare, says nothing.
“We were readying these papers for that Peter DelaSangre to sign.” Ian tilts his head toward Derek. “I guess you have an objection?”
I nod. “He isn’t Peter DelaSangre. His name is Derek Blood. He’s an imposter.”
Ian looks from me to Derek and back. “And how would we resolve this?”
“Rita,” I say. “Ask Derek where you and I bought the earrings Chloe’s wearing.”
The redhead looks at my wife, then glares at me. “I don’t need to.” She turns to Ian, puts her hand on Derek’s. “This is Peter. He told me a fake might show up with a Jamaican woman. I’ve spent almost every night with Peter since he came back from Jamaica, Ian. I’d know if he weren’t for real.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ian says, a pink flush blossoming on his usually pale face. Hands shaking slightly, he gathers up the papers, drops some as he jams them in his briefcase. “The fact he promoted you to equal status with me wouldn’t affect your judgment, would it, Rita?” The thin man picks up the papers he dropped, throws them in the briefcase, slams it closed, gets up, walks past us to the door and turns.
“I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I’m not about to make a fatal mistake here,” he says. “Whichever of you is the real Peter, I want you to listen to me closely. There is no reason for you to take any action against me. All I’ve done is to follow the orders which a man, who I thought was Peter DelaSangre, has given me. I had nothing to do with deciding to fire Claudia. I had no involvement in the attack on Arturo and no knowledge of who did it, either before or after the fact.”
Tindall opens the door. “Whatever is going on here is none of my business. None!” He looks at me, then at Derek. “What I’m going to do now is leave and go home. I’m going to take a few days off while you all work this out. By the time I come back, I hope the two of you will have decided just which one of you is the real Peter. I’ll be delighted to follow that Peter’s instructions, whichever one of you it turns out to be. Unlike this one here” — he nods toward Rita — “I’m unwilling to risk my life gambling on one side or the other. I wish you both the best.”
I grin as the door closes. “He couldn’t have covered his ass any better,” I say.
“Now what?” Derek says.
“Now I want my son back. Now you should leave,” I mindspeak.
The other Peter laughs out loud. “Why should I, old man? I like it here.” He glances toward Rita. “She’s wonderfully helpful and damnededly good in bed too. So bloody good, I’ve managed not to feed on her so far.”
Chloe says, “If it comes to a fight, Derek, you have to know I’ll be with Peter. You can’t defeat us both.”
Both Rita and Claudia look confused. They have no idea we’re communicating. To them, they’re just watching people changing expressions, laughing, frowning, smiling inexplicably. Virgil Claypool shows no expression whatsoever, his eyes hidden from sight by his sunglasses.
“So you’re going to kill me, both of you together?” Derek says, grinning.
“Not if we can avoid it,” I say. “I just want my son back — soon. And I want you to go back to Jamaica.”
“Sorry, old man.” Derek shrugs. “Can’t do. You know, if I come home empty-handed, Pa will kill me.”
“We’d be willing to help you out,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind arranging to send some money to Claypool’s for all of you every year.”
“Why bother with that when we can have it all?” Derek’s smile widens.
The anger that I’ve kept within me, heats my face, makes my jaws clench. I want to slash out, slice Derek’s smile away. “Then you’ll leave us no choice. We will have to kill you.”
“Don’t be so bloody sure you can. If you want, we can end this right now.”
The mindthought isn’t Derek’s. I look at Virgil Claypool. He smiles as he removes his sunglasses. Chloe gasps, says, “Pa!” and I find myself staring into Charles Blood’s cold, hard, emerald-green eyes.
29
“What the hell is going on here?” Claudia Gomez says, reaching into her purse. She pulls out the Desert Eagle and snaps off the safety, her words and the click of the safety lever breaking the silence in the room.
“Relax, Claudia,” I say. “Nothing bad’s happening — yet.”
“Should I put the gun away?”
I shake my head. “Point it at him.” I nod my head toward Virgil Claypool. “If I tell you to shoot, kill him.”
The Latin girl nods. “But I wish some of you would say something. It’s real creepy, all of you making faces at each other, nobody talking. It’s like being with a bunch of deaf people — without the signing.”
“Just go with it, Claudia. It’s never going to be explained.”
“Whatever you say, Peter.”
I look at Charles. “That’s a Desert Eagle semiautomatic. It fires fifty-caliber magnums — more than enough power to penetrate your skin, even if you were in your natural form. There are nine rounds in the magazine. If she empties the gun at you and Derek, most probably neither of you will survive,” I mindspeak.
“Then, without us to release him or bring him food, your son will starve to death,” Charles says. “Don’t you think I know you’ve had to be in contact with him? If you could have found him, you would already have rescued could have found him, you would already have rescued him.” He flashes a cold smile. “He could be starving within yards of you and you still wouldn’t be able to find him.”
“Pa! That’s Elizabeth’s child,” Chloe says.
The Jamaican shrugs. “And you’re my bloody daughter. Tell me you care what happens to me and Derek. Your poor ma. You took all her herbs and potions. You stole her book! How do you expect her to get on without it?”
“I intended to send it back after I copied it. And why should I feel bad after what you did to Peter?”
“So we have a standoff,” Charles Blood says. “There still is the matter of the treasure.” He glances at Derek. “My useless son assures me it’s nowhere to be found.”
A flush rises on Derek’s face and Charles laughs. “We could trade Henri for that. We could give you and Chloe a chest of gold too and let you go on your own way. You could choose to live somewhere else. That way no one need be hurt.”
“How can we know we can trust you?” I say.
{No, Peter!} Chloe mindspeaks to me, her thoughts masked. {He’ll kill you after he gets the treasure.}
{I know that,} I say. {But we need time to find Henri.}
Char
les Blood says, “And how do we know we can trust you to stay away? In the end, all any of us can do is trust and be ready to respond if that trust proves unwarranted.”
Rain splatters on the conference room’s window. I look out. The sky which, was so clear such a short time ago, is now turning into a solid gray quilt of angry clouds. The wind gusts outside, rattling the windows, and I wonder if this could be the first outer band of the storm. I stare past the boats — bobbing and dancing, tugging at their lines in the marina — to the murky, whitecapped waters beyond.
“The treasure’s on the island,” I say. “But there’s a hurricane coming soon. I can show you where it is once the storm’s passed.”
“Show me now,” Charles Blood says.
I shake my head. “Not until I know my son’s safe. You can arrange to have someone bring him to a neutral place. I’ll send Claudia there. We can use our cellphones. Your people can release him to her at the same time as I show you the treasure.”
Charles nods. “Let’s do it now.”
Smiling, I say, “Derek, look out the window. Your pa wants you to take him to the island now.”
Derek gets up, walks to the window, stares out at the churning water, the pitching boats, and blanches. “Pa,” he says. “The boat would have a bloody hard time of it. There’s no harm in waiting for a day or two.”
“It’s just a damned storm!” Charles says. “I’ve flown in worse.”
“So have we all, Pa. Why go out in it if there’s no need? We can go back to the hotel and ride out the storm there.”
“What’s going to stop them from searching for the child or attacking us?”
“No problem, Pa.” Derek grins. He walks over to Rita, kisses her on top of her red hair. “Rita dear, I need you to do me a favor. Will you?”
“Of course, Peter,” she says.
“I need you to go visit Henri now.”
She nods.
“Bring your cellphone, of course, and your gun.”
Rita smiles. “I always do.”
“It’s a smaller gun than that.” Derek points to Claudia’s Desert Eagle. “But” — he shrugs — “Henri’s just a small boy.” He looks in Rita’s eyes. “I’m going to call you every six hours, starting at noon. If you don’t get my noon call, shoot him. If I don’t call at six, shoot him. Until I phone and tell you everything’s okay — anytime I miss calling you every six hours, anytime, shoot him. But if I call and tell you to bring him to Claudia, I want you to do that as quickly as you can.”
Dragon Moon Page 23
