“Okay,” Rita says. She checks her watch. “I should go now, so I can be in place for your first call.”
Derek looks at me. “Okay?”
I nod.
She gets up and leaves the room. “See, Pa,” he says, smirking, clearly pleased with himself. “Now there’s nothing they can do to us, nothing they can try without risking the boy’s death.”
At Derek’s insistence we sit in the conference room and wait. After a half hour, he takes out his cellphone, dials a number. “Are you there?” he asks. He nods, says, “Good,” and disconnects.
“No one interfered with her,” he says to Charles.
“Then, if no one objects, we have to go secure our boat,” I say. “Once the hurricane has passed, we can meet and discuss how to exchange the treasure for my son.”
Charles Blood nods. Derek forgets his role as Peter, says out loud, “Jolly good.”
As soon as we get in the elevator and the doors close, I turn to Claudia. “Tell me someone followed her.”
The Latin girl shakes her head. “Someone followed Tindall and someone will follow those two upstairs, but I never assigned anyone to Rita. I never thought she’d go anywhere important without Tindall or the other Peter. I knew she was a no-good bitch. I just didn’t think she was an important no-good bitch.”
“You knew?”
Claudia nods. “Shit, I should have known better. So much has been going on, I forgot to tell you. Remember when you asked me to check out her story about Tindall keeping on with that development?”
I nod.
“Tindall was telling the truth. The whole thing was dead. Rita was playing you and Pops.”
“I guess I’ll have to apologize to Ian the next time I see him.” I shake my head at the thought of it. “It looks for once that a Tindall has been falsely accused.”
“It appears a Santiago is our problem now,” Chloe says.
Claudia nods. “And we don’t know very much about her at all.”
“But,” my bride says, “didn’t she have to fill out paperwork when she applied for work at LaMar? Wouldn’t that help?”
“Some,” Claudia says. “I need to talk to Lisa Stanwell, my pop’s secretary. She’s the only one at the office I know I can count on. But with Pop out, she only comes in after lunch.” Claudia takes out her phone and begins to dial.
“So who are you calling now?” Chloe says.
“I told my people to check on LaMar and Tindall property near South Miami Avenue and the river. I think I should have them check for Santiago property too.”
“Of course,” I say.
I welcome the rain that soaks us on our walk back to the SeaRay. I welcome the wind that assaults us, the cold chill that penetrates to my bones. If my son must suffer, why shouldn’t we?
Chloe and Claudia walk in silence beside me, their heads bowed against the wind, their clothes soaked and plastered to their bodies. I’m sure, like me, their thoughts center on how to save Henri. I’m sure, like me, they’ve found no solution.
Even in the marina, the water has come alive. The boat heaves and bucks in its slip like a wild horse newly restrained, and we have to time our jumps onto the SeaRay to avoid injury. Once aboard, Claudia throws open the hatch and we scramble below.
We have to brace ourselves to stay upright against the boat’s sudden movements but, still, the warmth and quiet of the cabin are a relief after the wind and rain outside. Rather than going forward to the privacy of her berth, Claudia strips off her own wet clothes as soon as we enter the cabin, dialing her phone, barking orders, asking questions as she grabs a towel and dries her tanned, naked body.
The girl seems too busy to care about our presence. Still, I look away from her nudity. Chloe, however, stares at Claudia’s body. I prepare for another jealous comment, or at least a catty one. But instead, my bride shrugs, strips off her wet clothes, and begins drying herself too. When I make no motion to do the same, she looks at me. “What’s the matter? Would you rather stand there dripping?”
The three of us use up every dry towel on the boat, but within minutes we’re all dressed in sweatshirts and jeans, Claudia already opening a few vents before the cabin becomes too oppressively warm.
“Tindall owns nothing near South Miami Avenue,” the Latin girl says. “Neither does LaMar Associates. I left a message on Lisa Stanwell’s voice mail. I’m waiting for her call back and for a report from my people on any property Rita Santiago, or someone close to her, may own. I also told one of my men, Umberto, to go get Dad’s Hummer out of the garage and bring it to the marina. This way, as soon as we hear something, we can get going, no matter what the weather.”
Chloe looks at me, her eyebrows raised.
“It’s the civilian model of an army vehicle,” I say. “It costs a fortune. I thought Arturo was nuts when he bought something so ugly. It’s wide and squat, like a smashed Land Rover on steroids but it can handle almost any terrain or any weather. If we need to go anywhere today, we’ll be glad to have it.”
Waiting irritates me. I want to be out doing something, anything. Chloe and Claudia handle the time better than me. They turn on the TV and watch the endless hurricane reports. Rather than stay below and sit with them until Claudia’s people call, I throw on foul-weather gear and go above deck, busying myself securing extra lines, making sure the SeaRay won’t be destroyed by Hurricane Eileen.
I become so involved in my task, I don’t notice at first when the hatch opens and Claudia’s hand waves for me to come inside. Finally, she sticks her head out and shouts. I scurry below.
“While you’ve been playing outside, I’ve been on the phone,” Claudia says as she tries to dry her newly wet hair with a damp towel. “Rita Santiago owns no property anywhere.”
“Damn!” I say.
“But,” my bride interrupts us, “an Homar Santiago owns a home on Southwest Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue. Claudia checked. He’s Rita’s uncle.”
“It’s too far.” I shake my head. “That has to be six or seven blocks away from the river. Henri couldn’t hear anything from there.”
“It’s close enough so Homar can walk to work,” Chloe says, grinning like she knows something I haven’t figured out yet.
I look toward Claudia. She has the same smirk too. I glare at both of them, begin to regret that I’ve left my bride and the Latin girl alone together long enough for them to bond. “So what?” I say.
My bride turns to Claudia, says, “Tell him.”
“It was Chloe’s idea to look at Rita’s employment application for LaMar Associates. Lisa Stanwell pulled it out and read it to me over the phone. Homar Santiago was one of Rita’s personal references. She listed his occupation as ‘bridge tender.’”
Now I grin. “You’ve both been busy, haven’t you?”
“Yup,” Claudia says. “I checked. Homar’s been working the evening shift at the South Miami Avenue bridge for the last five years.”
“But that still doesn’t tell us exactly where Henri is,” I say.
The Latin girl nods. “Maybe not. But I think we’re getting close. One of my people lives near downtown. I asked him to take a drive around the bridge, on both sides of the river. He just called back a few minutes ago. There isn’t much around it — on any side — just empty dirt lots and some docks. But, he said, a road runs under the south side of the bridge. When he took it, he found a small parking lot built directly under the bridge, on the river side of the road — you know right into the bridge’s foundation, under the concrete spans. He said, the lot was empty except for a black Ford pickup and a new green Acura — ”
“And,” Chloe interrupts, “Claudia says Rita Santiago bought a new Acura just like that a few weeks ago.”
30
Umberto looks large enough to carry the Hummer on his back if he wanted to. He drives, Claudia in the front passenger seat and Chloe and I in the Hummer’s two rear bucket seats. As wide as the vehicle is, as far apart as the chairs are spaced, I’m tempted to shout my
words, even though the sounds of the gusting wind and driving rain outside are muted by the vehicle’s rugged construction.
We drive north on Bayshore, one of the few cars braving the storm. The full strength of Hurricane Eileen isn’t forecast to arrive until early the next morning, but the squalls now hitting, one after another, pack enough wind and rain to keep most people in their homes.
Although it’s only four-thirty in the afternoon, the day has turned as gray as dusk. I peer out the rain-streaked windows at the gloom, the shuttered stores and homes, the palms bending before the winds, the downed branches already cluttering the road. A strong gust hits the Hummer, barely nudges it and Umberto turns, flashes a toothy smile and says, “Man, you got to love this car.”
From the Grove, downtown Miami’s only a short drive away. With no traffic to impede us on Bayshore Drive or Brickell Road, we reach the South Miami Avenue bridge within twenty minutes. Umberto barely slows, turns a hard right onto a side street just before the bridge and almost immediately takes a sharp left onto a road that curves underneath the bridge’s structure.
“Stop!” Claudia says.
The Hummer slams to a halt, just a few inches of its hood exposed to the opening to the undercover parking lot, the rest of the car’s body shielded by a concrete wall. It sits for a moment, its motor idling, its windshield wipers snapping from side to side, squeaking against the glass, until Claudia reaches for the ignition key, turns it off.
The car goes silent. “Shit! You think you could find a way to be more obvious?” she says. Umberto’s face blushes pink. He looks away. The wind, gusting from behind us, shoots rain and spray under the bridge, spattering the Hummer’s rear window.
“Now what?” Claudia says.
I hold up my index finger. “Give me a second,” I say, and mindspeak to my son. {Henri?}
{Papa! She’s here. She just came in and turned on the lights.}
{Rita?}
He doesn’t say anything.
{Henri, you have to tell me what’s happening. I think we’re near you.}
Chloe, who can hear every word my son and I share, opens her door and motions for the rest of us to get out too. We all do — Claudia carrying her Desert Eagle, Umberto holding an almost as lethal-looking black semiautomatic pistol.
{It’s Rita, Papa. She says I have to stay quiet. She has a gun. She says she doesn’t want to, but if she has to, she’ll hurt me.}
Umberto rushes forward at a wave of Claudia’s hand, points his gun into the garage, swivels his body from side to side as he examines the interior. When he’s sure of no threat, he waves us forward. We all enter the garage at the same time, Umberto and Claudia’s pistols at the ready.
{Do as she says, son.}
{I’m scared, Papa.}
{I know. We’re coming. Just do as she says for now.}
Inside the garage, the only noise comes from the wind at the entrance; otherwise, all is still, calm, quiet. We wander the interior, staring at an asphalt floor laid out with twenty parking spots, looking up at a concrete ceiling held up by concrete spans and pillars and concrete walls. The light fades at the back of the lot, and in that darkened area we find an U-shaped anteroom packed with road signs, safety cones, barricades and other traffic control equipment stacked to the ceiling.
On the left side of the three-sided room, a narrow, clear path leads to a single bathroom door. Umberto tries it. “Locked,” he mouths.
“The bridge tender probably has the key,” Claudia whispers to me. “I can send Umberto up to the bridge house to get it.”
I nod.
The Latin girl whispers instructions to Umberto and he rushes off.
{Papa, she’s holding me near the door.}
{Don’t fight her, Henri.}
{She’s mean. I don’t like her anymore.}
{I don’t either, Henri. We’ll be there soon.}
{Please, Papa.}
Umberto returns, his clothes drenched, his hair plastered to his skull, a small key ring, with two keys on it, in his left hand. “Sure hope no one needs this bridge to go up,” he whispers, grinning. “Somehow the bridge tender ended up falling into the river — after he gave me the keys.”
Claudia takes the key ring. I hold up my hand, signaling “Wait.”
{Henri, where is Rita pointing the gun?}
{Right now it’s in her hand, pointed at the ground, Papa.}
{Is she holding you tightly?}
{Not very.}
{Good. We may be coming in — in a few moments. As soon as the door opens, I want you to push away from her. Run to the other side of the room.}
{Okay, Papa.}
I nod to Claudia. She tries one key in the door’s lock. It doesn’t budge. She tries the next and flashes a smile when the knob turns.
She and Umberto rush in first. Chloe and I follow. We find only an empty bathroom. “What the hell!” Claudia says, checking the two stalls, examining the plain white-tile walls. We all look at each other.
Chloe points to the keys in Claudia’s hand. “The second key has to be to another door, doesn’t it?”
We leave the bathroom, go back into the garage, search for any sign of another door. We find nothing. “Pa warned we could be yards away from Henri without finding him,” Chloe says.
I nod, wander back to the storage area. On the right side of it, folded barricade signs are stacked from floor to ceiling. But when I get close, I can see that the stacks start about twelve inches from the wall — enough room for someone to make their way to the back sideways. I motion for Claudia to hand me the keys and begin to sidle my way back. The others follow.
Halfway into the alcove, the closest stack of barricade signs stops and the passageway widens. I stop, look around, spot the steel door at the rear of the area, located on the right wall. I dash toward the door, Chloe behind me, Claudia following, Umberto just emerging from the narrow passageway.
The large man snags the leg of one of the barricades as he rushes toward us and the stack teeters, then falls with a loud, metallic crash.
{Papa, is that you?}
{Yes.} I glare at Umberto.
{Rita’s right next to the door with her gun. She has her hand over my mouth — hard — so I can’t make any noise.}
{Henri. Where is she pointing the gun now?}
{Toward the door, Papa.}
{Away from you?}
{Yes.}
{When I say so, I want you to change as quick as you can. Can you do that?}
{In front of a human, Papa?}
{It’s okay this time. You have to bite her hand as soon as you start to change.}
{Bad?}
{As bad as you can.}
After telling Claudia and Umberto that Chloe and I will be going in alone, I insert the key and try it just enough to see that it will release the doorknob. I take a deep breath. If Henri is shot, I doubt I’ll ever forgive myself. I nod to Chloe.
She strokes my cheek and nods.
{NOW! CHANGE, HENRI!} I mindspeak. {BITE HER!}
Rita’s scream pierces through the door. She howls again as I throw the door open and dart inside, Chloe right behind me. I shove the yowling redhead out of my way, ignore her bloody fist, the pistol at her feet and rush toward my son.
Henri, now in his natural form, stands nearby, blood on his mouth and chest. {Are you okay?} I say.
He nods, spits out three of Rita’s fingers.
“Damn you!” Rita screams. She tries to reach for her gun with her good hand, but Chloe grabs her and throws her down to the floor.
{Change back!} I say and Henri reverts to his human form, his clothes ripped and tattered by his shapechange, his face and clothes still splattered with Rita’s blood.
“Papa!” he shouts and grabs me as if he’ll never let me go.
I hug him too, pick him up, kiss his face, his cheeks.
“You can come in now!” I shout to Claudia and Umberto. They enter, their eyes wide at the spattered blood, the moaning redhead seated on the floor, clut
ching a bloody, near-fingerless hand with her good hand while Chloe tightens a makeshift tourniquet around her wrist.
“Wow,” Claudia says. “I guess you guys didn’t need us.”
Henri clings to me, refuses to get off my lap as we drive back to Coconut Grove, the storm’s strength growing, rain pelting our car, winds howling. I hold Rita Santiago’s cellphone in my right hand, stare at it and frown. Soon it will be six and Derek will call.
I hate that it all isn’t over, that I must be apart from my son again, but I’m all too aware that finding and rescuing him was the easier of our tasks. “We still have to deal with your father and Derek,” I say to Chloe.
She nods. “I know,” she says. “I was thinking the same thing. But how?”
Not sure myself, I shrug. “We can offer to buy them off again. Now that we have Henri and she” — Imotion to the redhead huddled in the back of the Hummer, nursing her injured hand — “is no longer available to help them, they may be willing to go away — for a price.”
“I doubt it.”
“Me too,” I say.
Rita’s cellphone rings a few blocks before we reach the Dinner Key Marina. I let it ring a few more times, then answer. “Hi, Derek,” I say.
Silence.
“Derek, it is you, isn’t it?”
“Bloody hell! Where’s Rita?” he barks.
“We have her,” I say.
“And the boy?”
“He’s fine. He’s sitting on my lap right now.”
Derek doesn’t answer. He muffles the receiver with his hand, but still I can make out enough of his conversation to know he’s telling his father what’s transpired.
Rather than take over the phone, Charles Blood mindspeaks, “DAMN YOU, BOY, I THOUGHT WE HAD AN AGREEMENT!”
“You were never going to keep your word, Pa. We both know that,” Chloe says.
Dragon Moon Page 24
