The Seadragon's Daughter (Dragon de la Sangre)

by Alan F. Troop

  I nod. I own LaMar Associates, but Arturo’s the president. He and Ian Tindall and Claudia make all the day-to-day business decisions. Except for the rare occasions when I’m called in to sign papers, I come and go as I please. Since Chloe’s arrival, I’ve been pleased to come very little.

  Motioning for Arturo to take the other seat in front of my desk, I wait until he sits before I push my copy of The Weekly Dish toward him. “Turn it over. Look at the cover page,” I say.

  Arturo picks it up and lets out a soft whistle as he studies it. When he finishes, he shakes his head and passes it to Tindall. “This sucks, Peter,” he says.

  Tindall mutters, “Shit, shit, shit,” as he reads. When he finishes and looks up, I say, “I don’t want to see any more of this.”

  “That’s easy to say, Peter, but it’s a news story. They only quoted what Pepe Santos said. They had every legal right to do it,” Tindall says, putting the paper back on the desk.

  I turn toward Arturo. Of all humans, I trust him and his daughter most. His family has served mine since Don Henri first came to America. Unlike the Tindalls, who’ve served us almost as long and who’ve been responsible for all of our legal work and our political connections, not one Gomez has ever betrayed us. “I said I want it stopped,” I say.

  Arturo nods. Besides being responsible for overseeing all aspects of LaMar Associates, he is also the person I turn to when what I want can’t be accomplished by legal means. He runs his hand over his hair, going mostly gray now, but still almost as thick as when he was young. “I understand what you want. I just have to figure out how to do it. There’s more than one problem here. . . .”

  Claudia Gomez rushes through the doorway, a rolled paper clutched in one hand and says, “Wow. I guess you guys saw this week’s Dish, huh?”

  “We did,” I say.

  “Bet you’re pissed,” Claudia says. “Does Chloe know?”

  I nod, watch the girl as she breezes into the room, kissing her father on the cheek and doing the same to me. She acknowledges Tindall with a curt, “Hi, Ian,” and grabs a chair from by the wall, pulling it over by her father, then sitting, rearranging her short brown skirt, tugging on it to cover a bit more of her long, tanned legs before her father glares at her.

  Claudia notices me watching her and shrugs, flashing me a quick, wide-mouthed smile. We both know that if she had any choice, she’d be coming to the office in shorts or jeans. Arturo’s the one who insists on more formal dress. A head shorter than her father, she looks like his female version—younger, thinner and more attractive to be sure, but just as square-jawed and strong-willed, and rebellious enough to always choose skirts almost too short for her father’s comfort.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Claudia says. “I had to stop at the Brickell Emporium.”

  “For breakfast?” Arturo turns toward his daughter, raises an eyebrow, his face otherwise devoid of expression. Besides her dress, her penchant for tardiness has led to many run-ins between them.

  The girl laughs. “Relax. I wasn’t goofing off. I had to meet Toba.”

  Arturo nods, tilts his head toward me. “Toba Mathais, one of our operatives,” he says. “Sharp little girl, tough, blonde, pretty, great shot . . .”

  “And good,” Claudia says. “She called me last night and asked me to meet her for breakfast so she could turn in her report on the new county manager.” She looks at me. “You know how Pops is about the operatives. He never lets them come to the office.”

  “Anyway when I got to the Emporium . . .” She swivels in her seat to face her father and says, “Okay, so I was a little late for that,” then turns back and holds up her copy of The Weekly Dish. “So Toba was already sitting at the table reading this when I came in. As soon as I sat down she showed me the cover. I couldn’t believe any local paper would dare do that!”

  Ian smiles, his lips too close together to show his teeth. “You don’t know Jordan Davidson. I’ve met him at parties. He’s an arrogant little fag who wears nothing but linen pants, boat shoes and Tommy Bahama shirts. He struts around acting like owning that piss-ant gossip sheet has made him the next William Randolph Hearst. I’ve heard him brag that he actually does his own editing—even writes every headline himself. I think there’s nothing he’d rather do than be in the middle of a great big fuss.”

  “Can he be reasoned with?” I say.

  “Not if you mean, can he be bought off.” Ian’s grin widens as he shakes his head. “From what I hear, his mother bought the paper for him after he flunked out of journalism school. It’s lost circulation and money every year since. The word is, he has no problem covering the losses out of the allowance his mommy gives him.”

  “Is he really gay?” Claudia says. “Maybe we can find something there?”

  Ian says, “I doubt it. Everyone knows he’s homosexual. He’s open about it. He’s going to be a tough one. He’s too rich to be bought and too stupid to be threatened.”

  “But he can be eliminated,” Arturo says.

  Ian glares at him. “I didn’t need to hear that!”

  I sigh. Don Henri, my father, would have given his approval to a plan like that with a wave of his hand. But Chloe and I have discussed living our lives differently than our parents, teaching our children a gentler way. We’ve agreed it’s one thing to kill because one must—both to serve hunger and instinct. Neither of us wants to turn to killing as a knee-jerk reflex to every problem. “We don’t need to consider that yet,” I say.

  Claudia nods, smooths out her copy of The Weekly Dish. “There might be other ways we can approach this.” She points to the byline on the cover story on the first page. “Andy Malcondado. He’s a freelancer. Toba volunteered to see what she can find out about him and Pepe Santos.”

  “Then in the meantime we should notify Davidson to tread lightly where Peter’s concerned.” Arturo looks at Ian and then at me. “Libel law may apply you know. He should understand he could lose all of his mommy’s money.”

  Ian shakes his head again. “It’s not a good idea. I’ve watched this guy get in fights before. He always takes them right to the front page.”

  Arturo says, “It’s up to you, Peter. You’re the one whose name is going to be out there.”

  All three look at me. I stare at my copy of the Dish, take my time answering. When I was young Father made me learn chess, insisting we play each evening. “Every move is a lesson,” he said. “It’s easy to move quickly. But a rash move without studying all the possible consequences can lead to just as quick a defeat.”

  “Can we make sure the rest of the media will ignore the story?” I say.

  Arturo nods. So does Ian.

  “I already planned to take Chloe and the kids to Jamaica until this settles down. That’s one of the things I came here today to discuss.”

  Ian cocks an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Ian,” I say. “I was going to ask you to contact Granny and tell him to open up Bartlet House. I want the stable stocked with horses for us and ponies for Henri and Lizzie. I’d like the same household staff, if he can put it together. And I want you to arrange air tickets as soon as we decide on a date.”

  “That’s easy enough, Peter,” Ian says. “But are you sure you should leave town while this is going on? It could look like you’re running away.”

  I shrug. “So be it. My son’s old enough to be affected by this. He doesn’t need to hear the other kids talking about it at school. I see no reason why he should suffer. Anyway, if none of the other media pile on, then Jordan Davidson can piss in the wind for all I care. But I do think Arturo’s right. We should threaten suit. It can’t make matters much worse.”

  Ian frowns, but says, “You’re the boss.”

  “And Claudia,” I say. “Get your Toba Mathais busy on that writer and Pepe Santos. It wouldn’t hurt to look into Jordan Davidson too. Maybe we’ll have some luck, find something we can use.”

  Claudia smiles. “Toba’s great. I’m sure she’ll come up with something. But I think I�
�ll have a different operative concentrate on Davidson.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  Ian stands and says, “Well, if that’s it, I’ll be getting back to work. It appears I have a threatening letter to write.”

  I nod and say, “But Arturo and Claudia need to stay a few more minutes. And Ian—please close the door on your way out.”

  The thin man frowns, but still does as he’s told. After he leaves Arturo says, “Poor Ian never does like being left out of the loop.”

  “He doesn’t have to hear any of this,” I say. I explain about Derek’s disappearance.

  “You think he’s here?” Claudia says.

  “I don’t know. But if he is, he could be involved with all the people that have gone missing.”

  Arturo sighs. “Just great,” he says. “Just great.”

  “Last time he made himself look like you. How are we going to find him if he can change his appearance like that?” Claudia says.

  “If he’s here,” I say. “And no one’s saying that he is. But if he is, I’d bet that he’s staying with his own appearance. Otherwise, he’d have to have someone make up new papers for him. He’s not that smart or that resourceful.”

  “Ian would be,” Claudia says.

  I nod. So far, Ian is the only Tindall who’s never done anything to betray my family. I’m sure only the lack of a good opportunity and the fear of my response have prevented him from trying. “A good reason why you should have some of your people watching him now,” I say. “But he was smart enough not to ally with Derek the last time. I can’t see why he would now.”

  “Well, we should still have Derek’s picture from when we made up his papers for his return to Jamaica. I can distribute it to some of our operatives,” Arturo says.

  “Good,” I nod. “Have them check the better hotels. Derek likes to live well. And check with the police for missing women on land too. Derek can never stay away from them for long.”

  “And what do we do if we find him?” Claudia says.

  My brother-in-law has already made my life difficult once. My stomach tightens at the thought he could be doing it again. “My father taught me that anyone can make a mistake once. He said that to make the same mistake a second time is unforgivable,” I say. “I let Derek go last time. This time, if you find him, just notify me.” I grin. “I’ll enjoy taking care of it myself.”

  7

  To my surprise, Henri objects when we first withdraw him from Coral Bluff. “All my friends are there!” he says. “It’s boring at home. At least at school we sometimes get to play games.”

  He sulks the better part of a day before he finally begins to follow me about as I go from room to room in the house, readying things for our prolonged absence. By the next morning he volunteers to help as I shut down a generator and begin to take it apart—to lubricate it and see what else might need repair.

  Unwilling to be left out, Lizzie joins us, picking up one greasy part after another from Henri’s pile, placing them where he directs. By lunchtime, when Chloe comes to inspect our progress, she breaks out laughing when she finds her husband, her son and her daughter all equally smeared with grease.

  In the afternoon, I reward Henri for his help by taking him out in Chloe’s Donzi. While it’s too fast for him to take out unsupervised, at sixteen feet it’s far more manageable for him than my Grady White. Once outside our channel, in the bay, I let him take the wheel and start to teach him how to handle the boat.

  We race down the bay as far south as Boca Chita Key. Because Henri’s never seen the small gray-stoned lighthouse on the island from close up, and because on weekdays the island’s small harbor provides a quiet place to practice docking, I say, “Let’s slow down and go explore the island.”

  Henri grins. He cuts back on the motors and I guide him into the island’s channel. It’s a pretty island, so flat and so small and so sparsely treed that in places you can see from the bay to the ocean. On the weekends campers and boaters crowd both the land and the harbor, but today we find only two boats tied to the concrete seawall.

  “How come no one lives here?” Henri says.

  “When I was young someone did,” I say. “A millionaire. He had a big house here. The story is, he built the lighthouse so at night, after card games on the mainland, he could still find his way home—even if he’d had too many drinks. When the park service took over the island they tore down his house. But fortunately, they left the lighthouse.”

  “Are they going to tear down our house too?” Henri says, his lip pouting out like when he was younger.

  I resist smiling at his obvious distress and put my hand on his head and ruffle his hair. “No way. Of course, they’d like to. They’ve tried to take over our island a number of times, but your grandfather and I and our people at LaMar have always been able to stop them.”

  Henri says, “But what if you can’t?”

  I think of all the money that Tindall and Arturo dole out to politicians, of all the favors we’ve done for the top bureaucrats in the park service and smile. “There’s little likelihood of that,” I say.

  It isn’t until we’ve tied up against the concrete seawall in the harbor that Henri points to the water and says, “Look Papa!”

  I frown at the protruding fin, the small, sleek gray shape of the dolphin as it lazily coasts toward us. Usually I like dolphins nearby. I admire the creatures’ apparent joy as they go about their activities. But this one, if it’s the same one that’s followed us before, makes me uneasy. In a land-going wild animal like a raccoon or a fox, odd behavior like this would prompt suspicions of rabies. “You think it’s the same one?” I say.

  Henri nods. “Sure, Papa. I recognize her.”

  “Her?”

  “I don’t know for sure, Papa, but I think it’s too small to be a ‘he’. Anyway, when she visits she always seems too nice to be a guy. She never splashes me or anything.”

  “When she visits?” I say.

  My son nods. “She’s come into our harbor a few times before.”

  As the dolphin glides past our Donzi, Henri leans over and strokes its exposed fin. He smiles at me. “See. She likes me.”

  The beast turns and comes back. I study it. It looks like any other bottlenose dolphin, maybe a little smaller than usual, but its presence puts me on edge. When it comes alongside the boat, I reach over to stroke its fin. With a flick of its tail, it shoots away.

  “You scared it,” Henri says.

  I watch the dolphin hump and disappear from sight, then a few moments later resurface near the harbor entrance. “How do you know it’s always the same dolphin?” I say.

  Henri looks at me like I’m hopelessly dense. “Duhh. Because she’s smooth everywhere,” he says. “Didn’t you notice?”

  Frowning at the scorn in his voice, I think how my father would have reacted had I dared to use such a tone with him. But I decide to let it pass without comment. He’s had other pre-teen moments before, and Chloe’s warned me there will be more. “He still loves you. It’s just a natural part of growing up,” she said.

  The dolphin swims back toward us, but this time when it passes it stays out of reach. Still, in the clear water, it comes close enough for me to see that Henri’s right. Unlike most other dolphins I’ve seen, this beast has no markings, no scars, no little nicks on its fins or tail. I wonder what charmed life this creature’s led to avoid the accidents and fights that seem to mark most of its kind.

  “Can I jump in and swim with it?” Henri says.

  “I don’t know,” I say, watching as the dolphin swims toward the harbor entrance and hoping it will decide to go.

  “Please, Papa.”

  I can’t think of a reason to say no. We’ve jumped into the water with pods of dolphins dozens of times before and never once had any problems. I sigh and say, “Go ahead.”

  Henri gives me a wide grin, yanks off his T-shirt and shoes and jumps from the boat.

  As soon as he splashes into the water the dolphin alt
ers course, turning, swimming straight for us. “Come here, girl,” Henri says, treading water by the side of the boat, patting the water’s surface in between strokes. “Come here, girl.”

  I doubt that the dolphin either hears or understands his words, but its speed increases so quickly that the water boils behind it. Watching its rapid approach, my heartbeat speeds up too. Just moments before the beast reaches my son, I lean over the side of the boat and grab the boy.

  “Hey!” Henri shouts as I yank him from the water.

  The dolphin shoots by only an instant later, then dives from sight. “Why’d you do that?” Henri says, staring at the water, trying to spot the dolphin. “She just wanted to swim with me.”

  “She was coming too fast,” I say, concentrating on slowing my heartbeat.

  “She would have stopped.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Henri says.

  “My father taught me to never ignore my instincts. It’s something you should learn too. It just didn’t look right,” I say. “Even more important, it didn’t feel right.”

  Henri glowers at me. “You watch. Now she won’t come back.”

  “Go below and dry off,” I say. “I think we should go check out the lighthouse. Then we’ll see if she comes back or not.”

  To Henri’s disappointment, we see no sign of the dolphin when we return from the lighthouse, nor does it reappear to follow us home from Boca Chita. He goes to our island’s harbor each day after that and watches for it. But each evening he informs us that she hasn’t visited again.

  After a week passes, he declares, “I don’t think she’s ever coming back!”

  “You never know. They’re wild creatures, Henri,” I say. “She could have gone anywhere. She could come back tomorrow or in three months or never.” I don’t share with him that my choice, if it were up to me, would be never.

  8

  Chloe and I have finished most of the maintenance needed on our machines and equipment and we’ve selected almost all the clothing we plan to pack before Ian Tindall finally calls. I expect him to give me our travel plans. Instead he says, “Is it okay if everything’s delayed a few weeks more? I’m afraid Bartlet House can’t be opened just yet—unless you want me to hire a new crew for you.”