Dragon Moon (23 page)

The air reeks of marijuana smoke. I follow a curved passage toward its source.

“Come on, man. It's late. You got your pictures. Let's get on to the monument, shoot a few pictures there and get out of here.”

“Just a few more.”

A camera's flash fills the small chamber with bright light just as I enter from the passageway. I freeze, blink away the dots that flare before my eyes. Two young, white men dressed in muddy clothes, helmets with lights on their heads, stare at me from the other side of the chamber, a dark brown stalagmite — looking like a rabbit sitting on its back legs — between us.

The shorter of the men holds a lit handrolled cigarette in his hand. He draws a deep hit, holds the smoke, then exhales and holds the joint out to me. “Hey, man. Want some?”

I shake my head. That's not what I want.

The other one, the man with the camera, looks to be about my size. He says, “Nude caving? And I thought we were radical.”

Smiling, I walk toward him. “I've been lost. It's a long story. Where are we?”

“This is the Brer Rabbit passage,” the camera guy says. “You go out to the passageway where you came in, it's a straight shot out to the cave entrance. You got three main chambers, Wharf, Big Yard and Royal Flat, maybe a couple thousand feet altogether and you're out.”

“What cave?” I say. My stomach growls, reminds me how long I've gone without nourishment. These two look so young, so full of energy. I wish there were a way I could spare them, know there isn't.

The men look at each other. Again the cameraman answers. “Windsor, man. Just how lost are you?”

I shrug, walk around the stalagmite to them. “Can you guys give me a lift?”

“Yeah, sure.” This time the shorter man answers. “Eric's got his dad's Jeep outside. We just need to finish here and then we're going to leave. We want to be long gone before daybreak.”

“What are you planning to use for clothes?” the cameraman says. I grab his head, snap his neck. He falls like a rag doll. The shorter man drops his smoking joint, backs up. “What the fuck, man? What gives? We weren't doing you no harm.”

“I know,” I say, following him, allowing him to back into the wall. “I just need what you have.”

I carry both bodies back to the main passageway, drag them back to where the river drops. Stripping them, I change into my natural shape and feed. Fresh meat! I gorge myself, then drop their remains into the river below, kicking the bloodstained dirt after them.

Fighting both the languor that always overtakes me after a large meal and the exhaustion of my journey, I change back to my human form and try on the larger man's clothes. Too snug. Frowning, I flex my shoulders against the fabric, feeling like a sausage in its casing. But I've no desire to waste time and energy shrinking my body to fit the clothes. It's good enough to have clothes and shoes on again and light to show me my way.

I think about going home to Bartlet House for some of my own clothes, but there's no guarantee Derek has left any of it. Besides, as close as the house may be, going there would only take away time I might need to drive to Morgan's Hole and prepare to confront Charles Blood.

Putting on the man's helmet, I rifle both men's pockets until I find the keys to the man's Jeep, their money — only two hundred and twenty-three dollars between both of them — and their credit cards. Then I open the camera and expose the film to my headlamp's light. Dropping it, the camera, the credit cards and the rest of their possessions into the river below, I pocket the money and turn and rush out the passageway. A crudely made path takes me through the three chambers, just as the larger man had mentioned, to Windsor cave's entrance.

Outside, I pause, look up at the early morning sky, the night's dark beginning to be muted by the first brush of dawn's light. A flock of green parrots rustle in the branches of a nearby African tulip tree, breaking the quiet with their cacophony. I breathe in the fresh air, find not a trace of the foul aroma of guano and grin.

The Jeep, its top down, sits not a dozen yards from the entrance. I walk to it, wipe the wetness of the morning dew off the seat as well as I can and get in. The motor turns over at the first turn of the key. {
Chloe,
} I mindspeak. {
I'm out.
}

I have to call two more times before she replies. {
What?
} she says. {
Peter?
}

{
I'm on the way.
} I put the car in reverse, turn it and drive back to the main road.

{
Where are you?
}

{
Outside Windsor, not far from Cockpit Country. I have a Jeep. I think I can remember the way back to Morgan's Hole.
}

{
And then what? You can't fight both of them. Father's difficult enough by himself.
}

{
If I were going to fight them, I'd just fly to Morgan's Hole. When is your father leaving for Kingston?
}

{
He says tomorrow. I'm amazed he's really going to do it. I had to beg him for months just to get him to tell Derek to teach me how to drive. He only would if I promised to never drive outside the valley. Pa hates cars. I don't think he's been in one since he tried out the Land Rover when Derek brought it home. That was eight years ago.
}

{
And your mother?
}

{
She'll stay here to watch things.
}

{
Can't Philip?
}

{
No. They locked him up too. After you escaped. What are you thinking of, Peter?
}

As much as I'd like to thrash Charles Blood, I worry about his size. {
I'm thinking there has to be another way to handle your father.
} I drive across the path to Troy, turn into Cockpit Country, grin when I find I can make out the faint path Derek had followed.

{
What if you fail?
}

{
If they don't kill me first, I'll tell them everything they need to know about the treasure. There's no need for Henri to suffer. But ...
} I picture the steep sinkhole near the pass into Morgan's Hole, the large jagged stones pointing up from its bottom. {
I don't think it will come to that.
}

Even driving slower than Derek had, I reach the pass into Morgan's Hole well before night. I drive past the sinkhole, turn back and drive past it again, looking until I find a place where I can back the Jeep off the road and conceal it in the brush, the greenery making a canopy over the vehicle, hiding and shading it.

I busy myself the rest of the daylight hours, taking leaves and branches, camouflaging the Jeep even more, so there's no chance anyone can spot it from the road.

When night comes, I retreat to the driver's seat. My body aches, my stomach growls, my eyelids threaten to close of their own volition. {
Chloe?
} I call.

{
Yes?
}

{
How will you know when your father leaves?
}

{
I'll hear him.
}

{
Please let me know as soon as you do. I need to rest now.
}

{
I will.
}

{
Chloe, we should be together tomorrow.
}

{
I'd like that very much, Peter.
}

{
I won't let anyone separate us ever again.
}

{
Sleep, Peter. I'll be waiting for you.
}

21

Rain pummels me during the night. Insects try to torment me. Still, no matter what the disturbance, I wake only momentarily, then return to sleep. Only Chloe's call, a few hours after dawn, rouses me completely from my slumber. {
Wake up! Pa's on his way.
}

I jerk upright in my seat, turn the ignition, let the motor idle, warm up. {
He should be here in a few minutes,
} I say.

Chloe's laugh fills my head and I grin. I haven't heard such a happy sound from her since before our feast. {
You've never seen Pa drive,
} she says. {
It will be longer than you think.
}

Fifteen minutes pass, then a half hour before I hear the low grumble of the Land Rover's engine. I stand, lean over the windshield and push some branches out of the way, to give me a better view. Then I sit and put the Jeep in gear, wait for Charles Blood to come into sight.

The Land Rover finally creeps into view, Charles Blood squeezing the wheel with both hands, like an old man, as he peers through the windshield, through the side windows, from left to right, staring at the path.

I wait until the car is directly in front of me and then jam the gas pedal to the floor. The Jeep leaps forward, crunches into the Land Rover's driver's side door. The door buckles, window glass crumbling and falling as,
bang,
the driver's airbag inflates. To my dismay the impact knocks the Land Rover only a foot to the side.

Stunned by the crash, pinned momentarily to his seat by the airbag, Charles turns, stares at me.
“YOU!”
he mindspeaks.
“YOU'RE DEAD!”

My foot remains mashed down on the pedal. All four tires spin and dig for purchase. The Land Rover skitters a few more inches to the side. I grit my teeth, hold the wheel, my foot pressed down.

Dust and exhaust surround the Jeep. The other car skitters sideways a couple of inches more, then a foot.

Charles realizes my intent. “Damn you!” he shouts. He jams his gas pedal to the floor a moment too late. The car attempts to shoot forward just as two of its tires slip over the edge of the sinkhole. The Land Rover's tires spin, touch only air.

I take my foot off the pedal, shift to neutral, hit the brake and watch the Land Rover slip, almost in slow motion, into the sinkhole. It catches on some vegetation or a ledge, its motion frozen for a moment, the two driver's side wheels up in the air, the car's underbody exposed to me.

“Enough,”
Charles Blood mindspeaks.
“You've bloody well beaten me. Help me out of this thing.”

“And then?”
I say.

Charles's arms reach out of his window. His head emerges. I watch as he begins to force himself out the window.
“And then I'll rip you to bloody shreds!”

I throw my car into gear, jam down the gas pedal again. The Jeep jumps forward, crashes into the Land Rover's underbelly.

I slam on the brakes as the Land Rover falls over, somersaulting down the side of the sinkhole, Charles Blood still inside.

Getting out of the Jeep, I rush to the side of the sinkhole, watch the car hit and turn as it descends, striking trees, caroming into boulders, until it finally reaches the large white rocks jutting skyward at the depression's bottom and crashes top down, impaling itself on the largest of the rocks, the car's wheels continuing to spin, engaging only air.

I'd hoped there would be a huge ball of flame, like in the movies. But I shrug — this way the vile creature will just be injured, not killed, as Chloe wishes.

As if to confirm my suspicions, Charles mindspeaks,
“Samantha! I need you. I'm pinned inside this bloody car.”

Samantha Blood, in her natural form, flies over me as I drive into the valley. She sees me and circles back.
“If you stop to fight me, your husband may die,”
I mindspeak.
“Go help him. I've no need to kill you.”

“If you and our daughter aren't gone before we return, you will be attacked,”
she says.

I think of Charles's many injuries. How weak he'll be. How much need he'll have for food, rest and sustenance.
“If you do fight us now, you'll both die. Do you want to force your daughter to participate in your deaths?”

She flies off without answering.

{
Peter! Are you almost here?
} Chloe mindspeaks.

{
Almost. Are you ready?
}

{
Ready? I can't wait to get out of this damned room. I've had all my clothes and things laid out on my bed since Pa left this morning. Just get my door open, let me find a few bags to pack it all up in and we can be gone.
}

As soon as I drive up to the front of the house, I jam on the brakes and jump out. Grabbing a tire iron from the back of the Jeep, I rush to the steps, take them two at a time and hurry to her room.

I find her door held closed by an iron bar secured with an ancient iron padlock, fastened to a rusted hasp. I shake my head — that any parent would imprison their daughter like this — and swing the tire iron at the lock. Sparks fly. The clang of metal striking metal reverberates through the house. But the lock holds.