Dragon Moon (4 page)

He squirms in my grasp. “Can we?” he asks.

“Isn't it your birthday?” I ask.

The boy nods.

“And how old are you?”

Henri holds up four fingers.

One of the Yamahas misses a beat, then returns to its normally smooth drone and I turn toward the motors, tempted for a moment to shut them down, check their fuel ignition systems. But I know it's unnecessary, just another delay. I've already made the boy wait until after breakfast, until after we visited Elizabeth's grave, until after all my morning chores were done and until after he cleaned and straightened his room.

While Henri was too young to be in control of himself, I could tell myself I was living sequestered on our island just for his sake. But now that the child has grown old enough for us to go, I'm surprised at my willingness to put off leaving the island, my reluctance to venture forth once again into the company of man.

“Papa?”

I look at my son, nod. “I guess it's time for us to go to shore,” I say. “But remember, Henri, you have to be careful.”

“I know, Papa,” he says. “You told me.”

Henri laughs and squeals every time we hit a wave. “Faster, Papa! Faster!” he shouts.

I laugh along with him, revel in the freedom I feel leaving our island behind. The boat strikes another wave, sending a fine light spray of salt water over us. Henri giggles, shouts, “More!” I lick my lips, taste the salt residue upon them and nod, pushing the throttle forward. The Grady White leaps ahead, skitters from wave crest to wave crest, pitches and bumps in a steady rhythm.

“Look back,” I say. Henri turns his head as I do and stares at the white-foamed ever-expanding
V
of our wake and the small tree-topped island receding behind us. “That's our home, Henri.”

“It looks little,” he says.

I nod.

The boy points to the other small, green-covered islands within sight — Wayward Key so close to our north that from a distance it almost seems part of Caya DelaSangre, Soldier Key to the north of that and, to the south the Raggeds, Boca Chita and Sand. “Do other people like us live on those?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “We're the only ones who live anywhere around here.” Turning back to face the bow, I think about Elizabeth's family. “You have relatives though, on a much bigger island, far to the south.”

Henri nods. He's heard this before.

I point forward to the smudges on the horizon that I know will soon grow into the condo towers and high-rise office buildings and hotels that crowd near the waterfront in Coconut Grove. “Watch, Henri, that's Miami.”

We rush forward, Henri's eyes growing wider the closer to shore we come. Apartment buildings and hotels stretch into sight, then homes and marinas crowded with hundreds of boats.

“Papa,” he says. “There are so many of them.”

“Yes, there are,” I say. “That's why you have to remember what I told you.”

I guide the Grady White past the main channel into Dinner Key Marina, turn into the channel to the north of it, point at the cream-and-green-colored office building towering over the land just beyond the docks. “That's where we're going,” I say.

Henri says nothing, only nods.

“As long as you do what I taught you, you have nothing to fear, son. Just remember to behave.”

He nods again, his eyes wide.

Pulling my son close to me, hugging him, I say, “They're just humans, Henri. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

Henri stares at everything around us, swivels his head from side to side, his mouth open as we approach Monty's docks, the boat gliding forward, its twin Yamahas purring. He says nothing while I maneuver the Grady White, back it into our slip, tie off our lines and kill the ignition.

Silence washes over us, the boat rocking slightly, the heat of the late morning sun suddenly too intense now that we're no longer speeding along. “We're here,” I say, looking around, surprised to see how little has changed — the boats docked near us mostly the same as four years ago — the cheekees, brown palm-frond thatched, open-sided huts, still providing shade at Monty's restaurant's outdoor patio just a few yards from the dock. The air still tinged with the aromas of stale cigarette smoke, greasy food, gas fumes and stagnant salt water.

Henri wrinkles his nose. “It smells funny.”

I laugh. “It's early. It'll smell worse later.”

Lifting my son, I place him on the dock, then step off the boat myself. I take his hand and lead him down the dock, toward the shore. Two couples pass us — the women, both blondes in bikinis, carrying towels and bags of food; the men, dark and Latin, wearing cutoffs, sharing the burden of a large red cooler.

“Great day for boating, isn't it?” says the larger of the men.

“Sure is,” I say.

Henri gapes at them. His right cheek twitches, the skin tightening.

“Henri, stop! No changing!”
I mindspeak before my son goes any further.

“But they make me hungry!” he blurts out.

One of the blondes hears him, stops. “What did he mean by that?” she barks.

I frown at her tone and resist the temptation to shock her with the truth. Instead, I shrug and say, “He's a child. Who knows?”

She stands still, stares at the boy's face as the skin on his right cheek twitches and smooths back to its regular chubby state. Then, shaking her head, she rushes off to catch up to her party.

“You have to be careful of what you say and what you do, Henri,” I say.

The boy looks away from me. Watches the people make their way down the dock. “Why, Papa? They
did
make me hungry.”

I sigh, shake my head. I knew it was unrealistic to hope that Henri's first venture into the outside world would go without incident. No matter how much I've taught him, the child's too young and his instincts are too strong. Still, if I hope to travel in the near future, he has to learn how to behave around humans.

“They don't know what we are, Henri,” I say, my voice harsh enough to make Henri study his feet.

“Yes, Papa,” he mumbles.

“If they did, it would scare them. Sometimes when people are scared of us, they try to hurt us. You have to remember that, Henri. You must never, ever change in front of them.”

“Yes, Papa,” he says, still looking down. Then he murmurs, “But I'm
still
hungry.”

Sitting in the shade of a cheekee, I watch my son from across one of Monty's wood-topped tables. Henri's feet dangle from the wooden bench seat and he swings them while he sucks on the straw the waitress was good enough to put in his glass of water. I grin, watching him drain half the glass in a few sips. The boy's never used a straw before and, if given the opportunity, I'm sure he'd empty this glass and two or three more.

“That's enough for now, son,” I say, taking out my cellphone, dialing LaMar Associates, my family's company.

It takes only a minute for Rita, the receptionist, to get Arturo on the line.

“Jesus, Peter!” Arturo says. “You told me you'd be over this morning. It's almost noon now. You should hear Ian. He's been complaining so much about you making us wait for you that for a minute I thought he was his father come back from the grave.”

I laugh, say, “God forbid.”

“So where are you? When are you going to be here?”

“We're at Monty's. Henri was hungry, so we stopped and ordered some burgers. We should be up in a little bit.... Sorry for the delay, Arturo, but this is Henri's first time around others. He's overwhelmed enough by all of it. I think it will go better if he isn't hungry too.”

“You won't catch me arguing with you,” Arturo says.

I wonder if the man is rubbing the scar on his right forearm as we speak. When he visits on the island, he tends to stroke it whenever Henri's near or I mention the boy to him. Not that I blame him. The bite took over thirty stitches to close. Of course, had Arturo listened to me when I first let him meet Henri, he wouldn't have reached out to my infant son. Henri never would have bit him without such temptation.

Any other human would have been shocked by such a thing, but the Gomez family has been serving mine since we first arrived on our island — long before the United States was even a dream in anyone's mind. Arturo was taught, I'm sure, to expect peculiar things from us and to look the other way when they occurred, as was his father and his father's father. For this, and their services, they've been well rewarded.

The waitress comes to the table carrying a tray with our meals and I get off the phone. She places a red plastic basket containing a burger and fries in front of Henri, another in front of me. I cut into my burger with a plastic knife and fork, nod when I see the meat virtually raw inside it. I say, “Perfect.”

She lingers while I cut up Henri's burger for him. Watches him as he stares at the meat and waits for me to finish. “He's adorable,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

Resting her hand lightly on my left shoulder, she lingers a few more moments, then walks off to wait on another table.

She's the first female to touch me in four years. I know some waitresses use physical contact to raise their tips, but still my heart speeds up. I draw in a breath, amazed I could be so affected by such slight feminine contact. I watch her walk away, study her tight shorts, her long legs and firm buttocks and wonder if my celibacy can be maintained for much longer.

Henri grabs a piece of burger, pops it in his mouth.

“Use your fork,” I say.

“Why?” he says, picking up another piece with his fingers.

“Because if you don't do what I tell you, I won't bring you to land again.”

Henri picks up his fork, spears his next piece of meat. I eat in tandem with him, watching him chew, smiling at his total concentration on his food.

“If you can behave all of today,” I say. “I think we'll go shopping before we go home.”

Henri looks up from his food, smiles.

“So you think you can behave?”

The boy spears another chunk of hamburger, says, “Sure,” with his mouth full.

The Monroe building sits just across the street from Monty's parking lot. Henri holds my hand while we wait for the light on South Bayshore Drive to turn red. Every time a car drives by us, he squeezes hard. He cranes his neck as he stares at the top floor of the office building. “We're going all the way up there?”

I nod.

“It's all ours?”

The light changes and I lead Henri across the street. “All ours,” I say, neglecting to tell him that our family's company, LaMar Associates, owns at least a portion of every one of the large buildings that tower over Bayshore's western side. There will be plenty of time, I think, when my son grows older, for him to learn what a wealthy and powerful company his grandfather built.

Henri's mouth drops open when we enter the building's lobby. He half slides his sneakers across the slick marble floor as we cross the room toward the private elevator that accesses LaMar Associates' penthouse offices. Men in suits, women in business attire rush past us, coming and going from the bank of elevators servicing the other floors.

Where once there was one man standing guard, two armed men — one gray haired, the other balding, heavy set and younger — flank LaMar's private elevator, watch our approach. I shake my head at the show of force. I'd almost forgotten that Arturo had beefed up security after the incidents four years ago.

The balding guard steps forward when we approach. “Sir?” he says, frowning at my shorts and T-shirt, and the small, similarly dressed child I have in tow.

I grin, nod toward the older guard, try to remember his name but can't quite dredge it up. He nods back. The younger man, oblivious to our nonverbal exchange, adjusts his belt and growls, “Sir?”

Cocking one eyebrow at the man, I make a show of fishing in my pockets. I wait until a flush rises on the beefy man's cheeks before I finally produce my key to the private elevator, hold it out for him to see. “I'm Peter DelaSangre,” I say. When the man doesn't react to my name, I add, “Mr. Gomez and Mr. Tindall are expecting me.”

The guard frowns even more. “I'll have to check.” He turns, reaches for a wall phone.

“Harry, for Christ's sake,” the older man says. “Don't you know who Mr. DelaSangre is? Let the man go up. Now!”

Henri's eyes widen when the elevator door opens. Inside I pick him up, let him push the PH button. The door closes and he giggles when we accelerate upward.

Another guard greets us on the penthouse floor when the door opens. He points me to the new receptionist's station. I pause for a moment, examine the rich mahogany paneling, the matching wood furniture that's replaced the wallpaper and mica of four years ago and feel a pang of regret that Emily's no longer here to greet me.

Rita Santiago, the receptionist hired after Emily's unfortunate death, stands up, comes out from behind her desk as soon as she sees me. She smiles, stares directly in my eyes, holds out her hand. “Mr. DelaSangre. We finally get to meet.”

Her gaze, delivered at equal height to mine, surprises me. I'm used to being taller than most men, towering over most women. Not even Elizabeth, who'd chosen a fairly tall human shape, could look directly into my eyes — even on her tiptoes. But, with only the aid of short-heeled shoes, this woman not only can, but does so with disturbing intensity.

I return Rita's smile, take her proffered hand. For the second time today, the mere contact with a woman's fingers affects me out of all proportion to the touch. It doesn't help at all that her eyes remind me of the deep blue water just beyond the shore of my island, or that her thick, red hair cascades down to her shoulders or that her body curves in symmetry with her height. Pockmarks — acne scars, I assume — mostly covered over by makeup, mar what otherwise could be a model's face. But I find that that slight imperfection makes her all the more attractive.