Dragon Moon (9 page)

I resist scolding the boy. He has no knowledge of the poor souls who have been imprisoned in the dark bowels of our house or their sad endings. Certainly he knows nothing of the humans who betrayed me here or how close I came to my own death not so long ago.

Henri joins me in the freezer, blowing puffs of air, smiling at the little clouds of cold they create as he watches me recheck the temperature setting and make notes on a pad. “Why are you doing this?” he says.

“Because,” I say, prepared to leave that as the final answer.

But my son frowns at me. “Papa, it's not fair. You always say that. I'm a little kid. How can I learn anything if you don't tell me?”

I sigh and smile at the same time. Henri's right. This question isn't like the endless patter of questions he usually barrages me with like, “Why do clouds float? What's inside dogs?” and, my favorite, “Why do I have to do what you say?”

“We're going to be in Jamaica a long time,” I say. “I'm making sure everything will be okay when we get back.”

“Why do we have to go? I like it here.”

“You'll like it there too. Anyway, I want to see someone who lives there. She and I will like each other, I think.”

“Are you going to marry her?”

“I might.”

“Is she going to be my new mommy?”

I sigh again. That's how it is with Henri. One question leads to another and the answer to that leads to another. “I don't know, son. It depends on how she feels and how I feel and on how you feel about her.”

Before he can ask another question, I say, “Come on, let me show you something special.” Taking his hand, I guide him out of the freezer.

Henri giggles, says, “Your hand's cold.”

I lead the boy outside onto the veranda, to the massive oak door between the doors to his and my bedrooms. “Watch,” I say. Thinning my hand, I work it into a crevice on the side of the doorway, feel for the catch that will release the iron-sheaved crossbar that keeps the door closed. As soon as I find it, I push upward and am rewarded with a loud click.

Withdrawing my hand, letting it regain its shape, I shift the crossbar sideways until it engages an internal counterweight and pivots out of the way. I swing the door open. Warm air, smelling of mildew, oil, sulfur and must, flows out from the dark interior. Henri wrinkles his nose and backs up.

Stifling a laugh, I say, “It's okay, son. This is one of your grandfather's arms rooms. Some of the things in there are very old.” I don't tell the boy that I haven't opened any of the four arms rooms that Father built into each corner of the house since the day of Elizabeth's death.

Mindful of the canisters of gunpowder stored in the room I wish now my laziness hadn't prevented me from installing electric lights in each of the arms rooms. Motioning for the boy to stay outside, I go in, find a torch and take it outside, where I can light it in the open air. Once it's burning, I carry it in, slip it into a metal sconce on the bare stone wall, far from any gunpowder. Then I say, “It's okay, Henri, come here.”

His eyes grow large as he examines the one ancient cannon in the center of the room, the flintlock pistols, muskets and blunderbuss rail guns stacked on every shelf, the lead canisters full of powder and the bags of shot and stacks of cannonballs. “Wow,” he says.

Nodding, I pat the barrel of the lone cannon. Once there were two in this room, as there are two in each of the others. But the mate to this one lies in the harbor now, encrusted and overgrown with barnacles and coral, decaying, I hope, until one day there will be no trace of what it once was capable of doing.

I look at my son, see the curiosity in his eyes. Before he can ask yet another, “Why?” I say, “Your grandfather brought all this to the island a long time ago. You know our kind can live a long time, don't you, Henri?”

The boy nods.

I think of the ancient, wheezing creature my father became at the end of his life. Life can be so unjust. “Some of us, like your grandfather, live for centuries.”

“How old are you, Papa?”

It takes a moment for me to calculate. After all, for someone capable of maintaining any shape, able to manipulate his internal processes as well, age matters not a wit. The face I present to the outside world is that of a man in his late twenties. What does it matter that I'm far older? Among my own kind I'd still be considered young. “Sixty-two,” I say. “But, Henri, I don't want you to ever repeat that to any human. It would just confuse them. Promise me.”

He nods solemnly, then holds up four fingers. “I'm four now.”

“Yes, you are.” I smile. “Your grandfather was almost five hundred by the time he passed. He lived a long time — longer than he wanted, for my sake.”

“Why, Papa?”

“Because he didn't want to leave me alone. He waited until he knew I could find a wife.”

“Was that Mama?”

I nod, think about the old creature, how much he must have loved me to hold on so long. “Anyway, a long time ago, Don Henri commanded a pirate fleet.”

“And I'm named after him.”

“Yes, you are,” I say. “Do you know what a pirate is?”

“I saw it on TV. They have big sailboats and they shoot cannons.”

I laugh, go about the business of lubricating the guns, fighting the rust that threatens to overtake them. “Yes, they do, Henri. Yes, they do.”

Arturo comes out to visit us the next day. With my permission he brings along his oldest child, a daughter by the name of Claudia. “It's about time my daughter comes to work for the firm,” Arturo said when he asked if he could bring her.

“The tradition is that your eldest son is supposed to come to work for us, not your eldest daughter,” I said.

The Latin sighed. “You try telling Claudia that. The girl has been set on going into the business since the first time she heard about old Evilio Gomez sailing with your father in his pirate fleet. She's heard all the other stories too. She understands our family has always served your family's interests. She knows we have a special relationship that's never to be betrayed.

“Believe me, my wife and I tried to talk her out of it. We'd both prefer for her to marry some nice guy and give us some grandkids. I'd certainly rather my daughter wouldn't have to do some of the things I've done. But she has her own plans.

“Anyway, my eldest son is eight. I don't think he would be much help.” he laughed. “We have to get with the times, Peter. Claudia's twenty-five now. She's been preparing for this since she was a child. She knows everything about what we do. She understands when to look the other way.”

“But do you think she can handle the job?” I asked.

“She'll be fine, Peter,” Arturo said. “She understands what a commitment this is. She knows she's continuing a relationship between our families that's gone on since the first Gomez came to work for your family in the New World. She's perfectly able and willing to do anything you need done.

“Besides, with you planning to be gone for God knows how long, I'll be damned if I'm going to stay out here on my boat, baby-sitting your island, feeding your damned dogs. Let me bring Claudia out to the island. After you meet her, I'm sure you'll be fine with it.”

The dogs rush to the dock, baying and growling, before either Henri or I take notice of the approach of Gomez's boat. We follow the pack to the dock — shoo them away, back from the dock and the house — just before the thirty-five-foot SeaRay cabin cruiser motors into our harbor with Claudia at the helm. The dogs take turns darting out from behind the bushes, howling and barking. Arturo's daughter smiles toward us, and ignores the loud challenges of the dog pack as she expertly pulls the boat alongside the dock.

She approaches me as soon as she steps off the boat. “Mr. DelaSangre,” she says, holding out her hand. “Thanks for letting me come.”

I take her hand, admire her firm grip, the obvious ease she seems to have in my presence. Claudia turns from me, greets Henri with all the same courtesy as she greeted me.

Stepping back, I examine her while she talks with my son. The girl only comes up to her father's shoulders; otherwise, she could be a female clone of him. She possesses the same wide grin, the same square jaw, the same thick black hair, only longer. Fortunately for her, she seems not to have inherited her father's tendency toward beefiness, though her wide shoulders and defined muscles give testimony to her dedication to working out.

She looks up, catches my study of her. “Do I pass?”

I nod, turn to Arturo. “Well, she looks like you. If she works like you, we'll have no problem at all.”

“You don't have to worry about me, Mr. DelaSangre,” Claudia says. “I'll be glad to watch after things here. Pop promised to come relieve me every once in a while so I don't go too island crazy, but I think I'll enjoy it out here. As long as the fishing's good and I have some good books to read, I should be okay.”

“Papa, can I show Claudy my room?”

“Claudia,” I correct him. “If she wants to,” I say.

“Sure,” the girl says, allowing Henri to take her by the hand and lead her up the wide steps to the veranda.

Arturo watches them a few moments, then says, “Bad news.”

“You can't break up Tindall's Wayward Key deal?”

“I'm not sure yet. But an offer was made that the Deering woman accepted and a fairly substantial deposit was given.”

“Offer her twice as much,” I say.

“We have, but she's worried about getting sued.”

“Indemnify her.”

“We offered to, but she's still dragging her feet.”

“Threaten her.”

“Peter, that's for later — if we have to. I have other ideas. Trust me.”

I cock an eyebrow at the man. “If I come back from Jamaica and find a resort being built at my doorstep, I won't be very happy, Arturo.”

He laughs. “It won't ever come to that, believe me. By the way,” he says, “was the info I gave you on that speedboat useful? I don't think the owner's any threat to you. He's just some retired pathologist.”

“I've gone over your notes a few times. It's exactly what I wanted,” I say. “Matter of fact, I plan to review all of it again before we leave for Jamaica. Maybe I'll visit the good doctor, explain proper marine etiquette to him.”

7

The ensuing weeks seem to crawl by for me. I continue to take Henri to the mainland. He and I go to malls, movies, restaurants and museums. To get him ready for flying on an airplane, we even take a few rides on city buses and one on the Metrorail, the elevated train that runs alongside U.S. 1 from South Miami to downtown.

At Henri's request, Rita Santiago joins us for that trip as she does for some of our other outings. “I'm glad you still invite me to come out with you and Henri,” she says. “I like your son and enjoy your company. But don't worry. I understand my position. The raise you gave me was more than generous. I intend to earn it and hopefully more.”

To my relief, there have been no repeats of the kiss and embrace we had after our first outing. She no longer flirts with me. She never asks to visit my island. Even more important, she begins to give me a weekly report on all she observes happening at the office.

Fortunately, nothing of much importance occurs. Tindall flies to Jamaica for a week to hire my help and make sure all will be in place for my trip. A lot of gossip goes around when Arturo brings Claudia into the company and assigns her to an office near his. But otherwise all proceeds as normal.

My thoughts focus more and more on Jamaica and the bride I hope to win. I dream over and over of flying above the conical hills and deep valleys of Cockpit Country. Some nights I find myself chasing Elizabeth; other nights, Chloe. But where I sometimes catch Elizabeth, Chloe always eludes me. No matter how fast I fly, how well I maneuver, she almost always remains just beyond my grasp. In those dreams where I do come closer to her, when I reach out and grab her, I wake up before I can see her reaction.

Finally, the last week of waiting arrives. Tindall calls to assure me all is arranged. “Claudia's going to meet you at the island, ferry you to shore so we don't have to worry what to do with your boat. Arturo will take you to the airport. He has passports for you and your boy. You'll be met at the airport in Montego Bay by the man I hired for you, Granville Morrison. He goes by the nickname ‘Granny.' He'll have your car and the keys to your house.

“You'll find Granny useful. He's in charge of maintaining the grounds, the house and the car, but he knows everything about the area too. If you and Henri want him to stock your stable, he also can handle horses. His wife, Velda, will be managing the house staff.”

“Staff?” I say.

“Just two cleaning girls. Don't worry, Peter, they all know you like your privacy. I told them they have to be off the premises by five at the latest.”

I begin to think about packing and realize I have only Elizabeth's one leather suitcase and Father's ancient portmanteau. Arturo laughs when I tell him. “But I never had any need to own any,” I say. “The last time I went to Jamaica, I just threw my clothes on Jeremy Tindall's trawler.”

“Don't worry,” Arturo says. “I'll have Claudia take care of it.”

The girl, by now able to negotiate our channel by herself, brings out the new suitcases the next day. “I got them at Dadeland this morning,” Claudia says as she takes them off the boat and places them on the dock. “Can I help you pack?”

I shake my head. “I think I can handle it myself.”