The Seadragon's Daughter (5 page)

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Authors: Alan F. Troop

BOOK: The Seadragon's Daughter
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Four men finally get up from a table and walk away from the lights. Chloe flies off after them.
“It’s too many!”
I mindspeak.
“Why not wait until one leaves by himself?”
“I’m tired of waiting. I’ll follow until they break up and then take one of them.”
I stay over the patio, wondering if I should have followed my bride. But fifteen minutes later a single tall, muscular male rewards my patience by leaving his table and walking off into the dark alone.
He crosses a nearby field, singing, drinking from a beer bottle. I follow overhead and wait for him to leave the bar and the others far behind. After the field, the man turns onto a dirt path, drains the last of his beer and throws the bottle into the bushes. He walks forward in the direction of the sea, muttering to himself, occasionally laughing.
No homes lie in sight, no other humans. I wonder if he’s a fisherman or a farmer, whether he’s returning home to a wife and family or an empty house. No matter. My stomach aches.
I dive, rush at him from the front. He opens his mouth, his eyes wide, clearly about to scream. Slashing out with a foreclaw, I slice his throat, the rich aroma of fresh blood filling the air as I seize his thick, warm body with my rear claws, yank it into the air and fly toward the sea.
“Chloe come! Fresh meat!”
I mindspeak.
“I have some too, Peter,”
she says.
“Don’t be mad. It seemed like they never were going to break up. I took all four.”
 
I find her on a deserted beach, four bodies laid on the sand near her. I land, lay my kill next to hers.
“Chloe? Four? It’s such a waste. . . .”
“I know Peter, I know.”
She sniffs at my kill, inspects each of hers.
“I shouldn’t have . . . but it’s done now.”
She chooses the smallest of her victims, drags it over to me.
As is the custom for our females, she selects a tender morsel of meat and serves me first before she feeds. I take it and swallow it and then we feed together side by side until we’re satiated. Langour overtakes us then and we allow ourselves to lay together on the sand and doze for a short while.
Chloe stirs first. She nudges me.
“We should get back to the children and let them feed too.”
I stretch, rest my tail over her tail, press my body close to hers.
“There’s something else we could do first,”
I mindspeak.
“We haven’t done it in our natural forms in a long time.”
“And we won’t for a while longer,”
Chloe says, pulling away from me.
“We have children, Peter. We have to give them the chance to change into their natural forms and feed while there’s still enough night left.”
I know she’s right. Still I refuse to move until she’s chosen which kills she wants to bring back with us and until she’s disposed of the extra bodies in the waters far off the shore.
5
 
No newspapers or television stations report any new disappearances in the waters off of Miami that weekend or the week that follows or the week after that. The local stations stop broadcasting their endless conjectures over who or what has been causing the disappearances. The Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard cut back on their patrols and for the first time in months, Chloe says, “Maybe we could think of going hunting together sometime soon.”
I nod. As much as we and the children enjoyed our foray to the Bahamanian Out Islands, I much prefer flying from and returning to our own island. “We’ll give it another week,” I say. “If things are still calm, I think we’ll be able to start getting back to normal.”
But the next morning, when I come up to the great room for breakfast, Chloe greets me with a frown and says, “It happened again.”
Looking out the window I see the patrol boats cruising on the bay—just as many as before. I shake my head. “You know nothing says we have to stay here while this is going on. We could go to Jamaica, stay at Bartlet House, visit with your parents and your brothers at Morgan’s Hole.”
Chloe looks at me and grins. “You want to visit with my family?”
I shrug. “Everyone has their in-law problems.”
“Everyone’s in-laws haven’t tried to kill them,” Chloe says.
“But that’s over now,” I say. “Anyway, your brother Philip was never part of it, and your Dad pretty much made up for it before he left here for Jamaica.” I think of Chloe’s older brother, Derek, and the frown he wore for weeks after I defeated him and his father. “I could live without ever seeing Derek again. But as long as he’s polite he won’t bother me.”
“Pa would never let him be anything but pleasant to you.”
“Then there will be no reason to avoid Jamaica. I know Henri would love to start riding horses again. Lizzie’s never been there. We could get a little pony for her. We could fly when we want. Hunt when we want.”
“But school won’t let out until June,” Chloe says.
I shrug. “So? Henri’s already far ahead of most of his class. He won’t have any trouble catching up next year. I can call Tindall. Tell him to arrange with Granny and Velda to open Bartlet House, get it ready for us.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Chloe says.
“You should call your parents and let them know to expect us.”
Chloe laughs. “Why don’t I call Tindall and tell him to arrange things—and you try to call my parents? I told you the satellite phone we got them would be a waste of money. They’ve never once picked it up to call us. They don’t think that way. In my family, when someone leaves home, they consider them gone for good. Remember how it was when I called them after Lizzie was born? It took forever before Mum picked up and then she scolded me for making her talk on the damned thing. She hates it.”
“Still you should give them a call,” I say.
“Maybe,” Chloe says, then sticks out her tongue at me.
 
The more I think of Jamaica and our vacation home, Bartlet House, far inland of Montego Bay, close to the wilds of Cockpit Country, the more I like the idea of going there. I’ve little doubt it will take much time for our groundskeeper, Granville Morrison and his wife, Velda, to get the house in order, the stables filled with gentle horses and the swimming pool crystal clean.
The thought of visiting Cockpit Country again—a wild and overgrown area with an irregular terrain so full of closely bunched, almost pyramid-shaped mountains and plunging sinkholes that few people dare to visit it—makes me yearn to go. It still is the only place I’ve ever been able to fly over in my natural form during daylight.
I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts of Jamaica that I barely pay attention to Henri as we get in the Grady White, cast off from the dock and head toward his school. We’re already across the bay and near the channel to his school, before he tugs on my arm. “Papa! I said slow down. Please!”
I push the throttles up, look around for any possible danger as the hull lowers into the water, the boat slowing, coasting forward, beginning to wallow. But the only other boats I see moving on the bay are far away, heading in other directions. I scan the sky for any signs of bad weather, study the few clouds scattered overhead, puffy white things that can’t even threaten to provide a sun shower. I look at Henri. “What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Papa. Look!” He points to the water about twenty yards behind our boat. I see nothing for a few moments and then a gray fin breaks the surface, the dolphin arching its back for a moment, then disappearing.
“So it’s a dolphin,” I say.
“It’s been following us, Papa. Ever since we left home. I think it’s the same one as before.”
“Maybe,” I say, watching for the fin, spotting it when it breaks water again, only ten feet from our boat. I push the throttles forward again. “We still have to get you to school on time.”
 
Henri’s school, Coral Bluff, my alma mater, sits on land that would make any developer cry with envy. Occupying fifteen acres of prime bayfront land just a few hundred yards south of downtown Coconut Grove, the school boasts some of the finest tropical landscaping and some of the oldest coral stone buildings in the county—as well as the best academic reputation. All of which enables it to collect tuitions worthy of an Ivy League college.
It is also the only local school I know of that has its own boat channel, docks and fleet of boats.
We enter the narrow channel, motors slowed down to a purr, the Grady White just ghosting along, and pass the boathouse where the school keeps a half dozen rowing sculls and fifteen Optimist sailing prams, sitting one after another in a neat line along the south bank of the channel. The rest of the school’s fleet—twelve glistening, white Precision Sixteen sailboats—float tied up at the dock nearby. I smile at the array of boats and wonder if the children who attend this school realize how privileged they are.
As per usual no boats are tied up at the visitors’ dock. As far I know, I’m the only parent who brings his child to school each day by water. Henri goes to the bow as I approach the visitors’ dock, and jumps off when I push the throttles to neutral and let the boat brush to a stop against the dock’s rub rail. “Look, Papa!” Henri points to the canal behind us. “It’s still with us.”
I turn, see the dolphin’s gray fin, the outline of its gray body just below the water’s surface. From the size of it I assume it’s either a female or an immature male. I shake my head. I’m used to the small pods of bottlenose dolphins that frequent the waters near my island. I rarely have seen any of them swimming by themselves and certainly have never seen any dolphin follow a boat into any narrow channel.
The dolphin swims by the boat slowly, as if it’s examining it, then flips around under the water, and with a kick of its tail shoots back out the channel. “See that?” Henri says, a wide smile on his face.
I nod, watch the water for any sign that it might be returning. Its behavior’s so peculiar, I’m tempted to turn the boat around and chase it just to see what it will do.
“Excuse me. Mr. DelaSangre?”
Turning toward the voice, I find the school’s head administrator, Sam Maxwell, standing a few yards from the dock. Short and round, wearing a glossy black suit with a white shirt and a narrow deep green tie, his bald scalp glistening with sweat, he hardly looks like the type to be comfortable outdoors, certainly not under a bright and hot morning sun. “May we talk for a minute, Mr. DelaSangre?”
I nod, motion him forward, wondering what mischief Henri’s done. Henri, I see, has the same thought. When I cock an eyebrow and look at him, he just shrugs and stares at the ground.
As soon as Maxwell steps on the dock, he turns to my son. “Class is about to start, Henri. It wouldn’t do to be late.”
Henri nods, says, “Bye, Papa,” and scampers off to class smiling, obviously happy to be dismissed.
Maxwell watches the boy go, then turns to me. “Mr. DelaSangre, I’m so sorry,” he says, his hands out, fluttering as he speaks. “We believe in honoring the privacy of our students’ families. You know how many high-profile people, politicians and performers, attorneys and doctors, successful businessmen like you send their children here. You know how we try to control access to our grounds. I’m sick to my stomach that it occurred here. Absolutely disheartened. You must believe me.”
My forehead wrinkles as I try to understand what he means. “I’m absolutely willing to believe you,” I say. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His eyes go wide, his face flushes a bright red. “You haven’t seen it yet? No one’s called you about it?”
“About what?”
“The picture. The article,” Maxwell says. He unclips a walkie-talkie from his belt, barks into it. “Miss Simon! I’m down on the dock with Mr. DelaSangre. Please bring me the paper that’s on my desk.” He pauses a moment, listens, then says. “Yes, that one. Now!”
“What picture and what article?” I say.
Maxwell takes a breath, sighs, flutters his hands. “I’d rather you see it yourself. I assure you I don’t believe a word of it. It’s not like it was in a legitimate paper. I want you to know we have a professional security force. They’ve been trained to keep the paparazzi out. We’ve already investigated and found the one who let him in.” The administrator huffs out an indignant breath. “For a hundred dollar bill, no less! Believe me, Mr. DelaSangre, we’ve already sent him on his way.”
Miss Simon, a tall, thin woman in a light green dress that on her looks as shapeless as a cylinder, runs down from the administration building. Her high heels clack on the dock’s wood deck as she rushes up and hands Maxwell a thin newspaper. He hands the paper to me.
I recognize it as one of the trashy weeklies that masquerade as underground newspapers and make their income mostly from restaurant and entertainment ads. This one’s masthead proudly proclaims itself as
The Weekly Dish
. A single color picture of me dropping Henri off at the school’s dock takes up most of the front page. The headline below the picture says, CAN THIS MAN BE A KILLER?
Shaking my head, clenching my jaws, I open the paper, glance at the article long enough to see my name and those of Maria and Jorge Santos. Another name, Pepe Santos, also appears in the first paragraph. I read just enough to see he’s my accuser and then shut the paper.

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