The Dragon Delasangre (11 page)

 

We both leap from the cave's mouth, into the night at the same time.
“I hate to leave you just yet,”
Elizabeth says. She flies by my side for a few minutes longer, then sighs as she breaks away and soars across the valley. I lag behind until I lose all sight of her, climb higher and higher after that—Cockpit Country growing small and dark beneath me, my love hidden somewhere in its gloom.

The half moon stands out in the dark sky like half a gold coin laid down on black velvet. Its yellow glow illuminates the world below me, deepens and lengthens the shadows that rule Cockpit Country at night, follows me as I pass over the lights of Falmouth and Montego Bay, shimmers over the waves after I leave the land behind.

While Cockpit Country, with its crazy mélange of hills and valleys, confuses me, here at sea I know my way. I fold my wings, plummet almost to the ocean's surface, then spread them and glide just over the waves. The fresh salt smell fills my nostrils and I sigh and breathe it in, glad to be away from the heavy aromas of blooming plants and rotting vegetation.

A twinge of guilt strikes me and, for a moment, I wonder why I'm not stricken with grief to have had to leave Elizabeth behind. But it isn't her absence that fills me with joy.

This is far and away the greatest adventure in my life. Already I've crossed a good part of an ocean in my quest to find my love. I've found her, fought for her, killed for her
and won her. To have stayed longer in Cockpit Country, hunting and sleeping and making love, would do nothing to bring the adventure closer to its conclusion.

Besides, I think, being far too aware of the protests my muscles make every time I flap my wings, the almost pleasant ache of my overused and congested loins—a few days' rest wouldn't be such a bad thing before I face my young bride again.

 

I reach the Grand Banks an hour before dawn, thank the fates when I see it riding safe and secure on its anchor line, just as I left it. In my absence, two other boats have anchored nearby, a sailboat and another trawler, and I'm glad to have the cover of the last few minutes of the night when I land on the boat's top deck, change shape, clamber down the steps and rush inside.

Fatigue tugs at me. I force myself to pull out the charts, look up the coordinates for Falmouth, program them into the GPS and the autopilot. My stomach growls and rumbles and I realize how much energy my travel and shape-changing have depleted. I almost sleepwalk as I turn dials, flip switches, cranking up the twin diesels, listening to them roar into life, then settle into a subdued growl. I throw on the generator, the air conditioning, and the once-silent craft now vibrates slightly from the hums and grumbles of its machinery.

The windlass groans as it reels in the anchor line. I stop by the freezer before I go forward to make sure everything's fast, take out a large sirloin and throw it in the microwave.

A man, woken no doubt by the noise of my activity, comes up onto the deck of the sailboat moored a few dozen yards away. As naked as I am, he watches as I secure the anchor on the bow pulpit, then turns his back and urinates over the side. An impulse strikes me to take him, substitute his
fresh meat for the steak defrosting in the microwave, but I push the thought away.

I've had more than enough human flesh over the past few weeks. A simple uncomplicated steak strikes me as more of a treat right now.

He turns back and waves. I return the gesture, go inside to the galley, take the barely warm steak out and hold it in one hand, blood dripping on me and the deck as I carry it to the bridge, wolfing down chunks of it. One-handed, still eating, I put the motors in gear and guide the Grand Banks out to sea.

Later, after Cayman Brac has disappeared into the ocean behind me and blue water surrounds me on all sides, I activate the autopilot and head below to the dual luxuries of a hot shower and a soft, clean bed.

 

Lying under clean sheets, in that frustrating stage before sleep when weariness exists in so much excess that it denies rest, I wonder how Elizabeth will react to all of this.

She knows these things exist. She bragged to me, she saw much of it in the few border towns she was permitted to visit with her brother—the ramshackle buildings and homes in Troy and Warsop astounding to her because of their modern devices. But she's grown up in a home without any of it.

I grin, thinking of how wide her eyes will get when I bring her to the real world, how much there is to teach her, expose her to, feeling like Pygmalion.

Thinking of her makes me miss her and I picture her in my mind, the image shifting between her human shape and her natural one. I wish the boat would go faster, rush me back to Jamaica so I can endure the feast—whatever that may be—and start the long journey home.

Once there, I know, everything will be perfect. It has to be. Elizabeth will have anything she wants. I have the money and power to give it to her.

Just before I drift off, the boat rolling in its sea dance, the motors droning in the background, I remember something Father said . . . and I wish I didn't.

“Remember we once ruled the world,”
he told me.
“We only lost it because we assumed we would rule it forever. Beware smugness, Peter. Our people have no worse enemy.”

 

I love the way islands rise into view on the open water. My own island, Blood Key, lies out of sight of mainland Miami. Every time I leave Coconut Grove, I have to point the boat in the correct direction without any visual confirmation, the island only revealing itself to me as I travel across the bay, teasing me by first showing a few treetops as thin black smudges above the horizon—then slowly swelling up before me as I speed toward it.

Jamaica first shows itself as a dim glow on the horizon, late into the second night of my cruise. Though I know I may be too far offshore to reach her, I mindspeak,
“Elizabeth!”

“Peter?”
A different voice answers, faint but distinctly male.

I pause before I reply, wondering who, why—worried that something could have happened to her.
“Yes,”
I say.

“This is Derek, Elizabeth's brother. I'm to meet you when you arrive. . . .”

“Is Elizabeth okay?”

“Oh,”
he says.
“Of course . . . I thought you knew she can't.”

“Can't what?”

“It's the damned tradition, you know. Bloody pain if you ask me. But Mum and Pa insist on the old ways. God knows I've argued with them. Told them a thing or two quite a few times—if you know what I mean—”

“Derek!”
I interrupt, and sigh before I continue.
“What tradition are you talking about?”

“Elizabeth thinks it's stupid too. She can't understand why you two can't talk or see each other until the feast. I told Pa, you'd already seen everything she has to offer, she's carrying your whelp after all, but he won't go against my mum.”
His chuckle reaches all the way from Jamaica.
“Not that I blame him.”

“Can you tell her I miss her?”

“Of course . . . She says she can't wait to be with you.”

I grin when I hear that.

“Peter?”
Derek says.
“How close are you?”

“I'm not quite sure. I think I'll make it to Falmouth sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“Do me a favor, old man. Could you push on a bit more? Come in at Oyster Bay. You can put up at Sparkling Waters Marina. That way I don't have to drive into Falmouth. I'd rather avoid the place for a little while.”

I shrug and say,
“Sure.”

“You'll like the marina better anyway. The water's quite remarkable at night, phosphorescent you know.”
He pauses but I don't have a sense he expects any comment from me. Rather, it seems, he's following his own train of thought. After a few more moments he continues.
“Good, that settles it! I'll meet you at the dock the morning after tomorrow. I'll tell Mum to expect us before dark.”

 

Footsteps wake me as Derek Blood strides onto the wooden dock and paces the length of the boat, once, then twice before he hails me. “Peter!” he says. “This
is
your craft, isn't it?”

“Yes!” I call out, sitting up in bed, reaching for a pair of shorts. “I'll be with you in a minute!”

“Fine-looking boat you've got. Wouldn't mind having
one like this myself. . . . No hurry, old man. I'll wait for you on deck.”

I find him sitting on a seat on the flybridge, his sneakered feet propped up on the console. Dressed in a striped polo shirt and white shorts, he looks like he's on his way to tennis. Derek flashes a wide smile when he sees me, makes no effort to hide his scrutiny. “Elizabeth described you very well,” he says, stands and offers his hand.

It's like shaking hands with a vise. He's at least three inches taller than I am, muscular enough to strain his clothes to the point of bursting. I match the strength of his grip, returning his open stare.

Had I not been expecting him, had I not seen his telltale emerald-green eyes, I'd never guess he's Elizabeth's brother. Blonde-haired, sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, his skin is too white, too untouched by any color, other than a slight red flush on his cheeks, to think him related to her in any possible way.

He sees the confusion on my face and laughs. “Wait till you meet the rest of the family. Elizabeth changed a few years ago, decided she likes looking like a native. Chloe, our younger sister, did the same thing, but chose to be even darker. Mum and Pa, my younger brother, Philip, and I still prefer to look the way our ancestors did.”

We both have to squint in the bright early morning sun and Derek looks at his gold Rolex watch and shrugs. “Sorry about the time, old man. I just wanted to make sure we could make it back to Morgan's Hole before dark. Sometimes the roads can get quite dicey.”

Derek waits while I go to the marina's office and call Miami. I manage to catch Jeremy Tindall at home, just before he leaves for the office.

“For Christ's sake, Peter,” he says. “How much longer do you plan to keep using my damn boat? Is it okay? Where the hell have you taken it?”

“Hello, Jeremy. I'm fine. Just in case you're curious,” I say.

“And the boat?”

“The Grand Banks is fine too, not a scratch. Jeremy, listen to me. I need you to arrange some things.”

“Like?” he says.

“I'm in Jamaica and I'm getting married.”

“To a Jamaican?”

“Sort of,” I say. “I need papers for her, citizenship, legal ID, social security, driving license—the works. And a Florida marriage certificate for us too.”

Jeremy snaps, “Arturo handles those things.”

“Arturo's busy. You know how to arrange it too. Don't screw with me on this, Jeremy. Elizabeth's very important to me.”

His voice softens. “Of course, Peter, I'll be glad to help.”

He asks for the address of the marina and promises to express a packet of forms for Elizabeth and me to fill out.

“We'll need a current picture of her,” he reminds me.

“Will do,” I say.

“I think you need to know, your friend Santos is still calling. I had to talk to him again after he became abusive with Emily. He said he's tired of waiting for you. He demanded permission to visit your island. Of course, I told him it was impossible. If he tried we would press charges against him. . . .”

I sigh, wish the man would stop intruding into my life. “Tell him again, I'll see him when I get back. Tell Arturo—if Santos is stupid enough to go to the island—he has my permission to shoot him.”

“Tell him yourself,” Tindall says. “Arturo told me he wants you to call him on his cell phone. You tell him he can shoot the jerk. I hope Santos gives him the opportunity to do it.”

“I hope he doesn't,” I say. “I'd rather he just goes off, leaves me alone.”

“I've talked to him and I have to say, there's not much chance of him going anywhere until he's sure there's no connection between you and his sister.”

“Well, there is none.”

“Santos is the one you have to convince, not me.” Tindall chuckles. “I don't care what you did. I don't care what he thinks. The only thing I care about right now is my boat. . . .”

“Stop worrying, Jeremy. I'll be giving it back to you soon enough.”

“And that would be when?” Tindall asks.

“In a few weeks,” I say. “
If
you get all of Elizabeth's paperwork done quickly enough.”

 

Arturo wastes no time on pleasantries. As soon as he hears my voice, he says, “Would you believe one of the accountants tripped him up?”

“Santos?” I ask.

“No, Tindall.” Arturo laughs. “I can't believe he could be this stupid.”

“And?”

“Jerry Sokowitz brought me the figures on Caribbean Charm, our import company, the one that sells paddle fans and lights to all the big hardware chains.”

“Sure, I remember that one. It's been growing nicely. . . .”

“Not anymore. Starting in January, sales started to dive. They're off now over seventy percent. We're losing money hand over fist.”

“What does the president say?”

“That's the thing. He quit in January, along with his top three salesmen. They took their customers with them.”

“And Jeremy didn't do anything to stop them?”

Arturo laughs again. “Seeing that they went to work for an import company run by Tyler Tindall, his youngest son, I don't know why he would want to.”

I sigh into the receiver. Excessive greed always confuses me. Jeremy Tindall already makes more money than most men dream of. Why would he risk diverting any of my business?

“What about Ian?” I ask, hoping somehow that Jeremy's older son, the man I'm grooming to eventually replace him, isn't involved.

“We've had Ian in D.C. at George Washington, taking a special course in tax law. The business is in Jeremy's wife's name and Tyler's. The way that family works, I think there's a good chance Ian knows nothing about it. If he did, they'd have to share with him.”

“You know what to do,” I say.

“I expect there will be an unexpected disaster,” Arturo says. “I doubt the company will survive it.”

“When the son is there.”

“Of course . . . But you know Jeremy will be furious.”

“What he should be is scared.”

“I believe he will be that too,” Arturo says, then listens as I tell him what to do if Santos dares to come to my island.

 

My mind's still on Tindall, on Maria and Jorge Santos, when Derek and I leave the marina and start our drive inland. I hope Arturo takes care of Jeremy's son before I return. I want there to be time for it all to sink into his consciousness, time for him to drop his anger and accept the fate he has brought upon himself.

As far as Santos, I thank the fates that I disposed of the Chris Craft already. I go over the events in my mind, make sure again that there's nothing left to link me to Maria.

Derek takes a cue from my silence and says nothing until we pass through the small coastal town of Rock and turn off
the paved coastal highway onto a lesser road heading into the interior. His white Land Rover hardly slows on the new surface, handles the rising terrain and loose graveled road as if it were cruising a city street. “This is the easy part,” he says.

I move with the bump and sway of the vehicle, watch the countryside, the occasional weather-beaten, unpainted, tin-roofed, wooden house or store—dogs and goats wandering nearby, rusted-out cars and washing machines in front or on the side.

Derek points out items of interest, a green-breasted doctor bird, the bright orange flowers of an enormous African Tulip tree. He's left the windows down and the air conditioning off, allowing the hot morning air to rush around us, surround us with the lush aromas of the foliage we pass.

Fortunately I've followed his lead and dressed in shorts and a polo shirt. With the day's heat building outside, I'm glad of it.

I hadn't been sure what other clothes to bring, for the evening, for the feast and, when questioned, Derek offered no help. “Wear whatever you want,” he said, shrugging. “Feasting has nothing to do with how you dress.”

Just in case, I've brought along a sports coat, a dress shirt and long pants. Though from Derek's indulgent grin when he saw me carrying them, I assume they won't be needed.

I adjust my shirt collar, pat the right pocket of my shorts, make sure the gold, four-leaf clover necklace I've brought for Elizabeth remains secure where I placed it. Derek continues narrating our journey and I wonder if he's unaware of my nervousness or just politely ignoring it.

Not that he's said a word to help me be at peace. “Derek?” I ask him. “What should I expect tonight, at the feast? I'd like to make sure I don't make a fool of myself.”

He laughs, points ahead and says, “Almost to Clarks Town, get ready to turn—”

“About the feast,” I say and, without slowing at all, he swerves the Land Rover to the right, onto a road perpendicular to ours. The momentum all but crushes me against the passenger door.

He guffaws as I regain my position. “You can't say, old man, I didn't warn you.”

The new road, now before us, consists mostly of tire ruts and pot holes and we bump and lurch along it, slowing as the incline grows steeper and the trees and the bushes grow closer. When the car's motor starts to sound labored, Derek stops, throws the Land Rover into four-wheel drive and proceeds forward.

We break free of the greenery surrounding us and get a quick glimpse of the egg-top-shaped hills of Cockpit Country, the deep cupped holes surrounding them, before the green blanket of the countryside closes in on us again.

“Believe me,” Derek says, “if I could, I'd tell you all about tonight. But Mum and Pa were quite explicit. They warned me, there's a tradition to be upheld and if I open my mouth about it . . . They think I talk too much anyway. If I tell you anything, they'll restrict me to Morgan's Hole for a year.”