The Seadragon's Daughter

by Alan F. Troop

  I say nothing.

  “Peter, I called down there just like you asked. But it seems that your man, Granville Morrison, can’t make himself available for at least two weeks more.”

  “Why?” I say. “He’s still our caretaker, isn’t he?”

  Tindall clears his throat.

  “Ian, damn it! What’s going on?”

  The man sighs. “I was just trying to save you money. It’s been years since you’ve gone down there and we’ve been carrying both him and his wife on the payroll—for doing almost nothing. So I made a different arrangement with them.”

  I think of the big Jamaican and his wife, Velda. I’d hate to have to replace either one of them. “You didn’t fire them, did you?”

  “No, Peter, nothing like that. I just cut them back to part-time status. They agreed to watch over the property on weekends. That’s more than it needs. Believe me, they were still well paid for the little bit of work they had to do. When we worked it out I told them they could get other jobs but they had to promise they’d be available whenever you needed them. Granny swore it would be no problem. But now his wife tells me he has a job in Montego Bay. The man insists on giving them two weeks’ notice.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “Damn it, Ian, you should know better than to cut costs at my expense.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I was just looking out for you. It’ll just be a few more weeks, okay?”

  I turn to Chloe and explain the situation to her. “If you want, we can get someone else for the first few weeks,” I say. “Or stay somewhere else until the house is opened.”

  She thinks a moment, then shakes her head. “No. You told me how much Henri likes Granny. It won’t be any big deal if we wait here, Peter.”

  “Okay,” I say into the phone.

  He lets out a relieved breath. “By the way,” he says. “I sent your letter out four days ago. The one to Jordan Davidson. We haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  “It’s early,” I say. “Was there anything more in this week’s Dish?”

  “No. Claudia’s been watching for us. She said this week’s was DelaSangre-free.”

  “They should all be,” I say.

  In truth, neither Chloe nor I find staying on our island for a few extra weeks to be any hardship. With all the extra time we have, the few remaining chores we have to perform to ready our house for our absence become easy tasks. Without any need to take Henri to and from school on the mainland each day, five days a week, it begins to feel like a mini-vacation.

  Chloe, who has never loved rising early, stops setting the clock’s alarm. We get up when the children wake. In the evenings, after both Henri and Lizzie go to sleep, Chloe and I turn to each other and make love in our human forms, exploring each others’ bodies, taking time for each other, like we did when we first met.

  Other than the usual daily cleaning the house needs and tending the garden and Elizabeth’s grave, we have little we must do but wait for notification that our home’s ready in Jamaica. The weather conspires to lull us into relaxation. The blustery winds of early March give way to calm spring breezes. The regular visits of cold fronts and the showers they bring stop, each new day of mild weather and sunny skies becoming a monotonous repeat of the last. If it weren’t for the disappearances still being reported every few days and the increase of the boats patrolling near our island, I’d just as soon not bother going anywhere else.

  I count it as a gift to have my son home from school each day. We set aside the afternoons for each other, fishing some days, boating or sailing on the others, Henri growing good enough that I readily give the helm to him. In the evenings, with no safe possibility of either flight or hunting, I begin to teach him chess, as my father taught me.

  On nights when his interest flags, I turn to telling stories of our family’s past, Henri usually saying at some point, “Tell me about Don Henri’s pirate fleet!” I smile and point out Don Henri’s old cutlass on the wall, the boy’s eyes growing large as I pull out the old log books and nautical maps that still remain stored in the same wooden chest that Don Henri had placed in the great room long before I was born.

  Henri peers at the old maps and leafs through the log books. He touches the raised ink of my father’s script—the words written in Spanish and equally incomprehensible to both of us.

  My father may have been Spanish-born, but he never spoke the language at home, speaking French with my Hungarian-born mother whenever they felt the need to converse in a foreign language. Other than a few phrases and a few curse words, I’ve long forgotten whatever Spanish I learned in school. Like far too many English speakers in Miami, I’ve just been too lazy to truly learn the language.

  They’d terrorized the Carribean for over a hundred years, each ship commanded by a person of the blood—Captain Jack Blood from Jamaica, Captain Giscard Sang from Haiti and, of course, Don Henri, their leader. Still, the boy frowns when I point to Jamaica and Haiti on the maps and then show him the tiny ink spot that signifies our island. “We should have as big an island as they do,” he says.

  I smile and say, “We have all we need.”

  Each day blends into the next so that after only another week passes, I could swear we’d been living like this for months. We’re outside, under the gumbo limbo tree, Lizzie sitting between my legs, leaning back against my stomach, Henri sitting cross-legged at my side, Max’s huge head in his lap. Both children listen, open-mouthed, as Chloe retells the ancient story of the great war between the four castrylls—the giant, flame-breathing Zal, the seagoing Pelk, the airborne Thryll and our castryll, the Undrae—that once made up the People of the Blood.

  Unlike my mother, who spent most of her youth being raised among humans, Chloe has been taught all the history of our people and the necessity to pass it along. I know when my daughter’s older she’ll be taught even more of it—as well as the uses of every herb and plant in our garden and how to prepare them.

  Since I’ve heard the story before and know the fighting was over dwindling food sources after a cataclysmic explosion ripped through the earth—a battle the Undrae eventually won—I pay only partial attention to Chloe’s words. My eyes wander down to our harbor and out to the bay.

  I smile when I spot the dark blue speedboat racing toward our island. If it stays on course it will soon arrive at the entrance to our unmarked channel. I’ve taught only two humans how to negotiate the channel’s treacherous twists and turns, and I know which one of them owns a speedboat of this color. I wonder if Arturo Gomez knows his daughter’s out on the water on a workday.

  Two patrol boats speed toward her boat and intercept it before it reaches the channel. I frown, wishing that boats could come and go on the water as they did before. By now I’ve been stopped so often that I know many of the people on the patrol boats by name.

  Fortunately, such stops are usually brief. It takes only a few minutes before Claudia’s on her way again.

  She’s still wending her way through our channel when Chloe finishes her story. “Are all the others gone?” Henri asks. “Aren’t there any Zal or Pelk or Thryll anywhere anymore?”

  “All the others were defeated,” Chloe says. “Most either were killed or married Undrae. My mother told me some small groups from other castrylls still exist. But not one of our kind has ever reported seeing any of them.”

  The breeze brings with it the low rumble of Claudia’s outboards, and Max’s ears perk up. He lets out a loud woof, scrambles to his feet and runs toward the dock.

  Henri looks toward the harbor, sees the dark blue speedboat and shouts, “Claudy!” He jumps up, turns to me and says, “Can I, Papa?” I nod and he runs off after his dog.

  A few moments later a dog barks from the other side of the island. Another follows, and soon the whole pack fills the air with barks and yelps. One beast after another scrambles over the sand dunes and through the brush, until the whole pack crowds the shore near the dock.

  They number over twenty now—more than enough to
guard our small island. Standing, picking up Lizzie, I look at Chloe. “We really shouldn’t let the pack get much bigger,” I say.

  “It’s not time yet,” she says, her emerald-green eyes staring into mine. “We can afford to let them have a few more litters. You know how much the kids love the puppies.”

  “I know how much you love them,” I say and begin walking toward the dock, Chloe walking at my side. “But we already have enough.”

  She brushes against me. “Just a few more litters and then we take care of the older ones, okay?” she says.

  I stop, look at her. She’s always made a face every time I talked about how Father and I used to cull the pack.

  “No.” Chloe shakes her head. “There’s no need for that. You can take them to a vet. Get them fixed.”

  “I’m sure that would go over well,” I say, grinning, picturing the commotion that would ensue if I ever tried to bring one of our half-wild beasts to an animal hospital. Even if we could control the dog in such an unfamiliar setting, I doubt any other pet owners would feel comfortable in its presence.

  “So,” I say. “Weren’t you the one who recently killed four humans on Andros because you were too hungry to wait until you could take just one?”

  “Peter, I said I was sorry about that. . . .”

  “And yet you’re worried about doing away with some guard dogs? Don’t you find this a little inconsistent?”

  “And don’t you love that about me?” she says, bumping her hip against mine.

  I nod, put two fingers to my mouth and whistle a sharp, loud burst. The dogs look in my direction, their ears flattened, their tails tucked in. Slowly, one by one, they slink into the underbrush. “At least you haven’t spoiled them completely yet,” I say.

  With all of our dock space taken up by our boats, Claudia pulls her boat alongside my Grady White. Henri places fenders for her and has her tied off by the time we arrive. Killing her outboard engines, Claudia grabs a briefcase and makes her way from her boat to mine and then to the dock.

  I wait while she hugs and kisses Henri, saying, “Thanks for the help,” then hugs and kisses Lizzie, finally embracing Chloe before she turns toward me.

  Staring at her powder blue spaghetti-strap T-shirt and matching shorts and bare feet, I say, “Did your Dad give you the day off?”

  “Hardly,” Claudia says. “He sent me.” She opens the briefcase and takes out a small tabloid newspaper. “Pops thought you might want to see this week’s Dish. I told him there was no way I was going to ride out here in a dress and heels.”

  Chloe takes the paper first, studies it and then passes it to me. “Nice picture,” she says. “You think we could get the original?”

  Frowning at her, I say, “Funny.” This time, instead of the picture taking up most of the front page, it covers only the middle third. Instead of Henri and me, the photo’s a closeup of my face, taken, I guess, with a telephoto lens as I guided my boat into Monty’s marina.

  Above the picture a headline blares,

  WE WILL NOT BE INTIMIDATED!

  Below the picture another headline asks,

  WHAT IS THIS MAN TRYING TO HIDE?

  “There’s an editorial inside, on page two,” Claudia says. “It tells all about them being threatened by Ian’s letter.” She takes the paper back, opens it and points to the section of the editorial. “Read how he ends it.”

  One would think, if Mr. DelaSangre is as innocent as his attorney claims, he would be demanding to speak to us and to anyone else who would listen rather than threatening those who ask legitimate questions. If he would like to visit with us and tell us his side of the story, we’d be perfectly glad to hear him out.

  No one at this newspaper has any interest in any of our stories mistakenly blackening anyone’s reputation. But if Mr. DelaSangre insists on siccing his legal attack dogs on us, he’ll find our appetite for legal battles to be every bit as keen as his and our pockets every bit as deep.

  I shake my head and pass the paper to Chloe. “Ian said this might happen,” I say.

  Claudia says, “Surprisingly, Ian’s not gloating. He really doesn’t like the guy. He wants to know if you want him to send Pepe Santos a letter threatening suit too.”

  “Have you located him?”

  “That and more,” Claudia says. “I really love working with Toba Mathias. The woman had both men’s contact numbers, cellphones, addresses, even E-mail addresses, by the day after our meeting.”

  Chloe says, “That doesn’t sound very hard to do.”

  Claudia nods. “No, but then Toba started E-mailing the freelancer, Andy Malcandado, telling him she admired his investigative report, that she always wanted to be a writer. Asking him questions about writing?”

  “And that worked?” I say.

  “Not until she E-mailed him one of her pictures. She called me a couple of days ago to tell me they finally made a date to meet—a breakfast date for seven-thirty at the Brickell Emporium.”

  “I couldn’t resist.” Claudia smiles. “By the time I got there, about seven-fifteen, Toba was already waiting by the restaurant’s door, decked out in a tight pair of red shorts and a skimpy halter top.” She laughs. “I went inside and took a table by the front window—where I could watch. You should have seen the look on that poor guy’s face when he pulled up in this old battered Pinto and saw her waiting by the door. He went beet-red. I swear!

  “When they came inside, they sat fairly near to me. Toba didn’t miss a trick, all wide-eyed, asking questions, batting her eyelashes, flashing her cleavage, touching his arm, his shoulder as they talked, barely giving him any chance to ask questions of his own, finally looking at her watch, telling him she had to go and then rushing out of the restaurant.

  “After he drove away, she came back in and joined me at the counter and told me what he said. I have her written report in the briefcase if you want.”

  “Just tell me,” I say.

  “Toba said, ‘It’s easy with a writer. Just ask them about their writing and let them talk.’ She said he’s thrilled with the play The Dish has given him . . . and the money. He’s been trying to make it as a freelancer for years. Now he thinks he’s finally broken through. Andy said his luckiest break was running into Pepe Santos at John Martin’s during happy hour. He told her he almost went broke buying the guy drinks. But it was all worth it. His editor’s asked him for at least two more follow-up stories. Toba said the guy couldn’t stop bragging about the money.”

  Claudia shakes her head. “She said Andy insisted his old beat-up Pinto and the crummy one-room efficiency he rents on the outskirts of Overtown were sacrifices he made to be able to pursue the truth. But now that he’s found it, he swears it’s time for him to cash in. When the story’s all done he wants to find an agent and try for a book deal.”

  I shake my head and say, “Not that that will ever happen.”

  “When’s the next story coming out?” Chloe says.

  Claudia grins. “We have some time. He told Toba he has most of it written but he’s been having a little trouble tracking down any of the witnesses from when Maria Santos disappeared. He finally got a line on a wino named Sam Pratt, said the man was washing dishes at the Half Moon Raw Bar in Key West. He’s planning to go down and interview him this coming weekend.”

  I start to say something but Claudia continues, “Pop has already been on the phone to someone in Key West. He told me to assure you that Mr. Pratt will be moving on again. This time maybe to California or Hawaii.”

  “What are we going to do about the rest of it?” I say.

  “Malcandado’s the easiest part of the problem,” Claudia says. “We can probably buy him off with an out-of-town job offer. There’s an ex-Herald editor working at a paper up in Washington who owes Pop some favors. And we can turn Toba loose on that Pepe Santos character. Her plan is to start going to John Martin’s on Fridays for happy hour. See if she can meet up with him and find out what he’s about. . . .”

  “And Jordan Dav
idson?” I say.

  Claudia sighs. “Ian was right. He’s tough. He doesn’t hang out with anybody. He lives alone, on the water in Gables on the Bay. He’s a fishing nut. He keeps a fishing boat at the house and goes out at least a couple of nights every week by himself.”

  “What about what Ian said, about his being gay?”

  “We had to go outside for that. None of our guys are gay. We hired a real honey by the name of Prescott Boyd. The guy knows everyone in town and at all the clubs. But it turns out Davidson doesn’t frequent any of the gay hangouts. The man may be openly gay, but he’s real private about whatever relationships he might have. Prescott said he mostly uses male prostitutes. He met one that told him about some pretty kinky sex. It seems Mr. Davidson likes to make believe he’s a killer. He actually insists on using a loaded gun as part of his sex play. Prescott assures us the prostitute can be counted on to talk with anyone we want—as long as the money’s good. We’re trying to confirm his story but haven’t found any other male prostitutes yet willing to give us anything we can use.”

  “What about the other problem?” I say.

  Claudia looks at me. “Derek?”

  “Derek?” Chloe says, staring at me.

  I nod. “I asked Claudia and Arturo to keep an eye out for your brother—in case he’s here.”

  Chloe waves a hand toward the bay and the nearby patrol boats. “You don’t think he’s responsible for all that?”

  “I think we don’t know where he is, and I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say.

  “Well, whatever you guys think, we haven’t seen any sign of anyone like him,” Claudia says. “In the meantime you need to tell me whether or not you want Tindall to write that letter to Santos.”

  I shrug. “Sure, tell him to go ahead. Worse comes to worse that jerk Davidson will just write another editorial.”