CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SMITTEN

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

Constable Thibideaux arrived on Sycorax just as the E.M.T. launch was shoving off from the dock to transport Isaac Naborías across the bay to San Próspero Island Hospital. Assuming the old man pulled through—paramedic Joey Fajro said Naborías was in desperate need of a blood transfusion—Thibideaux would have to question the former security guard later.

Instead, he began with the witnesses, methodically talking to each, one by one, pausing only when the Sycorax helicopter passed overhead to land just beyond the trees on the corporate helipad. All eyes watched its progress. The boss was back.

“My father’s back,” Miranda said. She was still shaken. So was Renée. So was Charlie. Rain wasn’t shaken, but she was shivering a little. The temperature had dropped considerably, and though someone had brought her a blanket, she was still soaking wet and far from hot-tub warm at the moment.

“I’m proud of you, Raindrop,”’Bastian said.

Rain nodded. I think it comes with the job, she thought. Her mind was racing. I heard laughing. It sounded crazy even to Rain. It was just buzzing, wasn’t it? No, she decided firmly, when we went over the side—just before we hit the water—I heard the mosquitoes laugh. The music of the areyto, the mayohuacan and the baijo, was once again loud in her head. This is all about the Taíno. The zemis are all connected to them. And the story about First Murderer is connected too.

Trying not to turn her head or be too obvious, she whispered to ’Bastian, “How come you never told me the old Taíno stories?”

‘Bastian shrugged. “I don’t know them.”

“But your abuela was Taíno. Didn’t she…”

“Oh, she tried. But I had no patience. You have to understand, kiddo. In those days, the schools here didn’t teach our culture. Heck, they discouraged it. Told us we should be Americans. And the mythology of America was George Washington and the cherry tree. But I understand it’s different now and they celebrate this stuff.” He tilted his head toward her. “So what’s your excuse?”

She rolled her eyes at him, which was a relief. It meant she was okay. When everyone else had been paralyzed (either out of fear, confusion or just plain old being an insubstantial ghost), Rain had devised and executed a simple solution to save Isaac’s life. Still, it didn’t seem right. This was his granddaughter, and she was only thirteen. She shouldn’t have to face these dangers. He should be able to protect her.

Charlie moved closer. Rain made her icky-face and urgently whispered, “You’re standing in ’Bastian!” Neither of them had noticed, but both now jumped in opposite directions. Miranda and Renée stared at Charlie.

“I, uh, thought I saw a mosquito,” Charlie said. The girls nodded and looked around, fairly freaked.

Rain whispered to the boys, “I’d love to sneak away to the cave. See if we could talk to the ghost.”

All three looked around at the multiple deputy constables, security guards and civilians inhabiting the well-lit dock. Charlie said, “Yeah, I don’t see that happening right now.”

Rain brightened. “‘Bastian, why don’t you go? See if you can talk to him—or bring him back here!”

“I’m not leaving you alone with a killer cloud of mosquitoes on the loose.” Even as he spoke, the words rang hollow in his ears. “Anyway, I don’t see how you could hand me the zemi or how I could walk away with it and not have somebody notice.”

Constable Thibideaux approached to question Rain. He nodded to Charlie and guided Rain a bit farther down the gangway. ’Bastian followed.

“Why don’t you just tell me in your own words what happened?”

Rain considered this question long enough to make Thibideaux wonder at her delay. Once again, Rain was fighting the impulse to spill it all. Eventually, she said, “We were just standing here, waiting for the ferry. And then this cloud of mosquitoes sort of attacked Mr. Naborías. So I pushed him into the water to get him away from them.”

Of course, this confirmed for the constable what Nestor and Juno and everyone else had told him. This young girl, Alonso Cacique’s daughter, had been the hero of the moment. And though the entire incident was beyond bizarre, it also might fit and even explain what happened to the Pale Tourist, Milo Long. Some weird natural phenomenon …

Yet the cop in Jean-Marc knew the girl was hiding something. Trouble was, he couldn’t immediately think of the questions to ask to find out what. By the time he had settled on a simple Is there something you’re not telling me? it was too late.

Pablo Guerrero had arrived on the scene, and all attention immediately shifted to him. He seemed to have already been briefed. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Thibideaux if the C.E.O. had been informed of the incident before the P.K.C. had even been called. Guerrero approached his daughter first, to confirm she was all right, but he didn’t linger there. He simply took her hand firmly in his and walked her forward to join the constable and Rain.

Guerrero nodded to Thibideaux but was already focused on the Cacique girl. Though they had been introduced earlier that day, it seemed to Rain like this was the first time he had really seen her. He thanked her by name for her quick thinking and for saving Isaac’s life. A trifle dumbstruck, Rain simply nodded and then thanked him for thanking her.

Then Pablo Guerrero said softly, “I knew your grandfather. He was a good man. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Rain glanced at ’Bastian, who shrugged. “Every once in a while, he’d stop by the Lethe & Styx. If Joe Charone and I were there, we’d all have a few beers.”

“Uh, thank you,” Rain said. Thibideaux noticed the girl was still hesitant, distracted. Maybe she’s just in shock, he told himself.

Pablo Guerrero cleared his throat and said, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

“Well, I guess we could use a lift back to San Próspero. The ferry sort of came and went while we were waiting to talk to the Ghost Pa—to Constable Thibideaux.”

She turned toward Charlie and reached out her hand; he gladly stepped forward to take it. Miranda reached back to Renée, who—plan or no plan—was also ready to go.

Rain said, “Or we can wait for the next ferry…”

Guerrero waved off the idea. “No, Ariel will take you home.” He turned to Thibideaux. “You’re done talking with these children.” It wasn’t a question.

Thibideaux wasn’t in the mood to bristle. It was getting late. These kids were clearly tired, and he could always catch up with them later. “Of course,” he said. “But maybe you and I could speak.”

“Certainly. Let me just see them off, and I’ll be right with you.”

Renée and Miranda ran back up to the manor to get Renée’s things. It took them less than five minutes, but by the time they returned, Ariel Jones, Pablo Guerrero’s personal pilot and chauffer, was already bringing her boss’ sleek thirty-foot twin-engine speedboat around to the dock. How she had known to do this was a bit of a mystery, but even mysteries are merely relative. Given what Rain had just gone through, this one didn’t seem worth pursuing.

Pablo helped Rain, Charlie and Renée onto the boat. (’Bastian was on his own.) Miranda said, “Thanks for coming. I know it kind of sucked, but—”

“Sugar, don’t you worry about that,” Renée said.

“And anyway, it was Rain’s fault mostly,” Charlie said quickly.

“Well, me and the bugs,” Rain said. “You still coming tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Miranda said. Then she turned to her father. “I promised I’d help Rain and Charlie work her dad’s charter.”

She was way too excited given the realities of the gig, and her father looked at her as if to say, And you actually want to do that? But he declined to express the thought out loud.

So Rain said, “Eight A.M. sharp at Harbor Slip Nine. And, seriously, don’t be late, because my dad will not wait if the clients are ready.”

“I’ll be there!”

“Great.”

They said quick good-byes, at which point Pablo Guerrero nodded to Ariel, who eased the throttle forward.

Rain sat down and turned her face toward the wind. She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders and cuddled up against Charlie for warmth. Charlie chewed on the inside of his mouth to distract himself.

“Who’s that?”’Bastian whispered.

Rain turned and saw that he was focused on the moonlit form of Ariel. She was in her late twenties with short blonde hair. Though the speedboat careened across Próspero Bay, she maintained a preternatural stillness. Even her hand on the wheel hardly seemed to move. Rain glanced over at Renée, who was also staring at Ariel. One of the things that bugged Rain most about Renée was the way she’d strike a pose to accentuate her looks, but that’s not what Ariel was doing. No, Ariel was what Renée aspired to be. The blonde woman wasn’t striking or accentuating anything. Her stillness was harnessed from deep within. To Rain, Ariel was like a single still frame glowing in a movie projector. At any moment, either the film would proceed—or the image would combust.

Rain whispered to ’Bastian, “That’s Ariel. She works for the Guerreros.”

“She’s stunning.”

Rain made her icky-face again. “Ewww, Papa, she’s way too young for you.” She glanced up at the Dark Man, who appeared to be about twenty. “Or too old or something.”

’Bastian looked askance at his granddaughter and decided to have a little fun. “I don’t know,” he said. “Ariel and Sebastian. It sounds like destiny.”

“Ewwwww. She can’t even see or hear you.”

“All great loves have obstacles to overcome, kiddo.”

She covered her ears. “Stop! Just stop!” He laughed. Charlie and Renée stared at Rain, and Ariel turned her head five degrees. Then she adjusted course slightly as the speedboat swept around the recently returned dolphin pod.

Rain scratched at her mosquito bites.

Back on the Sycorax dock, Thibideaux was telling everyone they could go home. He had spoken briefly with both Guerreros, but the man had been on La Géante during the excitement, and the girl simply confirmed what every other witness had reported: Isaac had been telling a story when the mosquito swarm attacked and Rain pushed him into the water.

Miranda and her father walked silently up to the Old Manor, hand in hand. At the door, he said, “So, you’re making friends, mija?”

“I think so.”

“And you’re glad I brought you back from Madrid?”

She hugged him. “I was already glad about that.”

“Good,” he said, hugging her back. They went inside, and he shut the door. Then, without another word to each other, she went upstairs, and he crossed the great room to enter his study.

Hura-hupia wasn’t far away. Once again, she approached the Hupia, who was back at his post, guarding the second zemi.

The Pale Tourist—more pale now than ever—was also in the neighborhood, wandering, at a loss. Nights ago, he had reached the reasonable conclusion he was dead, a ghost. But he had no idea what came next. He’d been looking for a light to walk into or some such, but so far, no luck. He spotted Hura-hupia and immediately sensed she was a threat. And, of course, it was the Hupia who’d killed him in the first place. Never big on confrontation, the Pale Tourist stepped inside the trunk of a guava tree to hide.

The Hupia expected to be reprimanded for attacking Naborías but was pleasantly surprised when Hura-hupia encouraged his appetites. But next time, if you get the chance, she told him with a smile, feast on the girl Cacique. This was welcome advice to the Hupia. He had a taste for Rain now. He was smitten.