With Father gone, I'm left with no company but the wind, the waves and the island's roving pack of dogs. I go days without eating, wandering from empty room to empty room. The solitude torments me, disrupts my sleep. Father said she wouldn't come to term again until July and I wonder if I can wait that long.
Just to have voices and noises in the house I turn on the television in my room and let it play twenty-four hours a day. I do the same with the FM stereo radio in the great room on the third floor. But rather than allow it to comfort me, I ignore the cacophony and stare into the shadows for hours.
I take to inspecting each room of the house each day, dusting furniture, refolding linens. When nothing's left to be done, I turn my attention to the closets, sobbing when I open the door to Father's and find his and Mother's musty and mildewed clothes. It takes days for me to carry all of it to the third floor and burn it in the open hearth.
More days pass and I finally take myself outside, working for the first time in years in Mother's garden, removing weeds, pruning growth, admiring the exotic herbs she planted-the yellow-green flowers of the Dragon's Tear plant, the deep purple shade of the Death's Rose. If I can't find the girl, I think, I can always crush the purple petals of the rose and brew a tea from it. Father told me the death that comes from it is very peaceful.
The sun's rays and the ocean breezes seem to have a salutary effect on me and, after a day's work outside, my stomach reminds me how long it's been since I've eaten. I've no desire to change shape and fly off on a hunt but, thanks to the dog pack and their constant production of litters, there's always more than enough live meat on the island.
I smile for the first time since Father's death as I stalk the pack, laugh when I single out my prey, a dark brown male which cowers, then runs while the rest of the pack still faces me and growls. It takes only minutes to bring him down. Afterward, I leave his remains for the pack and return to the house to lie down, rest and sleep the first true sleep I've had in weeks.
The morning news wakes me and I'm surprised to realize the month of May has passed. I sit up at once, painfully aware that July will come in a few, short weeks. I have no more time to waste.
Jamaica and Haiti lie too far to the south for a simple evening's flight. I refuse to sit still, waiting until her scent surprises me and only then traveling toward it. I can't risk losing her.
Fortunately, Father kept the maps and charts from his pirate days. As I study the old parchment rolls, I immediately dismiss the possibility her scent might have traveled from an island as far away as Curagao. She most likely comes from either Haiti or Jamaica.
I weigh the speed of air travel-man's, not mine-against the convenience of boating. Commercial flight will force me to stay in hotels, limit my ability to come and go without notice, change shape as I wish. Anchored offshore in my own boat, I'll be almost as free as on my island.
Logically, I think, I have to start traveling toward her before she comes into heat again. With Father gone, I feel free to leave the island. It will be the first time in my life I don't sleep in my own bed and part of me can't wait to rush away. I realize now that Father gave me a present when he chose to die. For the first time in my life, nothing, no one, holds me to this place.
In the morning, I grin as I steer the Grady White across the bay, anticipating the reaction I'll receive from my attorney and his associate. I haven't called for an appointment nor would I. Jeremy Tindall and Arturo Gomez owe their fortunes and their lives to the beneficence of my family. They will see me when I want and do what I say.
In the Monroe building's lobby, the security guard eyes my sneakers and shorts, sunglasses and tank top. I ignore him. The man's obviously new and unfamiliar with my irregular comings and goings. He tenses when I approach the private elevator to LaMar Associates' penthouse offices, rests his right hand on his polished, black leather holster. I smile at him, let his discomfort build for a few moments, then show him my key before I insert it in the elevator switch's lock.
"Mr. DelaSangre!" Emily, the receptionist, greets me as I exit the elevator. Her eyes don't meet mine and her thin lips struggle to hold her smile. Ordinarily, I appear every Friday afternoon, to check my mail, see if anything's needed from me. This time, five weeks have passed since my last visit.
"Mr. Gomez has been taking your mail," she almost whispers, fluttering her hands, fidgeting with the papers on her desk. "I hope that's okay with you. He, Mr. Gomez, told me you wouldn't mind. It was okay for him to go through it. He said he had your permission."
Her smile broadens when I shrug, and say, "He does."
Emboldened, she stares directly at me, speaks up, "Also, a Mr. Santos has been calling for you… a lot. I finally referred him to Mr. Tindall. You might want to ask him about it."
"Santos?" I search my memory, shrug again. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"Only that he was looking for his sister."
"His sister?" I say, remembering now the picture of the girl and her brother in Maria's wallet, wondering how he found me. I hadn't even known the girl's last name. "How the hell did he get my office number?"
The receptionist blanches. "Did I do something wrong? Mr. Tindall said it… everything was okay."
"Everything's fine, Emily," I say, though knowing what he'll suggest, I dread hearing what Jeremy has to say. I wish Maria's fool brother had never called. I have little desire to bring any more death into Maria's family, even less to waste much time thinking of them. The girl's death belongs to my past. Today I'd far rather dwell on my future.
"I'll be in my office," I say. "Let Arturo know I want to see him there."
Of all humans, I trust Arturo most. He's the only human I've taught the bends and twists of my island's channel, the only one allowed to visit and leave unharmed.
His ancestor, Xavier Gomez, sailed with Father when he left Spain centuries ago. Xavier's sons and grandsons served on Don Henri's pirate ships. They were the only members of his crew to survive his employ. "Some dogs will do anything for their masters, no matter how badly they're used," Father told me. "As long as they're fed well. When you find a beast like that, you keep it and use it."
Gomez's offspring settled on the mainland, not too far from our island, and it became a tradition that one son from each generation worked for our family. At first they just cut wood for us, hauled heavy loads. But as Miami grew, they became useful for other, darker pursuits.
"Peter!" Arturo enters my office, strides across the plush carpet to where I stand by the window, staring out at the bay and the wide sea beyond it. The smell of his Aramis cologne overwhelms me as he grasps my hand, pumps it in greeting, a broad smile on his square, clean-shaven, well-tanned face. "Glad to see you finally decided to grace us with your presence."
I disengage as soon as I can, back up-as much to escape the thick aroma that surrounds him as to put a little more space between us. He continues to grin at me, watches as I fidget with the few pieces of mail on my empty, mahogany desk. In turn, I study his silk tie, the way his custom-made, thousand-dollar suit hugs his thick body, the easy confidence of his movements-as if he owns all that surrounds him.
He knows that he merely runs the company I own. But still, he's far more at home here than I.
"Arturo," I say, "I plan to go away for a while. I need you to watch the island, feed the dogs."
His face clouds up, his barrel chest swells and I know he yearns to tell me of his importance. He's the president of the largest, richest company in the state. Besides massive investments in land developments, banks, office buildings, import and export businesses, resort hotels and banks, we own large shares of every newspaper and television station in the region. Their executives fawn over him, make sure, as he requests, that their editors never allow any stories on my family or our island. How can I expect someone who wields such power to be a house sitter and a caretaker to a pack of dogs?
"You're the only one I can trust," I say. "You're the only one who knows how to navigate the channel. Jeremy will watch after things here. You can live on your boat in my harbor, leave food on the dock for the dogs."
"I thought you were worried about Jeremy," Arturo says. "Remember, you were the one who called and asked me to check up on him."
"And?" I ask.
Gomez shrugs. "So far I only have suspicions. But you know, without me here, Jeremy will rob you blind."
"I know he may try."
The Spaniard shakes his head. "No, he will try."
"And if he does, so what?" I ask. "We'll find him out as we have before, take back what is mine and punish him."
"Sometimes I think you underestimate him," Arturo says. "And sometimes I think you underestimate me too."
"Is that a threat?" I ask, locking eyes with him.
Arturo knows better than to challenge me. "No, just temperament," he says. He runs his manicured fingers through his graying hair, shrugs, grins a grin wide enough to show off all his newly capped, white teeth. "I could use a vacation, I guess. I can keep in touch with the office by cell phone. I already have an accountant secretly going over all the books. I'll have some of my other people watch Jeremy while I'm out." Arturo pauses, straightens his silk tie, grins even more. "How long did you say?"
Jeremy Tindall answers my summons and comes to my office after Arturo leaves. Where Gomez feigned pleasure to see me, Tindall's frown clearly shows he's annoyed to have his day disturbed. "Peter," he says, "you're holding me up from doing your business. I had to leave the mayor and two councilmen sitting in my office-"
"Let them wait," I say, glaring at the tall man-so thin and pale that he looks like a walking cadaver. "If they're unhappy, you can always send Arturo to them with a few more paper bags stuffed with money."
Tindall looks around the room as if he's worried someone's placed a wire. I smile at his show of concern, his never-ending paranoia. As my attorney, Jeremy handles all my legal activities, all my major purchases and sales. As my trusted retainer, Arturo takes care of my and the company's illicit needs, from money laundering and bribery to physical coercion.
Jeremy's perfectly comfortable with availing himself of Arturo's aid, his connections to South Florida's underworld. He uses him frequently to lubricate the process of business, to intimidate those who threaten our interests, but he despises the mention of it.
"We are what we are," Father used to say. "And we are what we do. The Tindalls just don't like to admit it."
Father had traveled to Washington as soon as the government took control of Florida from Spain. "Under disguise, I wandered from lawyer's office to lawyer's office to lawyer's office, asking if the attorneys could help me circumvent the government's laws, bribe officials, help me conceal crimes. At those few offices that didn't ask me to leave, I escalated my requests, alluding to white slavery, even murder. Ethan Tindall was the only one who didn't even blink. He stated his price and I hired him. I told him to move to Florida, to make sure our land grants were honored and to handle our business interests after that."
Jeremy's face flushes red. "So what's so important?"
The memory of cinnamon and musk comes up in my mind and I'm tempted to tell him about the girl and my need to find her. But no matter how much I want to talk about her with someone, anyone, I control my tongue. "You can only trust the Tindalls to do what greed and fear dictate," Father taught me. "In all dealings with them, you must remember to be cautious."
It took Father only a few months to catch Ethan Tindall betraying him. "The fool stole money from me," Father said. "I was glad to catch him at it early in our relationship. When I confronted him, he, of course, denied it. I grabbed his left arm and bit his hand off at the wrist. I don't believe he ever cheated me again."
"Your boat," I say to Jeremy. "I need to borrow it."
The man's face glows even redder. "My Grand Banks? You can't be serious."
I nod, not at all surprised by Jeremy's reluctance. Pictures of the forty-two-foot trawler crowd the walls of his office, outnumbering photographs of his family by a ratio of five to one.
"For Christ's sake, Peter, you can afford to buy one of your own."
"No," I say. "I don't have time for that. I want to leave in three days. Have the boat fueled and provisioned for a long cruise. Make sure the GPS is working. I'll need charts and coordinates for the Caribbean."
Jeremy clenches his jaw, and growls, "That's not what you pay me to do."
I ignore him. "Bill my account whatever you think is fair," I say. "I'll come to your house three nights from now. Have the Grand Banks ready."
He stares at the floor.
"Don't worry," I say. "I'll be coming by water-on my Grady White. You can use it while I'm gone."
Red-faced, curling his lip, Jeremy grumbles, "As if I'd be caught dead on a fishing boat."
Tired of his recalcitrance, I snap, "You forget, I could arrange that too, any time I want."
The attorney doesn't react to my threat. He says nothing. Neither do I. After years of experience with the man, I know what to expect after a confrontation. He'll change his demeanor, change the subject, act as if nothing has occurred.
After a few moments, his face returns to its usual funereal pallor. He looks up and grins a false smile at me. "Peter, do you know someone by the name of Santos… Jorge Santos?"
I frown at the sly slant of Tindall's smile, shake my head. "Emily mentioned his calls. She said you talked to him."
"He's a most insistent young man. Kept asking when you'll be back, demanding an appointment to meet with you. He said there were some questions about his sister he needs to ask you. He said she's been missing."
Maria again. I hate the reminder. I sigh. "I don't have time for him now. Have Emily call him, tell him I'll be glad to meet with him shortly after I return to town."
"I don't care about the girl. I'm concerned that he's learned that you can be found at this number. You're sure you just don't want me to have Arturo take care of him?"
"I'm sure," I say.
Jeremy cocks his right eyebrow. I know my refusal to harm the man has piqued his curiosity, but I refuse to issue a death warrant just to quiet the man's curiosity. "At least let me ask Arturo to have research done on him," he says. "It wouldn't hurt to know more about this Mr. Santos before you see him."
I pause before I answer. Do I care what Tindall learns about Santos? He'll certainly read whatever report Arturo makes. Finally, I decide nothing harmful can come from it, shrug and say, "Okay, go ahead."
"Good," Jeremy says.
Something in the smugness of his tone annoys me, as if he thinks he's just gained the upper hand. I hate that I can never be sure that he will stay intimidated, despise the self-satisfied grin on his face. "Your car," I say, grinning at the effect I know my request will create.
"My what?"
"Your Mercedes. I need to borrow it for the rest of the day-to go shopping."
Jeremy's face goes red again. "You ever heard of taking a taxi? How am I supposed to get home?"
"You could wait until I bring it back, work late while you wait."
"You know I don't like to work late," he says, spitting out his words.
"Funny, I saw your Mercedes here late a few months ago. If you weren't working, what were you doing?" My eyes go to the missing, smallest digit of his left hand. Only a small stump remains as a reminder of what had once been there, a reminder of the consequences of straining my good will. Father had said every generation of Tindalls would have to learn anew the penalty for disloyalty and Jeremy had received his lesson from me years ago.
He blanches when he sees the direction of my glance, then unconsciously reaches with his right hand to cover the sight of his injury.
"I didn't say I never work late," he mutters. "I must have been behind on something." He reaches into his pocket, produces his keys. "Whenever you're done, just leave the keys with the guard up front. I'm sure Arturo will be glad to take me home."
The memory of Jeremy's expression stays with me, keeps me smiling the rest of the day as I wander through the endless corridors of South Miami's Dadeland Mall, shopping, buying new clothes, looking for a gift to bring her.
After browsing through half a dozen jewelry stores, enduring the self-impressed, haughty tones of their sales staffs-who deign to show me their collections of mediocre, overpriced baubles-I stop by Mayer's Jeweler's. Shaking my head at the display of emerald jewelry in the window, I grin at the piece I like best, a gold four-leaf clover, just like Maria's, with the same brilliant emerald inset in its center, dangling on a gold chain-on sale for four hundred and fifty dollars. Thinking it's foolish to look for anything more here when I can find the same piece, and other jewelry every bit as good, in the ancient chests stored in the depths of my island home, I turn to leave.
The bustle of people around me, the overheard snippets of conversation do much to counteract the emptiness I've felt since Father's death. I'm loathe to return to the loneliness of the island just yet. On the way back to the boat, I stop at Detardo's. It's time, I think, to treat myself to a good meal, allow myself to be surrounded by other beings a little while longer.
"It's been far too long, Mr. DelaSangre," Max Lieber greets me at the door. He fumbles through a stack of papers he keeps next to the menus. "One moment, sir, someone was asking for you not very long ago…"
I arch an eyebrow, look around while he's searching his papers, notice a new poster, a photocopied leaflet really, tacked to the wall by the entrance. A grainy picture of Maria occupies its center. I turn away, stare at anything else.
Max picks up a torn piece of paper, brandishes it over his head. "Ah!" he says. "I knew I still had it. I don't know if you've heard but one of our waitresses, Maria-she waited on you last time you were in, I think… anyway, she seems to be missing." He shakes his head. "I told the young man, her brother, I doubted you even remembered her, but he was quite insistent. He said I should give you his number if you came in."
"Certainly," I say, looking as puzzled as I can. "I'm not sure what help I can be." I take it, glance at the number, note it's a local one, fold the paper and put it in my pocket.
"You have to understand, sir, the young man's frantic. He told me the police are no help at all. He's trying to talk to every person who had contact with her before she disappeared."
"But she just served me a meal…"
"She told him about a customer who dined alone, who had incredible green eyes. When he said that to me, I knew it had to be you she was describing. Maria complained to him that she gave you her number, but you never called. I think she had a crush on you, sir."
"Oh, yes, I think I remember her," I say, concentrating on looking calm, indifferent. "She was a sweet girl, way too young for me, wouldn't you think?"
"That's what I told Jorge."
"I'll be out of town for a while. If you see him again," I say, "let him know I'll see him when I get back."
Max nods, guides me to a table-without saying another word, as if to make up for the torrent of conversation he's just subjected me to-and motions for a waitress to serve me.
She's taller than Maria, thinner, but she smiles at me the same way the other girl did. I look away from her as I order. I want no flirting tonight, no repetition of what happened before.
The folded piece of paper remains an unwanted presence in my pocket. I recall my evening with Maria, and try to catalogue anything I did that could link me to her.
Thanks to Arturo's connections my cell phone calls are routed in such a way as to make them untraceable. Should anyone have seen the Chris Craft, the boat is gone and sunk at sea. And obviously she didn't tell anyone about our last-minute plans.
I sigh and force my mind toward more pleasant things. Only the thought of the girl I seek helps keep my mind from Maria. Still, I bolt down my food and rush out of the restaurant before any more memories can haunt me. I tear the paper to little pieces as soon as I reach the parking lot.
Slash and Scar greet my return, growling and barking in the dark as I let the boat coast to the dock. I find it reassuring to be welcomed by something alive, no matter how hostile, and make a mental note to throw some feed over the wall before I retire for the night.
Now that I know I'm going to leave it shortly, the island no longer seems such a lonely prison. I bring my packages up to my room, then wander out onto the veranda, let the sea breeze worry at me while I admire the summer sky, the silver glow of the moon's reflection stretched out over the water.
I breathe in deep and wish there was a hint of her on the air. But soon, I promise myself. "Soon," I say out loud.
Offshore, only a few boat lights dot the horizon-none shine near the island-and I'm seized by the impulse to do something silly to celebrate my imminent departure, something maybe a little reckless.
Father built the house with defense in mind, placing an arms storeroom on each of the building's four sides. I go to the storeroom on the veranda, between his room and mine. As usual I admire the ancient, massive, iron-sheaved, wooden crossbeam he designed and installed to block access through the room's large, oak door. Better than any modern lock or chain, the bar's set deep into the thick stone wall on either side of the door, with no apparent way of removing it.
I approach the door's right side, place my fingers on a narrow crack running between two large stones and sigh. While shifting from dragon to human form comes as naturally to me as changing shirts, shifting to other shapes requires far more effort. When I was young, Father used to make me practice thinning my limbs, flattening my form. I often complained, I didn't like how it felt.
"We never know what shape chance may require of us," Father always scolded. "I've escaped from humans more than a few times because their intellect couldn't allow for my ability to squeeze through small spaces."
Sucking in a breath, I concentrate on reducing the width of my hand and forearm, my cells almost aflame in protest at their compression, my upper arm swollen from backed-up fluids. Gritting my teeth, I push in through the crack, fumble my way until half my forearm is inside the stone and my newly thinned hand reaches open space. I feel for the release lever to the catch, touch it, lose it and find it again. It clicks open as soon as I tug on it.
That done, I withdraw my hand, let it regain its shape. Breathing out, I wonder once again whether I should replace the mechanism with a simpler, key-operated device. But I know as long as Father's device is in place, I'll never need to worry that anyone else can gain access to this room.
I grasp the crossbeam in both hands, slide it to the right-a move only permitted by the catch's release-until another click signals a counterweight has been engaged. Letting go, stepping back, I watch as the crossbeam pivots up, out of the way.
As soon as I throw open the room's door, the dank air within escapes, surrounding me with the burnt sulfur smell of discharged gunpowder intermixed with the odors of rotting wood and mildewed canvas. I recoil from it, stare into the dark room, try to decipher what lurks in the shadows and regret I've never wired the storeroom for electricity and lights. Well aware of the barrels of gunpowder Father kept stored here, I feel around for a torch and, once found, light it outside, on the veranda.
In the torch's wavering, yellow-orange light, I can make out the rusting swords and armor stored on sagging wooden shelves, the ancient pistols and rifles hanging on the walls, the three black cannons pushed back into the interior of the room, surrounded by stacks of cannonballs and sealed lead canisters filled with gunpowder.
It takes over a half hour for me to pull and push one of the cannons out of the room, load it and shove it into place at one of the gun ports cut into the coral parapet. Sweating, smiling, I say, "Father, this is for you," and lower a flaming torch to the touch hole.
A burst of smoke clouds up from the hole and, for a moment, when the cannon doesn't instantly fire, I wonder if the powder's gone bad or if I've done something wrong.
Flame leaps from the cannon's barrel with a roar that pierces the air and seems to reverberate long after it's gone. Far out at sea, a thin white plume of water erupts as the ball strikes.
I laugh and whoop from the sound and sight of it, then feel foolish to have done such a thing. But as I search the water for nearby boat lights, I can't help but grin, knowing that even if the cannon blasts were reported, my family's influence and Arturo's dispensation of cash and favors ensure that the marine patrol will avoid investigating my island no matter what.
When I close up the storeroom, I make sure to leave the cannon outside, in its place, to make it easier to use the next time.
Before sleep, I go down to the treasure room in the bowels of the house and sort through the chests, looking for a gift to bring with me. Even though I put it aside at first, I keep coming back to the delicate gold chain and the gold four-leaf clover attached to it, a small emerald inset in its center.
Finally deciding to ignore its previous ownership, I put it in my pocket and retire for the evening.
Sleep eludes me. I toss and turn, try to focus my mind on the voyage ahead, the woman I seek. Jorge Santos, Maria's brother, keeps intruding into my thoughts. It makes me uneasy to leave Miami, knowing nothing will be resolved with him until I return.
Father, if he were alive, would be annoyed by my softhearted decision to let the Cuban live. He always insisted that I be wary of humans, whether they number one or a hundred. "They're weak but treacherous," he taught. "To underestimate their power is as bad as arming them. Always be vigilant. Remember, it's always better to eliminate a problem than deal with it later. "
But the man is only a human, as weak and powerless as any of the others. Try as I might I can't imagine any way this one man can do me any harm. Finally I push him from my mind, concentrate on breathing in time to the surge of the waves as they rush at my island's shore.
Fading off, I picture myself gliding through a cinnamon-scented sky, spiraling in slow ascent toward the distant shape of my future love.