Dragon Moon Read online

  Behind me, Henri, intent on staring out the window, concentrates his attention on the ground far beneath us, the marina and the bay beyond it. He pays no attention to the man whatsoever. “Papa!” the child says. “I can see our boat.... It looks so small. Like when we’re up in the air.”

  Before I can answer him, Tindall plops into one of the chairs in front of my desk, slouches and says, “About time you got here.” He puts his hands together, interlaces his long skeletal fingers, studies the empty surface of my desk. “I hope I’m not keeping you from any important work.”

  I scowl at his sarcasm, spit out my words. “Work is what I pay you to do.”

  A pink flush blossoms on Ian’s sunken cheeks, but he’s wise enough to change the subject. “Arturo will be around in a few minutes,” he says.

  Nodding, I wonder, not for the first time, whether the Tindall family’s services are worth having to endure their company. Father always insisted they were. “There are only two types of humans you should employ,” he told me years ago. “Honorable men and scoundrels. The honorable ones, like the Gomez family, believe in loyalty. They’ll never betray you unless you forsake them. You can trust them with your life. The scoundrels, like the Tindalls, believe in nothing — but you can count that, as long as their self-interest is served, they will do anything you want.”

  “But,” I’d argued, “there’s never been a generation of Tindalls that hasn’t tried to cheat us in some way.”

  Father had chuckled. “We need lawyers who are willing to bend the law to our purposes. Do you expect that type of attorney to be anything but a scoundrel? Only greed and fear motivate the Tindalls. Just remember to reward them well for their services and punish them severely for their transgressions.”

  As my lawyer, and as chief legal counsel for LaMar Associates, Ian is rewarded very well indeed. Still, it amazes me that he could overlook the fatal punishment both his father and brother have received at my hands. I go over Rita’s words in my mind, wonder if Tindall is plotting some sort of revenge or betrayal. I shake my head. Surely, I think, the deaths of two other Tindalls have taught him the foolhardiness of such acts. The man couldn’t be that greedy or that stupid.

  “Peter! Henri!” Arturo Gomez’s voice breaks the silence in the room.

  Henri turns from the window as Arturo enters the room, smiles at him, holds up one hand showing four fingers. “I’m four,” he says.

  “And a big boy you certainly are,” Arturo says. I look from one man to the other and grin at the contrast between them. Where Tindall is skin and bones, Gomez is thick and muscular. As usual, the Latin’s gray-streaked, black hair is slicked back perfectly in place, his sun-darkened skin sports the telltale reddish tinge of a fresh tan and his open-mouthed smile shows off a set of expertly capped, bright white teeth. He sits in the chair next to Tindall, nods toward him, says, “Ian.”

  I wince at the overpowering scent of Aramis cologne that follows Arturo into the room and immediately permeates the office’s air. Sometimes I find I wish there were a way I could dull my sense of smell.

  Arturo shifts in his chair, the gray silk of his Armani suit so perfectly tailored to his body’s bulk that it barely wrinkles as he moves. He opens a black leather portfolio, takes out a manila folder, hands it to Tindall. He then produces another manila envelope, slides it across the desk to me.

  I cock an eyebrow.

  “Jamaica,” he says.

  Tindall opens his folder. “Jamaica?” he says, examining the brochure inside, the papers that accompany it.

  “Peter had me buy some property for him in Jamaica ... a while ago,” Arturo says. He takes another folder from the portfolio, opens it, hands me three large photographs. He looks in the folder. “The Bartlet Great House, built in 1735, constructed of cut stone, on ten acres near Windsor, thirty miles inland of Montego Bay — ”

  “Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars?” Tindall looks up from his papers. “What the hell for?”

  “I want to stay at my own place when I visit,” I say.

  “Last time you went to Jamaica, you just borrowed my father’s boat.”

  “The last time I didn’t plan to stay there very long.”

  “So how long are you planning for this time?”

  “I don’t know if that’s any of your business, Ian,” Arturo says, then turns to me. “Get this, two stories, six thousand square feet under air conditioning, four bedrooms, six baths, a great room and four other common rooms, plus a wraparound veranda and pool ... cottages too. You could use them for servants’ quarters.”

  I shake my head. “No. I only want day help. I want Henri and me to be left alone in the evenings.”

  Arturo shrugs.

  Turning my attention to the pictures Arturo handed me, I admire the lines of the house, the high-pitched, stone-shingle roof. Henri crowds next to me, examines the photos too.

  “Where’s the water?” he says.

  Grinning, I tousle Henri’s hair. The child’s lived his life within feet of both the ocean and the bay. To him it’s only natural to expect the same everywhere. “There isn’t any water near it.”

  “Actually,” Arturo says, “the Martha Brae River runs right through the property.”

  “That’s not the type of water Henri meant.” I pick up one photo that shows a hint of mountains in the background of the picture. “And Cockpit Country?” I say.

  Arturo nods. “According to the real estate agent, not very far at all.”

  Ian frowns. “What the hell’s going on? If you wanted to go to Jamaica for a few months you could have rented a condo — or a house. You certainly don’t need an estate like that. I’m your attorney for Christ’s sake! I should have been consulted before you committed to something as big as this. ...”

  I sigh. “Damn it, Ian. You should be consulted when I want you to be. Anyway, this was done after your father died — before you were up to speed here. I told Arturo to find me someplace private, away from tourists, where Henri and I can live for a while ... maybe for a year or more, maybe not.”

  “That’s a long time to be away,” Ian says.

  “I just spent four years without coming to the office once. I think LaMar will do fine without me.”

  From the look of concentration on the thin man’s face, I’m sure he’s trying to calculate what opportunities might arise from my absence. “Sure,” he says. “But I still don’t get why you want to go there.”

  “And I care about that?” I say. “You don’t have to understand. I want the house furnished and ready in two months. I want you to buy me a Land Rover too. Make sure someone will bring it to the airport whenever Henri and I decide to go.”

  After Tindall leaves the office, Arturo says, “You really going to leave in two months?”

  I shrug, lift Henri, put him on my lap, hug him. “That depends on this one. If he shows he can behave on the mainland, then I think we’ll be able to chance an airplane flight.... I was thinking I’d see how he does in crowds today, maybe take him toy shopping. Would you like that, Henri?” I say.

  Intent on stuffing the brochure and pictures back into the manila envelope on my desk, Henri bites on his tongue, absentmindedly nodding his head, yes.

  Arturo eyes the boy, rubs his right forearm.

  I look at the Latin, think of my conversation with Rita. “Anything going on with Ian? You seeing anything suspicious?”

  Arturo shakes his head, says, “He’s a Tindall. I never trust him. But you know I always have some of my people watching him. They haven’t reported anything irregular — no dramatic changes in his checking or savings, no new cars or houses, no meetings with people we don’t know about. ...”

  “Something might be going on,” I say. “I want you to watch out.”

  Arturo grins. “Sure. It’ll be my pleasure. But you know, if I find something, you’re going to have to think about what you want done this time.”

  “Because?” I ask.

  The Latin’s grin grows larger. �
��Because there are no more brothers, no cousins you can hire. Ian has no children yet. If something happens to him, there won’t be any more Tindalls working for your family anymore.”

  I don’t say it out loud, but honestly, I think, worse things could happen.

  It’s late afternoon before Henri and I return to the boat. The child falls asleep only moments after we get underway, slumping to his side, his head resting on my left thigh, one ear of a large, pink, toy rabbit clutched in his right hand. I set the throttle just a few notches above idle and steer the boat toward the main channel with one hand while I rest my other hand on my son’s shoulder.

  I smile, marvel at the warmth he throws off when he sleeps, and envy his ability to fall asleep in an instant. I certainly can’t fault the boy for running out of steam. This has been a big day for him, visiting the mainland for the first time, meeting so many new people, riding in a car, shopping for the first time.

  A yellow-and-black Seatow boat crosses our bow and I hold on to Henri as I guide the Grady White over its wake, trying to minimize any pitching and bobbing of our craft. Henri shifts his position only slightly, releases the pink rabbit, lets it drop to the deck.

  I lean over, pick it up and wonder why, with all the thousands of more exciting toys at the store to choose from, my son chose this one. I wedge it on the seat next to him, breathe in the salt smell freshening the air the farther we travel from the marina.

  If I could, I would lie down beside my son and sleep too. There’s something so restful about being on the water near the end of the day. I look out across the bay, check for other boats, see only a sailboat far to our south and the Seatow boat speeding toward Key Biscayne, most probably to rescue some stranded boater floating on the ocean just beyond it.

  The water is so calm, the sea breeze so lazy, that it seems to me a shame to move so slowly. I push the throttle forward just enough to bring the motors up to half-speed. The Grady White rushes forward, leaves the channel behind in minutes. And Henri sleeps on.

  I toy with the thought of detouring north, running up to the Port of Miami so Henri can see whatever big cruise ships are in port. But instead I head for the horizon, miles south of Key Biscayne where only the sky and the water are visible. Soon enough, I know, our island will begin to make its presence known.

  Resisting the impulse to go faster, I stroke my sleeping son and concentrate on the movement of the boat and the water around it. Behind me the sun rides low enough in the sky for its rays to reach under the boat’s canopy and burn against my back. To our right, a cormorant spooked by the nearness of our passage erupts from the water, fluttering and splashing as it takes flight.

  Henri would have loved that, I think, but I let the child rest.

  The far-off thunder of powerful motors breaks the quiet of the day. I turn, scan the water until I spot the boat exiting the Dinner Key channel far behind me. Over forty feet long, bullet shaped, the red-and-white Cigarette speedboat must be traveling at least sixty miles per hour. I glare at it, wish there were a way to stop it from disturbing a day like this.

  The drone of the boat’s motors continues to grow and after a few minutes, I look back again. The speedboat seems to be traveling in the same direction as we are and has already halved the distance between us. I watch it race toward me, remember Rita’s words again, and wonder if she was warning me about Tindall, wonder if he would have the courage to arrange an attack. Shaking my head at the paranoia a few words can cause, I still alter my course to see if the boat’s pursuing me or just accidentally traveling the same way.

  At first, the speedboat continues on its original path. But just as I begin to feel silly about changing course, it curves toward me.

  I toy with the thought of running to shore, but I know the approaching craft can reach almost twice my speed. Steering with one hand, I reach inside the compartment in the boat’s console and feel around for the flare gun kit I put on board years ago. I pull the plastic case out, lay it on the dash in front of me, open it, remove the gun and a flare.

  The engine sounds behind me continue to grow. I load the flare gun, cock it, hold it by my side and turn to find the boat closer than I expected, its bow pointed straight at the center of my stern as the speedboat rushes up the middle of my wake, where the water’s the smoothest. A rooster tail of white water shoots up behind it, the speedboat’s wake swelling up and spreading.

  I get ready to aim the flare gun, then see the faces of the boat’s driver and the blond woman beside him. Middle-aged, face bloated and flushed, the man looks like no assassin I’ve ever imagined.

  The boat races closer until it’s only a few lengths behind my stern. Too near for me. I begin to raise the flare gun, decide to fire at the driver’s head if the boat comes much closer. But it approaches only a few feet more before it cuts to the right, jumping my wake, almost flying a few yards before it splashes down.

  Jerk, I think, shaking my head. Most probably drunk, showing off for the woman. The speedboat turns back toward me, races up on the right side of my Grady White. I yell, “Henri! Hold on!” just before the roar of the Cigarette’s massive motors makes any further shouting pointless. Dropping the flare gun, I gun the throttle with one hand, yank the wheel to the left with the other, trying to turn away from the boat before it overtakes me. But the Cigarette turns with me, finally passing with only a few feet between us.

  Just as they come alongside my boat, I read the license numbers on the bow, FL332428, commit them to memory.

  The Cigarette roars past, the blonde glancing back, pointing to her boat’s wake as it smashes into us, both of them laughing.

  The right side of our hull rises almost perpendicular to the water. Henri slides into me, cries out, “Papa!”

  I turn us hard left, to stabilize the boat, then right, curving into the other boat’s wake, the Grady White slicing through the waves, going airborne for an instant, slamming back into the water — white foam everywhere.

  Henri falls forward, strikes his forehead on the edge of the console, gashing it open, blood immediately flowing down his face, into his eyes. “Papa!” he screams again and I cut back on the throttle, let the boat wallow in the remainder of the Cigarette’s wake as I pick up my injured child, hug him to me.

  “Shh,” I say. “You’re going to be okay. It just scared you. You know how to heal yourself. Do you want my help?”

  My son shakes his head, the bleeding already stopping, the wound beginning to close.

  I look away, wrinkle my nose at the stink of the gas fumes the other boat leaves behind. Reading the lettering on the boat’s stern, DOCTOR’S RX, I memorize that too. I will permit no one to injure my son and go unpunished — not ever. Shaking my head, clenching and unclenching my fists, it takes all my self-control not to pursue them now.

  It would take only a moment for me to change and take to the air, just a few minutes more for me to catch them and rip them from their boat. I wish the world were such that I could pursue my revenge in such a direct and expeditious manner. But I know I never could risk a daylight attack with the almost certainty of being seen.

  “It’s okay, son. ... We’re okay,” I say. “That was just some idiot showing off. He’ll learn his lesson soon enough.”

  As soon as we arrive home and get off the boat, Henri scampers off to play. I rush inside, take the spiral staircase to the great room on the third floor and go to the window overlooking Biscayne Bay. Sunlight streams through the glass, the sun already low enough in the sky to punish anyone facing west with its heat and its glare. Squinting, ignoring the warmth by the window, I study the water for any sign of a red-and-white speedboat. But I see nothing, not the Cigarette, not any other craft — just miles of empty, blue-green water.

  Of course, I think, I should know better than to expect to find the boat within sight. When I last saw it, it was heading south and I was heading east. I turn from the window, pace the room, look for something to occupy my mind, divert my thoughts. But I keep picturing the smile on
that fool’s face when he blew by me in his Cigarette. He hurt my son. I want his name. I want to know where he lives.

  I check my watch and curse. LaMar Associates closes at five. Already it’s more than half an hour past that. Too late to call the office and demand that Arturo get me the name and address of the speedboat’s owner.

  Still, I toy with the thought of taking quick revenge. I pick up my cellphone. I know, if I called Arturo at home, if I insisted, he’d find a way to make someone research the boat’s number for me, find out who owned DOCTOR’S RX and deliver the information to me before the night passed.

  And then what? A quick attack, no matter what the time? I can picture — if he were here — how my father would shake his head. “Rash actions often bring unexpected consequences,” he warned long ago. “Better to wait a short while than to rush into a disaster.”

  If I could, I’d tell Father how tired I am of being careful. Elizabeth, who was always more reckless than me, used to argue, “What’s the point of being powerful if you can’t act powerfully?”

  I yearn to lash out, but still I put down the cellphone. For now, I’m not willing to go against my father’s teachings. I breathe deep, try to displace my anger with other thoughts.

  Soon, I tell myself, we’ll be on our way to Jamaica, to our new home at Bartlet House. A little while longer than that and I’ll finally be able to see Chloe again. But rather than the thought reassuring me, it makes me sigh.

  I’ve been daydreaming about the girl for years. Ordinarily, just picturing her in my mind calms me. But now that the time is coming closer, I wonder how she’ll greet me, whether I’ll be able to win her as my mate. And, if Chloe does eventually come into our lives, how will my son react to her?

  I stare out the window, study the blue water and mutter, “If only life could be simple.” Then I remember my conversation with Rita and sigh again. Yet another problem. Reaching into my pocket, I take out the folded paper she gave me and smooth it out.