The Dragon DelaSangre

Chapter 21

The next Tuesday, I wake to find the morning air changed, shed of the last remnants of summer's warmth. I breathe in deep, savor the crisp, clean smell of fall-the lightness that the air takes on when it casts off most of its humidity. It invigorates me, makes lingering in bed impossible and I rush upstairs to the great room and throw the windows open so the north wind can fill the room with autumn's first chill. Smiling, wishing Elizabeth had wakened with me, I stand by the windows facing north, toward Miami, and let the cool air wash over me.

My smile fades when I notice the sail far to the north-the tiny yellow-and-white triangle bobbing on the bay's blue waters, too far away to make out the shape of the boat. At first it seems not to move, but slowly, inexorably, it travels in the direction of my island. I shrug, try to ignore it, but find it impossible not to watch its progress, not to wonder why it's sailing toward me.

Finally I force myself to walk away from the window. I can't think of any reason this one boat should catch my attention. I know the most westward channel in the bay lies a half mile to the east of Caya DelaSangre. I realize that, a quarter mile offshore on the ocean side, the water remains deep enough, even at low tide, for almost any pleasure boat to pass. Certainly, I think, no day goes by without at least a few boats cruising near my island. Still, this craft bothers me.

Frowning at my uneasiness, I return to the window every few minutes to check on its progress. Within an hour I can make out the cut of the boat's sails, the small triangular jib and the larger main sail-both made of alternating, diagonal strips of yellow and white sailcloth.

"It may be Santos," I tell Elizabeth when she wakes and joins me in the great room, the Hobie cat now large enough for us to make out its twin hulls and the "H" insignia in its main sail.

She shrugs, says, "You taunted him. You must have wanted this," and goes downstairs to work in her garden.

I maintain my vigil as the sailboat approaches, then passes by on the bay side, close enough for me to see Santos alone on the boat's canvas deck, the man wearing only cutoffs and a sleeveless sweatshirt, his gaze fixed on my island. Walking from window to window, I follow his progress, admiring the way he handles his boat.

The man circles the island, finally letting his sails go slack, the boat stalling, bobbing in place while he reaches into a small blue bag lying on the canvas next to him and takes out a pair of binoculars. On his knees, constantly shifting his balance to counter the pitching of his stalled boat, Santos scans the island.

I back away from the window when he turns the glasses in my direction but still, before he sails off into the open bay, he waves, as if he's sure I'm watching.

He repeats his visit the next day, disappears for almost a week, then visits us again, this time with the Morton woman on board. It becomes a pattern, a few times each week for him to sail around us-sometimes alone, sometimes with the woman. At each circumnavigation of the island he sails closer, always staring at the land, studying the house.

October passes, then November. During that time my pregnant bride's body progresses from slightly rounded to moderately swollen. Elizabeth complains about her human form, insists on buying new clothes each week. She gives up driving her Corvette and switches to the more comfortable seating of my Mercedes. Our lovemaking, once a daily affair, diminishes to random, occasional couplings. Elizabeth spends less time in her garden, asks less often to go to the mainland and, when we do go, complains that bumping across the bay jostles her too much.

Food, always important to her, becomes her primary interest. While we continue to hunt and feed each evening, it no longer suffices for her. I begin to defrost steaks each afternoon. Elizabeth accepts them without uttering a single complaint.

No matter the weather, Santos manages to continue to visit the waters around us at least once each week. Elizabeth ignores his presence completely. When I point out his boat to her, she says, "It's in your power to stop him."

It is. Arturo wants to eliminate him, requests I let him do it each time we speak. Unable to get my permission for that, he offers to have the Marine Patrol harass him or to arrange for the police to arrest him again for DUI. "I finally had the opportunity to talk to the manager at Joe's," he tells me. "The man assured me that for the right sum of money, Santos will be fired any time we request it. And one of the governor's aides has promised me the state will be glad to offer him a ranger's job at the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine in the event he needs a new job. If you want"-Arturo grins, obviously proud of his ability to manipulate events-"we can get the Herald to transfer Casey Morton to their Jacksonville office too."

I refuse all of it. "He's harmless," I tell Arturo. And I repeat to Elizabeth, "Nothing's happened since October. If the man could do anything, he would have done it by now. If he wants to serve his dead sister by sailing around my island a few times each week, so be it."

Still, whenever his boat arrives, I stop whatever activity occupies me and turn my attention to his movements. Some days, when the wind and water collude to provide safe passage for him, I envy his time on the boat. I've sailed Hobie Cats myself and know the pleasure of skimming across the water before a stiff breeze.

On the days that the weather turns bad, the wind punishing Santos with its gusts and shifts, the waves leaping around him, threatening to engulf him, I wonder at his perseverance, wonder if I would be so constant, so willing to risk injury for a lost cause.

"I admire him," I say to Elizabeth when she refuses to look at the catamaran cruising off the island's shore.

"Why give the fool any recognition?" She shakes her head. "What he does accomplishes nothing. One day he'll realize that and go away."

She harumphs and walks from me when I say, "At least he'll be able to tell himself, he tried his best for his sister."