Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  But by far the most important benefit to their beach retreat was the concealment it provided from the man who was out to kill them.

  So far, there had been no sign of Casanova.

  •

  COKI BEACH WAS located next to an aquatic theme park, whose white observation dome could be seen hovering over the water about a hundred yards away. The combination of pristine beach and entertaining sea life resulted in a high volume of visitors. This, in turn, attracted a number of enterprising vendors, most of them Jamaican in origin, giving the area a colorful flair.

  The Jamaicans had flourished, expanding their commercial endeavors to a wide range of services.

  All manner of beach-related equipment could be rented, from snorkel and scuba gear to lounge chairs and umbrellas. In addition to the typical rum and beer shacks that lined the waterfront, an assortment of palm readers, massage therapists, and hair braiders plied their trades.

  It was this last profession that Mic had enthusiastically embraced. He sat next to a plastic box containing an assortment of colorful rubber bands and other hair-tying accessories.

  Currie preferred to stick to coconuts, a medium with which he was more familiar. In addition to being their basic source of nutrition, the scalped nuts could be sold to thirsty sunbathers.

  Mic passed the coconut back to his pal, and Currie stared down at the globe-shaped fruit, ruefully reflecting.

  They had been selling coconuts on the Christiansted boardwalk when Nova approached them with his fateful proposal. It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Currie sighed, wistfully missing his home island.

  And yet, he was grateful to be alive.

  •

  CONCERNED THAT THEY might be recognized by visiting Crucians, Mic and Currie had tried to pass themselves off (generally unsuccessfully) as Jamaicans. As Currie took a seat on the sand next to Mic’s hair-braiding operation, he slipped on a tattered wig of dangling dreadlocks, his main effort at disguise.

  Mic had managed to grow three inches of the real thing, but at this point in the process, his stubs of twisted hair made him look more like a porcupine than a Rastafarian.

  Mic had taken their Jamaican integration a step further. He had begun speaking with a strange lilted accent, and he sprinkled “mon” into his sentences at every opportunity.

  It was an unconvincing imitation, but Currie didn’t have the heart to tell that to his friend. As for the Jamaicans, they were amused by the pair’s attempts at assimilation and had adopted Mic and Currie into their ranks.

  “Currie-mon, hand me that other coconut. I’ve devised a new marketing tool.”

  Skeptically, Currie tossed the second round ball through the air. Mic caught the coconut in the palm of his hand and planted it in the sand by a placard advertising his hair-braiding services. Gently, he lifted a helmet of weaved palm fronds, plaited into braids, each one tied off at the end with a colored rubber band. Turning the helmet to its proper orientation, he placed it on top of the nut.

  “I call her Cinderella-mon.”

  Currie shook his head.

  “You can take the man outta St. Croix, but you can’t take the Santa Cruz outta duh man.”

  •

  WHILE MIC REVELED in his hairdressing duties, Currie remained vigilant, surveilling the beach and surrounding vendor areas for Nova and his cronies.

  As a result of Mic and Currie’s escape from the grocery store caper gone awry, Nova had spent several weeks at the Golden Grove incarceration facility on St. Croix.

  Currie hadn’t received any updates on Nova’s status, but the gangster never stayed locked up for long. It was only a matter of time before they crossed paths again. Nova might be temporarily distracted by other matters, but he would never stop looking for the two men who had betrayed him.

  Currie’s gut told him they had gained but a temporary reprieve.

  •

  WITH ANOTHER GLANCE up and down the beach, Currie laid back in the sand. It had been a quiet morning at Coki. After a late night socializing under the stars, the full-time residents had taken their time starting their day.

  As a few tourists rolled in from the nearby resorts, the Jamaican crew, along with the Crucian impersonators, began to casually hustle the arrivals.

  “Hey there, bee-you-tiful lady-mon,” Mic crooned to a passing tourist, a rather large woman in a strapless halter top. “Let me run my magic fingers through your hair.”

  From a nearby rum shack, a battery-operated radio released a sharp feedback of static, followed by lead-in music that was instantly recognized by the locals on the beach.

  “I smell a rat . . .”

  Downtown Charlotte Amalie

  ~ 27 ~

  Calling Senator Bobo

  INSIDE THE UNUSED cistern that was serving as KRAT’s temporary broadcast studios, yet another loud thunk sounded against the ceiling. A rock rolled across the roof, slid through the open portal, and plopped onto the concrete floor.

  Whaler glared up at the ceiling, threatening the perpetrator with a clenched fist.

  “If that kid throws another rock at us, I’m going to go out there and . . .”

  Dread cut in, waving him off. “Any other day, and I’d help you squelch the little bugger. But we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  He pointed to the transmission line that Whaler had been trying to fix before the last rock was launched. “We’re barely hanging in here, signal-wise. How’s it coming with that line?”

  Whaler looked dubiously at a piece of aluminum foil he’d been using to try to amplify the signal.

  “That’s the best I can do. We’re too low to the ground. All this concrete is a bother. We should probably try another location.” He scowled once more at the ceiling. “Plus, I don’t like that punk knowing we’re in here.”

  Dread shrugged his agreement.

  “All right. I’ll give another shout-out. Then we’ll pack up and move.”

  He flicked on the mike and resumed the broadcast.

  “If anyone out there has information on the Governor or the two missing senators, we’d love to hear from you.” He glanced at the news feed he’d captured on his computer screen. “It’s Bobo and Sanchez who have so far eluded the pasty boys.”

  “Bobo,” Whaler sighed. “That’s just what this day needs, a Bobo sermon.” The hyperreligious senator was a frequent guest on the radio show. Unlike the other local politicians, he appeared not to mind the DJs’ mocking commentary—or he had calculated that the exposure was well worth the jabs he received.

  Crossing to the broadcast table, Whaler leaned over the mike.

  “Hey, hey, Bobo. Give us a call.” With a wink at Dread, he nodded toward the ceiling, a reference to the Lutheran church outside.

  “We’re in a perfect place for preachin’.”

  ~ 28 ~

  Between a Fort and a Hard Place

  SENATOR SANCHEZ WIPED her brow. The view from the walkway along Fort Christian’s upper wall was surreal but, with the sun beating down, the perch was unbearably hot. Reverend Bobo had spread his rainbow-colored scarf over his head, blocking the direct rays, but even his face was flushed from the heat.

  While the fort’s height allowed the two rogue senators to see across the whole of Charlotte Amalie, they were equally exposed, should any of the federal agents patrolling the streets look too closely at the boarded-up building’s top echelons.

  “We can’t stay up here.” Sanchez pointed to the navy vessel docked next to the cruise ship and the National Guard troops that had begun marching along the shoreline into the city. “They’re going to be looking for us.”

  For a moment, Reverend Bobo appeared not to hear her. His gaze remained focused on a spot north of the fort.

  Scanning the mayhem below, Sanchez tried to determine what had drawn his interest.

  At fi
rst, she thought Bobo was staring at the action in Emancipation Park. The public square was located just inland from the vendors’ plaza, across from the fort’s front green space.

  A cluster of concerned citizens had formed at the park’s west end near an iron sculpture depicting a rebelling slave. The Freedom Statue was one of a set that had been commissioned to commemorate Colonial-era uprisings. Similar statues could be found on both St. John and St. Croix. With one hand, the figure held a conch shell to his mouth. His swelling cheeks indicated he was blowing into the shell’s mouthpiece, generating a bellowing blast that was often used to signal the start of a revolt. The slave lifted his opposite arm toward the sky, waving a machete.

  Sanchez shuddered at the implied symbolism behind the gathering point. The slave rebellions had been violent affairs of bloodthirsty revenge. She hoped the FBI realized how easily their intervention might be misconstrued.

  Additional crowds had gathered by the park’s grandstand, a round stage with a pinwheel roof that was used for festival events, concerts, and the occasional speech. It was the last category that was being employed that morning. An improvised sound system had been set up, allowing individuals to step onstage and voice their opinions about the federal troops. Angry words, both pro and con, floated through the air toward the fort.

  Sanchez pursed her lips, afraid the Reverend was about to suggest they head to the grandstand, a move that would certainly lead to their arrest. But after studying the angle of Bobo’s scarf-covered head, she concluded his vision was directed a short distance up the hill from Emancipation Park.

  Tracing his line of sight, she homed in on the iron gates of the Lutheran church. Beyond the fence, a concrete walkway led into the church grounds.

  Two tiers of brick steps provided access to the sanctuary, a sturdy structure with a practical square-shaped steeple. The cream-colored bricks were paired with white trim, a red iron roof, and red-painted windows and doors. A concrete cistern took up much of the side yard.

  Despite the locked outer gate, the sanctuary’s front doors were swung open, an invitation to the breeze—and, apparently, the Reverend.

  “Bobo?” Sanchez prompted. “What are we going to do?”

  His face broke into a reassuring smile. Pointing to the church, he said, “I know a place that will take us in.”

  Sanchez was unconvinced. “Are you sure they won’t call the feds?”

  “We are like brothers,” Bobo replied confidently. He pulled the scarf from his head and pointed at the striped colors.

  Still she resisted. “Do you know the presiding priest?”

  Bobo grinned, as if sharing the punch line to a joke. Sanchez shook her head, puzzled. If there was some underlying humor reference, it wasn’t one she understood.

  “Better,” he replied with a chuckle. “I know the Bishop.”

  ~ 29 ~

  The Mysterious Monk

  DREAD FRED AND Whaler prepared to make their departure from the church’s empty cistern. They had narrowed their options for the next broadcast location to a short list and would select the best one based on the street conditions when they emerged from their bunker.

  As Dread folded up the plastic table, he took a close look around the concrete room. He didn’t want to leave anything behind. It might be a while before they were able to return.

  Whaler released a lever on the canvas camp chair he’d been sitting in, triggering it to collapse into travel mode. Then he turned to work on Dread’s. The chairs compressed into rod-shaped bundles that fit into a narrow sack that he strapped onto the side of his backpack.

  No sooner had Whaler threaded the second chair into its bag than a scraping noise sounded on the roof.

  “That’s it!” Whaler yelled, lunging for the ladder. “I’m gonna get that kid.”

  “Relax, man,” Dread said, hefting a pack filled with transmission equipment onto his shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll find you someone to punch on our way through town.”

  A shadow darkened the hole in the ceiling, one created by a larger presence than the skinny kid who had been throwing rocks at them.

  Both men froze. They were standing in an empty tank. There was only one way out and nowhere to hide. If the federal troops had tracked them down, they were about to be captured.

  This might be the end of the Dread Fred and Whaler radio show—for good.

  A foot stepped onto the ladder’s top rung. The light shifted, revealing a polished oxford with hand-sewn leather uppers.

  Not a combat boot.

  The DJs released their pent-up breath, and then immediately drew it back in as the foot was followed by the swish of a brown cassock.

  A man dressed in a strange costume, somewhat reminiscent of an affluent monk, descended the ladder. He had dark brown skin, but his nationality was distinctly foreign, not West Indian.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  His voice confirmed his outsider status. He had an odd accent that neither of the radio personalities recognized. Although he spoke in English, his words carried a slight inflection, as if the language wasn’t his mother tongue.

  Regardless, he appeared to be familiar with both of St. Thomas’s local celebrities. Their anonymity was blown with him.

  “Dread Fred, I believe,” the man said, crossing the room to extend a hand. The jeweled ring on his finger sparkled even in the cistern’s dim light.

  “And you must be Whaler,” he continued, turning toward the second DJ. “It’s a pleasure. I’m a real fan of your work.”

  The pair shook the man’s hand, but stood in stunned silence until Dread finally found his voice.

  “And you are?”

  The newcomer smiled.

  “You can call me the Bishop.”

  ~ 30 ~

  Anti-Denominational

  SENATORS BOBO AND Sanchez climbed down the clock tower and returned to the rear of Fort Christian. They exited the same door they’d entered, the only one for which Bobo had a key. Cautiously, they skirted around the building to a side yard and slipped through a gap in the fencing.

  Hiding behind the scarred trunk of the nearest tree, the pair looked out across the fort’s battered lawn. Past the east edge of Emancipation Park and up a narrow street, they could see the gates of the Lutheran church.

  A couple hundred yards at most separated them from their next destination.

  But there was quite a bit standing in the way.

  Emancipation Park had filled to capacity. The grandstand had been commandeered by four different speechmakers, each one struggling to be heard—both over the competing microphones and the surrounding din.

  Intermixed with the locals, a smattering of National Guard troops had arrived in the downtown area. The soldiers appeared somewhat lost, as if their marching orders had come unexpectedly and they were ill prepared for the abruptly initiated task. Certainly, they were unequipped with proper navigational guidance.

  Sanchez spied a soldier holding a tourist brochure, staring at the tiny map configured in its corner. He turned the colorful paper one way and then another, trying to orient himself within the stylized rendering.

  A second uniformed man held a stack of office copy paper, which he began peeling off and distributing to the other soldiers. One of the sheets caught the breeze, flew up into the air, and floated toward the fort.

  Sanchez waited until the soldiers had moved to the next street corner before scampering across the lawn to retrieve the discarded flyer.

  She returned to the tree and smoothed the crumpled sheet against the trunk. Bobo looked over her shoulder as she held up a paper printed with the black-and-white images of their two senate profiles.

  The photocopying had been hastily done on a low-resolution printer. Sanchez wore a simple blouse, and her hair was slicked back into a neat bun. Bobo was depicted in the same white linen outfit he wore to every senate m
eeting.

  Sanchez felt a hand ruffling through her hair, messing it into tangles.

  “Hey! Stop that!”

  “There,” Bobo said with a last toss of her hair. “They won’t make you now.”

  “Okay, thanks, I guess,” she murmured as Bobo began working on his own appearance.

  He took off his rainbow scarf and tucked it into Sanchez’s briefcase, but there was no obvious way to hide his distinctive tunic and trousers. After a moment’s reflection, he began lifting up his tunic.

  “What are you doing?” Sanchez demanded, instantly alarmed.

  “Distancing myself from that photo,” he replied, pulling the shirt over his head. He flexed the muscles on his scrawny chest, causing clumps of gray hair to pump up and down.

  Rolling her eyes, Sanchez looked away. She quickly turned back as he began running his hands around the loose waistline of his pants.

  “Bobo, don’t you dare.”

  “No one will recognize me in my skivvies,” he protested.

  “I would,” she replied with a visceral shudder. “And that’s an image that would stay with me for the rest of my life.”

  •

  WITH BOBO’S DIMINISHED wardrobe and Sanchez’s mussed-up hair, the senators started off down the fort’s front path—and then immediately stopped and looked at each other.

  “We probably shouldn’t stay this close together,” Sanchez said nervously.

  Bobo nodded in agreement. “I’ll go first.”

  She watched him stroll down the walkway past a pair of Guard soldiers holding printed flyers. Seconds later, his bare torso disappeared into the throngs that had spilled over onto the street outside Emancipation Park.

  Sanchez dug around inside her briefcase, sliding her hand beneath Bobo’s scarf and tunic, and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. Wrinkling her nose at the musky scent released from the Reverend’s clothing, she began to casually walk along the path toward the park.