Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

He slid the phone into his shirt pocket. He would figure something out.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  •

  CEDRIC RACED ACROSS to the post office, rounded the corner, and skidded to a stop by the front entrance. The building had been locked up tight, its green shutters clamped down against the yellow ochre walls.

  Panting, the aide scanned the sidewalk. Not seeing the Fixer near the post office, he turned to look up the hill.

  A row of iron busts lined the bottom of the slope. Solemn faces of luminaries from the territory’s past stared down at him—educators, journalists, and civil rights leaders who had been honored for their sacrifices and achievements.

  Cedric had grown up learning the stories of these and other local leaders. What had he contributed to the cause?

  He squirmed beneath the iron eyes, but the surge of guilt quickly dissipated. His actions were justified, he told himself, even if his motivations were rooted in self-interest.

  He had long ago stopped believing in martyrs and heroes.

  At this point, he was down to self-preservation.

  •

  AT THE SIGHT of the Fixer scrambling up the hill, Cedric dismissed all introspection. The thin man sprinted across the side slope, dashing through the trees—disrupting the flock of chickens and drawing a stern squawk from the resident rooster.

  He landed midway up the public staircase and paused to look back at the post office, as if taunting the aide to follow.

  Cedric needed no encouragement. He darted to the foot of the stairs and began the long chug toward the top.

  By the time the Fixer disappeared over the crest, Cedric had narrowed the distance between them. He was only about thirty feet behind.

  Out of breath, Cedric staggered onto the one-way street that ran in front of Hotel 1829. He glanced up and down the road with despair.

  The Fixer had once more slipped from his reach.

  A woman sat on the hotel veranda, watching him over the railing. With a shrug, she motioned east with her camera.

  Cedric gulped for air and turned as she had indicated, frantically searching the street. He didn’t see the Fixer until he reached the signpost for the 99 Steps.

  He let out a groan. The thin man had scampered up the stairs.

  “The guy’s half-goat.”

  •

  SUMMONING A SECOND wind, Cedric pounded up the walkway. His lungs burned; his calf muscles ached.

  A strengthening breeze pushed against his back, fluttering the blooms in the adjacent bougainvillea bushes. Cedric glanced over his shoulder at the harbor. Purple and blue shrouded the horizon, the front edge of the evening storm.

  The first drops began to spatter against the bricks, giving Cedric a much-needed boost of adrenaline. He surged up the rest of the steps, clearing the top with a sense of triumph.

  Fowler had once more escaped from view, but Cedric heard the smack of the man’s feet against the asphalt drive that led up to Blackbeard’s Castle.

  Charging past a curving wall of landscaping, the aide rounded the corner. The hilltop and Blackbeard’s Tower came into view.

  Cedric no longer questioned where the Fixer was headed. The landmark property at the summit was his obvious destination.

  It never occurred to him that instead of giving chase, he was being led into a trap.

  •

  CEDRIC TRAVERSED ANOTHER line of terracing, taking him past the rolling lawn and the fountain of the three young women. A ring of floodlights flickered on, illuminating the iron figures through the rain.

  The steps slickened as the initial coating of moisture mixed with the previous layer of dust, but Cedric refused to slow his pace. He reached the open gate to the main guest area and dove through.

  He was so close. He could sense it.

  He would have it out with the Fixer. He would demand to see the Governor. Everything was salvageable. He just needed a chance to plead his case.

  •

  SOAKED WITH SWEAT and, increasingly, rain, Cedric hurdled the last step up onto the pavilion and entertainment area. Rasping for air, he scanned the perimeter.

  The pool shimmered with pattering raindrops. The surrounding statues glistened, the liquid sheen increasing their lifelike appearance.

  Unaffected by the climb, the Fixer stepped out from behind a pair of dueling pirates.

  “You should have stayed at Government House, my friend.”

  Blackbeard’s Castle

  ~ 53 ~

  Blackbeard’s Bum

  BLACKBEARD’S CASTLE HAD been relatively quiet since the departure of Agent Friday and team yellow.

  The sole hotel guest slumped in a cushioned rattan chair on the far side of the bar’s pavilion, his arms draped over the sides, his spindly legs propped on a matching footrest. The limp log of wasting flesh was dwarfed by the surrounding pillows, the body barely visible from the lawn.

  The serving station was vacant. The bartender was on a break, having sated his demanding customer with another potent rum concoction.

  For his part, the guest had come to terms with the mojito substitution. He would never admit it to the bartender, but he was starting to enjoy the rum punch variation. There had been a nice kick to the most recent glass; he felt a pleasant numbness in his toes.

  He gazed blearily across the pavilion at the expansive view overlooking the harbor, the storm-streaked sky, and the undulating cityscape. A pleasant breeze swept in, soothing his aching bones.

  This is what he had envisioned for his final days, he thought with another slurp from his straw. Blackbeard’s was quite an upgrade from the scene at his last hospital room.

  The flat walls, uninspiring décor, and antiseptic smell of the place had been more than he could stand. He’d spent far too many desolate hours sealed off in a world of plastic tubing and beeping equipment—before checking himself out and heading for the Caribbean.

  There was no comparison, really, he thought with a peaceful sigh.

  He just wished he’d been more specific about mojito supplies when he made the reservations for his intended deathbed location.

  He set the glass on a table beside his chair, a shaky motion that nearly spilled the remaining liquid. His head tilted back into the cushions, and his mouth dropped open. He felt the cloud of another stupor coming on.

  His fingers fumbled for a packet of pills tucked into his shirt pocket. Two of the blister foil compartments had already been ripped open, the contents dumped inside his glass. Rousing himself, he dissolved a third pill in the last third of his cocktail and then drained the mixture in one long gulp.

  As his condition had deteriorated over the past year, he had gradually modified the delivery mechanism for his pain-numbing narcotics.

  Alcoholic beverages, specifically mojito cocktails, were his chosen method of administration—a prescription modification that had been frowned upon by the staff at the hospital where he’d been admitted.

  The man’s dry lips slurred out a mumble.

  “Bollocks to you, Dr. Killjoy.”

  •

  SPITTING RAIN DRILLED through to the Mojito Man’s subconscious, drawing him back to the foggy edge of reality. He hovered in a hazy atmosphere of hallucination and pain, before a disturbance across the lawn caught his attention.

  “Where’s the Governor?”

  He shifted his weight, silently bringing his feet to the ground. He leaned forward in his chair. Blinking, he tried to focus his vision.

  Two figures glared at one another from opposite sides of a statue of dueling pirates. One stood closer to the pool, with his back turned to the hotel guest. He wore an oversized mint green golf shirt and baggy chinos; both garments flapped in the wet wind.

  The Fixer’s voice rose above the gale, taunting Cedric through the fencing statues.

 
“The Governor has no use for you. He makes no concessions for traitors.”

  Bent at the waist, the hotel guest crept across the bar toward the pool. Crouching behind the corner of the rock wall that separated the two areas, he was now close enough to hear the Fixer’s sneering chuckle—and to see the shocked expression on the aide’s face.

  “What happened, Cedric? Have they thrown you overboard already?” The Fixer began to edge around the pirates. “Did you really think she was going to appoint you king?”

  “She.” Cedric repeated the pronoun, stunned by the revelation. “So . . .” He gulped. “He knows.”

  And with that, the last hope of a desperate man was gone. Cedric had nothing left to bargain with, no more chips to play. He was alone, vulnerable, and abandoned by both sides of the civil war. His words lashed out across the pavilion.

  “You tell the Governor that he needs me. I have too much information for him to shut me out. I know all his secrets.”

  The Fixer rounded the far end of the dueling pirates.

  “You seem awfully sure of yourself—especially for someone who’s just been kicked to the curb.”

  Cedric pushed his bluff a step further.

  “I know your real identity. And I know how you’ve been communicating with the Governor.”

  “Yes, Cedric. You’re the only one who knows. Don’t you see what that makes you?”

  The wind howled through the verbal silence.

  “A loose end.”

  The Fixer lunged toward the aide, and the pair scuffled to the ground.

  But what happened next was lost to the Mojito Man.

  A second wave of pain medication kicked in, and his vision faded to black. He crumpled to a heap behind the wall.

  Government House

  ~ 54 ~

  The Conspirator

  WENDY SURVEYED THE scene inside the Governor’s office, appraising the upended chairs, ripped upholstery, and the books, papers, and backgammon pieces strewn across the floor. Hightower’s drunken rampage had destroyed the place.

  The Gorilla had played his role well. Her nose crinkled at the stench of spilled rum on the desk where he was sleeping.

  Perhaps a little too well.

  Unlike Cedric, Wendy had never expected the federal agents to find the real governor. In fact, she and her fellow separatist conspirators had never intended for there to be a public arrest, but they hadn’t trusted Cedric with that information.

  They had a far more permanent outcome in mind for the former head of state.

  •

  PICKING HER WAY around the debris, Wendy crossed the room to close the balcony’s sliding door, shutting out the rain, which had dampened the nearest throw rugs.

  On her way back through the office, she bent to pick up one of the backgammon pieces and slipped it into her pocket, a souvenir of the monumental events that were still unfolding.

  Sensing her presence, Hightower began to stir, causing the recliner to creak as he shifted his weight.

  Wendy moved in behind him, placed a careful hand on his shoulder, and lightly pressed down. “It’s time to let those people downstairs go home.”

  The Gorilla’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” His thick lips struggled to form words. “I can’t believe the Governor got away. The guy slipped right through our fingers.” His hands clenched together. “I’ll be blamed for this, you know.”

  Wendy reached for the open bottle on the desk and dumped the remaining liquid into Hightower’s glass.

  “Thank ya, Wendy.”

  “My pleasure, Agent Hightower.”

  AGENT FRIDAY ARRIVED at Government House as the last employees departed the lobby. The rain had soaked his cap and shoulders. He’d trekked up from the FBI field office in the hopes of getting a word with the attorney general’s local representative—who had been difficult to reach by phone.

  Wendy managed a pleasant greeting, while internally suppressing a grimace. No one had expected Hightower’s second in command to be so diligent at addressing his leader’s shortcomings.

  I’d give anything for a docile yes-man, she thought wearily. Outwardly, she opted for an assertive stance.

  “What do you have to report, Agent Friday?”

  “No word yet on the Governor, ma’am.” His cleared his throat. “I thought I might have a word. You’re headed back to the Legislature Building?”

  “Yes,” she replied, tapping a large umbrella she’d borrowed from the lobby—even though she had no intention of returning to the Legislature’s hotbed. The senators had indicated they were prepared to extend their sit-in through the night.

  “I’ll escort you, then.” Friday held the door as Wendy walked through. He waited patiently under the front porch while she opened the umbrella.

  Friday wasted no time getting to the point. “We’ve got to track down this radio station. The two missing senators found the KRAT broadcast location. There has to be a connection there.”

  Wendy glanced up at Hotel 1829 as they passed. She smiled at the woman sitting on the veranda, an action meant only to stall while she considered her response.

  “Yes, I agree. Can you spare some men to search for them?”

  Friday nodded a grunt. “I’ll manage.”

  She paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the post office.

  “Is that all, Friday?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tapped the brim of his cap. “I’ll get to it, then.”

  •

  FRIDAY BROKE AWAY from the umbrella and waved the lawyer good-bye. He watched her continue down the staircase, her heels planting firmly on the slick brick steps.

  He’d spoken to the attorney general in Washington, DC an hour earlier. The AG had been unable to reach the woman since early that morning.

  Friday was beginning to think Hightower had been right about one aspect of Operation Coconut.

  Don’t trust the locals.

  FRIDAY’S BULGING EYES followed Wendy all the way to the bottom of the stairs. She crossed the street in front of the post office without looking back.

  She knew exactly where the radio station had been broadcasting that day—and where the missing senators were hiding. Despite her best efforts to conceal her thoughts, she sensed Friday had suspected the truth.

  It was important to keep Senator Sanchez securely muzzled for the next twenty-four hours.

  Surely, she could put the agents off for that long.

  The Lutheran Church

  ~ 55 ~

  Unwelcome Confinement

  SENATOR SANCHEZ STARED up at the cistern’s sealed hatch, sweat pouring off her face. She’d drained the water bottle the Bishop had brought earlier. Her clothes stuck to her body, and she felt woozy from the stench of Bobo’s hair oil.

  She refused to look at her co-senator, for fear of what she might see. Similarly sweaty, he had stripped down to his loose-fitting harem pants. He sat on the floor, leaning against one of the cistern sidewalls, courteously giving her the sole fold-out chair the DJs had left behind.

  Dark and stuffy, the cistern was far more humid than before. Water had begun to trickle out of the trough near the roof. It must have started raining outside, Sanchez concluded with worry.

  How much longer are we going to be trapped in here? she wondered, vowing she would never again venture inside a cistern holding tank.

  Just then, a grinding cinch of metal sounded from the roof, and the hatch swung open. Water ran over the rim as the Bishop poked his head through the hole.

  “It’s dark enough now. I think it’s safe to move you. The FBI agents are still in the area, though, so please be quick.”

  Bobo jumped up from the floor, threw on his tunic, and scrambled around Sanchez to get to the ladder.

  While waiting for Bobo to exit, Sanchez secured the strap for her leather
satchel around her shoulder and slipped off her heels. Gripping the shoes in one hand, she scaled the ladder and stepped out, barefoot, onto the cistern roof.

  The Bishop crossed the roof and hurried down a ramp to a side yard that curved around the chapel. Bobo followed, leaving Sanchez standing alone while she wobbled back and forth, slipping on her shoes.

  With a glance at her surroundings, she realized why the two men had moved away from the hatch. She had a clear view down the front walk and out the closed iron gates to the corner of Emancipation Park and, beyond, Fort Christian.

  The pedestrians still mingling in the area south of the church had a similar view of her.

  Sanchez scrambled across the concrete roof, down the ramp, and over to a newer L-shaped annex attached to the church’s main chapel. The Bishop ushered the senator through the doorway and then shut it securely behind her. They were once more hidden from any observers on the street.

  And, Sanchez couldn’t help thinking as the Bishop secured the lock, they were trapped inside yet another bunker.

  •

  “MAKE YOURSELVES AT home,” the Bishop said smoothly.

  Sanchez blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the shaded interior. None of the annex’s artificial lights had been turned on. The windows on the building’s courtyard-facing walls let in beams from the lampposts that surrounded the church grounds, but that provided only minimal illumination.

  The Bishop walked his guests down a hallway that cut through the building’s two wings. He pointed out a series of multipurpose rooms, a nursery, and a bathroom equipped with shower stalls.

  The space was typically used for vacation Bible school, visiting clergy, and church-related child care, but the senators would be the only occupants that evening. The resident minister, he explained, was on vacation.

  Circling back to the entrance, the Bishop led the senators into one of the larger dormitory rooms.

  “I hope you’ll find these accommodations acceptable. It was the best I could put together on short notice.”