Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Sanchez followed the Bishop to the far edge of the lawn that sloped up from the post office. She waited behind a clump of trees, watching as he turned down a side street that skirted the downtown’s upper edge.

  Trotting across the sloping lawn, she reached the sidewalk for the narrow roadway. The going was much easier on the flat surface, but her shoes were now making far more noise than she would have liked. She had little time to worry about the sound. The cloaked man flashed around a darkened corner as if taking a well-known route.

  Sanchez kept pace until the Bishop paused at the entrance to a public staircase. He turned to look over his shoulder, and she dove behind a parked car.

  Peeking over the hood, she caught a glimpse of the swishing cassock disappearing beneath the leafy canopy that covered the stairwell.

  She waited several seconds before crossing the street, hoping she wouldn’t be seen from above. She eyed an abandoned house next to the stairway’s entrance, fearful of vagrants that might be sleeping inside, before nervously moving to the bottom of the stairs.

  Looking up, she saw the Bishop’s shadowed figure had already climbed several terraced sections up the hillside.

  Staying within the shadows next to the railing, Sanchez began her ascent.

  It was a long hike up the public walkway. The concrete steps were a slightly newer vintage than the brick ones on Government Hill, but they hadn’t held up nearly as well. Dim lighting made navigation over the crumbling concrete even more difficult.

  The rain plastered down, funneling rivulets into the steps. Her heel slipped, and she nearly turned an ankle trying to stay upright.

  Through the watery blur, the Bishop cleared the top step and turned sharply to the left.

  Sanchez stopped, panting and confused. There was only one residence at the end of that path.

  It was surrounded by high-level security fencing and guarded by USVI police. Given recent events, she suspected a number of FBI agents would also be at the facility.

  She completed the stairs and followed the Bishop’s left turn—in time to see him admitted through the front gates of the Governor’s Mansion.

  •

  SANCHEZ WATCHED THE iron gate slide shut behind the Bishop. The rain continued to pour down, but she hardly noticed the drenching as she contemplated the ramifications of the Bishop’s destination.

  She wouldn’t be returning to Hotel 1829. Nor could she risk going back to her apartment—but not for the reason the Bishop had given.

  This episode had a far more local cause than she had realized.

  She needed to consult her uncle. With his years of political experience, he would know how best to proceed.

  She began her descent down the stairs. She wasn’t far from a friend’s house. Hopefully, she could borrow some clothes and sleep on the spare couch.

  She would set out to look for Uncle Abe first thing in the morning.

  Most likely, he would be playing backgammon at Emancipation Park.

  The Governor’s Mansion

  ~ 60 ~

  Religious Guidance

  THE RAIN INTENSIFIED, moving up the hillside and soaking the garden outside the Governor’s Mansion, but the First Lady refused to leave her covered bench.

  Her gaze remained fixed on the city lights until a member of her regular security team approached, closely accompanied by two FBI agents.

  The security guard spoke first.

  “A clergyman is here to see you, ma’am.”

  She appeared unsurprised by this announcement.

  “Yes, please show him in. I could use some religious guidance.”

  The senior FBI agent cleared his throat. “I advise against it, ma’am. We’d prefer that you remain in complete isolation until we’re able to apprehend your husband.”

  The First Lady’s eyes flickered, even as her face remained calm. She prompted the security guard.

  “Which clergyman has come to see me?”

  “The Bishop of St. Thomas,” the man supplied quickly, speaking the title with as much authenticity as he could muster.

  “Well then, how can there be any harm in that?” she asked demurely.

  The agent shifted his weight, uncertain of how to handle the situation.

  “This is a deeply troubling time.” She pressed her hand against his forearm. “Please.”

  Reluctantly, the agent reached for a two-way radio attached to his hip. Speaking into the device, he ordered the guards by the gate to let the arrival inside.

  •

  THE BISHOP STRODE up the front walk and through the mansion’s porticoed entrance as if he were a regular guest. In fact, it was his first visit to the place. His previous business on St. Thomas had been with far less prestigious clients.

  He paused for a moment to study the decorated interior. His expert eyes scanned the walls and display cabinets, taking note of the various pieces of artwork and mentally assessing their value, an instinctive habit of his profession. It was a routine assessment—until he reached the Governor’s marble backgammon set.

  He stared at the checkered pieces, pondering their position, before continuing through to the side garden.

  •

  DESPITE HIS WALK up the hill in the rain, the Bishop still evoked a commanding presence. The cassock’s tight weave had wicked away much of the falling moisture. His grizzled goatee gripped his chin with the same neat trim it had possessed in the Miami airport that morning.

  The First Lady greeted him like a trusted confidant.

  “Hello, Bishop.”

  He walked her toward the garden area, resting a comforting arm across the back of her shoulders. When they were safely out of earshot, he leaned toward her ear and whispered discreetly, “Your men have arrived.”

  Her smile confirmed the message had been received.

  Downtown Charlotte Amalie

  ~ 61 ~

  Managed Mayhem

  THE STORM DUMPED its allotment on St. Thomas and moved west toward San Juan. The night sky cleared, and the city’s human residents fell into a quiet slumber, even as a myriad of insect, avian, and lizard species swung into high gear. Coiquis sang out their coital requests, mosquitoes frolicked in puddles, and iguanas rummaged through the arboreal canopy for food.

  The respite was short-lived. Not long after the rains subsided, a force of a different nature arrived on the soggy streets of Charlotte Amalie. Nova and his Crucian cronies, bolstered by the locals who had met them at the beach, began their assault on downtown.

  Their faces covered with black cotton ski masks, the gangsters prowled the main shopping district. Armed with baseball bats and spray paint canisters, they ransacked the alleyways, smashing windows through their protective iron-bar cages.

  Spray paint ran down the wet bricks, the anti-American messages blurred but easily readable.

  Following the instructions of Nova’s original employers, the destruction was designed to look random, a spontaneous response to the federal invasion, a reflection of outraged public sentiment—and a warning that the islanders’ resistance was primed to escalate.

  In actuality, the attack had been carefully planned. Nova and his men had a specific list of stores to vandalize.

  The addresses and the type of destruction had been detailed by the Fixer—the spared stores corresponding to the shopkeepers who were the Governor’s known allies and financial backers, the hits falling on his political enemies and anyone who had shown apathy in the last campaign.

  It was a fast operation, over and done in a matter of minutes.

  The police were intentionally slow to respond. Wary of being caught in gang-related crossfire, they were well practiced in delay tactics.

  By the time the National Guard troops were rousted from their bunks on the navy ship and began the sleepy one-mile jog to the downtown shops, Nova and his goons had dis
appeared into the blackness of the night.

  ~ 62 ~

  A Cassocked Bundle

  A TANGLE OF Guard troops, FBI agents, and police converged on the site of the alleyway vandalism. Meanwhile, a pickup containing the perpetrators rumbled up the one-way street leading into Government Hill.

  Nova and his crew had one more task to complete before the night was over.

  After speeding past Hotel 1829, the truck screeched to a halt outside the parsonage. Nova climbed out the front passenger seat. Two more thugs hopped from the bed.

  “Drive around the block. Be back here in five minutes.” Nova thumped the side panel with the palm of his hand, and the truck zoomed off, its rear end bouncing over a speed bump as it barreled past Government House.

  Nova proceeded much more quietly up the parsonage’s uneven steps.

  The security gate had been left unlocked. It fell open at his touch.

  Joined by his two lackeys, he moved stealthily across the front courtyard and into the main building. The trio reached the second floor and crept down the hallway to a room with access to the balcony overlooking the street.

  A man dressed in a brown cassock lay on a cot in the sparsely furnished space. The hood had been pulled down over his face, obscuring any distinguishing features.

  Nova bent over the bed and confirmed, somewhat disappointedly, that his predecessor had already done the job of taking the life.

  With a dissatisfied grunt, he motioned for help lifting the body. His Crucian cronies hefted the head and feet. Between the three of them, they were able to carry the dead weight back down the stairs and out the front door.

  At the security gate, Nova held up a cautioning hand. He peeked out onto the road, looking for their getaway vehicle.

  Seconds later, the pickup rounded the far corner.

  Nova’s hard whisper called back to the courtyard.

  “Bring him out. Go, go.”

  Additional muscle power jumped out of the truck to help dump the stiff figure into the bed.

  The dim streetlight briefly illuminated the body transfer, providing a confirming glimpse to the interested observers strolling through the garden outside the mansion on the opposite hill.

  Nova returned to the front passenger seat as the rest of the gang piled into the rear.

  The truck drove off, one passenger heavier than when it had first arrived.

  AS THE PICKUP once more bottomed out on the speed bump, a large man in a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers emerged from a wardrobe inside the second-floor room from which the body had been removed.

  Taking care to avoid the streetlamps, the Governor sneaked outside and into the night.

  Blackbeard’s Castle

  ~ 63 ~

  So Many Ways to Say Good-bye

  THE MOJITO MAN awoke to a sunrise view overlooking Charlotte Amalie from his Blackbeard’s lawn chair.

  The bartender had found the hotel guest passed out by the concrete wall the night before. He had scooped him up and carefully positioned him on the makeshift bed, far enough beneath the pavilion to be protected from the rain. A maid had brought out sheets and a soft pillow, tucking him in like a small child.

  The staff had also set up a mosquito coil on the ground nearby. It had burned itself out a few hours earlier. A tiny metal stand and a circular trail of ashes were all that was left.

  The last courtesy had been an unnecessary precaution.

  After years of tests and transfusions, the cancer patient’s veins were almost impossible to harvest. His pasty skin emitted the scent of coming death; his blood was tainted with enough narcotic to dissuade even the hungriest of insect foragers.

  Gumming his dry mouth, he staggered to his feet and wandered toward the lawn. He mumbled his familiar and always first request of the day.

  “Mojito. Can someone get me a mojito, please . . .”

  Then he stopped, midappeal, startled by the image of the dueling pirates near the top of the stairs that led down the hill.

  “You,” he said, pointing to the pirate on the left. “You were talking to this guy.” He shifted his finger to the right. “And then you talked back.”

  Staggering unsteadily, he swung his arm back to the first pirate.

  “What happened next?”

  His hollowed face contorted as he tried to recall the sequence of events. He could have sworn there’d been a struggle, but the details eluded him.

  “Must have been a good time if I can’t remember it,” he concluded with a shrug. He glanced across the pavilion, searching for the bartender.

  “Mojito?” he called out frailly.

  He listened, hopefully shifting his head sideways. All he heard was the drone of an insect hovering near his shoulder, its pinpricking proboscis wavering with indecision.

  He nearly fell over in his attempt to swat at the bug.

  “I said mojito—not mosquito!”

  •

  BLACKBEARD’S MORNING STAFF brought out a breakfast menu, but their guest had little appetite for food. At the maid’s motherly urging, he finally agreed to an omelet and a side of roast potatoes.

  While the order was relayed to the kitchen, he slurped on a mimosa—again, not a mojito, he reflected, but an acceptable substitution. He swirled his straw, stirring the tablet he’d dropped into the orange juice and champagne mixture.

  He leaned back in his chair as the cold slurry seeped into his system, anticipating the medication’s numbing effect. But the dose was either too little or too late to offset the sudden surge of body-raking spasms that swept over him.

  His bony hands gripped the armrests, the knuckles bulging white through his translucent skin.

  How much longer? he thought as he willed himself through the pain. The cancer was slowly eating at him, gnawing him away from the inside out. His bones ached, his joints throbbed, and his chest constricted.

  He began to ponder ways to bring about a quicker end.

  If he could muster the strength, a running jump and tumble off the steep edge of Blackbeard’s cliff would probably do the trick.

  He dismissed this option as requiring too much effort. Plus, the fall might bring about more physical discomfort without accomplishing the main goal. In his view, he had already endured enough.

  The idea of jumping led him to a second suicidal plan. He could climb Blackbeard’s Tower and leap off the top into the shallow end of the swimming pool. If the impact of the fall didn’t kill him, it would be easy enough to drown in the water.

  He frowned, contemplating the energy that would be required to reach the top of the tower and clamber over the rampart.

  Hmm. The drugs were kicking in. The tension in his body began to loosen, but the train of thought continued—as a morbid fascination if no longer a subject of actual intent.

  The mosquito buzzed his ear, still trying to work up the nerve to taste the man’s narcotic-laced blood.

  Death by exsanguination, he mused, imagining the bloodletting of a thousand tiny bite-mark incisions.

  “Sorry, insects,” he muttered thickly. “The doctors beat you to it.”

  He squinted at one of the iron swords forged into the hands of the dueling pirates.

  Death by impalement.

  He tilted his head, trying to envision the angle that would be needed to achieve this feat. Again, he concluded, too much work—and too great a risk of failure leading to extended suffering.

  The sun inched a few degrees higher, spreading its rays across his chair. After just one day in the tropics, his pale skin had started to freckle. He had never been one to tan, only redden.

  Death by sunburn.

  This brought about another shuddering thought of pain.

  Bravery wasn’t high on his list of his strengths.

  He took another sip from the mimosa. The orange juice was sweet and pulpy, but the ch
ampagne wasn’t quite strong enough to mask the pill’s aftertaste. He puckered his lips, swallowing the sour residue.

  Death by alcoholic overdose.

  Now we’re talking, he thought glibly.

  This was the preferred method, the one he had in fact already chosen, by default or deliberate action. This is the way he anticipated his life would end. The world would become a blissful blur and then gently fade away.

  When the time came, arrangements had been made for his burial in an island cemetery. He had already picked out his plot number and tombstone.

  The marker had been engraved with his name.

  Beneath the identifying details, he’d instructed the stonemason to carve an image of a mojito cocktail glass with a slice of lime wedged onto the rim and a sprig of mint sticking out the top.

  The 99 Steps

  ~ 64 ~

  Counting in Danish

  DREAD FRED AND Whaler met by the line of statues outside the main post office, incognito except for the radio equipment they carried in their backpacks and shoulder bags.

  To the casual observer, it was simply a chunky Puerto Rican in loose-fitting shorts and flip-flops calling out a greeting to a tall West Indian with an impressive Afro in skinny jeans and a T-shirt. No one suspected them of being the famous KRAT DJs.

  They were headed to the morning’s broadcast location, a site that promised far better ventilation and signal reception than the cistern from the day before. However, neither man relished the prospect of the hike up the hill to the new spot.

  The pair traversed the first flight of terraced steps, receiving an icy stare from the overprotective rooster in the sloping field. They soon reached the one-way street outside Hotel 1829.