Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Dread leaned away from the mike, listening as Whaler whispered the identity of the woman waiting to voice her thoughts on the missing Governor.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, surprised. Despite numerous requests, they had never received an interview from this sought-after source.

  Whaler nodded, his Afro bouncing an enthusiastic affirmation.

  Dread returned to the live transmission.

  “Drop whatever you’re doing, folks, and listen in.” His brown eyes gleamed with anticipation. “We’ve got the First Lady on the line.”

  After a quick introduction and the obligatory niceties inquiring as to how the First Lady was coping with recent events, Dread began spouting out questions.

  “What can you tell us about the Governor? What are his plans? Is he going to fight these charges?”

  There was a short pause before she issued her response. Her voice was touched by emotion, but steady in tone.

  “My husband is dead.”

  Dread stared at the radio equipment, speechless. Filling the void, Whaler scooped up the handheld mike and gently prodded. “What happened to him?”

  This time her response was swift, her words confident in the message conveyed.

  “The federal agents killed him. He’s been assassinated.”

  Emancipation Park

  ~ 72 ~

  Grounds for Divorce

  AFTER PASSING THE comforting scene of the elderly uncle and his niece sitting outside the diner, the author took a short walk along the shoreline. She snapped several photos of the Legislature Building, where a line of catering trucks had pulled into the parking lot, bringing hot breakfasts to the hot-headed senators still holed up inside.

  It didn’t take long for her to fall into the flow of the day’s foot traffic, which led her to Emancipation Park.

  The crowds were once more gathering around the grandstand. The microphones hummed with speculation and vitriol, an even mix of concern about what might happen next and angst at the territory’s leaders for provoking the federal invasion.

  The speeches immediately stopped, however, at news that the First Lady was about to go live on KRAT.

  •

  “HE’S BEEN ASSASSINATED.”

  The First Lady’s words hung in the air, defying gravity. The sentence dealt a stunning blow to everyone within earshot.

  Mouths fell open, and all conversation stopped. Then faint murmurs of sorrow, disbelief, and outrage began to float up over the crowd.

  “Bless his soul.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “They’ll pay for this.”

  Dread Fred sputtered an incoherent response, but the First Lady ignored his futile attempts to interject.

  “The bribery case against my husband and the VI government was based on trumped-up lies and fabricated evidence. It was nothing but a pretext for the United States to install a puppet government over our territory—so they could impose on us a leader more compliant to their demands than my husband.”

  The voices of discontent grew louder. The author eased toward the edge of the park, sensing it might be prudent to return to the hotel, even if—she grimaced—the Mojito Man was still camped out at the bar.

  The First Lady’s next comment confirmed the author’s intuition.

  “In honor of my husband’s memory, we must evict the federal invaders, purge their traitors from our ranks, and separate ourselves from the country of his murderers.”

  ON HER WAY out of the park, the author noticed the man in the golf shirt and chinos that she’d seen on the hotel veranda at breakfast. Unlike the rest of the crowd, he appeared unaffected by the First Lady’s announcement.

  The author had the distinct impression he was searching for someone—an impression that changed when he turned her direction.

  It took a moment for the woman to realize that the Fixer’s attention was trained on two West Indian men who had just stepped into the space beside her.

  One was tall with stubby dread locks sticking up off the top of his head. His friend was shorter, his head nearly smooth from lack of hair.

  Having just arrived at the park, the men were apparently unaware of the First Lady’s dramatic announcement. The taller of the pair exclaimed in a voice that drowned out the KRAT broadcast.

  “I mean, really, mon. How could anyone be afraid of a Cow Foot Woman?”

  ~ 73 ~

  Duck

  CURRIE SHUT HIS eyes.

  “I can’t keep having this conversation with you.”

  Mic had been carrying on a one-sided debate of cow-versus goat-footed ghouls ever since Currie’s cousin Spike left them shortly after breakfast.

  Mic and Currie had spent the night on the outskirts of Charlotte Amalie, sleeping beneath some trees in a wooded area that Spike had recommended. Even with the dense canopy, they’d been soaked to the skin during the worst of the night’s downpour.

  Currie had agreed to one last stop at Emancipation Park before they started their trek back to Coki Beach. He was anxious to get out of town, but by all indications, it was going to be a very long walk.

  “A cow, mon? What’s scary about a cow? What’s the worst it could do to you? Moo?”

  Currie let out a groan.

  “But a goat, I tell you what. You don’t want to mess around with an angry goat.”

  “If you say so.”

  “They’ve got those beady eyes and tiny little teeth. And don’t forget the horns.” Mic shuddered. “Creepy creatures.”

  Tuning out Mic’s commentary, Currie gazed across the crowd.

  “And they eat anything, those goats, mon. Cows are vegetarian.”

  Suddenly, Currie spied something that terrified him far more than any cow, goat, or ruminant-human hybrid.

  “Duck,” he whispered harshly. He grabbed Mic’s sleeve and tugged.

  “Duck Foot Woman?” Mic frowned, trying to imagine such a creature. “I’ve never heard of one of those, mon. Why are you crawling around on the ground? Are you checking people’s feet? ’Cause you can’t always tell from the shoes.”

  Currie threw his shoulder into Mic’s knees, causing them to buckle. Mic collapsed onto the grass, howling with indignation.

  His protests died in his throat when he saw where Currie was pointing.

  Nova and his gang were circling the park, closing in on their position.

  ~ 74 ~

  The Hunt

  MIC AND CURRIE crawled through the crowd on their hands and knees, scurrying into the nearest bushes. Branches and thorns scraped at their skin, but neither man noticed the abrasions. A much greater concern loomed at the opposite end of the park.

  The pair held their breath, hoping they’d escaped detection, but the evasive maneuver had come too late. The Fixer had pointed them out; they’d been spotted.

  Nova had temporarily lost sight of the Coconut Boys, but the mere glimpse of his long-sought-after targets brought a triumphant smile to his face.

  He motioned for his gang to spread out across the crowd. There was no way Mic and Currie could escape his clutches.

  He was going to enjoy this hunt.

  As Nova scanned the park for his victims, he passed a group discussing the First Lady’s KRAT announcement, and his smile broadened to a deeper level of menace. He would pay for his betrayal, but whatever the repercussions, switching allegiances to the Fixer had already been worth the price. And besides, he thought with a confident swagger, he could surely smooth things over with her.

  He’d always had a way with women.

  •

  SLITHERING ON HIS stomach, Currie scooted to the edge of the bushes and peeked out at the sea of feet in the park just beyond.

  “Do you see anything?” Mic hissed from deeper inside the hedge.

  Currie shook his head. He lifted his chest from the ground to get a b
etter look—and froze.

  Nova’s men were rapidly converging on the bushes, a wide net of muscled machines ready to tear them limb from limb. Their current hiding place wouldn’t protect them. They would have to run for it.

  “Come on, Mic,” Currie said briskly. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  •

  THE COCONUT BOYS sprinted pell-mell out of Emancipation Park, dodging and diving around disgruntled pedestrians. The disturbance in the crowd was easy to spot. Nova and his crew took up the chase.

  Currie scrambled onto the pavement encircling the park, trying to decide on the nearest cover. Their best chance was to try to lose their pursuers in the steep neighborhoods above the harbor. Grabbing Mic’s shirttail, he veered toward the hillside, but Nova’s men fanned out across the road, cutting them off.

  With no other choice, the pair spun around and headed toward the waterfront.

  Nova let out a whoop.

  “Let’s go! We’ve got ’em, boys.”

  •

  TERRIFIED, MIC AND Currie scampered down the street. Their legs pumped at high speed; their flip-flops smacked against the pavement.

  Mic, being a foot taller than his friend, took the lead as they turned in front of the Legislature Building. Despite having the advantage of speed, Mic relied on Currie for direction. He looked back at his friend, seeking guidance.

  Currie scanned the road ahead of them. Past the Legislature, the asphalt curved along the harbor. They were exposed, with little place to hide. He was about to gesture toward the Legislature parking lot, which would at least provide a few vehicles to hide behind, when Mic dashed across the street to the rear of Fort Christian.

  “Over here,” Mic panted, slipping through the hole in the chain-link gate.

  Currie felt his stomach tighten with worry. Strategically, it was a bad move; they could easily be trapped inside. But there were no better options. They would have to move fast to get through the opening before Nova’s men rounded the corner.

  Reluctantly, he chugged toward the fence.

  ~ 75 ~

  Cutlass and Cassock

  MIC AND CURRIE fled across the fenced parking lot surrounding the rear of Fort Christian, hopping around construction barriers and abandoned equipment as they headed toward a metal door fitted into the steep brick wall.

  Currie held little hope that the passage would be unlocked, but when Mic pulled on the handle, the door swung open.

  With a last glance at the street behind him, Currie followed Mic inside. Together, they closed the door and slid a rusty bolt through its interior lock.

  Currie held his breath, listening for sounds on the other side of the wall.

  “Did we give them the slip?” Mic asked, bending over to catch his breath.

  “I don’t know,” Currie replied anxiously. He scanned the inner courtyard and pointed to the clock tower over the fort’s front entrance. “Let’s see if we can get up there and take a look outside.”

  •

  THE COCONUT BOYS trotted across the courtyard toward the front entrance. Currie remained focused on the clock tower, but Mic had started to assess the fort’s residential potential.

  “You know, Currie-mon, we could just live here.” He gestured to the sky above the courtyard. “Plenty of open air, but some areas of protection.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I bet I could do a bang-up business in hair-braiding outside by the vendors’ plaza.”

  Currie paused by the fort’s museum to give Mic a sarcastic look. He glanced briefly at the displays and then turned for the clock tower.

  “I might even expand my line of hair ties . . .”

  “Shh!”

  On the opposite side of the fort’s front door, Currie heard the exterior lock rattling in its fittings—followed by Nova’s voice, growling to his subordinates.

  “Head around back and guard the rear. I’ve got a key to this door somewhere in my pocket.”

  •

  SPINNING AWAY FROM the front entrance, Currie grabbed Mic and pulled him back into the courtyard.

  There were few options that held any realistic prospect of concealing them from Nova’s sharp gaze.

  “In here,” Currie whispered, pointing to the museum.

  The two scurried inside. Currie surveyed the historical displays and reached for the only available weapon—an antique cutlass once used to harvest sugarcane.

  It wouldn’t be much of a match for Nova’s pistol.

  •

  NOVA’S DARK SHADOW strode powerfully through the fort’s front entrance. He paused in the foyer beneath the clock tower, listened for his prey, and then walked toward the courtyard.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the pair of bullets he had been carrying especially for this occasion.

  He removed his gun from its holster, released the magazine, and loaded the special bullets into the front of the round, ensuring they would be the next two shots he fired.

  Two, he felt confident, would be all that he’d need.

  •

  CURRIE STOOD IN the middle of the museum, looking out through its open doorway at the man who intended to kill him.

  He wasn’t one for risk-taking or wild adventure. He was a careful, deliberate soul.

  He would have preferred a nice quiet home in a peaceful Crucian setting, but life had thrown him some hard knocks, unfortunate—unfair—wallops that had leveled him to the ground.

  Each time, he got up and tried again. He had always faced his troubles as bravely as possible, even when the odds were stacked against him.

  Never had his prospects looked as dire as they did in that moment. He and Mic had only one plan, and it had a very low likelihood of success.

  Swallowing his fear, Currie held the cutlass in front of his body and prepared for the worst. Summoning his deepest voice, he called out.

  “Nova, over here.”

  •

  HEAD COCKED TO one side, Nova turned toward the museum. There in the doorway stood the shorter of the Coconut twins.

  Gun cocked and at the ready, Nova began a slow but steady approach.

  “What’s this, Currie? You volunteering to go first?”

  Gripping the cutlass with his sweaty hands, Currie managed a hoarse reply. “Let’s get it over with, Nova.” He swung the blade through the air, but the action failed to intimidate. He was a rodeo clown taunting a bull.

  “There’s no easy way out.” Nova chuckled his enjoyment as he moved closer to the museum. He stood outside the doorway, casually waving his gun. “I’m going to make you suffer.”

  Currie slashed out with the knife, a feinted effort meant only to draw Nova inside.

  Laughing, Nova stepped over the threshold.

  “You know what this is, don’t you?” He held the gun up, as if giving a demonstration. “This is what’s going to make you pay for running out on me in Frederiksted. You can’t parry with a gun.”

  Currie held his breath. Just a little closer, he told himself. He flicked the cutlass once more, trying to entice Nova to take one more step.

  He hadn’t meant to hit the pistol, but the cutlass had a longer wingspan than he realized. The blade dinged the tip of the gun, causing it to jump out of Nova’s hand.

  Startled, Nova juggled the weapon, struggling to regain his grip, but it slipped through his fingers. He bent to catch the pistol before it hit the floor.

  Afraid that he’d pushed Nova too far, Currie lost control of the cutlass, and it tumbled downward—the sharp blade slicing across Nova’s left cheek before it clattered onto the ground.

  Unaware of the injury, Nova stood, training the gun on Currie’s horrified face.

  It wasn’t until blood began running over his lips and into his mouth that Nova realized he’d been cut.

  Enraged, he moved toward Currie, intent on firing t
he gun into his forehead.

  “Let’s end this now . . .”

  The subsequent bong wasn’t the ricochet of a bullet, but the clash of Mic’s skillet with the back of Nova’s head.

  “I KNOCKED HIM out good, didn’t I, mon?” Mic stared down at Nova’s unconscious figure, admiring his handiwork.

  “Come on, Mic,” Currie said, ushering him toward the museum door. “We’ve got to get out of here before the goons out back realize what’s happened.”

  “Wait,” Mic replied. “Take a look at this first.”

  Mic motioned Currie over to the display case where he had crouched while waiting for Nova to enter the museum.

  A body lay across the floor, wrapped in a brown cassock.

  “Who is it?” Currie asked, aghast.

  “Don’t know, mon, but he’s dead. Like really and truly dead.”

  Currie cringed as Mic pointed at the cloak. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Currie looked up at his tall friend and sighed.

  “I already know I’m not going to like this.”

  •

  SECONDS LATER, A tall humpbacked figure dressed in a brown cassock staggered through Fort Christian’s front entrance and hobbled, with difficulty, across the lawn.

  Washington, DC

  ~ 76 ~

  Relieved of Duty

  “FRIDAY! HOW DID that woman get on the radio?! Don’t your men have her under surveillance there at the Governor’s Mansion?”

  The attorney general hollered his frustration into the speakerphone. The assistant director of the FBI sat in a chair in front of the AG’s desk, looking miserable, as together they listened to Friday’s latest report from St. Thomas.

  “She’s still in the mansion, sir. Locked herself inside one of the upper bedrooms and barricaded the door. The house phones were disconnected. I don’t know where she got the cell phone she used to call KRAT, but I suspect the Bishop slipped it to her the previous evening.”