Aground on St. Thomas
Page 24
His team had been diverted onto a new mission, a global search for the Bishop.
He glanced back at Charlotte Amalie’s curving hills, taking a last look up at Blackbeard’s Tower with a sigh.
“So ends Operation Coconut.”
THE GOVERNOR STEPPED down from the grandstand and was once more surrounded by security personnel.
A slim man in an oversized golf shirt and chinos, however, managed to slip through the heavily armed barrier to pat the Governor on the back.
“Congratulations, Guv.”
The big man stopped to clasp his arm around the Fixer’s shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough.” He lowered his voice. “We’ll be in touch—through the regular channels.”
“I’m glad we were able to work things out, sir.”
But as the Governor turned toward his waiting SUV, the Fixer leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“We’ve got one more loose end to tie up.”
The Loose Ends
~ 80 ~
The Last Mojito
THE AUTHOR WATCHED the Governor’s grandstand appearance from the television set in the bar at Hotel 1829. The remarkable performance was immediately followed by news that the island’s transportation ban had been lifted. The ferry schedule would recommence shortly.
The bartender leaned over his counter and pumped his thick eyebrows.
“If you get on over to Red Hook, you might make it out tonight.”
“I’ll grab my bag,” she said, hopping off her stool.
The shuffling sound was enough to wake the Mojito Man, who had been snoozing fitfully on the bench against the far wall.
“What happened?” he asked, suddenly alert. “Where’s everybody going?”
“I’m headed to St. John,” the author replied and then added a muttered aside: “Hopefully.”
Her pale friend jumped up from the bench. The most recent dose of pain meds was still in full effect. “Time for me to get back to Blackbeard’s.”
The bartender reached for his phone. “Let me call you a cab.”
“Don’t bother,” the man waved him off. “I’m going to walk. I feel spry as a spring chicken.”
He staggered toward the marked door on the other side of the bar.
“Just going to make a quick pit stop first.”
The bartender motioned toward the courtyard. “Now’s your chance. Better make a run for it.”
The author gazed at the exit for several seconds before throwing up her hands. She couldn’t stop thinking about the earlier funeral conversation.
“I’ll take him,” she said reluctantly. “Blackbeard’s is just at the top of the 99 Steps, isn’t it?”
The bartender grinned. “It’s going to feel like a lot more than ninety-nine.”
•
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, the author staggered up the last set of stairs leading to Blackbeard’s pool and pavilion area.
The Mojito Man leaned heavily against her, gasping for breath. He had at first enjoyed the excuse to drape his arm over her shoulders, but the last set of switchbacks had nearly done him in.
“Stay for a cocktail, dinner . . .” he panted as she escorted him to a lawn chair by the pool. “There’s plenty of room. I’ve got the whole place to myself.”
“I have to catch a ferry,” she said firmly. “Are you sure you’ll be okay up here?”
“I’m a special guest,” he replied with a goofy grin. “They’ve got a full staff to take care of me.”
“Okay.” She backed slowly away from him. “Well, good-bye, then.”
And with that, she turned for the stairs.
“Alone again,” he said pathetically as he watched the brown-haired woman disappear down the steps at the edge of the pool.
A voice spoke up from inside the pavilion.
“Don’t look so sad.”
Still dressed in a green golf shirt and chinos, the Fixer walked over with a tall glass filled with muddled mint leaves.
“This will dull the pain.”
•
THE MOJITO MAN leaned back in the lawn chair, happily sucking down a drug-laced mojito—this one loaded with triple its regular dose.
The Fixer watched the drink disappear in the glass, waiting for confirmation of the kill—and the elimination of the witness to his duel with the Governor’s aide.
It didn’t take long. The glass slipped from the man’s grip and tumbled onto the grass. His gray eyes, drained of color, had seen life’s last look. His troubled spirit drifted peacefully into whatever the next life had to offer.
Are you ready? the dying man had often asked himself.
At some point, fate moots the question and makes the decision for you.
IT WAS A better death than the one that had been suffered by the Governor’s former favorite aide.
Emancipation Park had almost emptied—along with the surrounding downtown streets—when Senator Bobo scurried furtively up the front walk to Fort Christian. In their hurry to depart, Nova and his crew had left the front door unlocked. Bobo slipped through the entrance and made his way to the museum.
He stepped gingerly across the dusty floor, carefully avoiding Nova’s spattered blood and the cutlass that had generated the messy facial injury. He would clean that up later. He had another matter to attend to first.
Bobo bent behind the display counter to Cedric’s sprawled body. The corpse was far more gruesome without the brown cassock that had covered the young man’s wounds.
The Reverend touched the points of a cross on his chest and murmured a silent blessing. Then he hefted the dead weight into a shipping crate and nailed down the lid.
With a groan, he lifted the crate onto a rusted dolly. The wheels creaked as he shoved the load out of the museum and into the courtyard.
“Just another day’s honest earning.”
~ 81 ~
Fresh Coconuts
“CURRIE-MON, THIS ISN’T the turnoff to Coki Beach.”
Mic and Currie had hobbled almost a mile outside of Charlotte Amalie before abandoning their brown cassock disguise. After a short walk, they’d caught a ride on a passing safari truck. The other passengers had shared the news of the Governor’s return and the lifting of the island’s transportation ban.
Currie had watched the road, carefully gauging the length of ride they could afford. At the appropriate moment, he’d signaled for a stop.
The pair had been heading due east for about fifteen minutes when Currie steered Mic toward the Red Hook ferry building.
“Aren’t we going back to Coki?” Mic asked again as Currie hurried to the ticket window. He reached into his pocket and took out their last few dollars.
There was just enough left to buy one ticket on the next departing ferry to St. John.
“One ticket, please,” he said, pushing the crumpled money through the slot to the attendant. Gulping, he turned and handed Mic the ticket.
“Nova won’t stop looking for us. Our only choice is . . .”
The words were too difficult to speak. Currie cleared his throat and finally completed the sentence. “Our only choice is to split up.”
“No,” Mic replied, shaking his head. “No, we can’t do that.”
“We have to,” he insisted solemnly, pressing the ticket into Mic’s hand. “Besides, I’m the one who cut Nova’s face—he’ll remember that. I’m too dangerous for you to be around.”
Mic shook his head. “No, mon, I can’t make it without you.”
“You can set up a hair-braiding business in Cruz Bay. I’ll send Spike over with your kit. You’ll do great there. I’m sure of it.”
Mic swallowed hard. “What will you do?”
Currie shrugged wearily. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “When it’s safe again, I’ll come find you.”
A voi
ce came over the terminal intercom, announcing the ferry’s imminent departure.
“It’s time to go,” Currie said, gently turning Mic toward the gate. Mic took a step forward and then turned back.
“Curie-mon, I refuse to say it.”
He gave his short friend a tight squeezing hug.
“To fresh coconuts.”
Currie could hardly push out the words.
“To fresh coconuts.” Then he added a choked, “Mon.”
•
THROUGH TEARS, CURRIE watched the ferry turn away from the dock, carrying the only thing in the world that he cared anything about.
The boat powered up its engine and rumbled toward the open water, shrinking in size until it disappeared into the horizon of the Pillsbury Sound.
THE AUTHOR SETTLED into her ferry seat, relieved to at last be on her way to her intended destination. She glanced out the side window as the boat picked up speed for the short ride east to St. John. Then she began her regular routine of cataloguing her fellow travelers.
A few rows up, a tall West Indian man with a head full of stubby dreadlocks stared morosely at the floor. She wondered for a moment what calamity had struck the poor fellow—before a second passenger grabbed her full attention.
It was the Bishop, or at least, it was a gentleman with the same distinctive goatee.
She blinked, trying to be sure. He sat on the far side of the ferry’s passenger compartment. He had abandoned the tailored brown cassock for far more ragged clothing.
I must be mistaken, she thought—until he ran his hand over his smooth brown scalp and the light reflected off the ruby ring on his index finger.
THERE WERE TWO more passengers of note on the day’s first departing ferry.
Seated five rows behind the writer, well out of sight of the other passengers, the couple appeared to be enjoying their unexpected getaway. They had packed their bags in a rush that afternoon. Neither was sure how long they would be gone or when they might return.
The KRAT DJ turned his head toward the nearest open window, letting the sea breeze ruffle his frizzy mane of hair. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend, who was ready to take a much-needed vacation after quitting her job at the local attorney general’s office.
~ 82 ~
Aground on St. Thomas
THE GOVERNOR’S BLACK SUV left Emancipation Park and circled through downtown Charlotte Amalie, a victory lap, of sorts, celebrating the most unlikely of political resurrections. The Governor looked out at the passing city—still, remarkably, his city.
Eventually, the driver steered the vehicle onto the curving road that wound up the hill to the Governor’s Mansion.
The SUV pulled to a stop in the driveway, but the passenger remained seated for several minutes. Finally, he opened the side door and climbed out. The reckoning could be delayed no longer.
The house was quiet as he approached. He crossed through the front entrance and walked inside.
The place felt oddly different to him. It was uncomfortable, like an ill-fitting shoe. He tried to attribute the sensation to the fact that federal agents had been camped out there for the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps they had moved a piece of furniture or disrupted some other established pattern—but he knew it was the residents who had changed, not the building or its décor.
The Governor paused in the living room by the backgammon table. The position of the checkers still meant nothing to him. Even after all this time, he had no idea how to play the game. Uncle Abe had given up trying to teach him.
Their frequent backgammon lessons had been nothing more than a subterfuge for information exchange. When it came to summoning the Fixer, the old politician was the only reliable means of initiating contact.
A movement on the second floor caught the Governor’s attention.
He turned away from the game board and met the gaze of the woman standing at the top of the staircase. The First Lady stared down at him, her expression unreadable.
He called out with gusto, “Honey, I’m home!”
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