Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Its current occupant was the islands’ most wanted man.

  The Governor stretched his arms wide, enjoying the freedom of the loose-fitting brown cassock he’d found in a wardrobe positioned against the room’s far wall. Sized extra-large, the garment swallowed his bulky frame. He had just changed out of the maid’s costume, and it was a relief to be free of the dress’s frilly neck collar.

  Through the open doors that led onto the second floor’s shaded balcony, the Governor watched the federal agents group around the map spread across the car hood below.

  Everything was proceeding according to the plan. The game pieces were moving around the board in a predictable, orderly fashion.

  He chuckled as the red, blue, and green teams dispersed.

  But the sound died in his throat when he realized the yellow team was headed for the parsonage’s front door.

  ~ 39 ~

  The Parsonage

  FRIDAY AND HIS team scrambled up the uneven steps leading to the parsonage’s front gate. A cedar tree’s spreading roots had disrupted the stairway’s alignment, making the walkway difficult to navigate.

  A pair of iron gates, one to the front terrace, the other to the side yard, were both locked. While decorative, the scrolling metal designs were effective impediments, blocking the agents’ access.

  Friday craned his neck to look up at the building. White with red trim, it looked as if it could use some maintenance, but it was obviously in use. One of the doors that led onto the balcony had been propped open, likely to facilitate airflow through the upper level. Someone must be inside or close by.

  It was a long shot, but given the parsonage’s proximity to Government House, it had to be checked out—even if they had to boost one of the agents over the security wall to get in.

  Friday pushed a rusted buzzer mounted next to the front gate. A moment later, a church representative appeared on the road below. The elderly man climbed the lopsided steps with ease, despite the bulk of his flowing brown cassock.

  “Hello, gentlemen. How may I assist you?”

  “Agent Gabe Stein, sir.” Friday’s mouth twitched at the introduction. The use of his given name sounded odd, even to him. “We need to check your building for a fugitive.”

  The man surveyed the agents, solemnly noting the FBI insignia on their hats and shirts.

  “You’re looking for the Governor, I presume. I can assure you the premises have been locked all morning while I was at the church.” He gestured toward the slope below the public gardens. The rear of the chapel was visible through the trees.

  Friday straightened his shoulders. “We still need to look inside, sir.”

  “As you wish.” Reaching into the cassock, the man pulled out a set of keys. He maneuvered around the agents to approach the lock, his movements fluid but not in any way hurried.

  “Thank you. We’ll be quick,” Friday said when the gate finally swung open. He paused as the other agents moved through the passageway into the front terrace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  The cassocked man responded without hesitation, meting out the job title as if it conveyed a clear identification.

  “The Bishop of St. Thomas.”

  THE GOVERNOR SQUINTED through the parsonage’s second-floor doorway, watching the interaction at the front gates with concern.

  He was trapped.

  It was too late to try to flee the building. And besides, even if he had been able to slip out before the agents entered, he had nowhere to go. The brown cloak would possibly explain his presence inside the parsonage. It wasn’t nearly a good enough disguise to deter Agent Friday in a face-to-face meeting—or to conceal his identity from the prying eyes of his fellow islanders.

  The Governor hadn’t expected the agents to home in on the parsonage so quickly. Hightower’s bumbling leadership—and predilection for fine rum—were meant to give him a little breathing room. He hadn’t counted on the far more skilled lieutenant.

  Panicked, the Governor glanced across the room. Then he dove toward the only available hiding place, the eight-foot-high standing wardrobe.

  The closet was, unfortunately, already occupied with a number of items. A full set of vestments hung from the upper rod, while several pairs of shoes and an assortment of pointed clerical hats cluttered the floor.

  The hats took the brunt of the damage as the Governor clambered inside the wardrobe’s base. Curling his body into a ball, he wrapped his fingers around the inside stub of the nail holding the outer knob in place and tried to pull the door closed. He tugged with all his might, but a two-inch gap remained between the facing and the outer frame.

  The door bumped, a dull thudding sound as if something blocked its path.

  He tried again.

  Bump. Bump.

  Voices echoed down the hallway outside the Governor’s room. The agents had almost reached his location. He wedged the door into its flattest position and held his breath.

  It was then that he realized that the hem of his cloak was stuck in the corner next to the hinge.

  His eyes widened with alarm. How much of the cassock was poking out the bottom of the wardrobe?

  The Governor froze in place. Any movement he made now would only draw attention to his hiding spot, but he felt certain he was about to suffer an embarrassing reveal.

  Through the crack in the door, he saw the agents walk into the room. They were doing a quick sweep, but there was no chance they would skip a peek inside the wardrobe.

  Two black-clad men strode out onto the balcony. A third circled the opposite side of the room.

  Agent Friday approached the wardrobe.

  His brow furrowed at the scrap of brown cloth snagged on the cupboard’s bottom hinge. His hand reached for the knob.

  He was about to open the wardrobe door when his radio squawked.

  With an exasperated sigh, Friday pulled the receiver from his belt. His tone was far testier than his even-tempered disposition typically allowed.

  “This is Friday.”

  Hightower’s slurred voice came over the transmission.

  “Agent Friday, where are you?”

  Friday grimaced at the receiver before responding.

  “In the Lutheran parsonage next door to Government House. I’ve got a small team with me . . .”

  “Great.” Hightower half suppressed a hiccup. “We’ve just received word. The Governor has been sighted up the hill from you at Blackbeard’s Castle.”

  “We’re on it.” Friday sighed wearily. It sounded like another false lead, but there was no point in trying to convince the Gorilla of that.

  “And Friday . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This time, you’d better get him.”

  Friday clicked off the radio and hooked it back onto his belt.

  The Bishop slid his hand into his robe, ensuring that his cell phone was securely tucked into its pocket, as the agents began filing past him into the hallway.

  “Well, Bishop,” Friday said, touching the brim of his cap. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Of course,” he replied calmly. “Let me show you out.”

  •

  THE GOVERNOR RELEASED his sweaty grip on the inner nail stub, and the wardrobe door eased open. One by one, he eased his cramped legs out onto the floor. He staggered unsteadily to the nearest chair and dropped into the seat with relief.

  Wiping his forehead, he eyed the ceremonial hats that had been crumpled beneath his weight.

  “Whew, that was close.”

  But who, he wondered, was the man in the cassock who had let the agents inside? The church’s official pastor was out of town that week. This fellow wasn’t a sanctioned replacement.

  The Governor strummed his wide chin, pondering a bigger question.

  Why had the cassocked man helped hi
m avoid capture?

  ~ 40 ~

  Blackbeard’s Castle

  AGENT FRIDAY WATCHED the Bishop shut the parsonage gate and lock it behind the last members of team yellow.

  Friday was getting an odd vibe from the religious man. There was something strange about the Bishop’s demeanor—something off about the whole parsonage experience—but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Shrugging, he pulled out his map and assessed the possible routes to Blackbeard’s Castle, the location of the Governor’s reported sighting. He slid his finger toward the upper north side of Charlotte Amalie. The resort was located almost directly above him at the top of the nearest hill.

  There were two public staircases that would take him to the spot. He chose the one farthest from Government House—and Agent Hightower.

  •

  FRIDAY LED TEAM yellow down the one-way street to the stairway entrance for the 99 Steps.

  The turnoff was marked by a colorful signpost highlighting the direction to various tourist destinations, with some labels pointing toward the lower downtown area and others indicating up the hill.

  Friday picked out the upward arrow for Blackbeard’s Castle, uncomfortably aware that he was being watched from Hotel 1829, the property located on the opposite side of the staircase. A woman with a 35mm camera leaned over the hotel’s veranda railing, snapping shots of the black-clad agents.

  Remembering the attorney general’s cautionary instructions, Friday cupped the brim of his hat, shielding his face from the lens.

  Operation Coconut was meant to be a low-key operation, a government takeover with minimal visual impact. The sooner they captured the Governor and brought him into custody, the better.

  The situation had the potential to turn into a media circus.

  •

  NOT WISHING TO provide any more photo opportunities, Friday steered his crew up the staircase.

  Like many of Charlotte Amalie’s slanted public walkways, the 99 Steps were formed out of bricks that had been transported from Europe as ship ballast, a balancing weight stored in the hull during transatlantic journeys. When used as staircase building materials, the bricks were positioned on edge and surrounded by a thick layer of mortar. Each step provided a minimal increase in elevation, a scheme designed to facilitate their use by the donkeys that once carried loads up the hill.

  Three hundred years of heavy traffic had carved dipping ruts into the stairs; every square edge had been rounded from wear. Under dry conditions, the walkway was relatively easy to navigate; after a soaking downpour, the footing became treacherous.

  Friday and team yellow hiked the stairs at a trot, passing a thick hedge of bougainvillea that formed an impenetrable barrier against the walkway’s east side. On the opposite flank, the hotel rose with the steps, a terracing of coral pink structures behind a high concrete wall.

  Each step in elevation provided a clearer view of the harbor, but Friday and his team didn’t stop to look behind them. Their black clothing was quickly soaked with sweat.

  Midway up the walk, palm trees took over the landscaping and the hotel gave way to other historic homes. They were soon even with the abandoned construction site where the second Governor impostor had been discovered.

  Friday tried not to think about that fiasco as the team reached another multipronged signpost at the top of the stairs. He hoped they weren’t being led on a similarly fruitless chase, but given the vagueness of the reported sighting, he remained skeptical.

  A colored arrow pointed the way to their destination. The agents jogged up a curving road past a few more private residences. Then the hotel at the crest of the hill came into view.

  Friday motioned for his team to drop into stealth mode as they approached the edge of the property.

  He scanned the lower perimeter, pondering the best strategy to flush out the Governor.

  •

  BLACKBEARD’S CASTLE ENCOMPASSED several acres, much of it on a vertical slope.

  A line of steps led up from the road, cutting into the hillside beside a rolling lawn. Midway up the grade, in the center of the grassy slope, stood a fountain featuring a ring of metal statues.

  The fountain’s spigots had been turned off, likely to conserve water, but the lack of spray did nothing to diminish the grace of the sculptures. Three young West Indian women stood in a triangle, each facing outward, poised as if searching through a wind-whipped night. One lifted a lamp, the next a torch, and the last a cutlass. The bronze figures were so lifelike, it was easy to imagine that they were on the verge of speaking, calling out the name of the person or object they so desperately sought.

  Friday and his agents crept up the adjacent stairs, glancing only briefly at the fountain, their focus trained on the hotel above.

  At the top of the lawn, a formidable concrete wall with spiked iron bars surrounded the main guest area. An arched entrance with a metal gate stood off to one side. Each half of the gate incorporated the image of a tower accompanied by the initials BC.

  Closely followed by his team, Friday eased himself through the gate’s open left-hand door. Yet another flight of steps rose from the entrance, this one wiggling toward the hilltop.

  The switchbacks blocked the view of the upper horizon until the last rise revealed the hotel’s signature landmark, the Skytsborg lookout tower, used during Colonial days to monitor the harbor and the surrounding sea for marauding pirates intent on invading Charlotte Amalie.

  •

  ST. THOMAS HAD a rather complicated relationship with pirates. Over the years, the swashbuckling sailors had been welcomed by some Danish governors, shunned by others, and, most recently, exploited as fodder for day-tripper tours.

  Despite all this history—and the name attached to the hilltop property—it was unlikely that Blackbeard himself ever visited St. Thomas.

  Regardless, it was easy to imagine the famous buccaneer hanging out at the entertainment area that surrounded the lookout tower.

  A swimming pool abutted the tower’s base and ran parallel to an open-air pavilion that housed an expansive bar. The elevated view provided a unique perspective of the city, the surrounding water, and the smaller islands that bumped up against the south shoreline. It was a great place to suck down rum, revel in the scenery, and watch the cruise ships navigate the harbor’s narrow channels.

  If that wasn’t enough to inspire a person’s pirate fantasies, statues of the Caribbean’s most notorious sea criminals were scattered around the bar, the pool, a side yard, a gift shop, and the various guest room bungalows. The life-sized statues were as convincingly real as the trio of women in the fountain on the lawn below. Only close examination in the direct sunlight revealed the menacing scowls to be fixed in place and not alive.

  In large part due to the pirate collection, Blackbeard’s was a prime stop on the day-tripper circuit. On a regular port day, the tower and the surrounding hotel would be packed with visiting cruise ship passengers. The spiraling ladder-like staircase inside the tower was a bottleneck of aspiring lookers, with two-directional traffic vying for space within the single-width passage.

  Costumed locals added flesh-and-blood characters to the statue display. Kitted out in hats, blousy shirts, pantaloons, and boots, the hired actors posed for pictures, handed out brochures, and provided the occasional pirate anecdote—researched or made up: either way, it enthralled the guests.

  But all that action had been shuttered for the day.

  As agent Friday and team yellow reached the top of the last staircase and advanced on the swimming pool, none of the regular bustle was in evidence.

  The pavilion was quiet, occupied only by a bartender cleaning glassware. The tower was locked, and the pirate imitators had been sent home.

  The lawn chairs spread across the flat side yard next to the pool were empty—save one, occupied by a lone guest who had booked all of the
hotel’s rooms for the next six weeks.

  ~ 41 ~

  A Maligned Mojito

  BLACKBEARD’S MOST RECENT arrival lay snoozing fitfully beneath a layer of wet towels that he had draped over his body to block whatever UV rays might penetrate through the sky’s increasing cloud cover.

  A glass with melting ice cubes rested on the grass at his feet. The consumed contents had represented the bartender’s best effort at a mojito—minus the muddled mint leaves, which were currently unavailable.

  The bartender glanced across the pavilion at the sleeping man and smiled at the empty glass. The improvised concoction had finally won the guest’s approval—not bad for a drink that had received negative reviews before the ingredients were even mixed.

  •

  “NOPE. NO WAY, man. I’m telling you, that is not a mojito.”

  “Sorry, pal. Best we can do under the circumstances. Even if I could make it to the grocery store, it’d be closed by now. Locked up tight, and a guy inside with a gun ready to shoot first and ask questions later. Not worth the risk. How about we swing it to a rum punch?”

  “I’m a dying man, and the best you can offer me is rum punch?”

  With a sigh, the bartender had reached for a top shelf and pulled down a bottle of aged overproof rum that was typically only used for special customers.

  If ever there was an occasion to pour the gold standard, this was it.

  “Trust me, mate,” he’d said as he measured out a large dose and added it to the drink. “This one might just push you right on over to the other side.”

  •

  WHETHER THE FORTIFIED rum drink had permanently relieved the Mojito Man of his earthly pain was still an open question.

  The body beneath the pile of wet towels didn’t move as Agent Friday and his team silently circled the pool to the grassy side yard, looking for their target.