Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  It was yet another aspect of the day’s scheme that had failed to meet expectations. The Gorilla’s alcoholic rage had petered out much faster than anticipated. He had hoped Hightower would make a far bigger spectacle of himself.

  Right now, Cedric considered that the least of his problems. He was deeply troubled by the latest KRAT transmission.

  The Governor kept a portable radio in the office so he could listen to the KRAT broadcasts. Despite the frequent grilling he received from Dread Fred and Whaler, he was a big fan of the show and rarely missed an airing.

  The interview with Senator Bobo had left Cedric perplexed. The Reverend was supposed to be tied up in the Legislature Building, protesting the indignities of the lawmakers’ unlawful detention. Instead, he was running loose around town, spouting off all kinds of nonsense. He should never have been allowed to ad-lib on air.

  Cedric cringed, recalling the rambling speech. Locusts, frogs, a sea of blood—Bobo wasn’t a credible spokesperson for the separatist movement.

  He tugged indignantly at his tie.

  That was his role.

  •

  CEDRIC COMPLETED ANOTHER lap around the room, but the typically calming action did little to quell his anxiety. He was stuck in limbo, a no-man’s-land of his own creation.

  With his cover blown, there was little chance the Governor might contact him or seek him out. By now, the Fixer would have conveyed the information he’d learned during the construction site debacle—if indeed the Governor wasn’t already aware of Cedric’s betrayal.

  He had been deliberately duped during the caper to elude the feds that morning. The Governor must have been told about the aide’s cooperation with the attorney general’s office—but when?

  And how, he wondered again, had the Governor communicated with his accomplice?

  Cedric crossed to the balcony, stepping into the spot where the Governor had so often stood, particularly in recent days. Taking a similar stance, he placed his hands on the railing and imagined that he had assumed the territory’s top leadership position.

  It was an outcome that appeared increasingly less likely to occur.

  •

  DRUMMING HIS FINGERS in frustration, Cedric stared out at the city.

  Afternoon shadows had begun to creep across the rolling streets. A sticky humidity still bathed the harbor, but the sun’s intensity had noticeably waned.

  The crowds that had flocked to Emancipation Park and the surrounding waterfront streets were enjoying a temporary lull. Even the sporadic gunfire had petered out. After a day of frenetic confusion, exhaustion filled the air—along with a morbid curiosity of what might happen next.

  These were emotions Cedric shared with the masses.

  He paused.

  There was something different in the scene, other than the weary pedestrians loitering in the streets. It took him a moment to identify the anomaly.

  The flapping flags attached to the pole above his head had been diminished by one. Someone had removed the Stars and Stripes.

  A cheeky response to the day’s events, Cedric mused. Unlike Bobo’s radio ramble, this rebellious action made him smile.

  Gripping the railing, Cedric returned his gaze to the leafy rooftops below.

  Just north of the post office, he spied the woman from the local attorney general’s office hiking up the public stairs. Wendy was accompanied by a pair of federal agents, flanking her on either side. It was an unnecessary security precaution, in his opinion, but then she was an important figure both in her official legal capacity and with the clandestine separatist movement. She had taken numerous risks in both roles and, consequently, had made her fair share of enemies.

  No doubt, she was on her way up to Government House to assess Hightower’s condition.

  He glanced over his shoulder as the Gorilla snorted in his sleep, shifting his position on the recliner. A rum-scented burp wafted through the doorway and onto the balcony.

  Cedric grimaced at the stench. If the agent awoke, the armed accomplices were far more likely to be needed inside the building than out.

  He looked once more at the trio climbing the steps and then lifted his gaze toward Emancipation Park. An opening in the crowds revealed an empty picnic table, seemingly innocuous—and yet . . .

  He blinked as the realization hit him.

  On a normal business day, that same table was routinely occupied by elderly men, gossiping and playing backgammon.

  Spinning around, he stared into the office at the upended table and the scattered backgammon checkers strewn across the floor.

  This is how the Governor and the Fixer had exchanged messages.

  He had been a fool to let it slip past him.

  This whole time, they’d been sending signals to each other right under his nose.

  ~ 50 ~

  Obsolete

  WENDY WALKED UP the public staircase from the post office, easily keeping time with her FBI security team. Despite her formal skirt and blouse, she wasn’t the least bit flushed. She’d lived her entire life in the tropics and was accustomed to both the heat and Charlotte Amalie’s endless supply of steps.

  It was a route she had taken countless times during the five years she’d been assigned to the local attorney general’s office. There was a constant need to liaison with the numerous USVI officials located either inside Government House or nearby offices.

  From the sloping field to the left of the staircase, she heard the familiar rustle of feral chickens scratching through fallen leaves. The hens were guarded by an overprotective rooster, who eyed everyone who passed with leery suspicion. The cagy bird looked up at the lawyer and gave her an extra head-bobbing nod of concern, as if he sensed the duplicity in her step.

  Wendy continued up the staircase, unfazed by the animal’s accusing stare. She was a pro at concealing her true beliefs and loyalties.

  Most humans she dealt with were not as discerning as the rooster.

  As she topped the steps, she glanced briefly at Hotel 1829’s flowering veranda and the adjacent parsonage, but neither piqued her interest. Her focus was trained on the brilliant white facing of the building at the end of the row, the symbol of the territory’s seat of power.

  Brimming with ambition, she prepared for the next performance.

  CEDRIC WAITED IN the second-floor hallway as Wendy marched into the Government House lobby. The attorney’s arrival sparked an eruption of pleading and frustrated voices among the building’s employees.

  With practiced professionalism, she quieted the riot. Assuring the captives that she was headed upstairs to address their plight, she started swiftly up the central staircase.

  The accompanying agents peeled off to join their counterparts. Wendy was alone when Cedric met her at the top banister and motioned her aside.

  “What’s the latest?” he whispered tensely. “I’ve been out of the loop since early this morning.”

  “When you lost the Governor,” she replied, trying to mask her annoyance. The attempt was only halfway successful.

  “He gave me the slip. He must have found out about my testimony.” Cedric hesitated, trying to decide whether to divulge how the Governor had been communicating with the Fixer.

  At her dismissive expression, he bit his tongue. Best to hold on to any leverage he had left. He switched topics.

  “Did you hear the KRAT broadcast? Bobo put himself forward as governor.”

  “I’ve been rather busy, Cedric. I haven’t had time to sit around listening to the radio.”

  Cedric’s lips pressed together. He sensed he was pushing Wendy too far, but he had to know.

  “It’s just that—Bobo as governor. That’s not what we agreed . . .”

  With an exasperated sigh, Wendy brushed past the aide. She took a few steps down the hallway, distancing herself, before she turned to look back.
>
  She wanted to prevent Cedric from causing any unnecessary disruptions, but the governorship wasn’t a promise she was committed to keep—if, in fact, it was ever in play at all.

  “Relax.” Her voice was quiet but far from comforting. “No one takes Bobo seriously. Think about it. This plays to your advantage. You versus Bobo? Who do you think will gain the people’s support?”

  For Cedric, uncertainty was quickly morphing into desperation. “Wendy, I may be in trouble. My cover’s blown. I don’t know where to go.”

  “Just sit tight and wait for everything to play out. We’re in a fluid situation right now.”

  With that, she strode purposefully to the end of the hallway and into the Governor’s office.

  •

  CEDRIC WATCHED IN panic as Wendy disappeared around the corner.

  Without the Governor, he had become obsolete.

  He started down the stairs, his pace increasing with each step. He had no choice but to try to find the big man.

  They’d always had a good rapport, and Cedric knew how to be persuasive. He might still be able to convince his boss that he had been looking out for his best interests all along.

  Plus, he held one last piece of critical information—the identity of the woman leading the separatist movement, the woman who had so deviously plotted the Governor’s downfall.

  Cedric reached the foot of the stairs and headed for the front doors, trying to ignore the lobby full of condemning stares. As far as the Government House employees were concerned, the aide’s guilt was permanent and inexcusable.

  Moments later, Cedric scurried down the hill toward Emancipation Park.

  With the Governor still in hiding, the aide’s best bet was to check for backgammon players congregating at the park’s tables—on the off chance he was still using that method to communicate with the Fixer.

  Emancipation Park

  ~ 51 ~

  An Epic Showdown

  CEDRIC PUSHED HIS way through the crowds lingering inside Emancipation Park, trying to reach the area where the old men set up their backgammon tables.

  The park’s numbers had lessened from earlier in the day, but enough people remained to make it difficult to maneuver. In addition to the pedestrians clogging the paths and grassy areas by the grandstand, several vendors had moved in, lured by the concentration of thirsty, hungry customers. There were ice chests with cool drinks and other cold-serve items; a portable barbecue had been set up to grill a variety of meats.

  While the vendors were doing a roaring business, the carnival atmosphere had grown ragged around the edges. On the grandstand, a persistent speaker or two soldiered on, hoarsely hollering into the microphones, but the speeches were rapidly losing steam.

  The pickpockets who had retreated at the sight of the federal agents that morning were now circulating in full force, undeterred by the few hapless Guard members ringing the park’s perimeter. With the potential pockets mostly belonging to locals, the pickers had to be careful when making their selection. These pocket-owners were much more wary of their tricks than the day-trippers, and there was a far greater risk of retribution.

  Cedric looked up at the dark clouds swelling above the harbor. At any moment, the approaching storm would dump its load, causing the crowd to disperse.

  If the Governor and the Fixer were still using their signaling system, he wouldn’t have long to find it.

  He slid around the throng surrounding the barbecue, urgently searching for a West Indian man with a backgammon board.

  “CURRIE-MON, GET A load of those chicken wings that guy is cooking on his stove.” Mic closed his eyes and sucked in the smell. “We got to get us some of that meat.”

  Currie checked his pocket and shook his head. “Sorry, Mic. We have just enough to make it back to Coki.” Muttering under his breath, he corrected, “Well, maybe halfway back.”

  Mic leaned over Currie’s shoulder and whispered, “See if your cousin can hook us up.”

  Currie shook his head, adamantly rejecting the idea. His cousin—in truth, a far more distant relation than the shorthand term implied—was circling the park with his fellow gang of pickpockets.

  Mic and Currie had briefly stayed with Cousin Spike in Charlotte Amalie when they first arrived on St. Thomas. After a disastrous attempt to practice the trade, Spike had encouraged the Coconut Boys to leave the city before they were arrested—or worse, set upon by the other pickpockets.

  Currie glanced once more at his near-empty pocket. He couldn’t blame his cousin for the paltry sum it contained.

  •

  CURRIE SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY as he watched Mic make another pass by the barbecue stand. He had been ready to leave several hours ago, but Mic had resisted his suggestions that they head back to the beach.

  This was Mic’s kind of event: full of jocular camaraderie and open to anyone who wanted to join in. The unifying concern for the territory’s siege had forged alliances among strangers. The Governor had been maligned repeatedly throughout the day, the aspersions another commonality among the park’s rallying participants.

  Mic had readily thrown his own verbal punches, more as a way of fitting in than out of any deep-seated conviction.

  “Hey, mon, I always knew he was a thieving son of a gun,” Mic had pronounced with gusto, clasping the shoulder of a taxi driver who had nodded his head in agreement.

  Throughout all this banter, Currie had remained silent. As the afternoon wore on, he became increasingly worried about the risk of being so publicly visible, particularly when Mic mugged for one of the television news cameras that had ventured into the area.

  Mic remained unfazed. Even now, he was happily enjoying the festivities.

  Having completed his latest tour of the barbecue, Mic returned with Cousin Spike.

  Spike had Currie’s short stature and Mic’s slender build. It was a perfect combination for slipping through crowds—and lifting wallets. Currie didn’t ask how the afternoon’s haul had gone. The pickpocket’s creed forbade any such discussion until the picker was a much safer distance away from the pocket.

  Mic had thankfully moved on from the topic of chicken wings; the discussion of the Governor’s guilt had also grown stale.

  He and Spike had launched into a debate on an altogether different subject.

  “The Goat Foot Woman, mon, I’m telling you, that is the most fearsome creature in these here islands. We see her all the time down on Santa Cruz.”

  The St. Thomian pickpocket looked at Mic as if he’d lost his mind.

  “Goat Foot Woman,” Spike sputtered derisively. “I never heard of such a thing. Let me tell you what we’ve got up here on the Rock. This’ll really creep you out—the Cow Foot Woman. Now that’s something to be afraid of . . .”

  Currie stared up at the approaching storm, frowning as the bickering continued.

  “I’m telling you a cow’s foot is far more dangerous than a goat’s.”

  “Just because it’s bigger? A goat, mon, she can climb straight up walls, sneak up on you when you aren’t looking. I never heard of a sneaky cow.”

  “Say, Mic, what do you think would happen if the Goat Foot Woman battled the Cow Foot Woman?”

  Mic considered the question, his face one of serious reflection. Finally, he weighed in.

  “Epic showdown, mon.”

  STILL SEARCHING THE park for the elderly backgammon player, Cedric overheard Mic and Spike’s conversation and shook his head. He knew from his many years in VI politics that it took very little to generate a heated discussion between the residents of St. Croix and St. Thomas.

  Just then, Cedric spied a figure on the opposite end of the crowd—not the backgammon player or the Governor, but perhaps someone just as valuable.

  The Fixer.

  ~ 52 ~

  The Next Best Thing

  CEDRIC SHOVED HIS w
ay through the crowd as the Fixer ducked out of sight, disappearing behind the Freedom Statue on the west end of Emancipation Park.

  A new speaker stepped up to the grandstand mike. Unlike the previous petered-out voice, this one was filled with vigor. The words bellowed in Cedric’s ears as he struggled to see past the machete-wielding statue.

  “Once again, we have been excluded from the decision making process . . . our slavery masked by terminology . . .”

  Cedric glanced up at the speaker. The face was unfamiliar, but not the words. It was a line he had written for the separatist cause.

  He felt somewhat unnerved by the successful deployment of his propaganda. His monstrous creation was now flourishing on its own, uncontrolled by its creator.

  There was no time to ponder the implications.

  Weaving through bystanders, Cedric reached the edge of the park. He broke free from the pedestrian area and slowly pivoted in place, scanning the scene for the Fixer.

  A low-hanging tree blocked his line of sight near the statue. He took a few steps to the side, trying to peek around the drooping branches.

  Where had the thin man gone?

  A kaleidoscope of moving bodies and jarring sound swirled around him, overwhelming his senses.

  Then, suddenly, Cedric spied a figure in a golf shirt and chinos turning the corner in front of the post office across the street.

  “There you are.”

  He set off at a sprint, fumbling for his cell phone as he ran. He punched the button for Wendy’s number and clamped the device to his ear. The droning buzz cycled three times before going to voice mail.

  “You’ve reached the US district attorney for the Virgin Islands, Wendy . . .”

  Cedric clicked off the connection. There was no point in leaving a winded message.

  He had no idea where the Fixer was headed—or, for that matter, how he would apprehend the man once he caught up to him.