Sanchez surveyed the offering, trying not to cringe.
Set against the steep slope, the rear wall contained a row of narrow windows that ran just below the ceiling. The panes had been propped open to their fullest position, but the portals provided little venting. The Bishop bent over a dusty fan, plugged its tattered cord into an outlet, and turned the knob. The subsequent whirring filled the room with more sound than breeze.
He dusted his hands together, careful to avoid staining the cassock. “You are welcome to stay here until the situation with the FBI has been resolved. The present difficulty will not last too much longer.”
Bobo appeared at ease with their confinement. He pulled off his wet tunic, shook out the garment, and draped it over a chair near one of the cots to dry. With a tired sigh, he dropped onto the bed, kicked off his sandals, and stretched out for a nap.
This was all fine and good for Bobo, Sanchez thought. There was no chance of him making it back to St. Croix that night. But her apartment was less than a mile up the hill. That was a far better option than sleeping here with a hair-oil-reeking, half-naked Bobo.
The Bishop read the expression on her face.
“They’ll be looking for you. It’s not safe for you to go home right now.”
Reluctantly conceding, Sanchez walked to the cot farthest away from Bobo and took a weary seat. She reached into her briefcase for a tissue and instinctively pulled out her phone.
The Bishop watched her, his dark eyes flashing with concern.
“They’ll track you the instant you turn that on.”
Bobo spoke up from the cot, “I don’t trust those things. I tossed mine into the mop bucket in the closet back at the Legislature Building.”
Sanchez wrapped her hand around the device.
“My family must be worried sick.”
The Bishop didn’t budge. There was something immensely intimidating about the way he looked down at her.
“Write out a message. I’ll make sure it gets to them.”
Sanchez returned the phone to her bag, more certain now than ever that this was no ordinary clergyman—if indeed he was a religious official at all.
Seemingly satisfied, the Bishop turned toward the hallway.
“You must be hungry. I’ll see what I can find in the pantry.”
•
THE BISHOP RETURNED with a plate of crackers, cheese, and fruit. Bobo rose, instantly awake, and began munching.
Meanwhile, Sanchez finished writing her message. She’d left the text intentionally vague—as to both her whereabouts and her estimation of when she might be able to again make contact. No doubt, her relatives had already been informed of the arrest warrant and FBI’s takeover of the local government.
“Please see that my family gets this.” Sanchez folded the paper and handed it over.
The Bishop slid the note into a fold in his cassock—tucking it into one of the many pockets that were always accessible but never visible.
“Of course,” he replied.
The senator stared up at him, doubting that assurance.
•
SANCHEZ MANAGED TO snatch a few bites before the food was devoured. His stomach full, Bobo returned to his cot. Within minutes, a wheezing snore wafted up from his side of the room—along with the potent scent of his musky hair oil.
Ick, Sanchez thought, silently easing herself off of her cot.
Carrying her shoes and satchel, she crept to the door, which had been left slightly ajar.
Two steps into the hallway, she heard a polite cough, accompanied by the swish of heavy fabric.
Blushing, she turned to see the Bishop standing a few feet behind her.
“I’ve just received word that your message has been delivered,” he said, slipping his cell phone into the cassock. “Your family was greatly relieved.”
“Thank you.”
The Bishop took up a seat near the hallway’s courtyard exit.
“I’ll stay here so I can deflect any questions, should the federal agents stop by looking for you.”
Sanchez nodded, but she sensed his watchful eyes were more intent on preventing any attempt she or Bobo might make to escape.
She pointed to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, miffed that she had to provide an explanation for her movements.
“Just going to the ladies’ room.”
The Parsonage
~ 56 ~
His City
WITH DUSK SETTLING across Charlotte Amalie, the Governor risked his first foray onto the parsonage balcony. Still cloaked in the brown cassock, he pulled its hood over his head, hiding his features.
The wet breeze stiffened with the brunt of the approaching storm. Before midnight, a squall would sweep through, bending palm trees, shredding bougainvillea blooms, and rinsing the grit and rancor of the day down the hillside, through the streets and gutters, and out into the bay.
Wary of any curious passersby that might be traveling on the street below, the Governor edged to the railing and looked out across the darkening harbor. The cruise ship had finally departed for its next port of call; the deepwater dock would remain vacant until the island’s political turmoil could be sorted out.
He scowled at the empty slot, disturbed by the economic loss it represented. The temporary halt in cruise ship traffic was an unfortunate side effect of this whole wretched business, but he hoped the damage could be quickly repaired.
He shifted his gaze inland to the rolling spread of red-painted iron roofs that with nightfall had faded to charcoal brown. The curving outline of the surrounding streets began to glow, the streetlamps creating a lighted map against the blackness.
Through the rain, he listened to his city.
The damp air carried the thumping audio of a passing car, its chassis loaded down with an overamped stereo. With a chuckle, the Governor thought of his nephew, who had spent every last dime of his earnings outfitting a similar rig. After the triumphant debut night on the town, the young man had to take the vehicle in for servicing. The mechanic had advised that the acoustics were causing the car’s nuts and bolts to vibrate loose.
“Your bumper’s going to fall off if you don’t turn down the volume, son.”
•
THE STEREO WOUND around the shoreline, and quieter sounds emerged.
In the public gardens that descended across the road, the Governor heard the soothing tones of an elderly West Indian man who lay on the ground beneath a tree as he did almost every night—rain or not—feeding chunks of mango to an iguana of similarly advanced age.
Not far from the balcony, a tiny coqui frog began its lovesick call, a high-pitched whistle finished with an audible question mark.
Cook-ee?
The rough English translation: How about me?
The call was a romantic invitation to any female amphibian in the vicinity. The first frog was soon challenged by a second male, who sang out a similar solicitation.
Or how about me?
The Governor took comfort in the frogs’ familiar vocal competition. Oblivious to the silly troubles of the island’s humans, the coquis had no greater concern that night than finding an agreeable mate.
Reflecting on the day’s adventures—and his own good luck—he reached into his pocket and pulled out a backgammon checker. Then he turned his gaze to the white mansion lit up on a nearby ridge overlooking the city, where his wife waited for news.
The Governor’s Mansion
~ 57 ~
Coqui
THE FIRST LADY sat on a covered bench in the gardens outside the Governor’s Mansion, listening to the coqui frogs’ whimsical flirtations as she stared at the darkening city.
The damp blackness was soon pierced by round circles of light. Each glowing streetlamp illuminated a familiar patch of earth, a tiny plot of well-defined normalcy surrounded by a much
larger, increasingly dangerous unknown.
The light posted outside the parsonage on Government Hill appeared dimmer than the rest, a subtle indicator of the fugitive hiding within—and perhaps, a reflection of the tenuous nature of his position.
A coqui frog moved closer to her bench. His perky song interrupted her thoughts.
Typical, the First Lady mused, reflecting on the early days when she and the Governor first met. The persistent frogs had been a favorite romantic ploy.
She would often complain that the frogs camped outside her window and kept her awake at night.
The Governor always replied in a serious deadpan tone.
“My dear. It was me.”
The First Lady smiled, a moment of humor despite the dire circumstances.
No matter how much she and her husband disagreed over public policy issues, Native Rights, and the future path their territory should take, the lovesick frog line still had its intended effect of tugging at her heartstrings.
For the first time since setting her plot in motion, she felt a twinge of sorrow—not regret or any diminution in the strength of her resolve, merely a moment of sadness.
She wondered what the Governor would say if he discovered the truth: that she had turned his favorite aide against him, engineered the federal indictments, and opened the door to an invading force that could be repelled only by the Virgin Islands declaring their independence.
What would he think if he knew that she had turned his favorite game of backgammon into a twisted war of chess?
“Yes, love,” she murmured into the rain. “It was me.”
•
A GUST OF wind sent water splashing across the bench. Unbothered by the storm, the First Lady shifted farther under the cover. She’d sent the dogs into the mansion, but she preferred to stay outside, where she could monitor the movements on the ground below. There was nothing to do inside the residence but stare back at the federal agents stationed to watch over her.
Useless beings, she thought crassly. She couldn’t wait to evict them from her home.
As for her husband, he’d become a necessary casualty, far too closely aligned with the nation to the north. The people had lost faith in him—even she didn’t trust him anymore.
He would be remembered much more fondly as a martyr. She would see to that, as his sympathetic widow and heir apparent.
After the coup was complete, his coqui serenade would be silenced—forever.
The Lutheran Church
~ 58 ~
Not My Type
THE ANNEX ATTACHED to the Lutheran church fell quiet as the hours drifted into late evening.
Senator Sanchez lay on her cot, listening to Bobo snore. Through the open doorway, she had an angled view of the Bishop—and, she was well aware, he of her.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to take slow measured breaths, but she did not sleep.
The stench from Bobo’s hair oil was enough to keep anyone awake.
•
AFTER FORTY-FIVE MINUTES of willing her eyelids to remain shut, Sanchez finally heard the sound she had been waiting for. There was a slight creak to the floorboards, accompanied by the swish of the Bishop’s cassock.
She held her breath, waiting to be sure.
The hinges on the door leading out to the church courtyard creaked, signifying its opening. The light tap of wood followed by a lock’s twisting grind confirmed the exit had closed.
Sanchez propped herself up into a seated position and peered into the darkness. The narrow wedge of hallway that she could see from the bed revealed the Bishop’s seat to be empty.
The cot’s canvas fabric squeaked against the metal framing as she swung her legs to the floor.
Scooping up her briefcase, she tucked her shoes against her chest, tiptoed across the room, and out into the empty hallway.
She tugged on the handle to the courtyard door, but it wouldn’t budge.
Sanchez fumed in frustration.
“I can’t believe he locked us in here.”
Bobo’s snores rumbled up from his cot as Sanchez scampered down the hallway. There had to be another way out. If her choice was between being held hostage by a crazy Bishop and arrested by the FBI, she preferred the latter.
She reached the end of the corridor at the crook of the building’s L-turn and stepped into the bathroom. During her previous visit, she’d noticed an open window that might be big enough for her to fit through.
It was dark inside the tile-floored room, and she dared not risk turning on the light. The slow drip from a faucet plinked as she crept toward the window. Cautiously, she leaned through the opening.
A retaining wall had been built into the sloping ground outside. The top of the wall was several feet away. It would be a stretch for her short height, but she just might be able to reach it from the window.
Or I’ll face-plant into the ditch, she thought ruefully.
Either way, she wasn’t going to spend another second trapped inside the church annex.
Stuffing her shoes into the satchel, Sanchez slid her head and shoulders through the window. It was a much tighter fit than she had anticipated. Her skirt bound up around her thighs, restricting her movement. With a grunt, she shifted her weight back toward the bathroom to make a wardrobe adjustment.
There was a light thud on the floor behind her.
Slowly pivoting, she looked over her shoulder, certain that either the Bishop had returned to haul her back inside the building or Bobo had awoken and tracked her down the hallway.
It was neither.
There, in a dimly lit spot on the bathroom floor, a tiny brown frog sat blinking up at her.
Cook-eee?
“Sorry, sweetie. You’re not my type.” Suppressing a giggle, she returned her attention to the window.
This time, she hiked her skirt up several inches before easing over the ledge.
Her arms flailed out, reaching for the retaining wall. The fingertips of her left hand brushed against the corner edge—and then slipped off. She moved forward another inch. Her torso tilted downward, causing the satchel to slip from her shoulder and droop around her neck.
All or nothing, she thought.
With a heave, she lunged for the barrier. This time, her hand managed to gain a firm grip on the top bricks. Her back end slid through the window, and she hung, awkwardly, for a long moment, trying not to think of the frog ogling her from the bathroom floor.
One more push. She grunted, leveraging her knees against the window’s bottom railing.
Like a teeter-totter that had tilted past its fulcrum, she suddenly slid forward. Her legs flailed outward, trying to slow her momentum—to no avail. The sound of ripping cloth accompanied her undignified dump out the window and onto the ground below.
She tossed her satchel onto the upslope and clambered over the retaining wall.
Crouching on the grass, she surveyed the damage. There were a few abrasions on her hands, and her knees were scraped from the ungraceful dismount through the window, but, all in all, she reasoned, it could have been worse.
Her skirt had split about two inches along the side seam. Nothing indecent, just ragged.
Tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear, she straightened and reached for her shoes.
“Let’s hope no one saw that,” she said as she limped across the hill toward the street above.
MAINTAINING HIS VIGIL on the parsonage balcony, the Governor peered through the trees as Senator Sanchez made her ungraceful exit out the annex window.
He rubbed his chin, pondering this development, before a second movement caught his attention. A streetlamp outside Hotel 1829 illuminated the man in the brown cassock who had visited the parsonage earlier in the day.
The Governor watched as the Bishop strode up the one-way street, a man of distinct purpose, un
deterred by the rain.
~ 59 ~
No Turning Back
SENATOR SANCHEZ SCRAMBLED up the hill in her bare feet, struggling to maintain her balance on the slick leaves and other vegetation that covered the ground.
She reached the road above the Lutheran church and stepped onto the pavement across the street from Government House. Standing in the shadows beneath a tree, she wiped as much mud as possible from her feet and slid on her shoes.
The wind whipped at her hair and clothing as she gazed down the road toward Hotel 1829. She could think of nothing better than a hot shower and a warm bed. Depending on who was on duty at the bar, she might be able to check in under a false or even no name. In any event, the hotel seemed like her best bet to both get in out of the rain and elude the feds. Plus, it was much closer than her apartment.
She was about to set off for the hotel’s front entrance when she saw the Bishop walking on the street just past the coral pink building’s veranda.
Sanchez nearly fell down the hill in her effort to jump off the road and hide behind the nearest tree.
Her first instinct was to turn and run the opposite direction, but curiosity soon overwhelmed fear—that and having just climbed up the slick hill, she was loath to slide back down it toward the church.
“Where’s he going?” she whispered, cautiously returning to the road.
The Bishop appeared not to have seen her. He continued on his route without hesitation.
Sanchez hung back, watching him approach the next block, trying to decide whether she should follow.
It was dangerous, she knew, for a woman to be out alone at this time of night. But if she was going to get any explanation for the events of the last twelve hours, the mysterious fake clergyman was a good place to start.
With a longing glance up at the hotel, she gripped her satchel tightly to her chest and pressed on.
•
RAIN RAN DOWN the street, pooling in potholes and gutters, as Sanchez scurried along the asphalt road, trying to keep sight of the Bishop, but wary of being seen herself. She was soon soaked to the skin, her soggy shoes squishing out water with each step.
Aground on St. Thomas Page 18
