Aground on St. Thomas (19 page)

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.

The Next Best Thing

CEDRIC SHOVED HIS
way 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.

He slid the phone into his shirt pocket. He would figure something out.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

•

CEDRIC RACED ACROSS
to the post office, rounded the corner, and skidded to a stop by the front entrance. The building had been locked up tight, its green shutters clamped down against the yellow ochre walls.

Panting, the aide scanned the sidewalk. Not seeing the Fixer near the post office, he turned to look up the hill.

A row of iron busts lined the bottom of the slope. Solemn faces of luminaries from the territory’s past stared down at him—educators, journalists, and civil rights leaders who had been honored for their sacrifices and achievements.

Cedric had grown up learning the stories of these and other local leaders. What had he contributed to the cause?

He squirmed beneath the iron eyes, but the surge of guilt quickly dissipated. His actions were justified, he told himself, even if his motivations were rooted in self-interest.

He had long ago stopped believing in martyrs and heroes.

At this point, he was down to self-preservation.

•

AT THE SIGHT
of the Fixer scrambling up the hill, Cedric dismissed all introspection. The thin man sprinted across the side slope, dashing through the trees—disrupting the flock of chickens and drawing a stern squawk from the resident rooster.

He landed midway up the public staircase and paused to look back at the post office, as if taunting the aide to follow.

Cedric needed no encouragement. He darted to the foot of the stairs and began the long chug toward the top.

By the time the Fixer disappeared over the crest, Cedric had narrowed the distance between them. He was only about thirty feet behind.

Out of breath, Cedric staggered onto the one-way street that ran in front of Hotel 1829. He glanced up and down the road with despair.

The Fixer had once more slipped from his reach.

A woman sat on the hotel veranda, watching him over the railing. With a shrug, she motioned east with her camera.

Cedric gulped for air and turned as she had indicated, frantically searching the street. He didn’t see the Fixer until he reached the signpost for the 99 Steps.

He let out a groan. The thin man had scampered up the stairs.

“The guy’s half-goat.”

•

SUMMONING A SECOND
wind, Cedric pounded up the walkway. His lungs burned; his calf muscles ached.

A strengthening breeze pushed against his back, fluttering the blooms in the adjacent bougainvillea bushes. Cedric glanced over his shoulder at the harbor. Purple and blue shrouded the horizon, the front edge of the evening storm.

The first drops began to spatter against the bricks, giving Cedric a much-needed boost of adrenaline. He surged up the rest of the steps, clearing the top with a sense of triumph.

Fowler had once more escaped from view, but Cedric heard the smack of the man’s feet against the asphalt drive that led up to Blackbeard’s Castle.

Charging past a curving wall of landscaping, the aide rounded the corner. The hilltop and Blackbeard’s Tower came into view.

Cedric no longer questioned where the Fixer was headed. The landmark property at the summit was his obvious destination.

It never occurred to him that instead of giving chase, he was being led into a trap.

•

CEDRIC TRAVERSED ANOTHER
line of terracing, taking him past the rolling lawn and the fountain of the three young women. A ring of floodlights flickered on, illuminating the iron figures through the rain.

The steps slickened as the initial coating of moisture mixed with the previous layer of dust, but Cedric refused to slow his pace. He reached the open gate to the main guest area and dove through.

He was so close. He could sense it.

He would have it out with the Fixer. He would demand to see the Governor. Everything was salvageable. He just needed a chance to plead his case.

•

SOAKED WITH SWEAT
and, increasingly, rain, Cedric hurdled the last step up onto the pavilion and entertainment area. Rasping for air, he scanned the perimeter.

The pool shimmered with pattering raindrops. The surrounding statues glistened, the liquid sheen increasing their lifelike appearance.

Unaffected by the climb, the Fixer stepped out from behind a pair of dueling pirates.

“You should have stayed at Government House, my friend.”