Aground on St. Thomas (21 page)

Unwelcome Confinement

SENATOR SANCHEZ STARED
up at the cistern’s sealed hatch, sweat pouring off her face. She’d drained the water bottle the Bishop had brought earlier. Her clothes stuck to her body, and she felt woozy from the stench of Bobo’s hair oil.

She refused to look at her co-senator, for fear of what she might see. Similarly sweaty, he had stripped down to his loose-fitting harem pants. He sat on the floor, leaning against one of the cistern sidewalls, courteously giving her the sole fold-out chair the DJs had left behind.

Dark and stuffy, the cistern was far more humid than before. Water had begun to trickle out of the trough near the roof. It must have started raining outside, Sanchez concluded with worry.

How much longer are we going to be trapped in here? she wondered, vowing she would never again venture inside a cistern holding tank.

Just then, a grinding cinch of metal sounded from the roof, and the hatch swung open. Water ran over the rim as the Bishop poked his head through the hole.

“It’s dark enough now. I think it’s safe to move you. The FBI agents are still in the area, though, so please be quick.”

Bobo jumped up from the floor, threw on his tunic, and scrambled around Sanchez to get to the ladder.

While waiting for Bobo to exit, Sanchez secured the strap for her leather satchel around her shoulder and slipped off her heels. Gripping the shoes in one hand, she scaled the ladder and stepped out, barefoot, onto the cistern roof.

The Bishop crossed the roof and hurried down a ramp to a side yard that curved around the chapel. Bobo followed, leaving Sanchez standing alone while she wobbled back and forth, slipping on her shoes.

With a glance at her surroundings, she realized why the two men had moved away from the hatch. She had a clear view down the front walk and out the closed iron gates to the corner of Emancipation Park and, beyond, Fort Christian.

The pedestrians still mingling in the area south of the church had a similar view of her.

Sanchez scrambled across the concrete roof, down the ramp, and over to a newer L-shaped annex attached to the church’s main chapel. The Bishop ushered the senator through the doorway and then shut it securely behind her. They were once more hidden from any observers on the street.

And, Sanchez couldn’t help thinking as the Bishop secured the lock, they were trapped inside yet another bunker.

•

“MAKE YOURSELVES AT
home,” the Bishop said smoothly.

Sanchez blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the shaded interior. None of the annex’s artificial lights had been turned on. The windows on the building’s courtyard-facing walls let in beams from the lampposts that surrounded the church grounds, but that provided only minimal illumination.

The Bishop walked his guests down a hallway that cut through the building’s two wings. He pointed out a series of multipurpose rooms, a nursery, and a bathroom equipped with shower stalls.

The space was typically used for vacation Bible school, visiting clergy, and church-related child care, but the senators would be the only occupants that evening. The resident minister, he explained, was on vacation.

Circling back to the entrance, the Bishop led the senators into one of the larger dormitory rooms.

“I hope you’ll find these accommodations acceptable. It was the best I could put together on short notice.”

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.”

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.

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.