Aground on St. Thomas (22 page)

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, undeterred by the rain.

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.

Sanchez followed the Bishop to the far edge of the lawn that sloped up from the post office. She waited behind a clump of trees, watching as he turned down a side street that skirted the downtown’s upper edge.

Trotting across the sloping lawn, she reached the sidewalk for the narrow roadway. The going was much easier on the flat surface, but her shoes were now making far more noise than she would have liked. She had little time to worry about the sound. The cloaked man flashed around a darkened corner as if taking a well-known route.

Sanchez kept pace until the Bishop paused at the entrance to a public staircase. He turned to look over his shoulder, and she dove behind a parked car.

Peeking over the hood, she caught a glimpse of the swishing cassock disappearing beneath the leafy canopy that covered the stairwell.

She waited several seconds before crossing the street, hoping she wouldn’t be seen from above. She eyed an abandoned house next to the stairway’s entrance, fearful of vagrants that might be sleeping inside, before nervously moving to the bottom of the stairs.

Looking up, she saw the Bishop’s shadowed figure had already climbed several terraced sections up the hillside.

Staying within the shadows next to the railing, Sanchez began her ascent.

It was a long hike up the public walkway. The concrete steps were a slightly newer vintage than the brick ones on Government Hill, but they hadn’t held up nearly as well. Dim lighting made navigation over the crumbling concrete even more difficult.

The rain plastered down, funneling rivulets into the steps. Her heel slipped, and she nearly turned an ankle trying to stay upright.

Through the watery blur, the Bishop cleared the top step and turned sharply to the left.

Sanchez stopped, panting and confused. There was only one residence at the end of that path.

It was surrounded by high-level security fencing and guarded by USVI police. Given recent events, she suspected a number of FBI agents would also be at the facility.

She completed the stairs and followed the Bishop’s left turn—in time to see him admitted through the front gates of the Governor’s Mansion.

•

SANCHEZ WATCHED THE
iron gate slide shut behind the Bishop. The rain continued to pour down, but she hardly noticed the drenching as she contemplated the ramifications of the Bishop’s destination.

She wouldn’t be returning to Hotel 1829. Nor could she risk going back to her apartment—but not for the reason the Bishop had given.

This episode had a far more local cause than she had realized.

She needed to consult her uncle. With his years of political experience, he would know how best to proceed.

She began her descent down the stairs. She wasn’t far from a friend’s house. Hopefully, she could borrow some clothes and sleep on the spare couch.

She would set out to look for Uncle Abe first thing in the morning.

Most likely, he would be playing backgammon at Emancipation Park.

Religious Guidance

THE RAIN INTENSIFIED,
moving up the hillside and soaking the garden outside the Governor’s Mansion, but the First Lady refused to leave her covered bench.

Her gaze remained fixed on the city lights until a member of her regular security team approached, closely accompanied by two FBI agents.

The security guard spoke first.

“A clergyman is here to see you, ma’am.”

She appeared unsurprised by this announcement.

“Yes, please show him in. I could use some religious guidance.”

The senior FBI agent cleared his throat. “I advise against it, ma’am. We’d prefer that you remain in complete isolation until we’re able to apprehend your husband.”

The First Lady’s eyes flickered, even as her face remained calm. She prompted the security guard.

“Which clergyman has come to see me?”

“The Bishop of St. Thomas,” the man supplied quickly, speaking the title with as much authenticity as he could muster.

“Well then, how can there be any harm in that?” she asked demurely.

The agent shifted his weight, uncertain of how to handle the situation.

“This is a deeply troubling time.” She pressed her hand against his forearm. “Please.”

Reluctantly, the agent reached for a two-way radio attached to his hip. Speaking into the device, he ordered the guards by the gate to let the arrival inside.

•

THE BISHOP STRODE
up the front walk and through the mansion’s porticoed entrance as if he were a regular guest. In fact, it was his first visit to the place. His previous business on St. Thomas had been with far less prestigious clients.

He paused for a moment to study the decorated interior. His expert eyes scanned the walls and display cabinets, taking note of the various pieces of artwork and mentally assessing their value, an instinctive habit of his profession. It was a routine assessment—until he reached the Governor’s marble backgammon set.

He stared at the checkered pieces, pondering their position, before continuing through to the side garden.

•

DESPITE HIS WALK
up the hill in the rain, the Bishop still evoked a commanding presence. The cassock’s tight weave had wicked away much of the falling moisture. His grizzled goatee gripped his chin with the same neat trim it had possessed in the Miami airport that morning.

The First Lady greeted him like a trusted confidant.

“Hello, Bishop.”

He walked her toward the garden area, resting a comforting arm across the back of her shoulders. When they were safely out of earshot, he leaned toward her ear and whispered discreetly, “Your men have arrived.”

Her smile confirmed the message had been received.