Aground on St. Thomas (29 page)

Judas

IN THE HOUR
since the First Lady’s startling announcement on the KRAT broadcast, the crowds at Emancipation Park had quadrupled in number. Spurred on by news of the Governor’s assassination, residents from across Charlotte Amalie converged on the area to express their sorrow, outrage, and anger.

While the grandstand microphones were in full use, the noise in the crowd exceeded the amplified voices on stage. The agitated atmosphere was growing more unstable by the minute.

All of this activity ground to a halt, however, when a line of shiny black SUVs circled the park’s perimeter and stopped along the street next to the post office.

The crowd shifted its focus, several hundred people turning in unison to stare at the official-looking arrivals. Speculations soon began to float through the masses.

“It’s the First Lady.”

“It’s the feds, come to arrest us.”

A cheeky pickpocket piped up. “It’s the Cow Foot Woman, ready for a brawl!”

The first SUV disgorged the Governor’s regular security team. Several members of the cabinet—including those who had been indicted—stepped out of the second.

The third and fourth vehicles carried the USVI senators who had just been released from the Legislature Building. The politicians quickly spread through the crowd, mingling with their constituents, rumpled but triumphant.

The crowd waited, eagerly anticipating the last reveal, as the security team surrounded the fifth and final vehicle. The door to the rear passenger compartment swung open. A suited leg and formal leather shoe kicked out and planted firmly on the curb. Then a large man with a sturdy build, rotund middle, and a beaming smile exited the vehicle.

His identity was spoken in a single stunned whisper.

“It’s the Governor.”

•

THE GOVERNOR STRODE
to the grandstand, nimbly climbing the steps to the platform. Few people noticed that he was accompanied by the fifth SUV’s second occupant, Senator Sanchez, who had hastily changed into a suit and heels.

The Governor wasted no time in addressing the crowd. He approached the nearest microphone and spread his arms wide, embracing his listeners.

“We’ve been through a dark and troubling time, my friends, but I’m pleased to tell you that reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

A cheer exploded across the park. Even those who had, hours earlier, derided the Governor as a thief and a coward, now clapped enthusiastically.

“My fellow islanders, I know that you have been distressed by recent events. Believe me, I share your concerns about the foreign troops who have spread across our territory.”

A number of hisses and boos rose up from the audience.

“But I must tell you the truth. It was a traitor in our own family, a trusted source close to me, who betrayed us.”

The crowd’s anger quelled, replaced by morbid curiosity. Who could it be? The question circulated through the park, quickly followed by a myriad of wild guesses. Someone even dared to suggest the First Lady.

“This sordid individual spun a twisted web of lies and deceit—a hoax that fooled the justice department officials, law enforcement, the FBI, and most of all, me.”

The Governor detached the microphone from its stand so he could pace back and forth across the stage.

“Who was this Judas?” he asked, leaning toward the crowd. “This betrayer of our beloved islands?”

The question hung in the air. The murmurs fell silent, waiting for the Governor’s next words.

“It was my closest aide. A young man who was born and raised here. He served in my administration for many years, and he was a trusted member of my staff. But now he is a fugitive from the law. A wanted man.”

The Governor shook his head. His expression conveyed sorrowful disbelief.

“Cedric, I encourage you to turn yourself in.”

•

THE GOVERNOR PAUSED,
waiting for the impact of his message to sink in. A member of his security team offered him a water bottle. He reattached the microphone to its stand and took several long gulps. Handing back the near-empty container, he resumed his speech.

“My fellow islanders, there are long and difficult days ahead of us. This callous act of sabotage has caused severe damage to St. Thomas. We must now rebuild our reputation with our friends in the tourism industry. We must redouble our efforts to welcome the cruise ships and their guests to our port.”

The crowd nodded in agreement. The Governor’s silver tongue had always served him well. Scooping the mike once more from its stand, he bent over the platform to deliver one more blow to his opponents.

“But know this. We will not rest until all those involved in this treacherous crime against our territory have been apprehended and brought to justice.”

While another round of raucous applause swept through the park, the Governor motioned for Senator Sanchez to join him at the front of the stage.

“I want you to know that Senator Sanchez has worked diligently, throughout this ordeal, to rectify the harm that has been done to our territory—even while being wrongfully accused herself. She has shown true leadership and skill.”

Sanchez blushed at the Governor’s words and tried to stifle the surge of guilt she felt for the honor she was about to receive.

“I am pleased to announce that she has accepted my invitation to join my cabinet as a senior advisor. She will play a key role in liaising with the tourism industry, our most vital and important economic partner, and rebuilding that relationship. She is a bright and rising star, and I expect great things to come from this young woman. I know she will succeed.”

Sanchez nodded and smiled through the subsequent polite applause, drawing heavily on her weatherperson’s media skills. After the earlier dramatics, this was merely a perfunctory administrative matter. Few, if any, realized that Sanchez’s position had been negotiated by her uncle Abe at the Hotel 1829 backgammon table.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me,” the Governor said with a wink. “I have to get home to my wife.”

FRIDAY STOOD AT
the outskirts of Emancipation Park with several of his fellow agents. His was a skeptical stance. He had observed the spectacle with a wry expression on his face, his arms folded across his chest.

With the Governor’s political rebirth complete, Friday shook his head and turned toward the sidewalk leading to the deepwater port. The US Navy ship would soon be departing for Virginia with its load of National Guard and FBI agents.

He had hastily conferred with his assistant director and the attorney general prior to the Governor’s arrival at the park. While Friday didn’t yet know all of the underlying details, he recognized a politically contrived solution when he saw one.

His team had been diverted onto a new mission, a global search for the Bishop.

He glanced back at Charlotte Amalie’s curving hills, taking a last look up at Blackbeard’s Tower with a sigh.

“So ends Operation Coconut.”

THE GOVERNOR STEPPED
down from the grandstand and was once more surrounded by security personnel.

A slim man in an oversized golf shirt and chinos, however, managed to slip through the heavily armed barrier to pat the Governor on the back.

“Congratulations, Guv.”

The big man stopped to clasp his arm around the Fixer’s shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough.” He lowered his voice. “We’ll be in touch—through the regular channels.”

“I’m glad we were able to work things out, sir.”

But as the Governor turned toward his waiting SUV, the Fixer leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“We’ve got one more loose end to tie up.”

The Loose Ends

The Last Mojito

THE AUTHOR WATCHED
the Governor’s grandstand appearance from the television set in the bar at Hotel 1829. The remarkable performance was immediately followed by news that the island’s transportation ban had been lifted. The ferry schedule would recommence shortly.

The bartender leaned over his counter and pumped his thick eyebrows.

“If you get on over to Red Hook, you might make it out tonight.”

“I’ll grab my bag,” she said, hopping off her stool.

The shuffling sound was enough to wake the Mojito Man, who had been snoozing fitfully on the bench against the far wall.

“What happened?” he asked, suddenly alert. “Where’s everybody going?”

“I’m headed to St. John,” the author replied and then added a muttered aside: “Hopefully.”

Her pale friend jumped up from the bench. The most recent dose of pain meds was still in full effect. “Time for me to get back to Blackbeard’s.”

The bartender reached for his phone. “Let me call you a cab.”

“Don’t bother,” the man waved him off. “I’m going to walk. I feel spry as a spring chicken.”

He staggered toward the marked door on the other side of the bar.

“Just going to make a quick pit stop first.”

The bartender motioned toward the courtyard. “Now’s your chance. Better make a run for it.”

The author gazed at the exit for several seconds before throwing up her hands. She couldn’t stop thinking about the earlier funeral conversation.

“I’ll take him,” she said reluctantly. “Blackbeard’s is just at the top of the 99 Steps, isn’t it?”

The bartender grinned. “It’s going to feel like a lot more than ninety-nine.”

•

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER,
the author staggered up the last set of stairs leading to Blackbeard’s pool and pavilion area.

The Mojito Man leaned heavily against her, gasping for breath. He had at first enjoyed the excuse to drape his arm over her shoulders, but the last set of switchbacks had nearly done him in.

“Stay for a cocktail, dinner . . .” he panted as she escorted him to a lawn chair by the pool. “There’s plenty of room. I’ve got the whole place to myself.”

“I have to catch a ferry,” she said firmly. “Are you sure you’ll be okay up here?”

“I’m a special guest,” he replied with a goofy grin. “They’ve got a full staff to take care of me.”

“Okay.” She backed slowly away from him. “Well, good-bye, then.”

And with that, she turned for the stairs.

“Alone again,” he said pathetically as he watched the brown-haired woman disappear down the steps at the edge of the pool.

A voice spoke up from inside the pavilion.

“Don’t look so sad.”

Still dressed in a green golf shirt and chinos, the Fixer walked over with a tall glass filled with muddled mint leaves.

“This will dull the pain.”

•

THE MOJITO MAN
leaned back in the lawn chair, happily sucking down a drug-laced mojito—this one loaded with triple its regular dose.

The Fixer watched the drink disappear in the glass, waiting for confirmation of the kill—and the elimination of the witness to his duel with the Governor’s aide.

It didn’t take long. The glass slipped from the man’s grip and tumbled onto the grass. His gray eyes, drained of color, had seen life’s last look. His troubled spirit drifted peacefully into whatever the next life had to offer.

Are you ready? the dying man had often asked himself.

At some point, fate moots the question and makes the decision for you.

IT WAS A
better death than the one that had been suffered by the Governor’s former favorite aide.

Emancipation Park had almost emptied—along with the surrounding downtown streets—when Senator Bobo scurried furtively up the front walk to Fort Christian. In their hurry to depart, Nova and his crew had left the front door unlocked. Bobo slipped through the entrance and made his way to the museum.

He stepped gingerly across the dusty floor, carefully avoiding Nova’s spattered blood and the cutlass that had generated the messy facial injury. He would clean that up later. He had another matter to attend to first.

Bobo bent behind the display counter to Cedric’s sprawled body. The corpse was far more gruesome without the brown cassock that had covered the young man’s wounds.

The Reverend touched the points of a cross on his chest and murmured a silent blessing. Then he hefted the dead weight into a shipping crate and nailed down the lid.

With a groan, he lifted the crate onto a rusted dolly. The wheels creaked as he shoved the load out of the museum and into the courtyard.

“Just another day’s honest earning.”