Read Online Aground on St. Thomas by Rebecca M. Hale - Free Book Online Page A

“What do we do next?”
    The senators listened to the noise outside the fort. The air carried a volume of angry voices overlaid with the repeating
pop
of ammunition.
    Bobo nodded toward the base of the fort’s front tower. “There’s a ladder inside to access the clocks. Let’s climb up and see what’s going on.”
    •
    WEAVING AROUND PILES of discarded construction material, Bobo and Sanchez picked their way across the courtyard.
    As they passed the little room that had been set aside for the museum, Sanchez caught a glimpse of a well-tended display area with exhibits dedicated to various aspects of the island’s heritage. There were black-and-white photos, framed documents, maps, and, hanging on the far wall, one of the ubiquitous cutlasses that had been used to cut sugarcane.
    Someone had taken a lot of care with the layout, she thought as she followed Bobo through to the fort’s front foyer. It was a shame the rest of the structure was in such disrepair.
    The Reverend reached the open shaft that contained the clock tower’s rusty ladder. He slung his rainbow scarf over one shoulder and began pulling himself up the steps.
    Sanchez looked at the shaky rungs and decided to once more abandon her heels. She waited until Bobo made it to the top and stepped onto an adjacent platform before she began her climb. Leaving the heels on the floor beside her briefcase, she hiked up her skirt and scaled the ladder.
    A narrow ledge ran around the tower’s outer circumference, just a few feet below the clock face. Sanchez crossed the platform, ducked through an opening in the wall, and joined Bobo on the outside ledge.
    They had views to every direction, including the harbor, the downtown waterfront, and Government Hill.
    “Good grief, they’re everywhere,” Sanchez said as she watched another group of FBI agents gather outside the Legislature. If she and Bobo had been a minute later leaving the building—or crossing the street to the fort—they would have been captured.
    Turning, she rotated her gaze to look toward the central downtown shopping district.
    Just past a line of fire trucks and emergency vehicles parked against the fort’s west wall, she found the now-empty vendors’ plaza. Across the next intersection, a pricey jewelry store that occupied a prime corner lot had been locked up and secured with its nighttime barriers.
    “What is going on?” Sanchez asked, stunned by the scene.
    Bobo intoned as if speaking from the pulpit. “Hellfire and damnation are raining down on this island, that’s what.”
    Sanchez scowled in frustration. It was unheard of to see Charlotte Amalie’s downtown shuttered on a day when a large cruise ship was in port. But the only pedestrians on the street were disgruntled locals. It appeared the passengers—and their dollars—had been kept on board the vessel.
    The thought of all that lost revenue made her blood boil.
    She thrust her arms in the air, gesturing at the agents outside the Legislature Building. “Do they know how much damage they’ve caused? What kind of bribery investigation results in a complete government takeover?”
    Bobo offered a noncommittal shrug. “I’m still trying to figure out how all those people were on the take.” His voice sounded almost offended. “If someone was handing out money to senators, they sure didn’t give any to me.”
    Sanchez dropped her hands to her sides, slapping her palms against her hips.
    “Look, Bobo, we need a plan.”
    A pickup drove past the empty vendors’ plaza, blaring its radio at full capacity. Enormous speakers had been hinged to the back bed so that they could be rotated outward. The rear tires bulged from the extra weight; the bumper nearly dragged on the ground.
    Despite the static feedback, Sanchez recognized the KRAT broadcast.
    “The pasty boys are still looking for the Governor,” Dread Fred reported. Whaler let out one of his distinctive high-pitched whistles and added, “We’ve got a signed T-shirt