Aground on St. Thomas by Rebecca M. Hale

would be ready to reopen to the public.
    As a temporary measure, a small volunteer-staffed museum had been set up inside the fort, but given the curators’ competing obligations, the hours of operation were sporadic.
    In its prime, Fort Christian had cut an impressive figure. Named for one of Denmark’s many kings, the massive walls soared up to Gothic arches and a top edging of crenellated battlements. A clock tower rose from the front wall, pointing timepieces at both the town and the harbor.
    But nowadays, padlocks secured the building’s rotting wooden doors. The windows were barred or boarded over. In the park that flanked the front entrance, a mishmash of telephone wires and power lines dangled from the limbs of battered trees.
    Over the centuries, the fort had served as the seat of local government, a church, and a local jail.
    Currently, it wasn’t used for much of anything—except as a hiding place for two renegade USVI senators.

    IT WAS HOT inside Fort Christian’s center courtyard. The sun beat down on the concrete-covered ground, its heat radiating up into the feet of Senators Bobo and Sanchez.
    After evading capture inside the Legislature Building, the panting pair had sprinted across the street to the rear of the fort.
    The fort’s back parking area was blocked off with chain-link fencing and marked with warning placards. Perhaps due to the lengthy absence of the construction crews, parts of the fencing had sagged. A two-piece gate that stretched across the vehicle access had twisted at its midpoint to create a hole big enough for a full-sized adult to squeeze through.
    Senator Bobo had hopped between the loosened gates like a seasoned rabbit, as if accustomed to the maneuver.
    Senator Sanchez had followed him inside—with great hesitation.
    •
    JULIA SANCHEZ TURNED a slow pivot in the fort’s courtyard, staring at the construction debris and abandoned scaffolding.
    She had grown up in a residential area a few miles out of town. Like most children on the island, she’d visited the fort on school field trips and summer camp outings, but it had been more than a decade since she’d been inside the structure. The place looked far more run-down than she remembered, but, she supposed, childhood memories were often like that. Certainly, the dilapidated fort was a stark contrast to the recently painted Legislature Building across the street.
    She shifted her attention to her fellow senator. “Lucky for us, you had a key to that back door.”
    “I’ve been volunteering in the museum,” he replied, patting the pocket where he’d stashed the key ring. Solemnly, he tapped the four corners of a cross on his chest. “The good Lord looks out for Bobo.”
    Sanchez gave the man a dubious look.
    “And the gate?” she prompted skeptically.
    Reverend Bobo gave her a sly wink. “Providence provides to him who is prepared.”
    •
    SENATOR BOBO LIVED in Frederiksted, a small community on the west end of St. Croix. He had taken the commuter seaplane up to St. Thomas earlier that morning in order to participate in the day’s legislative activities.
    He was a devoutly religious man—at least by all outward appearances. He ran a tiny but well-attended church in his neighborhood. It adhered to a strict conservative doctrine, but it was unaffiliated with any organized sect or denomination. As such, Bobo had never been officially ordained, but he had formally changed his first name to “Reverend,” allowing him to use the title freely.
    This deficiency (or perhaps, delusion) appeared not to matter to his loyal followers. The close-knit group had been instrumental to his repeated election to the Legislature, the clan tirelessly campaigning and fundraising for him. The other senators generally considered him a kook, but they rarely expressed this opinion out loud.
    Bobo’s political clout had been proven time and time again.
    Sanchez glanced at the rainbow-colored scarf looped around Bobo’s neck, an accessory he