Aground on St. Thomas by Rebecca M. Hale Page A

wore almost everywhere he went. The rest of his regular outfit comprised a white linen tunic draped over matching harem pants and, on his feet, huarache sandals. A musky coconut oil kept his frizzled gray hair swept back and the thinning strands plastered against his skull.
    It was a distinctive look, one designed to stand out from the crowd.
    The hair oil scent made the female senator want to gag.
    “Bobo,” Sanchez muttered to herself. “How did I get stuck with Bobo?”
    •
    JULIA SANCHEZ SHUFFLED sideways, increasing her distance from the fragrant hair oil. She was no stranger to the spotlight, but she preferred a more refined approach to publicity.
    About five years earlier, she’d snagged a job as a junior weather girl for the island’s main television station. The position had given her plenty of media experience and public exposure. She was accustomed to performing for cameras. At a moment’s notice, she could switch from a pretty smile and a cute giggle to a solemn a-Cat-5-hurricane-is-coming-our-way expression.
    After working her way up to senior weatherperson, she had channeled her growing popularity into politics, narrowly winning her first senate seat in the last election cycle.
    It had been a nasty race, with a number of aspersions cast against her ethnicity. While her mother was a native Virgin Islander, her father was a Puerto Rican immigrant, leading some groups to insist on categorizing her as “other.”
    She had weathered the storm, so to speak, with class, dignity and the backing of her mother’s family, who had deep roots in the West Indian community.
    Despite the heavy makeup and flirty demeanor that had been required for success in the television industry, she was a tomboy at heart. She wasn’t easily pushed around by chauvinistic newsmen, fractious politicians, or the daily rough-and-tumble of the USVI Legislature.
    Or, for that matter, Senator Bobo.

~ 13 ~
    Hog-Tied
    SENATOR SANCHEZ STRUMMED her fingers against the shoulder strap to her satchel-style briefcase, reflecting on how she’d wound up trapped in Fort Christian with Reverend Bobo.
    •
    JUST THIRTY MINUTES earlier, she’d been hurrying down a hallway inside the Legislature Building, the leather pouch of her briefcase bouncing against her hip. She was late for a subcommittee meeting and in a rush to get to the designated location.
    A few feet from the committee room, she stopped to straighten her skirt, whose snug fit had twisted around her hips during the dash in from her car. Reaching up, she unhooked the clip that held back her wavy hair. With a quick head shake, the shoulder-length locks fell free. She tucked a few strands behind her left ear, smoothed her silk blouse, and prepared to march, unflustered, into what would likely be a quarrelsome meeting.
    A half step past a cleaning closet by the room’s entrance, a stiff hand grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.
    She recognized her fellow senator almost instantly. A surge of indignation stifled her impulse to scream. She was about to knock Bobo over the head with her briefcase when he held a finger to his mouth and pointed to the two-inch crack he’d left open in the closet door.
    Pushing aside a mop bucket, Bobo crouched to the ground and peered through the opening. Sanchez hesitated but eventually knelt beside him. She watched, stunned, as two black-clad federal agents moved stealthily through the corridor.
    She gasped at the sight, causing Bobo to jab her with a shushing elbow.
    “What’s going on?” she whispered at the first break in the hallway’s foot traffic.
    Bobo mouthed the letters
F-B-I
.
    “Why are they here?” she asked, troubled. “And why are we hiding?”
    He leaned toward her so that his lips were practically touching her ear.
    “They’re after
us
. All of us.” He raised a hand in front of her face and rubbed his fingertips together. “They think we’re on the take.”
    Sanchez nearly choked on the smell of Bobo’s hair oil. “But I’m not,