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

drawer and broke the seal on a fresh bottle of pink tablets.

Cyril E. King Airport
    St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands

~ 23 ~
    A Bumpy Landing
    OF THE 146 passengers on board the Miami flight as it landed on the bumpy runway at the St. Thomas airport, no one was happier to see the approaching ground than the woman in seat 26E.
    The author leaned forward at the welcome screech of brakes, relieved beyond words as she felt the forceful drag of the upturned wing flaps.
    The two-and-a-half-hour flight from Miami had stretched on interminably. At one point, she had unbuckled, squeezed around the Mojito Man, staggered up the aisle, and shut herself inside the bathroom, just to have a few minutes respite from his ongoing chatter.
    Earphones were no use. There was no setting loud enough to drown out his persistent commentary, which vacillated among three main topics: the graphic details of his painful illness, the gruesome means he might use to hasten his impending death, and—by far the most disturbing—his attempts to lure the writer into a romantic rendezvous.
    “Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight on St. Thomas? I’ll take you somewhere nice.”
    The woman fixed a blank expression on her face, hoping he would think she hadn’t heard the question—to no avail.
    “I’ll pay,” he insisted, undeterred. “I’ve got plenty of money and just a few weeks left to live.” He paused for a mojito-scented burp. “No point in holding back now. I can’t take it with me.”
    He waited through only a short silence before trying another tack.
    “I’ve booked a room at Blackbeard’s Castle. It’s a nice place up on a hill. Great views. You could stay with me for a while. Come on, what do you say?”
    She pulled the earphones from her head.
    “I’m headed to St. John,” she replied tersely. It wasn’t the first time she had tried to convey this information. The geographical distance and intervening span of water between the two islands appeared not to faze him.
    “How about dinner, eh? I’ll take you to the nicest restaurant on St. Thomas. I’ve got wads of cash to spend, and not much time to do it in.”
    He paused, a faraway look in his sunken gray eyes, but after constant repetition, the accompanying phrase had lost all dramatic effect.
    “Within a few weeks, I’ll be dead.”
    •
    “UH, WELL, BYE-BYE, then,” the author said to her seatmate as she hurried down the rollaway steps that had been pushed next to the plane’s side door.
    She sprinted across the tarmac to the terminal, her backpack swinging from her shoulders, her suitcase bumping wildly across the asphalt.
    A frail voice called after her.
    “Come see me at Blackbeard’s!”
    Her muttered reply was directed at the pavement.
    “Not on your life, buddy.”
    •
    A QUICK DEPARTURE for the St. John ferry, however, was not to be.
    Uniformed policemen blocked the terminal entrance. One of them held up a stern hand, halting the author at the doorway.
    “St. Thomas is on lockdown. You need to stop here and register.”
    “Excuse me. What?”
    “The US government has temporarily taken control of the island.”
    “What?” she asked again, this time in stunned disbelief.
    “Which hotel are you staying at?” he asked, clearly wishing to avoid another “what.” “We can only allow you to go directly to your hotel, nothing more.”
    “But I’m staying on St. John,” she said, a lump growing in her stomach.
    “No ferries are leaving today, miss. Talk to the woman organizing the taxis. She can get you a room in Charlotte Amalie.”
    Woefully, the author walked outside to the taxi stand.
    “Where are you headed?” the matron asked, tapping a pencil against her clipboard.
    “Anywhere but Blackbeard’s Castle,” she replied with a groan.
    •
    TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the author watched in despair as the Mojito Man joined her in the line of people waiting for a local taxi. The drivers wouldn’t leave the airport until they had accumulated five or six