Adrift on St. John (38 page)

Less visited by tourists due to its inaccessibility—the truck taxis charged an arm and a leg to ferry passengers out this far—the Salt Pond offered some of the island’s best snorkeling. Shyer underwater creatures like octopi, lobsters, and turtles could still be seen here even when those near the north shore beaches had been scared off by hordes of curious swimmers.

On a normal sunny day during the island’s high season, this beach would likely see a small scattering of swimmers. But with the rain now pelting down, it was deserted of human activity. The energy in the sky above roiled the usually placid cove; footprints that had been left near the water’s edge were quickly disappearing.

I set off along the beach, the storm quickly drenching me as the waves kicked sun-bleached pieces of coral up onto the sand. The T-shirt and shorts that I had pulled on over my swimsuit were soon soaked.

Wet and increasingly chilled from the wind, I was about to give up on Hannah and return to the parking lot.

Just then, I caught sight of a movement on the opposite
side of the cove, in the rolling hillside leading toward the cliffs above the famous Ram Head bluff.

Through the blinding rain, I could make out only a few details of the human figure climbing the trail. It looked to be a woman with dark curly hair wearing a knee-length sarong and a close-fitting beaded vest. In her right hand, she held the pole of a rake that she was using as a walking stick.

I slapped the rod of the flashlight against the palm of my hand, my confidence surging with the proof that my guess had been correct.

I had found the infamous Amina Slave Princess.

55

The Princess had been waiting for the better part of an hour in the brush at the far end of the Salt Pond’s beach. She knew it was only a matter of time before Pen would show up.

When the Princess caught sight of the resort manager’s soggy form staggering across the sand, she stepped out into the open and waved the rake in the air to ensure she’d caught the woman’s attention. Once the Princess had confirmed Pen’s continued pursuit, she began hiking up the trail leading to the Ram Head cliffs.

With the help of her trusty spear, the Princess easily navigated the narrow rocky path as it wound through a cactus-strewn thicket of shrubby, twisted trees, heading south toward the mouth of the cove.

A half mile later, the route dropped back to the shoreline and a shorter, less protected beach that was covered about a foot deep in piles of dried coral. The smooth stones clattered beneath the Princess’s feet as she slid across them, the slightest weight sufficient to move their light, hole-filled masses.

At the end of the coral beach, the Princess picked up
the next leg of the trail, a barely discernable opening in the overgrowth of ferns and shrubs.

As the path left the shoreline, it scaled steeply upward. The earlier arid vegetation gave way to a barren hillside dotted with the prickly barrels of red-hatted cacti.

With every step of elevation, the Princess was now more and more exposed to the elements. The wind tore at her wig, nearly ripping it from her head; the fabric of the sarong flapped about her bony knees. Gray streaks of armor streaked over the cliffs, rumbling as if in anticipation of the coming showdown.

The Princess laughed off the approaching thunder; she paid no heed to the menacing weather bearing down on the trail.

This was the day she’d been waiting for—ever since that discovery, several months earlier, in the New York library. Nothing could stop her plan from coming to fruition.

I sprinted across the Salt Pond beach to the marker for the Ram Head trail, trying to keep Hannah in my sights. The brown and white sign gave the remaining distance to the cliffs as one mile. Surely, I thought as the wind and rain began to mix with thunder, she wouldn’t make me chase her all the way to the top.

After a stretch of deep sand, the path gave way to the island’s sharp volcanic rocks. Cursing the persistence of the woman on the hill up ahead of me, I clambered over the twisting trail, grabbing on to branches and boulders in my haste to propel myself forward.

Drenching sheets of rain fell out of the sky as I reached a second stretch of beach, this one filled with sun-hardened coral. I glanced up at the cliffs, nearly twisting my ankle on the slick, rolling surface as I searched for the Princess’s fleeing figure.

“You’ll have to stop sooner or later,” I muttered as I caught a glimpse of her flapping sarong in the middle of
the cactus field about a hundred yards above. Hannah was almost to the cliffs. Pretty soon, she would run out of island.

Clattering over the coral beach, I staggered into the brush, thrashing around in the ferns until I found a pig trail that led me to the main path. Panting, I raced up the last incline to the cliffs’ bald hump.

Taking care not to slip, I eased toward the precipice and looked over the edge. The waves pounded below, the tentacles of a hungry beast eager for the chance to grind up the tiny morsel of my being. The sea frothed like a mammoth monster, one that stretched hundreds of thousands of miles across, chewing and gnawing at this tiny spit of land—slowly, inevitably consuming it.

Suddenly, a strange singing cut through the wind. It was an odd caterwauling wail, almost painful to the ears. A shuffling of rocks drew my gaze to a frail figure scrambling up the last twenty feet to the uppermost overhang.

A bolt of lightning crashed across the sky, illuminating the person perched on the boulders’ highest ledge…jauntily holding a rake in one hand, waving to me with the other.

I puzzled for a moment at the worn face beneath the dark curly hair. Wiping my hands over my eyes, I blinked to adjust my focus.

Beneath the flapping sarong were knobby knees—and hairy shins.

The scrawny man flashed me a toothy smile as I stumbled up the path to him.

“
How-dee
, Pen,” he called out cheerily.

I stood there, stunned, before spitting out his name.

“Conrad?”

56

The wind howled as I stared at Conrad, his ridiculous getup, and his joyful, half-crazed expression. A gust swirled around us, pushing a wet whiff of cannabis into my nose.

“Pen, Pen, Pen,” he babbled as he threw his bony arms around my neck.

I grabbed on to his bare shoulders and shook him forcefully.

“Conrad, what’s going on?”

“Teepee tent,” he trilled out merrily as he released his hold. “The Slave Princess is here to save my teepee tent.”

Hands now on my hips, I continued to stare at him, unable to understand both what he was saying and why it had led him to masquerade as the Slave Princess.

“What?” I hollered with exasperation.

Conrad leaned toward me, his squeaky voice barely audible over the rain.

“I read about the Maho Bay sale in the newspapers, so I started doing some research. I’m pretty good at finding things out, you know.”

He tapped a knobby finger against his temple. “I’ve got
sources in law enforcement. I have to stay one step ahead of that district attorney man…”

He noted my pained expression and returned to the topic of Maho Bay.

“Anyway, I stopped by one of the libraries there in New York to see what I could dig up. I got into the Rockefeller archives—they had stuff going
way
back, some of it to before the transfer. I was reading through a pile of papers that detailed the accounts of the early Danish settlers…”

He paused to catch his breath. “That’s when I found her.”

“Found her? Who did you find?” I asked suspiciously.

“A beautiful woman.” He gestured with his hands to form the shape of an hourglass. “With golden brown skin, luminous green eyes, and”—he pointed to the wig—“curly dark hair. She was the Amina Slave Princess—the
real
Amina Slave Princess.”

Conrad’s last batch of doobies must have contained an extra hallucinogenic ingredient, I thought with a sigh. I was about to dismiss all this as the rantings of a lunatic, when he issued one last statement that caused me to reconsider.

“The Princess told me to wait for you at the Salt Pond,” he said with a toothy grin. “She knew you would follow me up here to Ram Head.”

With a suggestive pump of his eyebrows, he offered me the crook of his arm and gestured toward the trail.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would find myself nodding with agreement in response to Conrad’s timeworn solicitation.

“Pen, would you care to accompany me to the eco-resort? I’ve got something to show you in my teepee tent.”

57