As he rounded a bend in the road he saw the neon-green Jeep Wrangler on the shoulder. The vehicle was without a top or doors. A dreadlocked Jamaican man sat behind the wheel. He walked up and waved.
“Yeah, mon. Aaron Holland?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he said.
“No problem, mon. Come on.”
The man gestured for him to get in. The green Wrangler pulled a U-turn and headed off into the heart of Jamaica. The Emerald Lady disappeared behind them.
CHAPTER 73
Trelawny, Jamaica Tuesday, July 13, 2021
IN THE TOWN OF TRELAWNY, JAMAICA, THE MAN DROVE THE JEEP Wrangler across unpaved roads until they came to the edge of an enormous property. From his research, and all the information Claire had provided in the FedEx package that had arrived at cabin 12 in Sister Bay last week, he knew he was looking at the Hampden Estates, one of Jamaica’s oldest rum distilleries. He gripped the handle strap as the Wrangler turned onto a dirt road that consisted of two ruts separated by a patch of grass and bounced its way onto the property. The straight trunks of palm trees lined the path and blurred past. They eventually emerged into a clearing where an ivy-covered home stood. The brakes whined as the Jeep stopped in front of the house.
“Yeah, mon. All set.”
“This is it?”
“Yeah, mon. Jerome, he will help you from here.”
Aaron Holland pulled an envelope of cash from his pocket and handed it to the driver.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, mon. No problem.”
As soon as he lifted the suitcase from the back of the Jeep, the vehicle was gone with the rev of its engine and a plume of dust. He walked from the cloud and headed for the house. Before he could knock, the door opened.
“You made it! I am Jerome.” The Jamaican accent gave the name a distinguished Gee-roam pronunciation. “We can have lunch and then I’ll give you a tour. Maybe we will taste some rum before you leave?”
“Maybe,” he said, although rum was the furthest thing from his mind. He had a long drive ahead of him through the hills of Jamaica, and only a slight grasp of where he was headed. To make it, he’d need a clear head not fogged by rum. He was, however, starving, so he accepted the generous offer of lunch but declined the numerous offerings of Hampden Estate rum.
An hour later he climbed behind the wheel of a well-used Toyota Land Cruiser and twisted the key in the ignition. After a few seconds of protest, the engine sputtered to life.
Jerome stood with both hands resting on the open passenger’s side window.
“Good luck, my friend,” Jerome said.
“How do I get the Land Cruiser back to you?”
“No problem, mon. Mr. Walt is a good friend, he will make sure it gets back to me. I will let him know that you have arrived. Feed his dog when you get there. It will save me a trip. The dog’s name is Bureau.”
Aaron Holland nodded as if any of this made sense to him. He had needed luck to get to this point, and would surely need more in the weeks to come. This first spell, he hoped, would continue long enough to get him through the interior of Jamaica and to the west end of the island, into the parish of Negril and to the house that belonged to a man named Walt Jenkins. With no cell phone, and the Land Cruiser’s gas gauge pegged at just under half a tank, he figured he’d need all the luck he could find. Finally, he put the Toyota into gear and pulled away.
He was pulling away from more than just a rum distillery in Jamaica, and from more than just a stranger who had willingly surrendered his vehicle to him. Christopher Montgomery was pulling away from his old life. From the stress of spending years in hiding. He was pulling away from the role he unknowingly played as a portfolio manager at his father’s hedge fund.
But now, perhaps, he could be free of all that. As free as a man on the run could ever be.
PART VI
Repayment
CHAPTER 74
Westmoreland, Jamaica Thursday, October 21, 2021
THE BOAT’S JOURNEY HAD STARTED IN SISTER BAY, WISCONSIN, WHERE it headed north out of Green Bay before wrapping around Washington Island and trekking down the entire length of Lake Michigan. It passed through the locks in Chicago where the boat rose and fell with other vessels and ships. The sails were never raised. Instead, the boat’s motor burned through gasoline and oil. It was the fastest way. The purpose of this journey was transport, not adventure.
Once through the Chicago locks, the crew pointed the Moorings 35.2 south and chugged down the Illinois River. From there they connected to the Mississippi and eventually found the Tenn-Tom Waterway, which took them to Mobile, Alabama. During one leg of the voyage, the masts had to come down to clear low-hanging bridges. But finally, after fourteen days of grunt travel, the Beneteau glided into the Gulf of Mexico. From there, it motored to the southern tip of Florida where, finally, the crew set the sails. By then the boat needed to spread its wings. America disappeared behind them. The island of Jamaica did not become visible for three more days.
*
Walt Jenkins sat for lunch at a local tavern on the southern end of the island. He ate jerk chicken and plantains and washed it down with a Red Stripe while he watched the efficiency of the crane operators and listened to the creaking of the ships. There was only the infrequent tourist in the Jamaican parish of Westmoreland. Far removed from the sandy white beaches and pristine resorts, not much happened in Westmoreland to attract vacationers. The tiny parish was a hub to the commercial industrial workings of the island. After tourism, Jamaica’s economy was fueled by the export of bananas. Much of the island’s exportation business happened here at the Savanna-la-Mar port, where tankers docked and cranes lifted thousands of crates of fruit onto ships for transport to foreign lands.
On the north side of the port was a small marina where recreational vessels were moored. There were not many. Wealthy tourists chose other, more scenic and practical locations to park their massive sailboats and yachts. Montego Bay and Ocho Rios were among the most popular. There was a sought-after harbor on the north side of Negril that required clout to secure a slip. But here in Westmoreland, the marina was occupied by small motorboats and fishing vessels that had stopped for service. It was, Walt promised, the perfect location for the delivery.
He finished his lunch and nursed a second Red Stripe, the whole time checking his watch and watching the marina. After thirty minutes he saw the sailboat appear out of the west, its sails full and majestic. A sailing novice, to Walt the boat looked far too big for its purpose. He paid his bill and walked out to the dock, watching as the boat drew closer to land. The sails came down and the boat took a more direct approach toward him. He stood at the end of the pier and waved as the crew of four expertly steered the boat into the slip, roping it off and securing it before Walt could think to offer a hand.
He read the name of the boat, stenciled on the stern, and confirmed that this was, indeed, the boat he was waiting on. The crew looked haggard. All four men sported thick beards and shaggy hair that sprouted from beneath their hats. Their skin looked bronzed and windburned.
“Gentlemen,” Walt said, “looks like you’ve had a helluva journey.”
The captain of the crew jumped onto the pier, removed his hat and sunglasses, and wiped his hand across his brow to clear the perspiration.
“Let’s just say the flight home is going to be a lot easier. You Jenkins?”