Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(119)

That was what she told herself afterward. Even then, though, she heard his voice inside her head, chiding her, telling her that she’d ignored the signs, ignored her gut.

Well, she’d done her best never to make that mistake again.

Right now, her gut is telling her that this woman is the one.

Unaware that she’s being watched closely from behind the bar, she’s been sitting on a stool at the far corner for almost an hour now, nursing a rum runner and looking as though she’d like some company.

Male company, judging by the wistful glances she’s darted at other patrons. But that’s obviously not going to happen.

It isn’t that the woman is unattractive; she’s somewhat pretty in an overweight, unsophisticated, patchy-pink-sunburn kind of way.

There’s someone for everyone, right? Some men are drawn to this type.

Not these men, though.

Not here at the Jimmy’s Big Iguana, an open-air beach bar filled with tanned and toned scantily clad twentysomethings. Island rum is flowing; the sporadic whirring of bar blenders and raucous bursts of laughter punctuate the reggae beat of Bob Marley’s “One Love” playing in the background. Lazy overhead paddle fans do little to stir heavy salt air scented with coconut sunscreen, deep-fried seafood, and stale beer.

Beyond the open-air perimeter of the bar, against a backdrop of palm trees and turquoise sea, tourists browse at vendors’ tables set up on the sand. Fresh from shore excursions, those with local currency to burn are pawing through T-shirts and island-made trinkets, snatching up cheap souvenirs before their ships set sail for the next port of call.

The woman at the bar darts a look at her watch as she slurps the last inch of her rum runner, and Carrie realizes it’s now or never.

“Ready for your second drink?” She reaches across the bar to remove the empty glass, with its gummy pink film coating the inside.

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want another—”

“It’s a freebie. Two-for-one happy hour for cruise ship passengers.”

“Really?”

No, not really.

Carrie nods, already reaching for the bottle of Tortuga Rum. “All you have to do is show me your ship ID. What’s your name?”

“Molly.”

Carrie nods, smiles, points to her own plastic name tag. “I’m Jane.”

As in Doe.

Well, not quite. Jane Doe had translated, in her clever mind, to Jane Deere—Doe, a deer—and that’s the name she’s been using for years now. Jane Deere. Before that, she was Carrie Robinson MacKenna, and before that . . .

Before that doesn’t matter.

“Nice to meet you.” Molly’s face glistens with island humidity, and moist strands of her dark hair are plastered to her forehead. She glances again at the Timex strapped around her thick wrist.

“Don’t worry. You have time.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been working here a long time. I know the sailing schedules.” That is most definitely not a lie.

Such is life in this harbor town: the-same-but-different routine every day, set to the rhythm of the cruise lines’ itineraries.

Carrie has always appreciated the precision with which she can see the gargantuan vessels begin to appear every morning out on the turquoise sea, an hour or two after sunrise. From the window of her rented apartment above the bar, she watches the same ships glide in and out of Saint Antony harbor at the same time on the same days of the week, spitting thousands of passengers onto the wide pier.

The same passengers, it sometimes seems: waddling Americans in shorts and fanny packs; hand-holding honeymooners; chain-smoking Europeans in open-collar suits and dresses with high heels; multigenerational families of harried parents, tantrum-throwing toddlers, sullen teens, silver-haired, scooter-riding grannies . . .

Carrie serves them all; knows them all. Not on a first-name basis, but by type and, often, by ship. Sure, some crowds of passengers are interchangeable—on, say, Tuesday, when megaships from Carnival, Royal Caribbean, and Princess are simultaneously in port. They all cater to middle-class Americans—families, retirees, and honeymooners alike.

But today is Thursday. Three different cruise lines; three distinctly different crowds.

“Which ship are you on,” Carrie asks, “the Carousel?”

Molly raises an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”

Easy. It’s a singles cruise out of Miami. There are two others in port for the day, but one is a Disney ship favored almost exclusively by families with young children; the other, a small luxury line popular with wealthy South American couples.

This woman is definitely single, U.S. born and bred. . . . and U.S. bound, or so Molly thinks. Little does she suspect that if all goes according to Carrie’s plan, the Carousel will be setting sail in a little over an hour, at five o’clock sharp, without her.

“How’d I know? Lucky guess.” Carrie shrugs. “Like I said, I’ve been working here long enough. ”

“It must be hard to be inside on the job when it’s always so beautiful out there.”

“Sometimes.” Much easier to agree than to explain that she prefers it this way.

Carrie’s never been an outdoorsy girl—not by choice, anyway. After all those childhood summers working the fields in the glaring, burning sun of the Great Plains, she welcomed the architecture-shaded canyons of Manhattan. And yes, she had regretted having to leave New York behind so soon. Given proper time to plan her exit strategy a decade ago, she’d have opted for a fog-shrouded city like London or San Francisco, or perhaps rainy Seattle or Portland . . .