Twenty Years Later(96)
Come on, Claire, he thought as he walked down the stairs and stepped onto the dock. Work your magic.
Without looking back, he walked along the pier until he stepped foot onto the mainland of Jamaica. He had studied the map and knew the route by heart. Forgoing the taxis and buses, he chose to cover the three miles into town on foot. It was hot and humid and by the time he reached Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville restaurant he was sweating through his shirt. At the bar, he ordered a Red Stripe and drank greedily.
As was the plan, he blended in with the other tourists. After he cooled down, he paid his bill with cash and headed into the market where he haggled with street vendors for fifteen minutes. When he was sufficiently comfortable, he disengaged from the crowd and crossed the main thoroughfare until he found Hobbs Avenue. He walked for a quarter of a mile, as instructed, with his small suitcase doing its best to keep up behind him. It contained all his possessions in the world. His entire existence reduced to a single suitcase.
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.