“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?”
“Yes, sir,” Walt said, handing over both his American driver’s license and his passport.
The captain took the documents and secured them under the clasp of his clipboard. He scribbled information from Walt’s ID onto the delivery slip, checked a few boxes, and handed everything back to Walt.
“Signature at the bottom.”
Walt signed.
“Let me go over a few things about the boat. Nothing major, but there are a few mechanical issues that will need attending to. Nothing structural. She’s a beast, that’s for sure.”
“Good to hear,” Walt said, as if he had any idea about what made a sailboat a beast or a burden.
For twenty minutes he followed the captain around the boat and nodded as the man inspected the sails, the winches, and the topside equipment. Walt followed him into the engine room and pretended to comprehend the things that were mentioned about the fuel pumps, the propellers, and the drive system. There was a glitch in the electronics, Walt was told. He made a show of making a mental note of it.
“We made a list as we traveled,” the captain said. “I know I’m cruising through a lot of things, but our flight leaves in three hours.”