Montego Bay, Jamaica Tuesday, July 13, 2021
THE EMERALD LADY MADE LANDFALL JUST AFTER TWELVE NOON ON THE third day of the cruise. Aaron Holland watched from the balcony of the second deck as hordes of passengers bottlenecked the exits to storm the island’s tourist traps, eager to buy cheap jewelry and handbags and knickknacks for their grandchildren. He waited patiently for the crowds to thin, then walked back to Cabin 3318. Meghan Cobb sat on the bed.
“Well,” he said, “I guess this is it.”
“Will you be okay?”
He shrugged. “I’ve made it this far. Thanks for everything. I don’t know how you got involved in all this, but I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”
“What if someone asks about you? The staff or crew?”
“They won’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Meghan nodded. There was nothing left to say. “Good luck.”
He zipped his suitcase and left the cabin. He walked down the long hallway and entered the elevator that deposited him on the main level. When he made it to the exit, he registered with the cruise ship employee by handing over his passport. It was scanned and logged into the ship’s databank—a careful record of every passenger who disembarked from the ship. This ensured that the exact number of passengers made it safely back onboard before The Emerald Lady pulled out of port. It was here that another opportunity for failure presented itself. If Claire were not able to pull this off, then a hunt for Aaron Holland would ensue later today. Montego Bay would be put on alert. The Jamaican authorities would be called, and when they failed to locate the missing American, by protocol The Emerald Lady would contact the US authorities. A progression through the chain of agencies would follow, starting at the US consulate in the Caribbean and eventually involving the Department of State. The international branch of the FBI would eventually get involved.
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?”