Twenty Years Later

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.

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.

“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.