Caribbean Gold

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Jamaica, and in particular Port Royal, offered up a whole host of possibilities. The tricky part was plucking the genuine probability from the raft of chance that was offered. Many men knew the location of the mountain-like island with the barren tree on top. Of course they did. And they all wanted cash up front.

In the end, Crouch sought the help of his Jamaican contact and the team were directed to a Jamaican roadside bar; a ramshackle beat-up place the size of a market stall and with the only signage being a large white plaque out front that read: Cold Beer Joint. Plastic chairs and tables stood around and a tall man with thick hair leaned over the counter, staring at their approach with lazy eyes.

“Help you folk?”

Crouch nodded. “We’re looking for Ric?”

“You found him, folks. What’s up? Nice cool beer?”

Alicia found herself licking her lips. “I’d sure love one.”

Ric cracked open beers as Crouch talked to him.

“Heard you were a fisherman back in the day. Some kind of sailor too.” The boss described the island they were looking for as Alicia drank deeply, savoring the taste. “We were hoping you might be able to take us there?”

Ric pursed his lips and laughed. “Oh, man, I am going nowhere. My sailing days are long gone. I know the place you mean, but I won’t be leaving this shore again.”

“We have much to offer.” Crouch made the universal money sign.

“Don’t care if you’re offerin’ me Shakira in a Lamborghini. I ain’t takin’.”

Alicia paused with her lips around the mouth of the bottle. “Really? I might.”

Ric made a shooing gesture. “Have at it.”

Crouch looked despondent. “Is there anything we could offer you?”

“Got all I need right here in this shack, man. Do I look unhappy to you?”

Crouch admitted that he didn’t.

“Had my fair share of material shit. Had money. Had women. It’s all jus’ complication. Out here—” he spread his arms “—is easy. Out here — you live long and happy.”

“And lonely,” Alicia pointed out, still drinking. “I know about running. Truth is, it gets you nowhere.”

“Who says I’m running?”

“Well, my contact actually.” Crouch smiled. “Says you owe a tidy sum in back taxes.”

“Shit.”

“But we’re not here to hassle you. We just need a little help.”

“Shit.”

“Either way, we never saw you.”

“Duppy Island, you say?”

“Is that what it’s called? We can’t find it on any map.”

“Nah. Nobody go there. Only a Yardie knows.”

“A Yardie?”

“A local. Jamaican. And a duppy is a ghost. Duppy Island be crawling with ’em.”

“Shit.” Now it was Alicia’s turn to curse.

“You believe inna duppy?”

“ ’Course not. What kind of ghosts?”

Ric shrugged. “Lotta dead there through the years. Pirates mostly.” He looked away. “Don’t want talk ’bout it.”

“If you won’t take us there, can you show us where it is?” Crouch pointed toward Caitlyn’s laptop. “Exactly?” Their contact had explained that Ric had once been a competent showboat captain and an explorer of the local area. He would have a wide knowledge of all things nautical.

“You mean real coordinates? Nah. But I can sail you close if you got a real good digital map.”

Caitlyn placed her laptop on one of the plastic table tops. “Ready to go.”

Ric slowly unstuck his body from the counter as Caitlyn raised the screen, then came around using a languid gait. For a man essentially on the run, Alicia had never seen anyone so laid-back.

“I guess police chases happen around here on a whole different level,” she remarked.

Ric ignored her and peered at the screen. Pinpointing Port Royal, he took a virtual voyage first toward Haiti and then Panama, east then south across the Caribbean Sea, zooming in at points of interest — sandbars, reefs and unnamed islands too small to be of any interest — before sailing on. When he found a spit of land shaped like a spoon he grumbled, adjusted his positioning and started afresh from there. Half an hour passed as Ric ran a painstaking eye over their journey. At last he pointed at what could only be described as the tiniest ring of land amid the sea.

“That is Duppy. Be careful there. It is… overrun.”

Crouch nodded happily. “By ghosts, yes. Thank you so much, Ric.” He pumped the Jamaican’s hand and turned to the others with a huge smile on his face.

“We have it.”

Alicia grunted. “Let’s hope, this time, it’s not a local’s wristwatch.”

“Have faith. On Duppy, there are no locals.”

“Don’t forget the ghosts.”

Russo ran a hand over the back of Alicia’s neck, making her shiver. “You scared, sweetie?”

Alicia grabbed the hand and bent the fingers until their owner pleaded for mercy. “Sweetie?”

“I meant bitch. Sorry, sorry I really meant bitch.”

“That’s better.” Alicia let him go.

“If you two are ready,” Crouch started walking back toward their vehicle, “it’s time to set sail in search of the treasure.”

Alicia followed with Russo. “How the hell did he say that without using a pirate accent? I know I couldn’t.”

“I guess he’s a pro.”

“Aw, sore that I bent your likkle fingers?”

“Barely felt a thing. The noises were to help you feel better.”

Alicia slapped the man on the shoulders as they neared the car. Behind them, Healey and Caitlyn walked so close no daylight passed between them. The final hunt was on, and the team were ready.

“Let’s hope we’re not walking into a trap,” Alicia said, climbing in. “Or into hell on earth.”

“Shit,” Russo said. “Now you’ve gone and bloody jinxed it.”