Maroon Rising (10 page)

“Except it never seems to end up that way, Buck—and what do you mean patch some holes? What happened?”

I saw Nanny wrapping up the raft rental.

“Use the Last Resort credit card number and get on down here,” I said. “Tomorrow, preferably. Call me when you land in Kingston. You’re going to love this place.” Nanny walked toward me. “And the women
are
beautiful.”

She must have heard me, because she smiled.

“What about the holes in the plane, Buck? Tell me they’re not bullet holes—”

“Nothing sketchy, just flying the Beast and babysitting her. Tomorrow. Economy class. Thanks, buddy, see you then.”

“But—”

I hit the end button and turned to Nanny.

“All set?”

“Who are you telling lies to now?” she said.

“That was my friend Ray Floyd. He’s my airplane mechanic in Key West.” And one of the few people I could count on.

“Is he coming to help us look for Morgan’s booty?”

“Indirectly, but don’t say booty in front of Ray or he’ll get distracted.”

Nanny tipped her head back and laughed.

“We’re all set here,” she said. “It could take a couple hours to get to Moore Town, but they said the current’s mild today, so maybe less. Do you really think you can paddle upriver against it?”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry. If Morgan really did entrust treasure to his Maroon allies, we need to try and figure out what they might have done with it. You know the landscape pretty well?”

“A little, but I’m a university professor, not a Maroon warrior.”

“Well, that’s why we asked Colonel Grandy to meet us, right?”

Nanny wasn’t looking at me. My heart sank.

“You did talk to him, right?”

“Yes … but he’ll most likely be sending someone else.” She clutched her hands together.

“What’s wrong?”

She took in a deep breath and dropped her hands down to the side.

“He said he fell and got hurt, but I think someone may have attacked him.”

I froze, the bamboo pole in my hand, just about to launch the raft.

“Attacked? Like maybe that asshole from yesterday who cussed us out?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Buck. Maybe. Anyway, the colonel might be sending another trusted person along.”

“You soft-pedaled that guy yesterday,” I said. “Who was he?”

She frowned. “His name’s Cuffee. A hothead, obviously, but I’ve never heard anyone say that he’s violent—”

“Let me tell you, it’s better to recognize danger and prepare for it than to pretend everything’s fine.” I paused. “And Jamaica does have a reputation for gang violence, so—”

Her eyes flared. “Maroons are
not
gangs—”

“No, but they all may not be just Maroons, either.”

“I’ve survived thirty-four years on my own and don’t need—”

I took her shoulders and squeezed them.

“I’m sorry if that came out wrong. That’s just me thinking out loud, trying to prepare myself in case something
does
happen.”

She took a deep breath, but the expression on her face was taut, not fearful. It made me like her even more. Strong women have that effect on me.

“Provided you can make it upriver against the current,” she said.

“Only one way to find out.”

We set off down the tributary toward the Rio Grande. My mind was back on the notes we’d transcribed and Nanny’s mention of the Blue Mountain peak at dawn. I hoped the flash was something more tangible than the green flash you’re supposed to see at sunset over the ocean. While it may happen, it’s damned rare, and we needed better odds than that.

Mountains loomed on both sides of the river, and myriad shades of green seemed to swirl beneath the clouds and mist that enveloped them. At the confluence of the Rio Grande I steered us right, upriver into the current. As I did, brown water slapped over the front of the raft, which was only a few inches above the water’s surface.

“I feel like Cleopatra on the Nile.” Nanny was seated behind me, her bare legs—runner’s legs—now wet, as were her dark shorts.

Our conversation trailed off as I poled deeper into the water against the strong current. Thirty minutes of that and my shoulders and lower back started to ache and lock up. I often used a stand-up paddleboard out behind Louie’s Backyard in Key West—in fact, using a SUP had become my favorite form of exercise since my basketball group broke up. But obviously there was a big difference between the aqua dynamics of a SUP board and large sections of bamboo strapped together. Not to mention paddling against the current of a mighty river. The sweat rolled off every exposed surface of my skin and soaked my shirt.

“That’s the Blue Mountain peak over there.” Nanny pointed up to our right, where a dark mountain thrust up high above the others around it. The peak wasn’t close, even though its presence dominated the horizon.

“Are there trails from the Rio Grande that lead to it?” I said.

“Several, but only a couple go all the way to the mountain.”

“Would Njoni, if it was him, have abandoned the river and headed toward the mountain, or continued on to Moore Town?”

“Hard to say, but climbing is very rough going from here. While the climb is still significant from Moore Town, it’s an easier course.”

If what Nanny said was accurate, they might have paddled all the way to Moore Town and hiked up the mountain from there rather than disembark here. Either way, my paddling up the river now helped me envision what Njoni and presumably others had seen and possibly done.

I studied the foothills that led to Blue Mountain. Maybe they didn’t climb the peak at all—maybe they just used it, and the flash the notes referred to, as a reference point. Nanny deduced this to mean a flash
on
the mountain, but that seemed odd to me. Could it mean from
atop
the mountain instead?

From a distance came the sound of an outboard motor. We hadn’t seen any boats since turning into the current toward Moore Town, but there had been several underpowered rental boats circling around when we reached the Rio Grande. The deeper rumble coming up behind us sounded like the larger, more powerful boats I heard in Key West Harbor that raced out to grab anchored buoys and fish for tarpon.

When the engine sound became a roar, a flat-bottomed skiff rounded the corner of the curve we’d just navigated.

We were in a fairly narrow section of river. I glanced back and lifted the pole to make sure the driver saw us. All I could see of him was the top of his head—black hair—over the center console. The banks of the river here were the closest of any place we’d passed yet but opened up in another fifty yards—and he was hauling ass, carving his way from side to side like a slalom skier.

The boat swerved toward us, now fifty feet away—I swung the pole high.

“Hey! Watch out!”

“What’s happening, Buck?”

“Get down!”

If he didn’t change course in seconds—

“Buck!”

“Jump!”

Just as I yelled and leapt to the opposite side from the boat’s path, the driver changed course. As I splashed into dark water I caught a glimpse of a dreadlocked male driver in dark glasses who never, ever reduced speed.

“Bastard!” I yelled as the speedboat disappeared around the next bend. Then I pulled myself back up on the raft.

To my surprise, Nanny was lying on her back, hanging onto both sides, the plastic bag with the case of archives inside it clenched in her teeth. The raft lifted up and crashed down hard in the wake of the damn powerboat.

“You okay?” I said.

“Just great.”

With the bag still between her teeth, her voice was a hiss, which even in the wake of nearly getting killed made me laugh out loud. She rolled to her side, spit the bag onto the deck and started laughing herself. We were both totally soaked, my T-shirt plastered to me like a thick layer of skin. She edged up on her elbows, and the way her wet white shirt clung to the curve of her breasts inspired another James Bond moment: I pictured opening credits with silhouetted beauties swimming or dancing.

As if reading my mind, she sat up and peeled her shirt over her head, revealing a frilly, full bra.

“No sense in wearing wet clothing.” Her gaze hung on me, and as if on signal, I peeled my shirt off. She allowed her eyes a quick glance at my abs, recently enhanced through frequent swimming and SUP boarding, then spun to face forward and draped her wet shirt over her knees.

“Now mush, Reilly, we have an appointment.”

I stood, the bamboo pole again in my hand. I was in front of her, so she couldn’t see my smile.

“Yes, my queen.”

A
vision of Cuffee, the leeward maroon from yesterday, filled my mind as I pushed the bamboo pole deep into the dark water. I hadn’t gotten a clear look at the boat driver, and dreadlocks in Jamaica were like goatees in the States, so there was no way I could tell he’d been behind the wheel. Still, someone had attacked Colonel Stanley last night, and the fire in Cuffee’s eyes yesterday looked lethal. But then he hadn’t mentioned treasure—only told us to stay away from “the history.”

It took another hour to reach the rendezvous point a mile downriver from Moore Town, a gap where the road we’d driven yesterday veered close to the riverbank. An old Ford pickup was parked in the shade, smoke rising from the open driver’s window.

“Good, they waited for us,” Nanny said. “That trip took longer than I thought it would.”

She climbed off the raft, pulled her half-dry shirt back over her head, and balled her fists on her hips as she looked up the steep, heavily eroded embankment toward the truck.

I dropped the pole on the bank. When I started to pull the raft ashore, the muscles in my lower back seized.

“Oof!”

I was bent over, my right hand clutching my back, convinced I would never again stand up straight in this world.

Without a word Nanny stepped behind me, placed her left hand on my left shoulder, and began to knead the palm of her right hand into my lower back. It sent an excruciating shock wave up my spine—but through the pain, the sensation of her warm, strong hand kneading my muscles created a wave of sensuous joy.

“That was hard work coming upriver,” she said. “I never even offered to help.”

“You’re helping now.” My voice was almost a whisper.

Nanny kept kneading. And kneading.

And the pain in my lower back had eased. I didn’t want her to stop—

A horn honked above us. Nanny dropped her hands, and we both looked up. A man—no, a woman—standing next to a truck had reached in to press the horn.

“Any better, Buck?” Nanny was now facing me.

There was genuine concern mixed with an expression of discovery that made her seem both confident and vulnerable. Our eyes held for a long moment.

“Much,” I said.

Slowly, and with tolerable pain, I stood up—just as the horn sounded again. We began hiking up the steep bank, Nanny holding the plastic bag of records in one hand. She slipped—I caught her free hand to help pull her up, but she shook her head. Maybe she wanted to spare my back, maybe she was embarrassed since I’d hurt it doing all the work that got us here. And that body of hers was strong—she was on her feet in no time.

We soon stepped onto the flat ground of the dirt road. There, at the top, a gnarled, ancient woman with a massive blunt in her hand was waiting for us.

“What you doing, girly?” She hacked out a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

Nanny marched forward. She hesitated, then reached out and hugged the old woman.

“Ms. Tarrah, meet Buck Reilly.”

The woman—she had to be a hundred years old—looked me up and down. I hurried to put my shirt back on.

“The pleasure is mine,” she said. Then, to Nanny, “He the treasure hunter the signs mentioned?”

Nanny cut me a side-glance, then looked back to Ms. Tarrah.

“Buck is helping us solve the mystery of the ancient papers.”

The woman’s laugh rattled out until she paused to take another lungful of the monster spliff. I braced myself to reject the offer to partake, but it never came. Granny wasn’t planning to share, God bless her.

“Buck has some ideas we wanted to discuss with the colonel—how is he?”

“Busted up good.” Ms. Tarrah frowned and the endless wrinkles of her face bunched together. Putting her age at one hundred suddenly seemed a conservative estimate.

“Any idea who—”

Nanny grabbed my arm, gave it a subtle squeeze, and I shut my mouth.

“Can we lay the papers out on the bed of your truck?” she said.

We did just that. Ms. Tarrah’s truck, a once blue late 60s Ford as battered as they come, had a surprisingly clean bed, and Nanny carefully spread each paper out. Damned lucky they hadn’t been lost to the river when that crazed boat driver ran us down. Had it been intentional? My natural paranoia had escalated since yesterday.

“You’re right to be afraid.”

I looked up. Tarrah was staring straight at me.

“Excuse me?”

“People will kill for these papers. Many have died through the years to protect them.” She paused, then turned to Nanny. “Need to be careful.”

“We will,” Nanny said. “Buck’s idea was that we should follow the path the men may have taken after leaving Morgan’s ship. Seems far-fetched, but that’s why we’re here—”