“Buck, get your ass up here and face me!”
“I said to get back!” The constable’s voice was louder.
“Don’t be a pussy, Reilly! Get out here now—”
BOOM!
The crack of a pistol shot sounded. The air seized in my throat.
“Get back over that line between the buoys!” The constable’s voice was so loud—and aggressive—it was half garbled as it came through the megaphone.
“Goddammit, Reilly, we have a blanket claim on Morgan’s missing estate—we’ve spent a fortune out here digging up this sunken shithole thanks to the fucking letter you bought with our money. Now, you back off, or we’ll get the government involved, and Gunner, well, I won’t be able to control him!”
It had worked. They’d obviously seen Ray board the boat, which had driven Jack to come confront me.
Silence followed. He must have at least retreated behind the line to keep the constable from shooting him. I couldn’t bring myself to smile, but hearing Jack on the brink of desperation loosed a perverse satisfaction that warmed my shivering body.
“Head on back to your dive site, Mr. Dodson,” Johnny said. “Mr. Buck not interested in speaking with you, and no sense getting shot by Jamaica’s finest.”
Jack’s motors revved.
“You’ll regret this, Buck! You can count on that.”
His engines again went straight into high gear, and the boat I was lying on bounced in his wake. I focused on my breathing and listened as I heard some muffled discussion from the cabin cruiser, then a door slammed shut.
“Thank you, Mr. Constable,” Johnny said. “I’m going to run to town and would appreciate you keeping an eye on our boats here—and maybe let someone know I’m coming to shore in case those crazy bastards try to follow me.”
There was no response, but a moment later Johnny appeared above me, high up on the deck of the Viking. He jumped, landing feet first on the front deck of the speedboat. He giggled as he walked past me, untied the two lines that connected this boat to our mother ship, then turned the keys to start the twin outboards. I watched him from the deck and found myself smiling as he pulled away.
As we added speed and distance, I belly-crawled back toward the helm. Undoubtedly every eye from both groups would be on him, so I just stayed flat.
“You’d make one hell of an actor, Johnny.”
He cackled but put a hand over his wide grin.
“Your boy was pissed, mon.” He shook his head. “Know you heard some of that, but you should of seen his eyes. They was wild, mon. Think he’s some crazed, that one.”
Lovely. If Jack seemed crazy, Gunner must look like Charles Manson by now.
The ride to the Kingston harbor took fifteen minutes. By the time we were there Johnny opened a hatch and tossed me a pair of cutoff jeans and a green Jamaica T-shirt. They were tight, but it was better than walking down the street in my briefs.
“You see anybody following us?” I said.
“No, mon, all clear. The dock’s up ahead. You can hop out and I run over to the marina, get gas and some Red Stripe. Your friend Ray said he need a drink.”
“Better get him some Blackwell Rum.” I paused. “No ganja, though. Ray’s too paranoid for that.”
This time Johnny didn’t cover his broad grin.
When the boat slowed to a crawl, I knew we were at the dock and I stood up just in time to see Nanny arrive at the end of the pier. She saw me and waved, her smile big and her eyes glowing.
“Damn, mon, someone look happy to see you.”
The boat pulled up beside the dock, and by the time my feet landed on the wood planks Johnny was already in reverse and backing out.
“Thanks, Johnny. I’ll be in touch.”
“For sure, Mr. Buck.”
With that he wheeled the boat hard to the left, gunned it, and lit out in a streak of white wake.
All was going according to plan. And when I turned around I was given an unforgettably warm welcome back to Kingston from Professor Nanny Adou.
We took off in the Jeep and followed the waterfront. Kingston’s port was far from the most beautiful in the Caribbean—too many large cranes and piers for container ships. And I knew that much of the long history of this city wasn’t kind to the near-million people who lived here.
I scanned the horizon but couldn’t make out either group of boats at the sunken city of Port Royal. Hopefully Ray was hanging in there, sticking to the plan and lost in a haze of Jamaican beer in the Viking’s salon.
Nanny hadn’t said much since she’d picked me up. I decided not to mention my expedition out at Port Royal or Ray’s and my trip to Isla Vaca.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“West.”
We passed by the highway that led north into the mountains, but she continued west into the heart of Kingston.
“How did your research go?” I said. “Anything to follow up on from your visit to Moore Town?”
“I rereviewed all the archives—the originals are more legible than the copies I gave you.” She adjusted her position in the driver’s seat. “I talked with Stanley and some of the elders in Moore Town about the names of the people we think helped Morgan hide the treasure … They recognized some connections to modern Maroon families.”
I turned to face her. “That’s great. Did you speak with any of the descendents? Or did the colonel—is he feeling better?”
“Yes he is, and no, it’s more complicated than just talking to the descendents.” She was deadpan, no excitement at whatever connections they’d made.
“What’s the problem?”
“That’s why we’re headed west. We need to go up into Cockpit Country and try to speak with leaders there.”
“In Accompong?”
She nodded.
Uh-oh. The rest of the world wouldn’t differentiate between the two groups of Maroons, but their history—enmity—ran deep, and that had already been thrown in our faces.
“You worried about Cuffee?”
She nodded again.
“Did the colonel ever confirm he was the one who beat him?”
“He said he thought it was a white man. My guess is it was the man with Cuffee yesterday—the one you fought with.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “But the other people in Cockpit can’t be as crazy as Cuffee and Gunner—right?”
“Henry Kujo is the leader there, but they’re holding an election soon and that makes everyone a little crazy.”
Nanny had said the Leewards were a flourishing community, so Henry Kujo would be a powerful man. Would Cuffee’s claim to Morgan’s treasure be something Kujo supported? Come to think of it, how valid a claim did the Leeward Maroons have?
“The people you spoke with today, what names did they recognize?” I said.
“Njoni—”
“Who wrote the phony letter,” I said.
“Correct. His father, Akim, was legendary at the time because he was a fierce Windward Maroon warrior and because he was a black man and privateer sailing with one of the most famous men of the time, Captain Henry Morgan.”
“Sounds fine so far.”
Nanny turned left toward Spanish Town, and vehicles of all sizes passed us at high speed. A careful, slow driver, she didn’t seem to notice.
“Njoni was essentially a scout fighting against the British, and part of his responsibilities was to communicate with other Maroons throughout the mountains, all over Jamaica.”
“Okay, so?”
“So, he fell in love with a woman in the western end of the country and settled there—in what today is called Accompong.”
“I figured it was something like that, but what’s the significance?”
“Cuffee’s a distant relative to Njoni and Akim.”
I saw a sign for Treasure Beach ahead and momentarily lost my train of thought. That’s where the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition was being shot—where my ex-wife was purportedly modeling bikinis.
&nb
sp; “Buck? You see the problem, yes?”
Unfortunately I did. “Njoni might have hid the loot, or booty, or treasure, or whatever you want to call it, and Cuffee is making noise in Accompong that it belongs to him, and the Leeward Maroons.”
“Exactly.”
So that’s what had Nanny upset. A provenance, or title dispute. I’d battled many of them in my day and been successful more often than not. Sometimes it required making a deal, though. I said so to Nanny.
“Do you really think Cuffee and that barbarian he’s working with would cut a fair and equitable deal?”
Good point. “Look, right now we have no idea whether there even is any treasure, and if there is, we have no idea where it might be. That being the case, I wouldn’t get too worried about—”
“Two things,” she said. “First, Cuffee has agitated the Leewards against us, so we can’t really count on much assistance there. And second, the Obeah woman who met us at the river a couple days ago?”
“The two hundred-year-old one?”
“Be nice.” Nanny took a deep breath. “She had a vision that we do find treasure.”
I held my hands up. “Well, if you believe in that, sounds like everything will be fine.”
That got me a hard look. “She also had a vision that someone is going to get killed.”
I crossed my arms. Given the instability of Dodson, Gunner, Cuffee, and their crew, that particular prophecy didn’t sound too far off the mark. I squirmed in my seat, now second-guessing my decision to leave Ray and the Beast out on the water. I didn’t believe in black magic, but I’d seen enough cases where its practitioners were either able to manipulate events to meet their “visions” or were damned good speculators.
But for those who believed—which Nanny seemed to—nothing was more powerful.
“Okay, we need to be cautious, that’s the bottom line.”
She cut me a glance. Of course she knew that being cautious and hunting treasure were polar opposite.
My phone rang and the screen lit up. Johnny.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“No, mon, not really. I was on my way back out and that crazy bastard with the blue sunglasses near T-boned me—cut me off just inside the point of Port Royal—and one-a his men got a machine gun—”
“Did you stop?”
“Yeah, mon, no choice. He’s, ah, on board now and wants to—”
There was loud static—
“What the fuck are you doing out here, Reilly? Haven’t I warned your ass—”
I jerked forward in my seat. “Get off my boat, Gunner! I’ll have the police there in—”
“Get off our site—”
“I’m not on your site! I have a separate permit—”
“How the hell did you get that? Who’d you bribe? Our permit’s exclusive—”
“Get off the boat now, Gunner.” I shot a quick look at Nanny, who was glancing back and forth from the road to me. “I’m signaling the police right now—hello! Constable?”
Nanny squinted and shook her head.
“This is your last warning, Reilly. Our divers will scuttle your boats one by one if you don’t clear out—”
“One of the partners from SCG International—that group of boats over there—has one of my men captive and is making threats!”
My shout caused Nanny to swerve.
“We’re leaving, Reilly, but I’m not messing around. You turned yourself into a serious irritation I got to get rid of. If you’re smart you’ll be out of my life before that happens.”
The line went dead. I glanced at the screen.
“What was that all about?” Nanny said.
“Our friends out on the water don’t like having company. They think I’m out there on one of the survey boats yelling to the police to protect us.
The phone rang again.
“You okay?” I said.
“Oh yeah, mon, peachy. Those some crazy bastards. They headed to shore now—you still at the dock?”
“No, we’re headed up to Accompong. Keep out of their way, Johnny, and tell the constable what happened.”
He bitched and moaned but promised to be vigilant. I was just glad Ray hadn’t been there when Gunner came calling. I’d never hear the end of it.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Buck Reilly,” Nanny said.
“Welcome to the treasure-hunting business.”
Traffic slowed ahead of us. Large food trucks were parked along the side of the road, and there was loud music playing and crowds standing behind a fenced-off area. We were at Treasure Beach. I saw women in the distance—white women in bikinis—lounging around, coming in and out of white tents on the sand. There were a couple recreational vehicles parked down on the beach too. Would Thom Shepherd be there, shooting his video?
What if I saw Heather? My stomach did not like this thought.
“You want to stop for some food?” Nanny said.
“No! Please, just keep driving.”
She gave me a double-take, but we kept going, slowly and methodically, until we turned north and followed a sign that said: Accompong 92 Km.
My stomach was no longer queasy. But I knew I’d rather face the descendents of every savage Maroon warrior in history than run into my ex-wife again.
Nanny had managed to arrange for Henry Kujo, the sitting Leeward Maroon leader, to meet us at a jerk stand just south of the town. She parked the Jeep beside the small yellow building, which had nearly been overtaken from behind by a dense wall of vegetation that looked as aggressive as kudzu. Once she turned the engine off, she rubbed her hands together, checked her hair in the mirror, rubbed her hands again—was that another shudder?
“You okay?”
“Not really.” She again glanced at the mirror. “I’m a university professor, not a treasure hunter. That might have worked for Indiana Jones or you, but it’s not for me.” She ran a palm up one sleeve, then repeated the gesture with her other hand.
I studied her. Beautiful, intelligent, passionate, and yes, a university professor. But also a direct descendent of the “Mother of us all.” That must come with immense pressure.
“So why are you doing this?” I said.
Her chest lifted with a long intake of breath. “Because I have to.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Between Dodson’s group and the well-publicized competition between the two of you, the island is aware—entirely too aware—of the possibility of buried treasure.”
I suddenly felt a tic in my right eyelid.
“The colonel and I feel responsible,” she said, “to ensure that if there is a treasure—a direct link to the history of cooperation between Morgan and the Maroons—it will benefit all of the Jamaican people, not fall in the hands of—”
“Treasure hunters who seek personal gain or if not, personal aggrandizement. Nanny, we’ve already had this conversation.”
She looked at my chest, unable to meet my eyes.
“What bothers me,” she said, “is that I’m using my lineage to get meetings with people like Henry Kujo and Michael Portland—jeopardizing my career, my stature at the university that I’ve worked so hard to achieve … once word spreads of my involvement in this—”
“But you’re not doing this for self-enrichment—”
“Nobody will believe that.” She sighed. “Every meeting like this will erode my reputation—people will say I’m using my lineage for profit, exploiting the memory of the Mother of us all—” Another shudder.
I leaned over and wrapped my arm around her, pulling her in tight. She quivered like a kitten during its first visit to the veterinarian. When I stepped back she must have caught the glint in my eye, because her face brightened a bit.
“Let’s play it like I’m the only one who’s searching,” I said. “Tell them you’ve imposed severe restrictions on me and you’re just monitoring my activities.”
A slow smile parted her lips.
“I’m certain I’ll have to barte
r to get answers, so I doubt that will work. But thank you.”
I leaned forward and gave her an unhurried kiss that made it clear I held no regrets from last night.
“Now,” she said when we finally broke apart, “let’s go—”
“One question,” I said. “The separate treaties with the British, between the Leeward and Windward Maroons? How long was the gap?”
“It’s not a piece of history our people are proud of, but it was relatively short-lived and it was later determined to be amongst only a few opportunists who acted as traitors. But … one of those hunters was Njoni.”
Good Lord.
“Now let’s go meet Mr. Kujo and see what we can learn, Buck.”
Inside the jerk stand was an open kitchen where the cook hunched over a grill perched unsteadily above a fire. There were only four tables, and just one was occupied—an older man, distinguished, wearing a white shirt buttoned to the top and gray slacks. It took a second look to notice that the slacks were frayed at the hems above his nicely polished black loafers. Seated with him was a younger man with quick eyes. He saw us first and his lips moved as he whispered something under his breath.
Henry Kujo stood and turned to face us.
“Follow my lead,” Nanny said.
She stepped forward in three long strides, her hand outstretched. Kujo’s eyes softened at her approach and when he took her hand he pulled her close for a hug. They exchanged a fast couple sentences in the Jamaican patois I had yet to master, then she turned to hold a hand out to me.
“I’d like you to meet Buck Reilly, a once famous archaeologist from America.”
Kujo and I shook, his grip lighter than I expected.
“I recall reading about you in the Gleaner not too long ago. Seems you were here in Jamaica to excavate part of Port Royal.”
“Fortunately, I did not prevail in that effort, as the search has been fruitless for the winning bidder.”
Kujo turned to a younger man at his side. “This is my aide, Clayton Perkins.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Nanny.” Clayton’s keen eyes had turned to her even while giving my hand a firm shake.
Kujo was tall, lean, and had light gray eyes that seemed to disappear as you stared into them. Clayton was short, muscular, and wore a blue tie with his light green short-sleeved shirt. He also sported remarkably detailed brown wingtip shoes. He seemed to inflate when he saw me checking them out.
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