“Nanny, it’s been far too long since we’ve seen you here in Accompong,” Kujo said. “When was it, Maroon Festival maybe three years ago? Come, let’s sit.”
“Something like that, Henry. My duties at the university seem to increase on a monthly basis, along with my involvement with JNHT.”
“And still no husband or children?” Kujo cut a glance toward me.
Nanny dodged his questions with ones of her own—checking up on known family members and elders. Then the two of them compared notes on the waning interest of today’s youth in the history older Maroons identified with to their core.
“Tell me what brings you here to Accompong? Have you come to endorse my reelection?”
Kujo’s broad smile left me certain his statement was only partially in jest. And I’d come to recognize Nanny’s quick squirms, one of which manifested now via a shift in her seat from one side to the other.
“I generally stay out of politics, Henry.” The conversation we were about to engage in hung as heavily as soot in the jerk-thick air. “But I may be persuaded to speak out on your behalf.”
He reached over and took one of her hands in both of his.
“Thank you, my dear. That would be valuable indeed. Now tell me, what can Clayton and I do for you today?” His eyes shot over at me for a moment.
I sat forward. “I’d asked the archaeology—”
“Buck, please, let me,” Nanny said. “As you’re aware, Mr. Reilly was here in Jamaica for archaeological purposes—”
“You mean treasure hunting,” Clayton said.
“Clayton, show respect,” Kujo said.
The aide’s eyes did not relent as he stared at me.
“As I was saying,” Nanny said. “Mr. Reilly’s expertise came to my attention during the Port Royal process, and we at the university recognized that this treasure hunt, as you referred to it, would not subside once it had begun. And so we appealed to Mr. Reilly to assist us in locating the missing archives—”
So I’ve heard,” Kujo said.
“What’s his cut?” Clayton said.
Kujo let the question hang.
Nanny hesitated, in over her head already. I sat back.
“The opportunity to assist the Jamaican people to locate such a material piece of their national history was immediately attractive to me,” I said. “In past efforts like these in Mexico, Panama, and Colombia—”
“What’s your cut?”
I glanced at Nanny who gave me a slight nod. I said, “The equivalent of 10 percent—”
“Ha! I figured,” Clayton said.
“Mr. Reilly’s experience and knowledge is priceless in this effort. His application at Port Royal originally sought 25 percent, so his ‘cut,’ as you put it, represents a substantial reduction—”
“We estimate the treasure’s worth to be fifty million U.S.—that’s five million to Mr. Reilly.” His eyes glistened now.
“That’s enough, Clayton.”
Had Clayton just acknowledged the treasure existed? I sat forward as my heart upshifted.
“So you’re confident the treasure does exist?” I said.
“Not at all.” Kujo raised his palms as if to settle the runaway speculation. “But assuming just for a moment that it does, then Clayton has raised a valid point.”
I looked directly into Clayton’s eyes.
”But assuming—as is far more likely—that the treasure doesn’t exist,”
“Then 10 percent of nothing is nothing.”
“That’s not what Cuffee—”
“Let’s listen to what our guests have to say, Clayton.” Kujo’s stare now bore like lasers into his assistant’s eyes.
Nanny turned to look directly at Clayton.
“And whatever might be found,” Nanny said, “our interest here is preserving Jamaican heritage. If the winning bidders find what they seek, they will get 50 percent—”
“A travesty,” Kujo said.
“Agreed, but nobody believed there was any chance for their success. We considered it an opportunity to have a major underwater structure restored and stabilized at their expense.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. The restaurateur approached with a tray of jerked chicken, and to my disappointment, Clayton waved him off.
“Our goal,” Nanny said, “is—”
“Excuse me, but who exactly is our?” Kujo said.
Nanny again shifted in her seat. “Members of the community interested in preserving—”
“Not the university?”
“No. They have agreed to my taking a leave of absence to pursue the effort. Now listen, Henry, much of anything found would be enshrined in the National Maritime Museum in Kingston—neutral ground for all parties. And depending upon what is found—”
“If anything’s found,” Kujo said.
Nanny continued. “The majority would be used to the benefit of the Jamaican people in a social program—”
“Don’t forget about King Buck’s 10 percent,” Clayton said.
Nanny ignored him. “The reason I’m here is to ask if you have any knowledge about the Morgan legacy as it relates to our ancestors who split their time on both sides of the country.”
I was watching Kujo’s face. A flicker registered in his eyes.
“I’ve only heard the same legends and rumors we’ve all been told for generations,” he said.
“And those have been based on warriors from Cockpit who had been with Morgan—”
“Not originally, Clayton,” Nanny said. “Historical documents and records tell a different story.”
“Not according to—”
“Clayton!” Kujo’s voice was sharp. “Don’t be a fool arguing history with one of Jamaica’s most acclaimed historians. Who lived where and when is not the point here. I understand what Nanny has alluded to. And given what happened to Stanley Grandy—which I was sickened to hear—it is a valid problem.”
I sat quickly forward, Clayton’s mention of Cuffee on my lips—but Nanny’s not-so-subtle headshake caused me to lean back again.
For a long moment we all seemed to be trying not to look at each other—until Nanny got Kujo’s attention.
“Given what happened to Stanley, can you calm down some of the more aggressive members of your community, Henry?” she said.
Kujo frowned. “Are you insinuating that someone from here—”
Nanny sat bolt upright. “I’m not insinuating anything, but as we all know, the situation could unravel quickly into a free-for-all if we’re not careful.”
Kujo looked from her to me, then back. Clayton’s lips were pursed.
“I will urge for calm amongst my community.”
“Thank you, Henry. I—”
“But, if the treasure is found, we must have a say in what becomes of it.” Kujo had transformed from an elderly gentlemen to a sharp-eyed negotiator in the blink of an eye.
Now we all stared at one another.
“No chicken?” the proprietor said.
“No!” everyone except me said at once.
The road back to the southeast was unmarked for much of the way and had potholes that nearly jarred the fillings from my molars. Nanny hadn’t said a word since we left the jerk shack, but my mind had been whirling. Now, fifteen minutes later, I heard a long, long sigh.
“That went worse than I expected,” she said.
“Depends on how you look at it,” I said. “They seem certain there is a treasure. When Clayton—that little prick—mentioned Cuffee, I thought Kujo was going to backhand him. I was ready to punch the smug smile off his face before he let that drop.”
She giggled. “I’d have helped.”
“Their mention of a fifty million dollar value is the same figure other archaeologists and treasure hunters have speculated,” I said. “And my 10 percent? Clayton being pissed about it is only relevant if he thinks it exists and we might find it.”
We continued on without talking, Nanny driving uncharacteristically f
ast now that the road had improved. Dwellings began to appear.
“I’m convinced that there’s a treasure now, but know what my one disappointment was?” I said.
She glanced toward me. “No idea.”
“I really wish we’d gotten some of that jerk chicken.”
A flicker of a smile. “There’s a good place up ahead.”
The area was mountainous, its peaks smaller and more conical than the Blue Mountains—classic karst topography. This was the landscape that had helped the Leeward Maroon warriors avoid capture as guerilla fighters.
In a valley where two steep mountains met was a small village, just a few miles south of Albert Town. Smoke rose from behind a wooden structure not unlike the one where we’d met Kujo, though the wood exterior was faded rather than smartly painted.
“This restaurant’s been here as long as I can remember. And there’s an outfitter out back that leads hiking and camping trips into Cockpit Country from here.”
“I’m starving,” I said.
While we waited for our food I noticed a pair of old hand-carved canoes hanging from massive limbs on seriously massive trees—the trunks had to be six feet across.
I ate some excellent jerk chicken, and Nanny had a yam cooked in tinfoil over an open fire, along with some fresh bananas and sweetsop. Nobody paid us much attention, which was fine with me. Once done, we dumped our trash in a bin.
I followed Nanny out the door. A black truck was now parked between the Jeep and us.
Nanny stumbled—whoa! There were three men in front of her, and one grabbed her by the arm—
“Hey!” I yelled as I dove for him.
“Buck!” Nanny shrieked.
The man who had her arm was big—they all were. I clamped onto his forearm—he released her.
“Run!” I yelled.
The men gathered around me. One came in with his arms wide—a jab to his face and his lower lip exploded in a burst of blood. He dropped to his knees. I recognized none of them.
Nanny stood frozen, having run ten feet and stopped.
“Buck!”
The man to my left dove for my waist—dreadlocks jumped into the air and bounced off my chest as he caromed into me. I rabbit-punched the back of his head, then chopped down on his neck. His momentum and size forced me to backstep. I chopped again but missed. I saw a work boot swing up behind my right leg—
WHAP!
Something hit the side of my head. Bright lights erupted … swirled …
Then there was no light at all.
The smell of burnt meat caused me to wake with a start.
I rolled over in loose dirt. Everything wobbled, and I had double vision—there were two of each canoe hanging from the branches. I closed my eyes and carefully touched the welt and gash on the right side of my skull—moist with blood.
I shook my head gently, hoping to clear it—all that did was make the distortion worse. But I made it to my knees before I puked: jerk chicken, sauce, blood.
Still on all fours I glanced around, my vision no longer double but really blurry, like staring through a car windshield in a driving rainstorm with no wipers. The Jeep was still there, but no men, no black truck, no Nanny Adou.
I knew there was no point in shouting.
“Nanny!” The shout echoed in my ears, the taste of bile soured in my mouth.
I got to my feet, staggered, then stood straight.
I stumbled toward the jerk stand and found the front door locked. No smoke billowed from the chimney.
I checked my watch but didn’t know what time we’d gotten here, so I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out. It was 3:25 now.
I made it to the Jeep, surprised to find the keys in the ignition.
Not surprised that Nanny was gone.
I drove slowly in a crooked line toward Albert Town, my vision still blurry, the pain god-awful. The Jeep veered off the right shoulder, sideswiped a boulder, and bounced back out into the road. Talking to myself actually helped.
Have to get … to … Albert Town. That’s where Nanny had us headed … so maybe … she’ll be there.
I slowed the Jeep to a stop and sat in the middle of the road, trying to get my bearings. Movement on the left side gradually caught my blurry eye. I squinted.
A black and white goat stared at me, the only other living creature in sight.
I slowly depressed the accelerator and strained to see ahead. The last few miles felt endless, but I finally reached Albert Town’s main drag: a series of squat homes and buildings pressed together with red roofs and green trees for backdrop. I drove through the town without seeing a vehicle remotely similar to the black truck.
Nausea again hit me like a stiff breeze. I crashed into the curb and scared a dog off the sidewalk before I jammed on the brakes and turned off the ignition.
My head pounded, and closing my eyes helped a little. I grabbed my backpack off the seat, got out, and staggered into a small restaurant where I collapsed onto a wooden chair.
“You there!” A woman came toward me. “No drunks in here—find somewhere else to—”
Her mouth dropped when she saw the side of my head. Blood had clotted in and matted my hair, and while I didn’t think the gash was deep enough to need stitches I could imagine how it looked.
“Oh, mon, you hurt bad!”
My blurry vision made out a pink apron that didn’t look big enough on a woman who looked to be in her late fifties. Eyes round with dark circles in the middle.
“Nanny, Mother of us all—they kidnapped her and beat me down when—”
She put a finger to her lips.
“Don’t try to talk—come back here. Can you stand?”
I was fading in and out of consciousness, but I know she led me by the hand back into the kitchen, where an old man with a red, yellow, and black bandana tied around his head gawked at me. Behind the kitchen was a small room with a sink. She pulled over a chair for me and then, using an old cloth, proceeded to wash my scalp, very gently, with cool water.
Everything went swirly—but only until I felt my shoulder hit the floor.
When I awoke it was dark outside, assuming the one small window opened to the outside. I lay on a couch, trying to sort out where I was—then I saw the sink with the rag draped over the basin.
Breathe deep. In and out.
Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the light. There was a small, low-watt lamp on a table next to the couch. Nobody else was in the small room—
Nanny. My heart skidded. Where was she?
I swung my left hand down the side of the couch and was relieved to find my backpack. According to my watch it was now 10:47. There was no sound coming from what I thought was the kitchen, which looked dark through the half-open door. Near it was a door shut with light showing underneath it. The woman and the cook, married I assumed, probably lived in there.
My vision had largely if not entirely cleared, and the head wound, though it was tender, wasn’t as swollen. The really good news was that the orchestra of pain inside my head had quieted down to a snare drum.
I sat on the couch and started unzipping compartments in my backpack. I checked every one of them: no phone. Dammit. I didn’t know who to call about Nanny. I must have told the woman here something about the kidnapping—had she alerted the authorities? I stood up to go ask her—
And swooned, just managing to fall backward onto the couch. The dizziness quickly subsided, and every sip I took of the cool water in the glass next to the lamp seemed to infuse me with strength. But no way was I up to driving these back roads in the dark to search for Nanny.
Inside the main pouch of my backpack was the envelope with the copies of the archives Nanny had given me, including the pages initially withheld. She’d had the originals with her, so her captors must have them now—
Hell with the treasure—where was Nanny? Who were the men? Was she safe? She was much more valuable to them alive than dead, but would they know that? I checked my watch again: 11:15. I needed to r
each Colonel Grandy.
I checked my pants pockets—no phone.
I pulled the cushions off the couch—no phone.
Damn.
The sound of a door squeaking caused me to douse the light. The Jeep was parked out front, a dead giveaway to my whereabouts.
A moment later the door to the room opened slowly. My heart throbbed in my ears—what if it wasn’t the woman? A large person moved through the darkness—were those dreadlocks? I coiled myself, ready to spring. An arm reached out toward my head—I grabbed it.
“Aggh!”
Something crashed to the floor and shattered.
A piercing screech—a woman. I let go of her arm, reached over, and switched on the light.
“Are you okay?” I said. “I’m so sorry!”
“Good God, mon, you frightened me.”
She had her hair up in a flowing scarf and she was in a bathrobe. She stretched her arm for a minute. “I brought you some food. You feeling any better? You was talking crazy.”
The shattered remains of a heaping pile of what smelled like curried chicken with rice and peas was splattered across the tile floor.
“Yes, thanks to you I do feel a little better.”
“You go ahead and sleep there tonight. I’ll, ah, make you some breakfast early. You’ll be plenty hungry by then.”
I swung my legs around and sat upright.
“Do you have a cell phone—or telephone? My friend and I were jumped—she was kidnapped. I need to call someone.”
She stared at me for a long moment, no doubt trying to decide if I was still delirious.
“Yes, Charles, we got a wall phone.”
Had I told her my name? She must have looked through my wallet when I was passed out. I couldn’t blame her.
When I stood, a meteor shower lit up inside my head. She held my arm so I wouldn’t fall, a maternal bend to her mouth and look in her eyes. Concern had the same expression the world over. She led me back through the darkness into the front room. A phone that looked like one my grandparents had in their kitchen—a circular dial model—was mounted to the wall.
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