Maroon Rising

by John H. Cunningham

  Crap. I didn’t know Colonel Grandy’s phone number.

  “Do you have a phone book?”

  She clutched her hands in front of her and shook her head. Her eyes bugged out when I told her who I wanted to call, and after a moment spent convincing her I really did know Colonel Grandy, she called a friend, who led her to another friend, who had a relative in Moore Town.

  Ten minutes later I dialed the colonel’s number while my hostess hovered at my elbow, now a part of my drama.

  After a dozen rings, a machine picked up. The recorded voice was fast and in the local patois that my mind was way too fogged to comprehend—but I understood the beep that followed the message.

  “Colonel, er, Stanley, it’s me, ah, Buck Reilly.” I rattled on about Nanny being grabbed and implored him to call the police—another beep. The call had ended.

  My hostess was staring at me. “And I thought you was talking nonsense.”

  Dizziness caused me to sway toward the wall. She grabbed me and again led me back to the couch in the back room.

  “Will you call the police and tell them about Professor Nanny Adou being kidnapped?”

  She hesitated. “Our police in Albert Town aren’t real active this time of night. But I can leave a message, yes.”

  With that she extinguished the light and told me to rest.

  It hit me that just last night I’d been skinny-dipping on Ian Fleming’s private beach and making love to a beautiful woman in the small villa where he’d penned bestselling spy stories that became blockbuster movies. Nanny was possibly the smartest woman I’d ever known—not to mention the best educated and most complex.

  But she had also been my Bond girl, and that made her being gone even worse.

  I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t drive, couldn’t reach anybody—couldn’t remember when I’d felt so useless. The only thing that might help me find Nanny was the copy of the archives she’d given me—if her captors were on the same trail, we’d be bound to run into one another at some point.

  I turned the light back on and studied each page—all twelve of them—including the eight from the journal purportedly belonging to Morgan and the pages that had been missing. It all looked like chicken scratch.

  There were notes from when Morgan was sent back to London to face trial, after he sacked Panama. Another page looked like a list of some type, but the ink was faded and the cursive letters poorly defined, nearly impossible to read. I was 100 percent certain of just four words and a date: “Port.” “Boy.” “Blue.” “Settle.” and “23, June, 1690.”

  I knew there were hints here. Piecing words and themes together provided a sense of secrets, coconspirators, a date—23, June, 1690—that happened to fall after Morgan’s death, other references to the Rio Grande, the Blue Mountain peak and the flash at dawn, perhaps a boy of a trusted friend, and some other language I needed Nanny to transcribe—

  Nanny.

  My hostess was right. I needed rest. Pain—emotional and physical—had exhausted me. I switched off the light and my frustration and my worry and my thoughts, every one of them. My eyelids fluttered, and …

  Dawn lit a fire under me and I was up and ready to go. Daylight showed my dormitory to be a small storeroom on the back of the kitchen.

  There was a knock on the door. My hostess had prepared a callaloo omelet with Jamaican spices. She said she’d left a message for the local police last night and had not yet heard back. I inhaled the omelet along with fresh juice and a pitcher of water, all in less than five minutes after sitting down. Her eyes grew wider with each massive mouthful.

  “I cook more—”

  “No, thanks, really. I appreciate your kindness, but I’ve got to go find my friend.” I suddenly realized I didn’t even know the woman’s name, but it seemed too late to ask. I offered a heartfelt thank-you for everything and a hug, grabbed my backpack, and left.

  Now that my head was clear, the urgency of finding Nanny had me shaky and jumpy.

  The Jeep was thirty yards down the street, and my face was flushed with embarrassment when I saw the front right wheel up on the curb and all the windows wide open. A small boy was squatted next to it on the sidewalk—staring at the door of the vehicle where I’d crashed into … whatever. Had Johnny obtained renter’s insurance on my car, too?

  “This your Jeep?” he said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He nodded his head. “It’s been buzzing.”

  Buzzing? Was there an alarm or—

  Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  My phone!

  I pulled open the driver’s door—buzz—where was it?

  Buzz—on the floor under the seat!

  I scooped it up—the battery indicator showed 3 percent.

  “Hello?”

  “Buck Reilly?” The voice was deep.

  I leaned against the Jeep and saw the boy was still squatted and watching me.

  “Who is this? Where’s Nanny?”

  What sounded like a growl had me pull the phone away from my ear.

  “You were right, they got her.” The growl, I realized, was a burst of emotion. “This is Stanley Grandy.”

  My throat seized at the news and the raw emotion in his voice. I opened my mouth and tried to speak.

  “Buck? You there?”

  I cleared my throat and realized I was standing on the curb next to the little boy. I sat inside the Jeep and closed the door, swallowing a couple times—

  “We were south of Albert Town, three men jumped us—I fought, but they clubbed me, knocked me out.”

  “I know.” His voice was steadier. “She told me—they called and put her on the phone to talk ’cause I wouldn’t believe she was okay. Turned out she was fine, just madder than hell. ”

  “Did she say anything specific?”

  “She did, but I didn’t understand it. ‘The answer’s up in the air,’ she said. I think they must have slapped her because the phone fell and they wouldn’t let me talk to her again.”

  “The answer’s up in the air? What the hell’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know, Buck, that was all she said—”

  “What did you ask her, Colonel—this is important!” I was practically screaming.

  “I just asked if she was okay. Then she said that about the answer. I was hoping you’d know what it meant …”

  “Was the caller the same man who attacked you?”

  “Men, not man. I couldn’t tell, but he had a Jamaican accent.”

  Silence gripped us both. I could hear wheezing, as if he’d been crying.

  “At least she was okay. What do they want?”

  A sniffle—he blew his nose. “Said she told them all about the clues you two been putting together. Said they wouldn’t hurt her, as long as …” He blew his nose again. “As long as you find the treasure within forty-eight hours, turn it over to them, then get out of Jamaica by three o’clock p.m.” His voice had dropped to a whisper, but I heard every insane word.

  “Forty-eight hours? That’s crazy! They can’t possibly think—”

  “He said they kill her if you—or we don’t.”

  I swallowed hard. The forty-eight hour deadline was preposterous—they had to know I couldn’t meet it. Did they just want me off-island?

  “The men who attacked you, Colonel, what were they after?”

  “It’s Stanley, Buck. And they was after the Morgan history. Asked about what we had, what Nanny knew.” He hesitated, but I knew what was coming. “And they ask about you.”

  “You recognize them?”

  “I couldn’t see them—came from behind and put a sack over my head while they were hitting me. But one could have been that damned Cuffee, and the other one was big—he squeezed me—whispered something to Cuffee, sounded white and American, couldn’t tell for sure … What are you going to do, Buck? Can you see any way through the next two days that won’t get Nanny killed? Any chance of doing what they asked?”

  I closed my eyes for a minute, thinking hard.<
br />
  “Number one, keep in mind that Nanny’s worth a lot more to them alive than dead. Number two, we have a few clues that point toward the treasure but nothing definitive, and forty-eight hours is ludicrous. How are we supposed to communicate with them?”

  “They’ll be calling me back,” he said. “I have men organized, talking to people all over Jamaica. We’ll find her.”

  “That’s number three. Good.”

  Provided she was still here. Her “up in the air” might mean they’d taken her somewhere else, maybe in Betty. Her kidnapping had to involve Gunner and Cuffee, given our confrontation at the crossroads near Blue Mountain.

  “Keep your phone with you from now on, okay?”

  I sat forward, the explanation of what happened on my lips, but I swallowed it.

  “Will do, Colonel. I need to think about this, but I’ll be in touch.”

  “We’ll talk later, Buck. And for the last time, call me Stanley, please. We have even more in common now.”

  My original plan had been to drive back to GoldenEye and rally the troops through Chris Blackwell. Guilt caused a blast of acid reflux—that spicy callaloo omelet.

  Why should I feel guilty? Hell, they’d all recruited me—Nanny, Stanley, everyone.

  Why should I feel stupid?

  The answer’s up in the air.

  The answer’s up in the air?

  The Jeep started right up. I drove forward and the front tire came down hard off the curb. I cut the wheel to the left—I’d also been parked on the wrong side of the road. The compass on the dashboard read south.

  Time to head back to Port Royal.

  The drive took over two hours. My head still ached from getting pounded and from trying to figure out the meaning of Nanny’s coded statement. Nothing resonated. That being the case, I considered my options: a full frontal on Jack’s dive site, getting the police involved, the JNHT, Blackwell, or the other influential people who’d been interested in helping the Jamaican people rather than pursuing the Morgan treasure for their own purposes.

  In the end, I had no choice. I had forty-eight hours—fewer now—to get some traction on this search.

  I drove along the industrial waterfront of Kingston and it struck me that I’d driven right past Treasure Beach. I couldn’t recall if I’d seen any trailers from the photo shoot—where was Thom Shepherd? The question was instantly replaced by more important ones.

  Would Heather know what Jack was up to?

  For that matter, would Jack know what Gunner was up to?

  Could the kidnappers be totally unconnected to them? Say, Cuffee and friends?

  It was unlikely that Jack and Gunner knew Cuffee before they showed up on Jamaica six months ago. In fact, Cuffee probably contacted them, to negotiate or demand a cut in exchange for cooperation or peaceful coexistence. Gunner would embrace him or kill him, had that been his approach, but they appeared to be bats of the same guano pile, so more likely the former.

  A stiff wind rocked the Jeep, and I looked out to the water. White caps the size of sand dunes rocked the harbor, and out toward the horizon the waves seemed closer together, virtually a single white jagged line.

  Crap. They must be getting pounded out on the dive site.

  I stepped harder on the gas pedal and shot around traffic. The remaining ten minutes was focused on driving. When I whipped the Jeep into the same parking spot where Nanny had picked me up yesterday, Johnny Blake was already there, chatting up a girl of maybe seventeen. She had her hands on her hips and was nodding. He was smiling—until he saw me, at which point he walked away from her without another word.

  We met halfway between the Jeep and the boat.

  “Let’s go, Johnny. I need to get out to the dive site, now.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  He had to jog to keep up with me—I pushed the boat off the beach and Johnny hopped in the water after me as I waded out deeper before we jumped aboard.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Buck? You find something?” His brown forehead was knit tight. “You don’t look excited-happy—look more excited-pissed off.”

  At the center console, I turned the two keys and started the twin engines.

  “Sit up on the bow, I’ll drive.”

  “Rough out here, mon—”

  Water launched over the transom as I backed the boat out too fast. Rather than slowing, I spun the wheel to swing the bow around—then jammed the gears into forward and maxed the throttle. Johnny, thrown backwards, sat down hard on the ice chest in front of the console.

  Rough water began an immediate assault that had us fighting our way through every wave. Johnny came back to stand by my side, the water too rough for him to be on the bow. The sound of the props screaming sounded each time we shot airborne over the waves, only to pound down into the trough again and again with a fiberglass-rattling slam. We both stood, our knees bent to absorb the shock, huddled to avoid the water splashing over the bow.

  Why did I always feel like fate was testing me, one shit grenade after another? Was the universe trying to see how much I could take before I imploded?

  Just when the conditions didn’t seem like they could get any worse, we passed around the outer edge of the Coast Guard base at Port Royal, where several of their ships sat idle in port. The waves intensified. Our speed didn’t help—the bow dove into a wave and water exploded over our heads.

  Jack’s flotilla was intact on their site. Betty was there too, her wings bobbing like a seesaw in the surf. They hadn’t given up, or at least they hadn’t reduced their presence here. Past them was our smaller group of boats, lifting on waves, each at a different rhythm. The Beast was there too, her wings rolling wildly.

  Sorry, girl. Not the best day for a flying boat to be anchored out here.

  We took a wide berth around Jack and I could see men with binoculars trained upon us, others holding weapons.

  “Not hiding this time?” Johnny said. “So much for Ray’s costume.”

  “They know I’m not there.”

  With our boats in sight, I reduced power and chose a careful path toward the Viking, which was also bobbing in what I estimated to be three-foot seas. As we wove in between one of our smaller boats and the tug, I couldn’t help doing the math on this enterprise: nearly fifty thousand dollars at this point. Harry Greenbaum—damn, I owed him an update.

  Johnny threw the line to the mate on the deck of the Viking. He missed, and the line fell back in the water. Johnny pulled it up quick, coiled it, bent down, and threw it underhand—this time the mate snagged it out of the air and wrapped it around a stern cleat.

  Now Johnny pulled us close, and I killed the engines. With both boats rocking violently it wasn’t an easy or graceful jump onto the Viking, but I made it.

  “Ray?” I called when I reached the hatch and proceeded down the steps. “You down here?”

  His head popped up from a bunk on the starboard side—he looked green.

  “Buck …”

  “You ready to blow this roller coaster ride?”

  His head dropped onto the pillow. “So … sick.”

  “Sorry, brother. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  I helped him out of the bunk and his legs buckled when they hit the deck. When I wrapped my arm around him he looked at me, his eyes a bit watery but surprisingly sharp. He rallied and pushed my arm off.

  “I’m on the first plane … out … of here.”

  “Get your shoes on, I’ll grab your bag.”

  It was an effort, but Johnny got us shuttled out to the Beast, which was rollicking in the waves like a bucking bronco. Ray shot me an incredulous look, but I could tell his desire to get in the air, or at least back on land, exceeded his concern about the takeoff conditions. Once I got the hatch open and Ray inside to begin the preflight inspection, I turned back to Johnny Blake.

  “Party’s over, Johnny.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means when the seas settle down, return all th
e boats to port, terminate the contracts, get the men paid and wrap this charade up.”

  His eyes cut to slits. “What did you and Nanny find?”

  “Nothing yet. She’s been taken hostage.”

  “Shit!” Johnny’s brow wrinkled. “In exchange for what?”

  “I have forty-eight hours to find the treasure and get out of Jamaica or they’ll kill her.”

  He stood straight, rock steady on the pitching deck.

  “The hell—you can make that?”

  “Not even close.”

  I turned and tried to climb into the bouncing hatch, slipped, and my right leg slid into the cold water up to my balls. I pulled hard on the handle, my eyes laser focused on the boat slamming into the water. Johnny backed away.

  I gained purchase and pulled myself inside.

  Johnny cut in next to the Beast—

  “Watch that wing!”

  “You keep me posted!” Johnny yelled back. “I’m still a part of this—”

  I waved once, then hauled on the anchor rope until it came free. I pulled it up so fast my arms burned, then dropped it on the deck and slammed the hatch shut. Just then the prop on the port engine turned and a backfire made me jump. Ray was sideways in the left seat—his complexion still slightly green—but he was working the controls to get the Beast going.

  “Get the bow anchor,” he said. “We’re floating askew into the oncoming waves.”

  I dove down between the seats, barely avoided smashing my already aching skull on the bulkhead. I shimmied in until I could kneel and popped the bow hatch just enough to release the line attached to the anchor, which disappeared instantly—what’s another $300 at this point?

  The Beast shook as the starboard engine coughed to life. I felt the waves lift us up at an angle and slam the starboard wingtip into the water as Ray added thrust and jockeyed to get us positioned on the waves. On my knees, I tried to time my passage through the narrow hatch back into the cabin. We rolled from side to side as the plane lurched in motion, the flying boat anything but nimble. I was propelled forward, and my forehead hit the bulkhead—HARD. And yes, I saw stars. Dammit!