Other books in the BUCK REILLY ADVENTURE series
by John H. Cunningham
Red Right Return
Green to Go
Crystal Blue
Second Chance Gold
MAROON RISING
Copyright © 2015 John H. Cunningham.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Greene Street, LLC
Book design by Morgana Gallaway
This edition was prepared by
The Editorial Department
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Print ISBN: 978-0-9854422-9-3
Electronic ISBN: 978-0-9854422-8-6
The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but have been used fictitiously, and all other characters and events in the book have been invented.
www.jhcunningham.com
This book is for Scott Roberts
“Every day a holiday, every meal a feast”
One of his many Marine sayings I have borrowed on occasion, and a great description of our friendship
“Fire deh a muss muss tail, him think a cool breeze”
(Fire is at a mouse’s tail, he thinks it’s cool breeze)
— Jamaican proverb
Contents
Redemption Song
So Many Rising
Capture Land
Lava Ground
“All rise,” the bailiff said.
I took in a deep breath. The walls of the small meeting room on the ground floor of the Hibbert House closed in on me—or maybe it was the people. At the far end of the table was Jack Dodson, my former partner at our once successful company, e-Antiquity. Now my competitor, on the edge of his seat too as the Heritage Architectural Review Committee filed in: men and women in suits or dresses, a study in skin shades from beige to dark black.
I’d come to know a little about most of them as we tweaked our application during the review process these past months. Although my reputation preceded me, I was sure at least a few had come to know me as I am today and not as “King Buck”—a nickname that stuck after the Wall Street Journal printed it under a picture of me sitting atop a huge load of Mayan treasure at the height of e-Antiquity’s success.
The history of the room pressed in on me as we rose. The seat of Jamaican government in the 1750s, the Hibbert House was named after its original owner—Thomas Hibbert, who’d come to Jamaica as a rich young English merchant.
I hoped his ghost would look favorably on me now. Harry Greenbaum and I had spent a sizable chunk of cash pursuing this opportunity. Harry was my financier, and the closest thing I’d had to a father since my parents’ death. Even though he’d been e-Antiquity’s largest investor, he’d chosen to back me over Jack. An old-fashioned British tycoon who invested in dozens of companies, Harry was a fount of knowledge, connections, and cash—not to mention kindness. He’d stuck with me through the lowest of low points.
Our respective applications had been sealed, only the HARC board knowing the differences. Mine was generous, offering 75 percent of whatever antiquities we found to the National Maritime Museum. It also included an assurance that the structures we exposed during the dig, some thirty feet under water on the eastern tip of Port Royal, would be restored and preserved in accordance with UNESCO’s guidance for best practices in underwater archaeology. Depending upon the depth of the antiquities, most of the value for the 25 percent we sought to keep would be spent on the restoration of what we unearthed, so Harry and I viewed this as a skinny but noteworthy opportunity to launch our new antiquity salvage partnership.
I allowed myself another glance down the table, looking past Jack Dodson to his partner, Richard Rostenkowski, a.k.a. Gunner.
Was Gunner smiling?
Everyone sat down except the chairman of the Heritage Architectural Review Committee (HARC), Johnston Cheever.
“In the matter of the applications filed by Last Resort Charter and Salvage,” he nodded toward me, “and SCG International,” he nodded at Jack, “we have come to a determination.”
My elbows pressed into the wood table.
“Both parties have filed applications to perform an archaeological dig within the waters of Port Royal—to exhume and preserve the structure known as the Jamison House, while also seeking to recover assets purported to have been owned and hidden there by former Jamaican Lieutenant Governor Henry Morgan, or privateers associated with him. We have found one of the applications superior to the other.”
Johnny Blake, my Jamaican associate, elbowed me and pumped his eyebrows. Jack glanced my way, revealing nothing but contempt as our eyes locked. I just hoped his and Gunner’s greed would make their application inferior. I’d bankrolled several months of application, pre-evaluation, and the final evaluation process on that assumption.
Chairman Cheever cleared his throat. A couple of the board members squirmed in their chairs. I suddenly realized nobody was looking at me.
“HARC has selected and grants an immediate salvage permit to commence operations to SCG International.”
Silence.
The heartbeat I’d heard pounding in my ears stopped. My eyes flitted from face to face on the panel. Only the gray-haired professor, Keith Quao from the University of the West Indies returned my glance, albeit momentarily.
“Thank you for your submissions.” The chairman finished with some final instructions to Jack and Gunner. He said something to me, too, but I have no idea what.
Henry Morgan’s treasure had vanished in the earthquake of 1692, the clue to which I’d discovered here six years ago while on e-Antiquity business. Since then, I’d declared personal bankruptcy, lost my wife and all my money, and Jack had been convicted of fraud and served five years in prison.
How had he beat me out? Or should I be wondering who he’d paid off?
“That a bitch, mon.” Johnny Blake frowned at me and slapped his palm on my back, then walked out the door.
The HARC committee had already left the room, leaving me with Jack, Gunner, and a number of photographers and reporters. One directed a question toward me.
“You didn’t really think you’d win, did you, King Buck?”
Still frozen, I caught my breath as Gunner broke free of the reporters, walked to my end of the table, and leaned close. It was one of the only times I’d seen him without his reflective blue sunglasses, which were folded in the breast pocket of his open-collared tropical shirt.
“Hit the road, Reilly.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his eyes boring into mine. “And don’t make a mistake-a, stay out of Jamaica.” His small square teeth appeared as he grinned at his witticism.
“Screw you, Gunner.”
Sixty Days Later
Key West had been packed with snowbirds and cruise shippers for the past month, the winter season in full swing. I’d adopted my in-season habit of avoiding the more crowded parts of Duval Street, spending more time in my top-floor suite at the La Concha Hotel. For the time being I’d put my treasure-hunting dreams on ice. Harry’s agitation over Jack’s besting our application in Jamaica had been slow to wane, and since I still didn’t know why they selected Jack over me, my anger had continued to fester.
I checked my watch.
I pulled up the website for the Jamaican Gleaner, one of the best news sources on the island, but found no mention of the Port Royal excavation. The first few weeks after HARC’s decision they’d run multiple articles on Jack, his company and history, their swift commencement of activities out on the waters of Port R
oyal. So swift, in fact, I suspected he had inside knowledge of his getting selected. How, I didn’t know.
I went to my mini-fridge and pulled out a beer. As soon as I popped the top, my phone rang.
“Hey, Buck, how you doing, mon?”
“Any news?” I had Johnny Blake on retainer to keep me apprised of Jack’s activities.
“No, mon, they out there in force, but no word of nothing yet.”
I smiled. “Good. I hope it’s costing them a fortune.”
I could imagine the painstaking and tedious effort involved in exhuming the remains of the Jamison house, which had supposedly been a pub and brothel—and the pressure each fruitless day must be putting on Jack and Gunner.
With any luck it would bury them.
“JNHT keeping an eye on them?” The Jamaican National Heritage Trust was a diligent steward of Jamaican history and had only considered the salvage aspect of the application because of the value associated with the preservation.
“Yeah, mon. They got a boat out there every day, with divers in the water watching them boys.”
“How many boats and people does Jack have on-site?”
“As of this morning there was seven boats out there, maybe twenty-five people. They working round the clock.”
“Seven.” That was two more boats than Johnny’s last report.
Jack had to pay for JNHT’s costs too. An operation of that size would run roughly twenty-five thousand dollars per day. After two months that’s around a million-five in sunk costs—pun intended.
I bit my lip. “Is Betty there?”
“You mean the beautiful blond woman, Mr. Buck?”
Jack’s wife was brunette. Did Gunner have a girlfriend?
“No, my old Grumman Widgeon.”
“Oh yeah, his water plane.” Johnny laughed. “Thought you was talking about that babe with them. Got all the boys on the crew distracted. Some famous supermodel or something.”
Supermodel? “What’s her name?”
“I don’t know, mon. Hot bitch is what I call her.”
I imagined the scene out on the water. All those boats, all those divers working through the grid, stabilizing and restoring each bit of exposed structure as they dug deeper. Slow, grueling, expensive. Good.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, mon, that woman from the university still wants to talk to you.”
“I don’t know, Johnny—she works with the professor who was on the selection committee.”
“Yeah, but she’s for real. Deep Jamaican roots. Says she got some ideas to talk to you about.”
“This has to do with the Morgan excavation?”
“She won’t tell me nothing, but I suppose so,” Johnny said.
I wanted to call, but it was no longer my hunt. While I enjoyed watching Jack and Gunner bleed money, their selection by the HARC was final—any meddling by third parties would be punishable by law, and I had no interest in the consequences of breaking the law in Jamaica. Johnny and I scheduled our next call for another week out and hung up.
I read the number I’d written on the scratch pad by my phone, but it was the name that made me pause. Nanny Adou. The name Nanny had historic significance in Jamaica, and anyone named after Queen Nanny would either have to be a powerful woman herself or a pariah for using the name of one of Jamaica’s most important figures.
Curiosity got the better of me. What could a phone call hurt? I drained the beer and used my new cell phone to dial the number.
A young man answered. “History Department.”
“I’m calling to speak with Nanny Adou.”
“Professor Adou? One minute.”
Silence filled the line and I debated whether to open another beer.
“Hello?”
“Is this the Mother of us all?” I said.
“I’m not your mother.” She sounded young, and agitated.
“This is Buck Reilly calling. Am I speaking with Nanny Adou?”
“Mr. Reilly. You must be versed on Maroon history here in Jamaica. I’m impressed.”
We bantered back and forth a few rounds, then she got down to business.
Sort of.
“I’d like to meet with you, in person,” she said.
“I have no plans to be in Jamaica, Professor Adou. You’re welcome to come to Key West, or we can talk on the phone, now.” I paused. “Is this to do with the dig your colleague helped assign to my competitor?” I didn’t make an effort not to sound bitter.
“There’s someone who would like to meet with you, Mr. Reilly.”
“As I said, I—”
“To discuss the excavation project you referred to. Colonel Stanley Grandy, to be exact. He’s not military—”
“The figurehead of the remaining Maroons,” I said.
“Correct again—on the Windward side, anyway. But he’s more than a figurehead and he’s an old man now. He would like to meet with you. In Moore Town.”
Moore Town was in the northeastern part of the island, just below the Blue Mountain range. The town had been founded and controlled by the Jamaican Maroons, known to the Europeans as runaway slaves, since the late seventeenth century. The research I’d done during the application process for the Morgan site had mentioned a couple of Maroon connections.
What Nanny said had the hair up on my forearms. But Jack and Gunner would know the moment I set foot back in Jamaica, and I had no doubt that whatever forces they’d rallied to manipulate the selection would turn against me. Nothing Nanny Adou or Colonel Grandy could say would be worth the risk of winding up in a Jamaican jail.
“I’m sorry, Professor Adou, but as I said, I have no plans to be in Jamaica. So, thanks, but no thanks.”
“I wish you’d talk to—”
“I appreciate your thinking of me.” I dropped the phone into the cradle.
A sudden sense of claustrophobia closed in on me. I jumped up, headed out into the sixth-floor corridor, and pushed the button for the elevator. After two seconds I took the stairs, my mind back in Jamaica as I hurried down the steps.
Thirty More Days Later
“You know this place is gonna be packed,” Ray said.
“Yeah, well, Thom Shepherd draws a crowd—”
“Two cruise ships came in today, Buck. That’s like ten thousand people.” Ray Floyd—friend, mechanic, and island philosopher—dodged and juked through the crowds on the Duval Street sidewalk. I walked a straight line, or as straight as I could, staring dead ahead.
I took a left on Eaton. Ray was right—as we approached the busiest end of town, the crowd had indeed thickened. Two cruise ships would clog Key West’s arteries like a lifetime diet of cheeseburgers but without the satisfaction.
Ray brushed his palms down the front of his long-sleeved blue flowered shirt as if to wipe clean any public interaction. Getting him to go anywhere other than the airport, Blue Heaven, or his duplex on Laird Street was a rare event. Not that I was much better.
“And how do you know Thom, anyway,” Ray said.
“You know him too.”
I caught the arch of his brows as we took a right on Whitehead. At least the pedestrian crowd was now moving in the same direction as us. Sunset was approaching, and Mallory Square was a black hole sucking in all loose matter not affixed to a barstool or a real life.
“Wait, what do you mean—”
“He was at the Beach Bar in St. John when we were down there with Crystal.”
“Oh yeah. Tall guy with a cowboy hat?”
“He’s a country singer, Ray. They wear cowboy hats.”
“But couldn’t we meet him later for a beer at Blue Heaven or Rum Bar? The Tuna’ll be packed.”
I turned down Caroline Street and saw a crowd ahead around the Bull. Or maybe they were waiting in line to get to the Garden of Eden, the rooftop nudist bar.
“We’ll see if we can catch him before his first set,” I said. “God forbid you relax, enjoy some live music, maybe chat up a pretty tourist.”
&n
bsp; “Funny, Buck. I get plenty of live music at Blue Heaven, thank you very much.”
“And?”
“And pretty tourist women too, all right?”
The truth was, neither of us had been on a hot streak in the romance department lately. Those months of work on the Jamaican salvage application had sent me traveling from Kingston to Key West and back so often I’d lost my last flame, Nicole on St. Barth’s. I couldn’t afford to live there, as much as I enjoyed her company, and her roots were too deep to leave. Besides, neither of us was ready for anything more permanent. And I’d been in a funk in the months since Jamaica. Harry Greenbaum had encouraged me to move on, even offered to go in on another project, but I’d burned half my nest egg on the expenses he wasn’t covering. One more failure like that and I’d be dead broke again.
As for Ray, well, he might never have had a hot streak.
We took a left then a right into the back door of the Smokin’ Tuna, which was indeed packed.
“Let’s go over here.” I nodded toward the side bar, where Robert, the bartender, waved to us. He brought me a Papa Pilar’s dark rum on the rocks and Ray a Coors Light.
“Surprised to see you guys here,” he said.
“No kidding,” Ray said.
“Is Thom Shepherd here yet?” I said.
Robert said Thom was in the back room at the end of the bar tuning his guitar.
Ray held his palms up. “Well?”
“I’ll go see what’s up.” As much as I enjoyed my friendship with Ray, he could be like a nervous old woman outside his comfort zone, whose radius was very small.
I pushed the door open on the back room, actually a private room in the front of the building. I’d been in there once for a book signing by Michael Haskins, a local author.
Thom was sitting on a table, hunched over his guitar, strumming it slowly while twisting the knobs on the neck. The brim on his cowboy hat covered his eyes.
“Howdy, pardner.” My John Wayne accent.
A wide smile creased his face as he looked up.
“Buck Reilly, just the man I wanted to see. How you been?”
Maroon Rising Page 1
