Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham Page A

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,