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Authors: John H. Cunningham
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thoughts.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m used to it. Lots of stereotypes in this world, and a treasure hunter’s pretty easy to pigeonhole.”
“Your contributions to connecting missing links of world civilization are extremely valuable, Buck.” She placed her arm on my bicep and squeezed. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
I leaned closer to the table, and she let go of my arm.
“So what have you deduced from all this?” I said.
“Morgan was sailing around Jamaica, coming across the northern coast—”
“He should have been coming from the southwest.”
“May have been a storm, or the winds may have driven them there, we’re not sure,” she said. “Anyway, the diary refers to putting several canoes to shore near Port Antonio, in the dead of night.”
“The Rio Grande?”
“Could be. Njoni was known throughout the island, but after Morgan’s death, his heirs were more closely associated with the Leeward Maroons.”
Some people were walking over the bridge toward us, so Nanny gently scooped up the archival sleeves and placed them back in the box, which I could see had locking clasps. She closed and spun the numeric dials.
“Now what?” I said.
“I suggest we return to Moore Town and sort through these papers with Stanley.”
I dug my keys out of my pocket. “No time like the present.”
She smiled. “I’ll go get dressed.”
“I’ll get my Jeep.”
A fter an hour of the ninety-minute drive from GoldenEye to Port Antonio, I was gripping the steering wheel so tight my neck ached. The same battered brown car had been traveling at the same distance behind us for too long now. When I sped up, it sped up. If I slowed down, it slowed down.
I kept my eye on the rearview mirror.
“Is this the only road to Port Antonio?”
“The A4 is the fastest road,” Nanny said. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Some roads cut in toward the coast more, but this is the most direct.”
Given the value of the documents she’d shown me, it was possible she or Colonel Grandy or even Michael Portland might have someone shadowing us.
We passed through several small villages and so did the brown shitbox. Nanny hadn’t once questioned my silence or my continual glances in the rearview mirror, and if she’d noticed we were being followed, she kept it to herself.
We finally passed over the Rio Grande River, drove into Port Antonio, and turned left toward the Errol Flynn Marina. “Where are you going?” she said.
“I want to stop in the ship’s store for something.”
I kept my eye on the rearview and counted to myself … fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen … there’s the shitbox.
“Ship’s store?”
I nodded.
Ship’s store was an exaggeration, but there was a small marine supply and provisions store I hoped would have what I was looking for. Besides, the turn allowed me a chance to see who was in—
Where had the little brown car gone?
“You want me to come with you?” she said.
I was half in, half out of the Jeep, looking back over my shoulder.
“No, you should probably stay here with the documents. And call the colonel and tell him we’re on our way.”
“Oh, right. Good point.”
Still no sign of the shitbox, so I entered the store. Just past a small selection of nautical charts I found a small magnifying glass and held it up to peer through. Satisfied, I took it to the counter and paid in cash—I was still a couple years away from being eligible for a credit card after my personal bankruptcy.
A pang of guilt stopped me in my tracks. I stared at my phone a long moment, then hit one of my saved numbers.
A familiar British voice answered on the third ring.
“Buck Reilly? I’ve been worried your silence meant you were in trouble, dear boy.” True to his paternal role in my life, Harry Greenbaum knew how to simultaneously express concern and impose guilt.
“Sorry, Harry. It’s been nip and tuck back here to say the least.”
“Here meaning Jamaica.” He paused.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m used to it. Lots of stereotypes in this world, and a treasure hunter’s pretty easy to pigeonhole.”
“Your contributions to connecting missing links of world civilization are extremely valuable, Buck.” She placed her arm on my bicep and squeezed. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
I leaned closer to the table, and she let go of my arm.
“So what have you deduced from all this?” I said.
“Morgan was sailing around Jamaica, coming across the northern coast—”
“He should have been coming from the southwest.”
“May have been a storm, or the winds may have driven them there, we’re not sure,” she said. “Anyway, the diary refers to putting several canoes to shore near Port Antonio, in the dead of night.”
“The Rio Grande?”
“Could be. Njoni was known throughout the island, but after Morgan’s death, his heirs were more closely associated with the Leeward Maroons.”
Some people were walking over the bridge toward us, so Nanny gently scooped up the archival sleeves and placed them back in the box, which I could see had locking clasps. She closed and spun the numeric dials.
“Now what?” I said.
“I suggest we return to Moore Town and sort through these papers with Stanley.”
I dug my keys out of my pocket. “No time like the present.”
She smiled. “I’ll go get dressed.”
“I’ll get my Jeep.”
A fter an hour of the ninety-minute drive from GoldenEye to Port Antonio, I was gripping the steering wheel so tight my neck ached. The same battered brown car had been traveling at the same distance behind us for too long now. When I sped up, it sped up. If I slowed down, it slowed down.
I kept my eye on the rearview mirror.
“Is this the only road to Port Antonio?”
“The A4 is the fastest road,” Nanny said. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Some roads cut in toward the coast more, but this is the most direct.”
Given the value of the documents she’d shown me, it was possible she or Colonel Grandy or even Michael Portland might have someone shadowing us.
We passed through several small villages and so did the brown shitbox. Nanny hadn’t once questioned my silence or my continual glances in the rearview mirror, and if she’d noticed we were being followed, she kept it to herself.
We finally passed over the Rio Grande River, drove into Port Antonio, and turned left toward the Errol Flynn Marina. “Where are you going?” she said.
“I want to stop in the ship’s store for something.”
I kept my eye on the rearview and counted to myself … fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen … there’s the shitbox.
“Ship’s store?”
I nodded.
Ship’s store was an exaggeration, but there was a small marine supply and provisions store I hoped would have what I was looking for. Besides, the turn allowed me a chance to see who was in—
Where had the little brown car gone?
“You want me to come with you?” she said.
I was half in, half out of the Jeep, looking back over my shoulder.
“No, you should probably stay here with the documents. And call the colonel and tell him we’re on our way.”
“Oh, right. Good point.”
Still no sign of the shitbox, so I entered the store. Just past a small selection of nautical charts I found a small magnifying glass and held it up to peer through. Satisfied, I took it to the counter and paid in cash—I was still a couple years away from being eligible for a credit card after my personal bankruptcy.
A pang of guilt stopped me in my tracks. I stared at my phone a long moment, then hit one of my saved numbers.
A familiar British voice answered on the third ring.
“Buck Reilly? I’ve been worried your silence meant you were in trouble, dear boy.” True to his paternal role in my life, Harry Greenbaum knew how to simultaneously express concern and impose guilt.
“Sorry, Harry. It’s been nip and tuck back here to say the least.”
“Here meaning Jamaica.” He paused.
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