Free Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham Page A

who rented traditional bamboo rafts. I locked the Jeep, hoping it would be there when we returned. The advertised course was nearly seven miles downriver, ending at St. Margaret’s. Our plan was to float past the confluence of this river, more a tributary, and the Rio Grande—on which we’d paddle upriver toward Moore Town to meet Colonel Grandy. If men had taken treasure off Morgan’s ship by canoe and gone upriver, where were they headed? I hoped we’d find a clue of some sort by retracing their steps.
    Taking a bamboo raft against the current on the mighty Rio Grande, though?
    At least I’d have a paddle.

N anny was arranging for the raft when my cell phone rang. I saw Johnny Blake’s name on the screen.
    “Tell me something good,” I said.
    “We got the permit, mon, for photography only, but we got it.”
    I pumped my fist. The impromptu plan was coming together.
    “What about the boats?”
    “The rental people got boats, but what kind you want?”
    Damn. I couldn’t be in two places at once. Then I came up with an idea. “Let me call you back about the boats, Johnny. Pick up the permit, though.”
    “You still with the professor?”
    “We’re going to take a raft up the Rio Grande, following a lead.”
    “Yeah, mon, sound good.”
    Nanny was still inside the rental hut when I disconnected the call. Since my measly percentage didn’t include expenses, I was off the hook as far as paying for anything on this trip. I scrolled through my few saved numbers until I found the one I wanted and hit send.
    “Well, well, well, how’s the Jamaican beach bum?”
    “Are there beaches here?” I said. “I’ve been too busy to sit on my ass.”
    “What happened to your rock star buddy?” Ray said. “Thought you’d be fending off groupies by now.”
    “Thom’s a country singer, Ray.”
    I heard him sigh.
    “Let me guess,” he said, “you’re not just calling to brag about the babes in Kingston?”
    “Even better. I’m calling with good news. You being my best friend—”
    “One of your only friends is more like it.”
    Ray meant no malice, but the truth of his statement cut to the bone. I swallowed.
    “Just kidding, Buck. Gosh, you know I—”
    “I forgive you, and anyway, you’ll feel like shit in a second.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because there’s a plane ticket to Jamaica with your name on it waiting at the main counter there at EYW,” I said.
    Silence.
    “Still with me, Ray?”
    “What kind of trouble are you in now?”
    “Trouble? Hell, I’m going to cut you in on something big—not to mention the beautiful babes in Kingston you mentioned—and all I get are insults and innuendos?”
    “You never call me from one of your exotic trips if you’re not in trouble—is it the Beauty?” His voice turned cold. “Have you hurt her?”
    Ray and I had different perspectives on the 1946 Grumman Goose we’d repatriated from the bowels of a Cuban tobacco farm a few years ago. I thought of the fresh bullet holes in her wings and winced.
    “As a matter of fact, we do need to patch a couple holes—above the waterline, mind you—but that’s not why I invited you. I need your piloting skills while I’m pursuing something that could make you some nice money.”
    “Except it never seems to end up that way, Buck—and what do you mean patch some holes? What happened?”
    I saw Nanny wrapping up the raft rental.
    “Use the Last Resort credit card number and get on down here,” I said. “Tomorrow, preferably. Call me when you land in Kingston. You’re going to love this place.” Nanny walked toward me. “And the women are beautiful.”
    She must have heard me, because she smiled.
    “What about the holes in the plane, Buck? Tell me they’re not bullet holes—”
    “Nothing sketchy, just flying the Beast and babysitting her. Tomorrow. Economy class. Thanks, buddy, see you then.”
    “But—”
    I hit the end button and turned to Nanny.
    “All set?”
    “Who are you telling lies to