Martin’s simple plan solved every problem: getting past the guards, getting outside the wall. But there was one snag. There was still one obstacle that needed to be overcome. Martin decided that the best solution was to confront this obstacle head-on.
He took a long swig of beer, then lightly addressed the group. “So, does everyone have spy cameras in their room or is that just for the new guy?”
At first everyone just stared and exchanged awkward glances. But when Dr. Kasim began to laugh, all at once Martin’s simple plan to escape Forty Acres had been set in motion.
CHAPTER 69
Oscar pushed open the door to Martin’s new accommodations and said, “Your belongings should have already been moved from your previous room.”
Martin followed Oscar inside. His new room wasn’t very different from his last. Queen-sized bed, flat-screen TV, small bathroom; even the garden view was the same. The only significant difference was that this room was not wired for sound and video, or at least that’s what Oscar had promised.
A little more than an hour ago, when Martin complained about the hidden cameras, Dr. Kasim and the men had taken it in stride. There was an iffy moment when Oscar questioned how long Martin had known about the cameras, but Martin evaded further digging by faulting Carver. He recounted how, at breakfast, Carver had seemed to know all the details of his night with Alice. Facts that could only be explained one way: Carver was getting his jollies watching. The accusation drew a hard stare from Carver and laughter from everyone else.
It was explained to Martin that his first bedroom was the only one rigged for surveillance and that it was used exclusively for new recruits. Oscar then assured Martin that his new bedroom, like those of the other men, would be completely private.
That was a little more than an hour ago. After another cold Guinness, a couple more laughs, and few more philosophical pearls from Dr. Kasim, the group had decided to call it a night, at last. Martin was eager to retreat to his new room, eager to escape scrutiny and prepare for what promised to be the most important night of his life. Martin was caught off guard when Oscar offered to escort him to the new room personally.
Martin waited just inside the bedroom door while Oscar peeked into the closet and checked the dresser drawers. Oscar claimed that he wanted to make sure Martin’s clothing had been moved like he ordered, but Martin didn’t buy it. Dr. Kasim’s right-hand man was too directorial to bother with unnecessary trivialities like walking Martin to his room and inspecting dresser drawers. No, there had to be another motive behind this unexpected one-on-one with Oscar, but what was it?
“Everything appears to be in order,” Oscar said, squaring off with Martin. “You’re all set. And no more cameras.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“And just so you’re aware, all recordings will be destroyed as well.”
“I hope so,” Martin said, trying to keep things light. “I wouldn’t want them to end up on YouTube.”
Oscar seemed to smile more out of politeness than actual amusement. “I agree. That would be a problem.”
“Well, thanks again,” Martin said.
“You are welcome.” Martin stepped back from the open door, inviting Oscar to exit, but the bald man did not budge. “There’s one more thing, Mr. Grey.”
This is it, Martin thought. Martin had no idea why Oscar would contrive to speak to him alone, and he was almost afraid to ask. “What is it?”
“What you’re feeling . . . it will pass.”
“What?” Martin said, caught off guard again. “What will pass?”
Oscar sighed. “Less than two hours ago you beat a beautiful woman with a whip. How does that make you feel? How does it really make you feel?”
An anxious voice in Martin’s head warned him that this could just be another stage in the endless initiation.
As if he could read Martin’s mind, Oscar said, “This isn’t a test. I promise. Just tell me honestly. How do you feel about what you did to Alice?”
For an instant Martin considered lying, but something told him that he’d never sell it. That same intuition also told Martin that Oscar was being honest. The question wasn’t meant to hurt, it was meant to help. Martin sighed. “Honestly, I don’t feel great about it.”
“A twinge of guilt maybe?”
Martin nodded. “Yes. Definitely.”
Oscar patted Martin on the arm. “Of course you feel that. Like Dr. Kasim says, we’re not barbarians like they are. The doctor is very perceptive. He saw a little something in your eyes tonight. He asked me to send you this message. Tonight, you honored your ancestors. You did nothing wrong. What you’re feeling right now, it will pass.”
“Thanks,” Martin said. “That makes me feel better.”
Oscar’s smile seemed genuine. He pulled Martin into a hug. “Good night, brother. Try to get some sleep.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Then Oscar was gone.
The instant Martin shut the door and locked it, he felt as if a massive boulder had slipped from his shoulders. Light-headed, he staggered across the room and fell back onto the bed. He felt the urge to scream toward heaven, but he just stared at the ceiling. When Martin shut his eyes, he saw Alice hanging by chains inside the barn. He saw Carver’s muscles rippling as he whipped her mercilessly, over and over. Martin wiped away tears, but more came. He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table: 11:14 p.m. Three long hours since he last saw Alice. And even if his plan went perfectly, it would be several hours more before she could receive any care. For all Martin knew, she was already dead. But he refused to believe that. Martin had made up his mind, and fate would just have to go along with his decision. Alice was young, Alice was healthy, and Alice would survive long enough for him to save her.
He’d wait one hour. One hour should be long enough for everyone to have gone to sleep or settled inside their rooms for the night. One more hour, then it would be time to leave.
CHAPTER 70
Anna could not sleep. For more than an hour she had been lying awake in the moonlit gloom of her bedroom. Her anxious eyes refused to close. Instead they alternated between the shadow play of rustling leaves on the ceiling and the MacBook Pro on the nightstand.
Anna was worried sick.
She had no doubt that her pregnancy, and the fact that Martin knew nothing about it, added to her troubled state. But in truth the pregnancy was only a minor contributor to her insomnia. The real culprit was the other man that Anna could not stop thinking about.
Donald Jackson.
Three years ago Donald Jackson had gone away on a trip with the very same men that Martin was now with. And Donald Jackson had never come back. That was a fact that burned in Anna’s mind. Sure, Damon Darrell had explained that Jackson’s death was a suicide and not an accident, but that didn’t matter. Call it intuition or a bad feeling. Somehow, tonight, Anna knew that something wasn’t right.
Anna turned her head and stared at her laptop. Her urge to go online and dig up more information about Jackson’s death was strong, but Anna resisted because she knew that anything she found out would probably just increase her anxiety. No, it was better to just wait until Martin returned home and then do more research. If she uncovered something troubling, she could use it to convince Martin not to go away with them on any future trips.
The leaves and branches jittered again. The lonely quiet of the night was pierced by the distant screech of a cat.
But what if Martin was in some kind of danger, right now? Like the danger Donald Jackson found himself in? This was the relentless inner dialogue that slowly wore down Anna’s resolve. It was either appease her gut feeling or, after a sleepless night, go to work at the hospital tomorrow feeling like a zombie.
Anna stared at her computer. Just five minutes. She’d go online for five minutes, just to quell the urge. Then hopefully she would be able to get some sleep.
Anna sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, propped up a pillow between her back and the he
adboard, and then grabbed her MacBook. At the hospital she had searched for information about white-water rafting. This time she searched “Donald Jackson death.”
There were hundreds of hits. Anna found articles from every major news outlet about the promising author’s tragic death. In them, as in the piece she had stumbled on days ago, the only person identified in the stories was the victim himself. Most of the articles mentioned that he had been traveling with a group of close friends, but that was it. Despite their level of notoriety, these “close friends” remained anonymous in each and every story. It was a chilling testament to the power of Martin’s new associates.
If something did happen to Martin, would the press describe these men as having been Martin’s close friends as well? Anna pushed the thought out of her head and glanced at the clock. She had already been online for three minutes, and so far so good. She had found no new disturbing facts about Jackson’s death, nothing to add to her list of worries.
With just two minutes left, and feeling confident that there was nothing to find, Anna decided to get a bit more aggressive. In Google’s search window she moved the cursor to the end of her original inquiry and added just one more word. Now her inquiry read “Donald Jackson death suspicious.”
Anna moved the arrow cursor to the search button, but she hesitated. She whispered to herself, “Do you really want to do this, girl?” Anna took a deep breath, then clicked the track pad.
Anna looked at the computer screen. There was nothing scary on it. The resulting list of links appeared to be almost identical to the list from her previous search. Not one of the headlines included the word suspicious.
Anna sagged with relief. For a fleeting moment she considered trying other key words, like murder or cover-up, but she decided not to push it. Anna had done her due diligence and felt a lot better for it; also, glancing at the clock, she saw that her five minutes had just run out. A deal’s a deal, even if it’s a deal with yourself.
Anna reached to shut the laptop but paused when she spotted something unexpected on the screen. It wasn’t part of the list of search results. It was at the top of the page listed below a headline that read “Image Results for Donald Jackson Death Suspicious.”
It was a photograph of Damon Darrell holding the shoulders of a pretty woman, as if he were about to embrace her. The woman was not Damon’s wife, Juanita. This woman was younger, and her complexion was lighter. Most intriguing of all, she was dressed for mourning, all in black.
Deal or no deal, Anna clicked on the small image. It expanded to fill the screen. Now Anna could see other mourners in the background. The photograph had been taken at a funeral. Anna moved her cursor to the bottom of the image and a brief caption materialized: “Damon Darrell comforts author Donald Jackson’s widow, Christine Jackson.”
Anna sat there, alone, in her dimly lit bedroom, riveted to that woman’s face. The longer Anna stared, the more uneasy she began to feel. Christine Jackson’s face was wrong, very wrong. While Damon offered the widow a warm and comforting smile, Christine’s face replied with something completely different. There was venom in Christine Jackson’s eyes. Pure, raw hatred.
Anna suspected that if the camera’s shutter had snapped either an instant sooner or an instant later, Christine Jackson’s expression would be exactly what one would expect from a widow. A face hung in deep sorrow. Pained eyes clenched shut. But the photographer that day, either by a fluke or the aid of a rapidly firing shutter, managed to capture the truth beneath the tears.
Why would Christine Jackson hate Damon Darrell? That was the question that resounded in Anna’s mind. If Damon and the other men moved heaven and earth to cover up Donald’s suicide and to ensure her and her children’s financial well-being, why would Christine Jackson hate Damon Darrell? Did she feel the same way about the other men?
It didn’t make sense.
At that moment Anna made two decisions. First, because she knew that it would now be impossible to sleep, she would call in sick. Second, tomorrow Anna was going to find Mrs. Jackson and get some answers.
CHAPTER 71
Martin was seated on the edge of his bed, dressed and ready to go. He wore an outfit that Damon had helped him pick out at the camping store REI a little over a week ago. A dark blue hooded fleece jacket, hiking pants, and waterproof hiking boots. Part of what made his plan simple was that it actually didn’t require any hike through the woods, but Martin still wanted to be ready for anything.
It was 12:04 a.m. He was tempted to get going that second, but he decided to stick to the plan of waiting one hour. There was no way to know if ten minutes would make any real difference—and that was the perfect reason to wait.
Martin heard a tapping sound. He glanced around the room, puzzled, before realizing that his right leg was bouncing like a jackhammer. Martin wasn’t nervous. Nervous was speaking before a large audience or popping the big question. Martin was scared. Terrified. Yes, his plan was simple, and he believed that it would work, but there was always the chance that something would go wrong.
Martin heard a soft rapping sound. Unlike his tapping foot, this new sound was not the product of his fear. Someone had knocked on his bedroom door.
Martin’s eyes shot to the clock: 12:10. Who would come to his bedroom now? Whoever it was, their timing couldn’t be worse. Martin considered not answering, hoping the person would think that he was already asleep, but that was too risky. It would be wiser for Martin to know exactly who was still up and around inside the main house.
The soft knocks came again.
“One second.” Martin rose and crossed to the door. He reached to pull it open but paused when he remembered what he was wearing. Martin snatched off the hooded jacket and tossed it into the closet.
When Martin finally opened the door, he saw what looked like Alice’s ghost standing in the doorway. It was Felicia, adorned in the same pretty blue dress that her cousin had worn the night before. Also like Alice, Felicia’s strawberry-blond mane flowed gently to her shoulders, beautifully framing her sweet, sad face.
Felicia smiled. “You asked to see me, master?”
Martin was puzzled but only for a second. “Did Carver send you here?”
“No, sir,” Felicia replied. “Master Lennox sent me, sir.”
Martin felt a twinge of nerves. This meant that Oscar could still be roaming around the house. Not good. Not good at all.
“Would you like me to come in, sir?”
Martin shook his head. “No. No, thank you, I’m tired. But let me ask you a question. Do you know if Mr. Lennox is in his room?”
“Sir?” Felicia’s eyes flooded with fear. “Did I do something wrong, sir? If I did—”
“Oh, no, no,” Martin said, realizing his mistake. He had rejected the girl, and now he appeared ready to report her. “You did nothing wrong. I promise.” Martin glanced up and down the hall to make sure no one was watching, then he stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
Relieved and a bit puzzled, Felicia did as she was told.
Martin locked the door behind her. When he turned, she was standing beside the bed, hands folded before her, looking both innocent and vulnerable. Her smile was grateful. “Thank you for letting me stay, sir. I promise to make you happy.”
“You’re not staying,” Martin said. “I just want you to answer my question. That’s all.”
Worry and confusion began to creep back onto Felicia’s face. “Your question, sir?”
Martin stepped closer and gently took her hand. “You’re not in trouble,” he said. “I promise. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Okay?”
Felicia nodded. “Alice said that you were different. You know, like nice.”
Martin smiled, but hearing Felicia bring up Alice so casually meant she had to be oblivious to her cousin’s situation. There was no way to be sure how Felicia would react to the news, so Martin resisted the urge to tell her. Any major disruption in the main house now would stop his plan cold. And the plan had to com
e first.
“Where did you last see Mr. Lennox?” Martin asked. “Was he in his room?”
Felicia shook her head. “No, in the kitchen. We were cleaning up. Master Lennox came in and said that you wanted to see me after midnight. He told me to wear something pretty.”
“And how long ago was this?”
Felicia thought about it. “Half an hour ago. Maybe forty minutes.”
Half an hour was good, Martin thought. Half an hour was more than enough time for Oscar to return to his bedroom and get settled in for the night. When the time came, the more settled in Oscar was, the better.
“One more question,” Martin said. “On your way here, did you see any of the other masters anywhere in the house?”
Felicia shook her head. “No, sir. I believe everyone’s off to bed.”
“Good,” Martin said. “Now you should go to bed too.”
Felicia was hesitant. “Are you sure, sir? You sure that you don’t want me to stay?”
Martin frowned. The girl’s eagerness to sacrifice herself just to avoid disappointing him was heartbreaking. “You’re Alice’s cousin, right?”
Felicia nodded. “Yes, sir.” She smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. “This is Alice’s, actually. I don’t think she’ll mind that I borrowed it. I mean, well, considering . . .”
As Felicia’s voice trailed off, Martin caught a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. Was he wrong? Did she know that, at that very moment, her cousin was dying?
Cautiously, Martin asked, “What do you think happened to Alice?”
Felicia shrugged feebly. “I don’t know. All Master Lennox told me was that Alice was sent to work in the mine.” Felicia fixed anxious eyes on Martin. “You don’t know either, sir?”
Forty Acres: A Thriller Page 26
