Forty Acres: A Thriller

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  As the Handyman screwed the suppressor into the barrel of his Colt handgun he could hear the muffled roar of running bathwater coming from upstairs.

  The sound was like music to his ears.

  CHAPTER 91

  3:45.

  3:44.

  Martin, clutching his throbbing shoulder, could still see the monitor from his slumped position on the floor. With his head swimming, the flashing digits weren’t much more than a green blur.

  3:40.

  3:39.

  Carver was seated in one of the rolling chairs, his weapon trained on his prisoner. He watched Martin’s suffering, wearing a tight, satisfied smile. “I told them that it was you,” Carver said, “but they didn’t believe me. They refused to come back. Just fucking left me. Can you believe that?”

  Martin blinked and shook his head, struggling to fend off the tug of unconsciousness. “Please,” Martin said, “there must be another way to shut it down. You can still stop this.”

  “Fuck that,” Carver said. “You’re gonna sit there and watch the show. Then, when it’s over, I’m going to shoot your traitorous ass and take a photo to prove to them that I was right. How does that sound, brother?”

  “You’re crazy,” Martin said.

  “I’m crazy?” Carver leaned forward in his chair. “All white people, then and now, hate you because you’re black. They might wear it on their sleeve, they might hide it deep down, but it’s there. And if you don’t see that one truth, then you’re the one who’s crazy. Even worse, you’re a disgrace to your race. If I had the time, I’d peel that black off you, very slowly. Just looking at you makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Then Carver Lewis spat in Martin Grey’s face.

  Never looking away, Martin brushed away the spittle. “I take it back. You’re not crazy. You’re just stupid.”

  Carver flared with anger. He sprang out of the chair, raising the handgun to pistol-whip Martin. Martin drove his heel, as hard as he could, straight into Carver’s knee. There was a sharp snap. Carver hollered in pain as he crashed to the floor. The gun flew out of Carver’s hand and skittered toward Martin.

  Forgetting his pain, Martin lunged for the gun. Just as his hand brushed gunmetal, a raging Carver flung himself onto Martin. Carver slammed his fist into Martin’s bleeding shoulder. Martin wailed as pain lanced through his body. Carver hammered the wound again and again. Martin was jolted by rapid explosions of agony; the room began to tilt. And in that dizzy instant, he caught a glimpse of the timer.

  2:13.

  2:12.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” Carver growled. He crashed his knuckles into Martin’s shoulder once more.

  The pain was so intense that Martin saw a flash of white before the blackness began to draw him down. As he sank deeper and deeper, Martin could feel Carver’s hand groping desperately beneath his back for the gun. Martin heard a voice, low and anguished but determined. “No,” the voice said. He realized it was his own. It was his last ounce of will refusing to let those people die, refusing to let Anna’s death be for nothing, refusing to let Carver get that gun. “No!” Martin yelled. In a burst of adrenalized strength, Martin kicked a stunned Carver clean off him. Martin rolled clear and suddenly it was right there, lying between them.

  The handgun.

  Carver’s hand flew out, but Martin grabbed the weapon first. Carver scowled and screamed an obscenity and lunged at Martin, flailing.

  Martin shot Carver clean through the heart, hurling his body back to the floor.

  Carver lay dead.

  1:43.

  1:42.

  Martin groaned. He grabbed hold of the console and hauled himself to his feet. He heard a faint splattering sound, looked down, and saw blood dribbling to the floor. The bullet wound in his shoulder was bleeding freely. The room wobbled. He blinked at the monitor and saw double, two black-and-white images of the roomful of doomed people, and two timers.

  1:35.

  1:34.

  Martin dropped his failing gaze to the locked rotary switch, its green indicator light multiplying and rotating in his vision like a kaleidoscope. He grabbed the knob and strained to turn it. But of course it wouldn’t budge. It was still locked.

  Martin tried to focus his eyes on the lock itself. On the jagged edge of the broken key buried deep within the keyhole.

  Impossible to reach, but just maybe—

  Martin pressed his thumb as hard as he could against the keyhole. Applying constant pressure he tried to twist the cylinder.

  His thumb slipped.

  The lock did not turn.

  1:21.

  1:20.

  Martin pushed himself away from the console. Staggering about and leaning on anything he could for support, Martin searched the security room. He dumped out the contents of several storage boxes.

  1:05.

  1:04.

  Martin fished through the dumped supplies and found a pair of scissors. He stumbled back to the console and tried to force the lock with one of the scissor blades.

  The lock still did not turn.

  :39.

  :38.

  :37.

  Lacking the strength to hurl the useless scissors across the room, he just let them slip from his fingers. The scissors clattered to the floor directly beside Carver’s gun.

  Steadying himself by holding the console, Martin stooped down and picked up the weapon. When he stood back up the room spun, and spun, and spun. Flashing green numerals seemed to whirl around him.

  :25.

  :24.

  :23.

  The vertigo showed no signs of letting up, so Martin raised the gun and did his best to aim at the swaying console. Martin started squeezing the trigger, and he didn’t stop squeezing until he had emptied the gun’s entire clip.

  The control console flashed erratically, spit sparks, and spewed white smoke . . . but the countdown on the monitor continued.

  :11.

  :10.

  :09.

  Overwhelmed by helplessness and defeat, Martin was no longer able to resist the effects of his injury. His legs gave out and he crumbled hard to the floor. Flat on his back, beside Carver’s corpse, Martin watched the last few digits tick away.

  :06.

  :05.

  :04.

  That’s when every light on the console abruptly winked out. The surveillance monitor died. The lights in the security room and the lights beyond in the cellar began to flicker and strobe and then slowly dim to darkness.

  Martin found himself floating in a perfect blackness. He thought that maybe he had died, but he found it strange that he could still feel the floor beneath him. He thought about Anna, about the child they might have had. For some reason he imagined a girl. He imagined himself and Anna walking along a deserted forest highway with a beautiful little girl. He could hear the little girl giggling as she ran away down the leaf-strewn road. He could hear Anna shouting the little girl’s name as Anna chased after her.

  “Alice, stop,” Anna cried out. “Alice, please stop.”

  CHAPTER 92

  A twenty-two-foot 1984 Winnebago Chieftain motor home came to a screeching stop on a deserted forest highway. The sun dangled low in the sky, casting long tree shadows across the cracked blacktop.

  The Winnebago’s driver’s-side door swung open and Freddy Tynan carefully backed out and lowered himself to the ground. There was a time when Ol’ Freddy would have just leapt out, no problem, but that was back when he first bought the Winny. The year 1986 was a big one for Freddy Tynan. His wife of eight years had left him, he quit his bus-driver gig, and he decided to walk the earth. Well, drive really, and not the earth, just the continental United States.

  The instant Freddy’s Doc Martens boots were planted on the road, Jake, a seven-year-old cattle dog and maybe the smartest animal in the world, leapt out the door to join his master.

  Ol’ Freddy scratched the mess of whiskers on his chin and frowned at Jake curiously. “Who said you were invited?”
r />   Jake sat down and barked once up at Freddy.

  “Kind of late to ask now, don’t you think?” Freddy said.

  Jake barked again, and pawed Freddy’s blue jeans.

  Freddy laughed. “Okay, okay. Come on.” He buried his hands in his denim jacket and walked forward to get a better look at whatever the hell it was that lay across the middle of the road. He had been warned by other RVers to avoid this old highway for just the reason that he had slammed on his brakes. They said that the route was barely maintained and that fallen trees and rockslides were common. But as Ol’ Freddy and Jake stepped closer to the debris, Freddy realized that what he had seen wasn’t debris at all.

  Ol’ Freddy scratched his beard as he beheld the unexpected sight. “I’ll be damned.”

  Someone had used a bunch of sticks and stones to spell the word HELP across both lanes of the highway.

  Jake barked and took off up the embankment after a scampering gray rabbit.

  “Jake, don’t you go too—” Freddy’s words caught in his throat when he noticed a piece of paper pinned beneath one of the stones. The paper appeared to have writing on it. Ol’ Freddy quickly picked it up. It wasn’t a slip of paper at all. It was the torn front cover of a 2009 Land Rover LR3 owner’s manual. Someone had used the blank side to scrawl a message.

  When Freddy first spotted the word HELP spelled out with sticks and stones, he thought it was some kind of prank, but once he’d read that note, the rising hairs on the back of his neck told him it wasn’t.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Ol’ Freddy patted his pockets for his cell phone. Realizing that he’d left it on the dashboard, he jammed two fingers into his mouth and whistled. As Freddy turned and hurried back to the Winny, Jake came scrambling out of the woods and met him at the driver’s door.

  “Let’s go, boy.”

  Jake leapt up into the motor home in a single bound. Then Ol’ Freddy did something that he hadn’t done in maybe twenty years: he grabbed the door handle and yanked himself straight up into the driver’s seat. His back and shoulder would probably make him pay for that stunt in a day or two, but that didn’t matter now.

  Ol’ Freddy grabbed his cell phone from the dash and hit the menu button. The screen came to life and Freddy’s heart sank.

  A red battery icon flashed zero percent.

  “Goddamnit!”

  Jake watched with his head cocked as his master began to dig frantically through the glove compartment.

  CHAPTER 93

  The warm glow from aromatherapy candles perched along the rim of the bathtub cast wavering shadows on the bathroom walls. The soothing fragrance of lavender and vanilla, and soft music from Anna’s iPod, infused the air with tranquillity.

  Anna lay chin-deep in the warm soapy water, eyes shut, in a state of absolute relaxation. She almost felt weightless, formless, as if the bathwater had dissolved her body away, leaving nothing but pure thought.

  Anna pondered the life growing inside her, the life that she and Martin had created, and this thought filled her with perfect joy. She thought about fun ways that she could reveal the wonderful news to her husband. Maybe she’d bake his favorite chocolate cake and inscribe it with a special message, or maybe she’d buy him one of those cheesy T-shirts that said Soon to Be the World’s Best Dad. Maybe she’d do both. As Anna lay there dreaming up endless possibilities, her thoughts descended gently into sleep.

  * * *

  The Handyman, gun held ready, ascended the stairs carefully, pausing to test each step before committing his full body weight. A single creaking misstep might alert the woman to his presence; then things could get sloppy real fast. The Handyman didn’t do sloppy.

  Finally reaching the top of the stairs, the Handyman tiptoed down the upstairs hall. When he passed the master bedroom, just to be thorough, he peeked inside. The room was empty, as expected. He continued down the hall. As he approached the closed bathroom door, he could hear music playing inside. It was a Sigur Rós piece called “Untitled #3.” It was on the playlist he listened to while jogging every morning at five a.m. The tune was very relaxing, transcendental even. Perfect music for dying.

  The Handyman pressed his ear to the door and listened. There were no sounds of sloshing water or of wet feet on tiles or of magazine pages flipping, just the coaxing rhythms of “Untitled #3.” The only explanation was that the Grey woman was either fast asleep or already dead. He smiled at his mental joke. Could this job get any easier?

  Leading with the pointed gun, the Handyman twisted the doorknob and eased the bathroom door open. A pleasant aroma greeted him as he crept through the doorway. The sight of Anna Grey, her head tilted slightly, sound asleep in the tub, brought another small smile to his face.

  Two more careful steps, and the Handyman was looming directly over Anna. Through the dissipating bubbles he could see her lovely naked body. For a second he entertained the idea of using her for sexual relief, but his professionalism would not allow him such an indulgence. Especially not on an ASAP job.

  As “Untitled #3” reached his favorite part, the real quiet part at the end that sounded like the soul leaving the body, the Handyman cocked his gun and took aim at Anna Grey’s temple.

  The Handyman’s finger was about to squeeze the trigger when he heard something, an odd musical note. He had listened to “Untitled #3” dozens of times and knew this note was wrong. Then he heard it again and realized with some alarm that the odd musical note wasn’t coming from the iPod, it was coming from downstairs.

  The doorbell chimed again, this time followed by loud banging and a shouting voice. “Mrs. Grey, it’s the police. Open the door.”

  The Handyman saw Anna Grey stir drowsily. He had to act now before she woke up.

  * * *

  Another series of loud bangs and Anna lurched awake. She spun around in the tub and gasped at what she saw.

  The bathroom door was wide open. She didn’t remember leaving it that way, but maybe she—

  Loud pounding and shouting startled Anna.

  “Mrs. Grey,” a muffled voice boomed from downstairs, “it’s the police. Please open the door.”

  What the hell? Still foggy from sleep, Anna’s mind whirled. “I’m coming,” she shouted. She climbed out of the tub and grabbed her robe.

  A moment later, barefoot and dripping all over her living room floor, Anna snatched open the front door. She stared, baffled and more than a little alarmed, at the two uniformed police officers standing on her doorstep. The older officer was white, the younger one appeared to be Hispanic. Both had their hands resting on their sidearms.

  “Anna Grey?” the older officer asked.

  The first thought that sprang into Anna’s mind was that something awful had happened to Martin. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice edged with fear. “What happened?”

  Ignoring the question, the two officers peered over Anna’s shoulder into the house. They craned their necks trying to glean as much as they could from the doorway.

  “Is everything okay here, ma’am?” the older officer asked.

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Anyone else in the house?”

  “No, nobody.”

  While the younger officer pivoted and glanced around the front yard, the older officer looked at her. “What about Mr. Grey? Is he home?”

  “No, he’s out of town.” Anna’s tense shoulders relaxed as if shedding a heavy cloak. The officer’s question about Martin meant that this odd visit had nothing to do with his trip. Anna brushed away dripping water from her neck. “So what is this about?”

  The older officer pinned Anna with a conspiratorial stare and dropped his voice to a whisper. “If someone’s hiding in the house, blink twice.”

  Now Anna was really getting freaked out. “Look, I was just taking a bath. I’m here alone, I swear. Would you please just tell me what’s going on? You two are starting to scare me.”

  The two officers settled down. “Sorry, ma’am,” the older officer said. �
�Just doing our job.”

  “What job? Like I told you, I’m fine. I have no idea why you’re here. I didn’t call the police.”

  “No, ma’am. Someone else did.”

  “And what, they told you to come to my house?”

  The officer nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The DA’s office received an urgent call from your attorney, a—” The officer checked his notepad. “Glen Grossman. Mr. Grossman explained that you were a witness in one of his cases and that there had been a threat against your life.”

  Anna stared. Nothing the officer said made any sense. “What? That’s—”

  The older officer raised a calming hand. “No need to get alarmed, ma’am. Usually these types of threats are baseless. But if you don’t mind, I would like my partner to take a look around your house. Is that okay?”

  Anna didn’t know how to reply. If Glen did call the police, she didn’t want to get him in trouble by exposing his lie. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine any reason why Glen would do such a thing. He wouldn’t.

  “I’ll be real quick, ma’am,” the younger officer said. “Just a walk-through for our report.”

  Anna shook her head. “No. Hold on. Glen Grossman isn’t my attorney. He’s my husband’s law partner. And I’m not a witness in any case. There’s been some kind of mistake.”

  The two officers exchanged confused looks. The older turned back to Anna. “This Grossman character is not your lawyer? You’re not one of his witnesses? You’re sure?”

  “Of course. I told you, he’s my husband’s partner. This is very strange. Maybe someone’s playing a prank.”

  “A prank? This would be a very serious prank, ma’am. Your husband’s partner the kind of person who would do something like this?”

  “Who, Glen? No. Never. He’s—” Anna was interrupted by Glen’s Grand Cherokee screeching to a stop at the curb. Glen’s sudden appearance added another spin to the mystery, because it meant only one thing: Glen really did call the police. In a fog of puzzlement, Anna pointed and said, “That’s Glen right there.”