Forty Acres

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  Time seemed to pause as Martin’s eyes ticked back and forth between the two unmarked symbols—the gray line that looked an awful lot like an active road, and that tiny brown square where there might be people and a way to contact the outside world. These slivers of hope set Martin’s heart racing, because if either one was true, an entirely new possibility presented itself. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for him to save Alice’s life.

  CHAPTER 68

  Martin waited while Tobias cracked open and passed around fresh bottles of Guinness before he asked Oscar about the two symbols. Martin’s tone was curious without being eager, as if he didn’t care if he received an answer or not.

  Oscar, in turn, provided the answers with a similar indifference, apparently oblivious to the fact that Martin hung on his every word.

  “Yes, that is a road,” Oscar said, referring to the thin gray line. “An old two-lane highway that runs clear across the forest. It’s a little treacherous. Undermaintained. Gets so little traffic that you could have a picnic right in the middle of it. People tend to avoid it in favor of one of the newer roads that connect directly to the interstate.”

  Although Martin was right about the highway, the lack of traffic made the chances of flagging down a passing truck or motor home too slim to rely on. So Martin shifted all his hope to the brown square. When he saw Oscar drop his gaze to the square and frown, Martin’s heart lifted a little.

  “That,” Oscar said, pointing at the square with a pinch of disdain, “is where our friendly neighbors live.”

  “Neighbors? What do you mean?”

  “You saw them,” Damon said. “We drove past them in the woods on our way out here.”

  “Yeah,” Carver said. “We practically had to hold you down to stop you from jumping out of the Jeep to help those white boys.”

  The forest rangers. Of course. How could he have forgotten the two rangers he’d seen working in the woods? Rangers stationed in remote areas lived for months at a time in cabins. Cabins equipped with everything that the isolated men would need to survive, including a radio. It was perfect. It seemed too good to be true.

  “You’re telling me that there’s a ranger station three miles from here?” Martin said. “Isn’t that a problem?”

  “Four-point-six miles, actually,” Oscar said. “Not an ideal situation but completely under control. Like I told you, this is private property. The rangers respect that. As long as we don’t give them a reason to cross the river, they don’t.”

  Dr. Kasim harrumphed. “Of course, the money we give them to mind their damn business doesn’t hurt. Forest rangers love green, you know.”

  The men laughed and Martin laughed along with them, but inside, his mind was reeling. He glanced at the map again. Stared at that tiny brown square on the opposite side of the river. The answer to everything was so agonizingly close. He didn’t have to wait another two days to reach home and the authorities. Alice didn’t have to be sacrificed. Just a 4.6-mile hike through the woods and the nightmare could end that very night.

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking, brother.”

  Startled, Martin looked up and saw Dr. Kasim staring hard at him. “I wasn’t thinking anything,” Martin said, trying hard not to sound rattled and doing a poor job.

  “Then why were you staring a hole through my map?”

  “Was I?”

  The other men were all watching now. Staring at Martin. Waiting for him to explain.

  “I don’t know,” Martin continued, “I just—”

  Dr. Kasim raised his hand, cutting Martin short. “You’re worried about the forest rangers,” he said. His tone was one of absolute certainty. “You’re worried that sooner or later they’re going to bust in here. Am I right?”

  Grateful for the out, Martin nodded.

  Dr. Kasim shook his head and sighed. “My brother, when you’re behind these walls, the last thing in the world you have to worry about is a couple of white men.”

  The men nodded and bumped fists.

  “That’s for damn sure,” Tobias said.

  Dr. Kasim leaned closer to underscore his earnestness. “I give you my promise, our neighbors are not a problem. Can you trust me, brother?”

  “Absolutely,” Martin said.

  “Here we are the masters, and you are one of us now. You must not ever forget that.”

  “I won’t,” Martin said. “I promise.”

  Dr. Kasim gave an approving smile. Then motioned to Oscar, who promptly closed the binder and carried it back across the room. When Oscar knelt down to slide the binder back into the safe, Martin spotted something that suddenly made the impossible seem very possible.

  Oscar’s gun.

  The instant that stainless-steel weapon peeked out from beneath Oscar’s jacket, a plan formed in Martin’s mind. The plan was dangerous and a little crazy, but it was also very simple. Its elegance was what made Martin believe that he could pull it off. He really could save Alice and at the same time free all the slaves. And he could do it that very night.

  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 headboard, 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 Dar
rell 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.