Forty Acres

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  Martin catapulted from his seat and pounced on the white suit. He groped the pants pockets. Nothing. He patted the jacket pockets. Martin’s hope leapt when he felt a heavy lump that jangled at his touch.

  Keys.

  Martin removed them, careful to avoid any jingling. There were seven keys on a simple steel ring. Two of the keys were definitely for a vehicle. Two others looked like they opened doors. The three remaining keys were smaller than the others. One of them had to be the key to the safe.

  Martin could hear Oscar in the bathroom rifling the medicine cabinet. He heard the shuffle of toiletries and the rattle of pills. There was still time.

  Martin hurried to the nightstand. He moved Oscar’s drink from the top of the small safe and tried the first key. It didn’t fit in the lock.

  Shit.

  Martin tried the second key. It slid into the lock with ease, but it wouldn’t turn.

  Fuck.

  From the bathroom came the unmistakable thunk of the medicine cabinet closing.

  No.

  His hand trembling, Martin took hold of the last key. The key slid snugly into the keyhole. He gave it a twist, and the cylinder turned. There was a click and the safe’s lid popped free of the base, just a hair. Martin flipped open the lid. Inside the safe lay an American passport, an antique gold watch, and an old wedding photo of a younger Oscar and his bride.

  There was no gun.

  Oscar’s voice boomed, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Martin whirled.

  Oscar, clutching a bottle of Tylenol PM, stood glaring in the bathroom doorway. In that naked moment, in a millisecond of eye contact between the two men, Oscar suddenly understood everything. His glare hardened into fury. “You son of a bitch.”

  Oscar exploded into action, but instead of rounding the bed to reach Martin, he scrambled across the mattress. Martin realized that Oscar wasn’t charging him at all; instead he was lunging toward the pillow nearest to Martin’s side of the bed. Martin flung the pillow aside to reveal the stainless-steel nine-millimeter handgun. Oscar, arms outstretched, clawed for the weapon, but Martin snatched it first. In a frenzy of panicked motion Martin freed the safety, cocked the slide, and took point-blank aim at Oscar’s forehead. “Don’t move another inch,” Martin said.

  Oscar froze. Sprawled atop the bed, he glared up at Martin with dead-certain eyes. “Whatever the fuck this is, it’s not going to work.”

  Gun steady in his grip, Martin did his best to match Oscar’s confidence. “You better hope it does,” he said, “because your life depends on it.”

  CHAPTER 74

  Moments later, both men were seated again, but with two major differences. First, to discourage any quick movements, Martin had ordered Oscar to sit as far back in the easy chair as possible with both hands in his lap, while Martin sat on the edge of Oscar’s bed. Second, instead of holding a glass of bourbon, Martin held the nine-­millimeter pointed at Oscar’s heart.

  Oscar’s eyes ticked down and up between the pointed gun and Martin’s face. Martin could see Oscar’s mind working. Sizing up the threat.

  Martin warned him, “In college Glen dragged me to the gun range a few times, so I know how to use this.”

  For an icy second Oscar studied him, then challenged, “Shooting paper targets is not the same as shooting a man.”

  “Make no mistake,” Martin said. “If I can bring myself to whip that poor girl, I can definitely shoot you.”

  Oscar’s hard, steady stare gave nothing away. But the fact that Oscar remained planted in the easy chair told Martin that his point had been made.

  “What now?” Oscar growled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “It’s simple,” Martin replied. “You’re going to get me to the ranger station.”

  Oscar frowned as if Martin were wasting his time. “Maybe you ­haven’t noticed but this place is a fortress. You’ll never—”

  “Wait,” Martin said, raising his free hand. “Before you tell me that we can’t get past the guards, or we can’t get through the gate, or anything else like that, let me say this. I don’t care how you do it, but either you get me to the ranger station in the next hour or I’m going to kill you. It’s that simple.”

  Oscar just stared, trying to gauge Martin’s resolve. “What makes you so damn sure that I won’t die to protect Forty Acres?”

  “I’m not. I’m only sure of one thing. I’m willing to die to shut Forty Acres down.”

  Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Ridiculous question,” Martin said. “But if you really need an answer, here it is. Forty Acres is wrong. Plain and simple.”

  “Plain and simple?” Oscar shook his head in disappointment. “Clearly you haven’t thought through the potential repercussions of what you plan.”

  “The repercussions are that Dr. Kasim and the rest of his maniac followers will end up behind bars, where you all belong.”

  “Keep in mind,” Oscar said, “that these so-called maniac followers are influential, conscious black men. Doctors, businessmen, politicians, even one prominent church leader. These men that you’re so determined to destroy do a lot of good for our people. Ruin them, and countless innocents will suffer as well.” Oscar paused to underscore his next point. “And that’s just the beginning. Once you tell the world about Forty Acres, just imagine the resentment and distrust. It will be directed not only toward the men involved but toward the entire black community. You think blacks are discriminated against now? Just wait. What you do here tonight will set race relations back decades. If you truly believe that this matter is ‘plain and simple,’ then, Mr. Grey, you are a fool.”

  Martin was held by a specter of doubt. Everything Oscar said made sense. It would be naive to think that the bombshell that he was about to drop didn’t have the potential to hurt innocent people. But there was one intangible saving grace that Martin hoped would help temper the inevitable shock and outrage.

  “You’re right,” Martin said to Oscar. “Everything could happen just the way you say. But because a black man will be the one blowing the whistle, I don’t think it will. I believe that the world will understand the truth—that a few twisted men, men who just happened to be black, did something really stupid.”

  Oscar snorted. “You’re kidding yourself. This world you imagine does not exist.”

  “Another point on which we will always disagree,” Martin said. “Now, will you get me to the ranger station, or not? And before you answer, let me offer you an incentive.”

  “What incentive?”

  “Once we reach the station and I have contacted the authorities, I will let you go. I’ll do everything in my power to help the police find you later, but tonight I will let you go.”

  A smile creased Oscar’s face. “Now I see why you’re such a good lawyer. You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  “We’ve wasted enough time. Just give me your answer.”

  Oscar sighed. “Brother, please listen to me. What’s happening here is just part of what we talked about. Misplaced guilt. Why don’t you let me wake up the doctor? We can deal with this.”

  Martin glared. “Deal with it how? The way you dealt with Donald Jackson?”

  “No,” Oscar said, maintaining his composure. “Jackson was different. Jackson was too far gone to help.”

  “So am I,” Martin huffed. He extended the gun, bringing it a foot closer to his intended target. “I need an answer. Now.”

  Martin saw Oscar’s cool, calculating eyes drop to the gun.

  “Just so you know,” Martin said, “if you think you’re going to be saved by the guards or anyone else, you’re not. Anything goes wrong, I’m aiming at one person, and that’s you.”

  Oscar frowned. “I figured that.”

  It was so quiet Martin could hear the tick of the clock on
the wall.

  “Well?”

  Oscar shut his eyes as if trying to visualize the problem. “I get you to the ranger station, you let me go. If I don’t, you kill me.”

  “That’s right.”

  Oscar opened his eyes and conceded with an easy nod. “Then the ranger station it is.”

  Martin felt as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. He had pulled it off. His simple plan had worked. The rest was up to Oscar. “Okay,” Martin said. “So how do we get out of here? What’s the plan?”

  “Don’t need a plan,” Oscar replied. “Dr. Kasim owns Forty Acres and serves as its leader, but I run this place. I assume that’s why you’re waving that gun at me, not him. Getting past the guards will not be a problem, I promise you that.”

  Martin’s eyes darkened with suspicion. The overseer’s sudden cooperation was making him uneasy. “I’m warning you, if this is a trick—”

  “You’ll kill me, I know. I swear, it’s not a—”

  Oscar was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door.

  Startled, Martin sprang to his feet and took aim at Oscar’s head. The first thought that raced through Martin’s mind was that Oscar had a secret way of signaling for help. Gun trembling in his grasp, Martin whispered, “Who is that?”

  Oscar shook his head and threw up his hands.

  Martin made an instantaneous determination that Oscar’s puzzled expression was genuine.

  The knocks came again, this time followed by a voice. “Hey, Oscar, you still up? I need to talk to you. It’s about Martin. He’s not in his room.”

  Martin experienced a surge of panic. The gun suddenly felt heavier in his hand.

  It was Carver.

  CHAPTER 75

  Martin stood pressed against the wall beside the bedroom door, gun trained on Oscar’s temple. As Oscar reached for the knob, Martin whispered, “Keep in mind, I’m very nervous.”

  His heart pounding in his chest, Martin watched Oscar twist open the door. From his position Martin couldn’t see Carver, just the annoyed stare that Carver received from Oscar.

  “It’s late,” Oscar grumbled. “Why are you bothering me?”

  “I told you,” Carver said. “Grey’s not in his room.”

  The closeness of Carver’s voice made Martin’s heart hammer even faster. If Carver became even a little suspicious, things could get ugly fast.

  Oscar’s reaction to Carver’s news was calm, bordering on bored. “And how do you know this?”

  “I knocked,” Carver replied. “When I got no answer, you know, I peeked in.”

  Martin could practically hear the stupid smirk on Carver’s face.

  Oscar sighed. “And this is why you woke me? There’s no problem. I know exactly where Mr. Grey is.”

  Martin stiffened. What was Oscar doing?

  “You do?” Carver said. “Where?”

  The puzzlement in Carver’s voice mirrored what Martin felt. His palms grew slick with sweat, causing him to adjust his grip on the gun. He didn’t want to shoot Oscar, but if Oscar called his bluff—

  With a casual nod of his head, Oscar said to Carver, “Mr. Grey is right here pointing a gun at me.”

  These words were uttered so matter-of-factly that, for a fraction of a second, Martin wasn’t sure that he had heard right. This fleeting instant of hesitation was all the time Oscar needed to turn the tables.

  Oscar whirled and fixed Martin with a defiant stare that dared Martin to murder him in cold blood.

  Martin’s trigger finger tensed, but he couldn’t do it. Oscar grabbed Martin’s outstretched hand. Sharp, twisting pain shot through Martin’s wrist and he felt the gun snatched from his grasp. A sinking wave of emptiness spread from Martin’s hand to his heart. His plan had failed. It was over.

  Martin saw the steel butt of the handgun coming at him. He felt a sharp blow to his temple and a cascade of pain filled his skull. The room tilted. The hardwood floor came up and smacked the side of his face. Martin saw blurry bare feet and what looked like a pair of shoes approaching fast. He heard faraway voices. Alarmed voices. Shouting. Then blackness closed in and dragged Martin down.

  CHAPTER 76

  You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS announced in a friendly female voice.

  “You can say that again,” Anna muttered as she pulled her Prius to the curb and gazed out at the impressive house that stood directly across the street.

  Wow, Anna thought. Christine Jackson lives here?

  The house was a classic two-story redbrick colonial, nestled upon a sprawling emerald-green lawn. A curved brick path snaked past perfect hedges and a looming shade tree to reach the steps of an elegant entryway shaded by a portico. But it wasn’t just the amazing house that enthralled Anna; it was the entire neighborhood. Located in affluent Westchester County, the picturesque street buzzed with the morning rituals of suburban life. Several neighboring minimansions had teams of gardeners hard at work outside, trimming and snipping the shrubbery. At one nearby home, a uniformed housekeeper chatted with the mail carrier. Down the street Anna saw two very fit young women jogging side by side. One woman pushed a racing stroller and the other led an adorable Yorkshire terrier by a brown leather leash.

  Anna loved the modest house that she shared with Martin, and was fond of their lively Queens neighborhood as well, but turning onto this street was a little like entering a dream. Whenever Anna would fantasize about her future with Martin, a street like this one, with big beautiful homes and friendly neighbors, was exactly the setting that she would imagine. Where better to raise a family and nurture a long and loving marriage? Of course, Anna was neither naive nor shallow. She knew that the neighborhood’s picture-perfect facade said nothing about what truly went on behind all those high hedges and brass-knockered doors. The trappings of the American dream were a nice ideal to strive for, but ultimately they guaranteed little, happiness least of all. Donald Jackson’s apparent suicide was proof of that, wasn’t it?

  Still behind the wheel of her idling car, Anna returned her gaze to the Jackson home as she recalled a curious fact. Tracking down Christine Jackson’s address on the Internet had been a challenge because Christine and her two children had moved only a few months after her husband’s death. The family’s former address was a two-bedroom condo in upscale Brooklyn Heights. For a first-time author experiencing modest success, this seemed right in line with what Mr. Jackson would have been able to afford. What struck Anna as peculiar was the lifestyle that the family was able to maintain after Mr. Jackson’s death. Their current Westchester address indicated a significant upgrade in the Jackson family’s finances. The house alone had to be worth $3 or $4 million. Even the finest life insurance policy in the world couldn’t sustain this sort of expensive lifestyle for very long.

  The mystery that had inspired Anna to take the day off, get up early, and drive forty-five minutes out of the city had suddenly become more puzzling. To Anna it now seemed quite clear that Damon and his rich pals had done considerably more for the late Donald Jackson’s family than merely cover up his suicide. But if loyalty and generosity were the whole story, then how to explain the vicious look that Christine Jackson had leveled at Damon Darrell in that photograph? It simply didn’t make sense. No, the mysterious trips, the secret suicide, that photo, they all told Anna that something was not quite right about Martin’s new friends. And judging from that unforgettable look in Christine Jackson’s eyes, Anna had a strong suspicion that Mr. Jackson’s widow would be able to provide some answers.

  Anna killed her engine and climbed out of the Prius. Before she had a chance to cross, a yellow school bus rumbled down the block and squealed to a stop in front of the Jackson home. A single honk of the horn brought two backpack-laden kids, a boy and a girl, both about eight years old, bounding out of the house. The spritely siblings were trailed down the path by an attractive, light-skinned woman. The woman’
s slender figure made the burgundy silk robe that she wore look like a designer evening dress. The smoldering cigarette in the corner of her mouth completed her morning-chic look.

  Anna recognized Donald Jackson’s widow immediately.

  Christine Jackson kissed and hugged her children good-bye and then dragged on her cigarette as they charged onto the bus.

  As the yellow bus motored away, Christine noticed Anna standing across the street, watching her. If Christine Jackson found it odd to see a black woman in her neighborhood that she didn’t know or recognize, she didn’t show it. She simply flashed a fake smile, took another long drag of her cigarette, and started back toward her house.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” Anna called out as she hurried across the street. “Wait. Please.”

  Christine paused on her walkway and watched, perplexed, as Anna approached.

  “Hi,” Anna said, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. “You are Christine Jackson, right?”

  Christine did not return the stranger’s smile. “I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”

  “No,” Anna said, “and I apologize for ambushing you this way. I was about to knock on your door, but then the bus came, and you came out, so—”

  “Yes, yes. That’s fine. Now, who are you exactly?”

  * * *

  The Handyman was seated in a parked white Toyota Camry, half a block away, sipping black coffee from a thermos lid while watching Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Jackson’s early morning chitchat.

  “Well, well,” he muttered to himself. “Isn’t this interesting.”

  The Handyman was not in the habit of taking last-minute assignments. He preferred plenty of prep time. That was the only way to ensure that everything went just so. But when the client called at 3:17 in the morning and offered to double his already substantial fee, he was tempted to make an exception. What sold him were the particulars of the gig. Essentially, the client wanted him to be on standby. He was to shadow Anna Grey for twenty-four hours and wait for an extinguish order, which might or might not come. If the order came, he’d score the double payday. If not, he’d still receive his standard rate just for babysitting. To the Handyman that sounded like a pretty sweet deal, and from the looks of things down the street, it was about to pay off big-time.