Forty Acres: A Thriller (23 page)

CHAPTER 59

M
artin sat alone in his bedroom, watching the clock and waiting. Trying to remain calm.

Earlier that evening, at the dinner table, only one comment was made about the upcoming ritual. When everyone first sat down, Dr. Kasim, in a formal tone, informed Martin that after dinner he was to return directly to his room, where Damon would collect him at eight p.m. to escort him to the initiation ceremony. When Martin asked where this mysterious ceremony would take place, Dr. Kasim and the others simply ignored the question.

Martin resisted asking any further questions. He didn’t want to appear too worried, and he was also quite certain that none of the men would offer him any clue. For all he knew, watching the new guy squirm with worry was an appetizer for the night’s upcoming festivities. That was certainly true for Carver; he was clearly enjoying Martin’s anxiety. More than once Martin looked up from his plate and caught a gleam of amused anticipation in Carver’s eyes. Whatever Dr. Kasim had planned for Martin, it was obvious that Carver was champing at the bit to get to it already.

Martin glanced over at the clock beside his bed: 7:55. Just five more minutes and it would be time to get some answers. The butterflies in his stomach seemed to multiply in number. Martin took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. It was only an initiation. How bad could it be? But even as he thought these words, Martin could not ignore that tiny yet persistent warning voice in the back of his mind:
It could be bad. It could be really bad. There’s a damn good chance that it could be that one awful thing that you don’t even want to think about.

Martin gave his head a little shake, as if he could fling loose the dark thought from his synapses. But it held fast, like an old song you can’t get out of your skull. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that Damon and the others would never expect him to do such a thing, the possibility was too real to deny. The initiation could be murder.

Martin had never been a member of a fraternity or a cult, but he knew that a typical initiation ceremony could range anywhere from something harmless, like swearing a solemn oath or performing a humiliating act, all the way to the unthinkable: cold-blooded murder. And usually it was the groups who were engaged in malicious activities, the secret organizations with the most to hide, that levied the initiation fee of human sacrifice. Like the street gangs that required an act of random murder before you could join their ranks, or a crime syndicate in which membership wasn’t truly achieved until you’d killed for the family. The high price of entry into these groups was due to their illicit nature. They had the most to lose if details ever got out, so they made absolutely certain that anyone allowed in would put loyalty to the group above all else and take their secrets to the grave.

That’s what was troubling Martin. What secret could be more vital to protect than what was going on at Forty Acres?

When you put it into perspective, the truth became obvious. The initiation into Dr. Kasim’s club wasn’t going to be a simple swearing-in. It couldn’t be. There was too much at stake here, and these men were too smart to admit anyone so easily. Then Martin remembered Dr. Kasim’s comments about his ancestry. The only way they could know that for certain was to do a DNA test. And if they knew that, what else did they know about him? His financials? His medical history? And what about Anna? Did they probe every inch of her life as well? Was she, without knowing it, in the same danger he was?

Martin glanced at the clock: 7:59. One minute.

If some sort of murder was required, what would he do? He needed a plan. An excuse to get out of harming someone.

That’s when that little voice in his head changed its tune.
You have to do it.
The logic was simple, of course. If faced with sacrificing one man to save dozens, he would have to do it. The police would understand, wouldn’t they? Of course there was a possibility that they wouldn’t. The law had a habit of being really stubborn when it came to murder. They might not believe his story. They could say he changed his mind after fleeing, anything. The legal ramifications swirled in Martin’s mind until he realized one truth: it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what the police said. Right now, in this moment, Martin knew it was the right thing to do. It was the only way that he was going to rescue all those people, and the only way he was ever going to get back to Anna. It didn’t matter what they asked him to do. He had to do whatever it took to get back to civilization. Even if it meant murder.

There was a soft knock at his bedroom door. Martin glanced at the clock by the bed. Eight o’clock on the dot.

Martin opened the door and Damon stood on the threshold. His usual sly smile was gone. He laid a firm grip on Martin’s shoulder. “You ready?”

CHAPTER 60

M
artin asked no questions as he trailed Damon across the moonlit compound. The storm clouds that loomed earlier in the day had moved on. The twinkling sky above was now as clear as glass. Martin felt as if every star in heaven were watching him at that moment. That the universe had paused. The future of everything seemed to hinge on his ability to pass the test that he was about to face.

They walked down a stone-lined dirt path that cut through a brief stand of pines. The earthy crunch of their footsteps and the pillow talk of night creatures were the only sounds. The muted outdoor lamps that illuminated the path attracted churning swarms of gnats and a few fluttering moths.

They emerged from the narrow path into an open field, and finally Martin could see where Damon was leading him. Fifty yards ahead loomed a large horse barn. Unlike the other structures on the compound that appeared to be meticulously maintained, the barn’s wood-plank facade was pitted and weather-beaten. Whether the barn’s decrepit appearance was intentional to add character to the place or truly the result of neglect was impossible to tell, but to Martin one thing was certain: he did not like it. The brooding and rotted structure looked like a bad place where bad things happened. The closer they got to the old barn, the tighter the knot grew in Martin’s gut.

One barn door was cracked open and a glow of warm light could be seen within. “They’re not going to ask me to ride a horse, are they?” Martin asked, trying to make light. “I mean, I really suck at horses.”

“No horses in there,” Damon replied flatly, without looking at him. Damon just kept marching forward, quiet and distant. His cold single-mindedness ratcheted up Martin’s fear another notch.

A few steps before they reached the barn, Damon paused and turned to Martin. Squeezed Martin’s shoulder. “Whatever happens in there,” Damon whispered, “do not show weakness. You must be strong. Got it?”

For three weeks Martin had battled the man in court, and never had he seen Damon Darrell appear more serious. Fighting an invisible battle to push back his fear, Martin met Damon’s gaze and nodded. “I got it.”

Damon patted Martin on the arm. “They’re waiting. Let’s go inside.”

CHAPTER 61

T
he first thing that struck Martin when he entered the horse barn was its emptiness. He expected the interior of the old building to be strewn with rusted farming equipment, the walls shrouded in monstrous cobwebs. Instead the high-ceilinged structure had been stripped to its timber columns and rafters. All that remained were ten vacant horse stalls, five on each side, that ran the length of the space. Vintage oil-lamp-style electric sconces infused the barn with a dim glow that left the empty stalls in shadow.

Dr. Kasim, Oscar, Carver, Kwame, Tobias, and Solomon were gathered near the center of the barn. With the exception of their elderly leader, they were all dressed in simple black suits, with black collared shirts and black ties. Dr. Kasim was draped in a full-length black dashiki trimmed with ornate gold embroidery. Perched upon Dr. Kasim’s head was a matching kufi hat. The kufi hat’s embroidered design was so elaborate and striking that the doctor appeared to be wearing a golden crown.

The men stared at Martin in silence. The warm, brotherly smiles that had lured him so far away from home were gone. In their place were expressions so stern and frosty that Martin barely recognized the men.

There were also two black-garbed security guards flanking the main door. Both men wore hard stares and had handguns ready at their hips. During his stay Martin had encountered several members of Dr. Kasim’s private army, but these two he did not recognize. Martin watched as the two guards pulled the creaking barn doors shut, swung down a wooden latch, then retook their original positions.

Staring at those huge locked doors, Martin couldn’t help wondering if he would ever see the outside of the barn again.

Damon gave Martin a quick, supportive pat on the back, then he crossed to join Dr. Kasim and the other men. The instant Damon fell into their ranks, his face, like those of his colleagues, turned to stone.

Dr. Kasim, leaning on his walking stick, took a few steps forward. His steady, wizened eyes scanned Martin from head to toe. This inspection was slow and careful, as if the old man’s ghostly orbs could somehow scrutinize every cell in Martin’s body.

The unease gnawed at Martin. But he fought the urge to speak. Finally Dr. Kasim’s eyes met Martin’s. More tense seconds as the doctor held him with an unblinking stare. Martin could almost feel the doctor’s will. The urge to avert his gaze was overwhelming, but Martin held fast. He knew what would happen at any sign of weakness.

When the old man finally spoke, his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper, but each word still seemed to boom in Martin’s mind. “Brother Zantu, are you ready to restore your dignity and honor?”

Martin nodded.

“Speak up,” Dr. Kasim said.

Martin’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. Forced his lips apart. “Yes.”

“Are you ready to avenge the torture and murder of your African ancestors?”

Martin knew it wasn’t enough to just say what they wanted to hear. He had to sell it. Had to make them believe that he shared their passion. “Yes,” Martin replied with more conviction, not just in his voice but also in his stance, straighter, holding his head high. “Yes, Doctor. I’m ready.”

The faintest smile creased Dr. Kasim’s face. “Good.” The doctor turned to the right side of the barn and pointed his walking stick at the center stall. “The object of your vengeance waits for you in there.”

Martin felt a rush of dread. The Dutch doors on every stall in the barn were wide open, except for the stall that Dr. Kasim pointed to. Not only was that door closed, it was locked by two rusted slide bolts. Something was imprisoned inside that stall, and Martin felt pretty certain that it wasn’t a horse.

Dr. Kasim motioned the other men back, allowing Martin a clear path to the selected stall. Martin understood what he was supposed to do next, but fear froze his feet to the ground.

“What are you waiting for?” Carver said. “Open it.”

Dr. Kasim motioned Carver quiet, then turned back to Martin. “Go on, brother.”

The other men continued staring; he caught only the slightest nod of encouragement from Damon. The lawyer’s final words of advice resounded in Martin’s head:
Whatever happens . . . be strong.

Taking the first step felt like pulling his foot out of wet concrete. But then Martin was moving. One heavy step after another. The crunch of dirt underfoot was almost as loud as his racing heart. Martin could feel the stares following him. He could hear the shuffle of their feet as the men converged behind him.

The instant Martin paused before the stall door, he heard a muffled whimper from within. The pitiful, terrified sound made Martin queasy.
Be strong
, Martin repeated in his mind.
Be strong.

Dr. Kasim whispered behind him. “Those bolts should open right up.”

Martin gripped the handle of the top bolt. The cold, corroded metal flaked in his hand. He yanked the bolt and it slid open with a dull bang. From inside the stall came a startled gasp and more whimpers. Martin did his best to ignore the sounds as he seized the lower bolt. He tried to slide it open gently, but the old bolt would not cooperate. Martin had no choice but to yank the bolt as hard as he could. It slammed open, evoking another feeble gasp from within.

“Good,” Dr. Kasim said. “Very good.”

A thick, frayed rope with a fat knot on one end served as a handle for the stable door. Martin reached for the rope, but Dr. Kasim stopped him short.

“Wait. Not yet, brother.”

Martin yanked back his hand to conceal its trembling.

“Turn and face us.”

Martin did as he was told.

The six men flanking the doctor resembled a jury of statues. Dr. Kasim signaled Oscar with a nod. Oscar stepped forward and paused directly in front of Martin. For the first time since entering the barn, Martin noticed that Oscar gripped a small, black leather case. Oscar flipped open the two silver latches but he did not open the case. Instead, he carefully laid the case across his open palms and held it out to Martin. The meaning of this gesture was unmistakable:
You open it.

Oscar’s presentation of the case was executed with a solemn deliberateness that felt almost like a sacred offering.

Dr. Kasim nodded at Martin. “Open it, brother.”

Martin reached out and swung the lid up. The scent of old leather and saddle soap filled his nostrils. The case’s red silk lining made the black whip resting inside look like a coiled snake lying in a pool of blood. The whip’s entire tapering length was constructed of thick, tightly braided rawhide. And at the whip’s very tip, a mean frill of knotted leather strips.

“Do you know what kind of whip that is?” Dr. Kasim asked.

It took Martin a great deal of effort to conceal the queer sense of relief that he suddenly felt. Finally, he knew what the initiation would be, and in a twisted way, it made perfect sense. They wanted him to whip one of the slaves. The thought of brutalizing another human being terrified and sickened Martin, but whipping wasn’t murder. At least, not usually.

Martin stared at the whip. “It’s old,” he said. “I’m guessing it was once used on slaves.”

Dr. Kasim nodded grimly. “Overseers used to call that type of whip a cowskin. When it came to torturing our ancestors, the cowskin was the white man’s favorite tool. Nothing like the bullwhips you see in so-called slavery movies. A cowskin is shorter and meatier. And no fancy wrist snap needed, so there was no chance of missing or striking lightly. Every swing found its mark and left its mark. Not just on the black man’s flesh but on the black man’s spirit. And those scars have been passed down from generation to generation.”

Martin saw the other men nod and hum in agreement, like a congregation affirming the words of their pastor. Even the two guards by the door nodded their heads.

Dr. Kasim pointed a crooked finger at the whip. “But this particular cowskin is quite special. Used to belong to the great-great-grandson of a Mississippi plantation owner. He had it on display in his home. Nicely framed and everything, like some goddamned family heirloom.”

The anger in Dr. Kasim’s voice was palpable.

“So, twelve years ago,” Dr. Kasim continued, “when we abducted the great-great-grandson, we took the cowskin too. And now it’s our heirloom. The white man used it to beat down our spirit. Now we use it to take that spirit back.”

Behind Dr. Kasim, heads bobbed up and down, the twist of his story music to the men’s ears.

Dr. Kasim reached out and squeezed Martin’s arm. “Tonight, my Zantu brother, you have the honor of being the redeemer for our suffering ancestors. Pick up the cowskin.”

Martin grabbed the old whip by its rigid handle and lifted it out of the case. A few tan scuff marks were the only clues that the well-cared-for whip was an antique. The leather was as supple and flexible as if it were purchased new that very day. But what surprised Martin more was how heavy the weapon was. There was more leather packed into its construction than the tight braiding revealed. Martin let the leather cord uncoil and dangle to the dirt floor. He noticed how balanced the whip felt. Its length was just right—long enough to magnify the full swing of an outstretched arm but short enough to avoid being clumsy. The cowskin seemed perfectly designed to deliver as much punishment as possible.

“Twenty-five lashes, hard and true,” Dr. Kasim said. “Back then that was the typical Negro punishment. That’s what you will give back today. No more, no less.” Dr. Kasim tilted his head and peered deep into Martin’s eyes, as if trying to get a glimpse of the younger man’s soul. “Can you do this, brother?”

There it is
, Martin thought.
Twenty-five lashes with the cowskin. No one will have to be murdered.
With this certainty, Martin calmed a bit. All he had to do was find the strength to get through the next ten minutes, then the rest should be easy. In two days he’d be back home with Anna and this nightmare would be over. Not just for him but for the dozens of people suffering in Dr. Kasim’s slave pit. Martin just hoped that the poor soul locked inside the stall, the person whom he would have to whip, had the strength to survive the next ten minutes as well.

Martin nodded to Dr. Kasim. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”

Dr. Kasim smiled. “Good. Open it.”

Cowskin gripped in his right hand, Martin turned his back to Dr. Kasim and the men and stood facing the stall door. He paused to take a calming breath, then grabbed the knotted rope handle and pulled. The top and lower halves of the Dutch door began to swing open as one. Old hinges groaned as ambient light penetrated deep into the pitch-dark stall to reveal what hung limply on the rear wall.

Martin’s stomach flipped; bile rushed into his throat. It took everything he had to hold down his dinner and at the same time conceal his horror from the eyes behind him.

The woman was stark naked, gagged, and strung up by her shackled wrists to a rusted hook. Her skin was so ashen and slick with sweat that she almost seemed to give off her own dim light. Although the woman hung facing the wall, Martin instantly recognized her strawberry-blond hair and her small, curvy figure.

It was Alice.