Forty Acres: A Thriller (27 page)

CHAPTER 71

M
artin 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 come 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?”

It took Martin a moment to dredge up the lie. “No, I don’t,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’m pretty sure you’ll get to see your cousin tomorrow.”

The girl smiled gratefully. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

Felicia crossed to the door, but as she reached for the knob, Martin said, “Go straight back to your room, and stay there all night.”

“Sir?”

Martin made an effort to sound firm. A master giving his slave an order. “No matter what you hear in this house tonight, you stay in your room. Do you understand me?”

Felicia replied with a puzzled look, “Yes, sir. I think I do.”

“Good. Now go.”

A final fretful smile, then Felicia walked out and shut the door.

Martin turned to the clock: 12:15 to the minute.

Martin retrieved his jacket from the closet and zipped it on. It was time to go.

CHAPTER 72

M
artin knocked firmly, three times, on Oscar’s door.

Oscar’s bedroom was located at the very end of the upstairs hallway. Behind Martin, the long corridor was still and draped in deep shadow. The entire house seemed quiet. Besides his own anxious breathing, the only sounds that Martin heard were the nocturnal chatter of cicadas and crickets.

Then came the soft pad of approaching footsteps behind Oscar’s bedroom door. Martin took a calming breath.

The lock clicked, and the door was yanked open just wide enough for Oscar to glare out. “What is it?” When Oscar saw it was Martin, irritation morphed into puzzlement. Oscar opened the door wider. “Mr. Grey? Is there something wrong?”

Despite his gray T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, Oscar appeared to be wide-awake, like he’d been reading in bed until Martin’s knock. There was something off-putting about seeing the always-reserved overseer now dressed so casually. Martin also took note that Oscar was now unarmed, just as expected. All Martin had to do was get inside Oscar’s room.

He knew that the next words out of his mouth were crucial. He had to sound completely believable. Oscar was clearly a shrewd man; in fact, Martin’s plan depended on it.

If Oscar detected one false note in Martin’s actions, the night would be over before it even got started.

Martin looked Oscar square in the eye and said, “I need to speak to Dr. Kasim.”

Oscar scowled, as if Martin had just spoken a foreign language. “I don’t understand. What is the problem?”

Martin dropped his voice to a whisper. “I really would prefer to speak to the doctor. If you don’t mind.”

Oscar frowned. “Impossible. The doctor is asleep and cannot be disturbed. You’ll have to wait until morning.”

“I can’t,” Martin said, shaking his head. “It’s what we talked about. The guilt. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Exactly why I sent Felicia to your room. Did she arrive?”

“Yes, but—I sent her away. I couldn’t. I really just need to speak to Dr. Kasim. Any chance that you could wake him up?”

Oscar flashed a rare smile. “Absolutely not. That wouldn’t be a good idea for either of us. Perhaps you could speak to one of the other men. Mr. Darrell perhaps, or even better, Mr. Aarons. He’s very wise and a good listener.”

“What about you?” Martin said.

Oscar’s only reply was a creased brow.

Martin held his breath. Did he push too hard? Was it obvious that he had an ulterior motive?

Finally Oscar said, “You want to talk to me?”

Martin nodded. “You seemed to understand.”

“I was only delivering a message.”

“I know. But how many times have you delivered that message? Who knows the doctor’s mind better than you?”

Oscar frowned, and it appeared that he was about to agree; but then his expression changed. He scanned Martin from head to toe, for the first time noticing Martin’s outerwear. Oscar’s brow wrinkled. “You going somewhere?”

Maintaining his cool, Martin reacted as if he had forgotten about his outfit. “Oh, yeah—I was going to go for a walk around the grounds.”

“A walk? Now?”

“You know, to clear my head. If we could just talk for ten minutes, I would really appreciate it.” Martin glanced over Oscar’s shoulder. “Come on, you gotta have
something
stashed in there. Just one drink.”

Oscar made a grunting sound that Martin took to be the overseer’s version of a chuckle. “You drink bourbon?” Oscar said.

“Right now, I’d drink anything.”

Oscar stepped back and pulled his door open. “One drink.”

CHAPTER 73

W
hile Oscar poured two glasses of bourbon at a modestly stocked bar tray atop his dresser, Martin scanned the bedroom.

It was only slightly larger than Martin’s and the layout was similar. The biggest difference was the feel of the space. Unlike the guest rooms with their neutral décor, Oscar’s room, although quite neat, was filled with personal items that made it feel lived-in. There was an impressive collection of jazz and blues music, both CDs and vinyl. There was a smaller collection of hardcover books that appeared to be very old. Colorful Haitian watercolors shared the walls with framed photographs of New York City and a poster for the Pam Grier movie
Foxy Brown
.

Martin spotted the object he was searching for exactly where he expected; Oscar’s leather shoulder holster hung from the bedpost of the king-sized bed that dominated the center of the room. What Martin didn’t count on was that the shoulder holster would be empty.

Where was the gun?

“Here you go.” Oscar handed Martin a square whiskey glass, two fingers full. Oscar then removed a bookmarked hardcover from the cushion of an old easy chair and gestured to Martin. “Sit.”

Martin did so. He sat forward in the plush chair, purposely avoiding a reclined posture. At any moment he would have to move fast, and every second would count.

Oscar sat down on the edge of the bed, directly across from his guest. He nodded at Martin’s untouched glass. “Try it.”

The burnt oak aroma filled Martin’s nostrils before the glass touched his lips. The golden liquor was smooth going down. A wave of heat radiated through Martin’s torso.

Oscar hung on Martin’s reaction as if he had distilled the bourbon himself. “Good?”

“Hell no,” Martin said, shaking his head. “It’s amazing. Better than that crap Dr. Kasim gave us.”

Oscar cracked a small smile, then joined the party by taking his first sip.

In the fleeting instant between Oscar’s raising his glass to his mouth and bringing it back down, Martin scanned the bedroom again. In a house full of slaves, for the overseer to hide his weapon made perfect sense, but where would he hide it? Did he tuck it into a dresser drawer every night? Did he put it on a shelf in the closet? Maybe Oscar stashed the weapon under his pillow where he could get to it fast. Martin found the answer hidden in plain sight. It was sitting right there atop the nightstand beside Oscar’s bed, so innocuous that it was barely noticeable.

The small pistol safe had a dull black finish with dimensions similar to a large cigar box. The safe’s surface was featureless, with one crucial exception: a single chrome keyhole.

Damn it.

“Not what you expected, huh?”

“What?” Martin turned and saw Oscar peering at him over the brim of his glass. Watching him.

Oscar took another slow sip of his bourbon, then said, “You keep looking around with an odd expression on your face. I’m guessing you were expecting something else.”

“Not really,” Martin said. “You just have a lot of interesting stuff. How long have you lived here?”

“Ten years, more or less.” Oscar gazed at the swirling contents of his glass. His eyes were distant, as if he were staring back across the years. “I came here as a guest, same as you. Liked what I heard. Saw no reason to go back.”

Martin fought the urge to glance around the room in search of Oscar’s keys. Oscar had already taken notice of his snooping. If there was still any chance of pulling off his plan, Martin was going to have to be more careful. “So, you just dropped everything?” Martin asked. “Your work? Your friends? Were you married?”

Oscar withdrew from the phantoms in his glass. He frowned. “Let’s not get sidetracked. We’re here to talk about you, not me.” Oscar left it there, his attentive stare an invitation for Martin to get to the point.

“Well,” Martin said, “it’s pretty much what you said. I believe in everything that Dr. Kasim is doing here, and I feel lucky to be a part of it. But when I close my eyes—”

“You see the girl,” Oscar said. “You see Alice.”

“Yes.” Martin sighed deeply; he wasn’t lying. “With your job I’m sure you’ve had to punish plenty of slaves. How do you, well—”

“How do I sleep at night? Is that your question?”

Martin nodded. “I guess you’re used to it.”

Oscar smiled at that. “No. You just put it into perspective.”

“Perspective?”

Oscar leaned forward. “Every time you see Alice in your head, think about your great-great-grandfather being maimed, or boiled alive, or skinned. Think about your great-great-grandmother being raped in the same room where her family slept. Then think about how proud your ancestors would be of this place, and of you. That, my brother, is perspective.”

Martin nodded and capped the moment by draining his bourbon. He frowned at the empty glass. “I know you said one drink, but—”

Oscar took Martin’s glass and carried it to his dresser. As Oscar worked the minibar he said, “That photo album in Dr. Kasim’s library. You wouldn’t believe what’s in there. Extremely rare photos of slave punishments. Very graphic stuff.”

Martin was barely listening. His eyes were darting, searching for Oscar’s keys. He eyed a small table beside the bedroom door, a perfect spot to leave them, but the keys weren’t there. He scanned the two nightstands that flanked Oscar’s bed: nothing. He even glanced over at the long dresser where Oscar was pouring the drinks. Along with the minibar, there were a few framed photographs, and that was it. No keys.

Martin knew that his chance of finding the keys out in the open was a long shot, and he was about to give up when he spotted Oscar’s suit. The white jacket and slacks were draped over the bed’s footboard, most likely tossed there when Oscar undressed for the evening. Was it possible that the overseer’s keys were still in the suit?

“You really should look through it at least once,” Oscar said, handing Martin a fresh drink and retaking his seat on the bed. “But not tonight. If you’re trying to get some sleep, it might defeat the purpose.”

“If the rest is anything like that first photo, I believe you.”

“Let’s just say that everything in that album makes Alice’s punishment tonight look merciful.”

Martin considered mentioning that Alice was innocent, that Carver had only used her to get to him, but he held his tongue. Oscar might perceive the accusation as evidence that Martin’s little bout with conscience was more than just a minor concern. Martin needed Oscar’s guard to be as lax as possible for what he was about to try next.

“Well, thanks for your help,” Martin said.

“No problem,” Oscar said. He gestured to the drink in Martin’s hand. “Although, I think the bourbon will help you more tonight than anything I can tell you.”

Martin smiled and raised the glass to his mouth but stopped short. He rubbed his temple and said, “You know, it might be better if I just took a couple of aspirins.”

Oscar lowered his glass from his lips. “Headache?”

“Yeah. I guess African beer, Guinness, and bourbon don’t mix.”

“Probably not.”

“You got anything in the medicine cabinet? Maybe something that will help me sleep?”

Oscar looked unsure. “Maybe. Let me check.” He set his glass down atop the pistol safe, then rounded the bed to the opposite side of the room and disappeared into the bathroom.

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.”