Forty Acres: A Thriller

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  The valet pointed to a wooden door on the far side of the room. “That’s the bathroom over there.” He pointed to another door adjacent to the bed. “And that there’s just a closet.” He deposited Martin’s overstuffed backpack onto the bed and headed for the door.

  “Hang on,” Martin said, and reached into his pocket. He thought that the kid deserved a little something for busting his tail. Martin peeled free a five-dollar bill. “This is for you.”

  “No, no, no, sir,” the valet said, shaking his head as he backed toward the door. “That’s not allowed.”

  Martin pushed the money into the valet’s hand anyway. “It’s okay. It’ll just be between us.”

  “No, sir,” the valet said. And for a moment, Martin noticed the valet’s nervous eyes scanning the room. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” The valet dropped the money and hurried out the door.

  Martin stared at the rejected five-dollar bill lying on the carpet. Was it his imagination, or did the young valet actually appear frightened? Times were tough. Work was hard to come by. Maybe the kid was afraid of losing his job. But Martin sensed that something deeper stoked the young man’s fear. No doubt Oscar was tough on the staff. A shouter perhaps, or, even worse, an asshole. The type of boss who gets his jollies by making his employees miserable. On the surface, Oscar appeared to be nothing but professional, but Martin knew that anyone that rigid had to have a few cracks. And what about Dr. Kasim?

  Martin picked up his five-dollar bill, then began to unpack. After he had transferred the contents of his backpack into the drawers of an antique armoire, Martin sat down on the bed and pulled out his cell phone. Dinner was still the better part of an hour away, so he figured he’d use the time to call Anna and let her know that he had arrived safely. He’d decided not to tell her about Forty Acres though, at least not yet. Although the guys had neglected to swear him to secrecy, Martin couldn’t help feeling that blabbing to his wife the first chance he got would constitute an act of high gender treason. Besides, Anna was already worried enough about the trip. Why give her something else to lose sleep over? Maybe he’d tell Anna after he got back. Maybe he wouldn’t.

  Martin turned on his phone and frowned at the two words that flashed on the small screen: no signal. He wasn’t really surprised. Why would a telephone company erect a cell tower way out here? Bears didn’t carry cell phones, or pay inflated and overtaxed phones bills for that matter. But Martin noticed that there wasn’t a telephone in the room either. The two nightstands that flanked the bed held matching table lamps and crystal ashtrays. Nothing else.

  Martin exited his room and started down the hall toward the great stairway. He spotted a maid exiting a room with an armful of towels and intercepted her. “Excuse me.”

  When the maid turned to face him, Martin was arrested by the woman’s simple beauty. She was in her early twenties with fair skin, strawberry-blond hair, big green eyes, and a curvy little figure despite the frumpy maid’s smock that she wore. Martin found himself wondering the same thing about this girl that he had about the girl cleaning the fountain. Why would such a pretty young woman want to work here, in such a remote and isolated setting?

  The pretty maid flashed Martin a smile. “Hello, sir. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Martin waved his cell phone. “My phone’s not working. Is there a phone in the house that I could use?”

  The maid frowned. “No, sir. I’m sorry but there are no telephones in the house.”

  “Outside the house?”

  “No, sir. None at all.”

  “Really? How about a computer so that I can send an email?”

  The maid shook her head. “No, sir. Telephones and computers are not allowed here.”

  Martin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. No phones in the house was one thing, but to have no means of outside communication seemed, at the very least, reckless. “There has to be a way to reach the outside world. How do you call home?”

  The young maid just blinked, caught off guard by the question. When she finally spoke there was a crack in her voice. “We don’t, sir.”

  “What do you mean?” Martin was no linguistics expert, but the maid’s clipped New England accent was easy to recognize. “You’re from the Boston area, am I right? How do you stay in touch with your family? Your friends?”

  The maid seemed anxious. “I’m sorry, sir, but . . . I should get back to work. Excuse me, please.”

  She made to leave, but Martin stepped in front of her. “Hold it. Wait a second. I’m not trying to get you in trouble or anything. I just really need a phone.”

  “But I told you, sir, there is no phone.”

  “But why? How can there possibly not be a single telephone here?”

  Her mouth moved, but she gave no answer. Then her face changed. It happened so fast that it startled Martin. It was as if a dam had given way, flooding her eyes with a deep sadness.

  “Forty Acres has no telephones,” came a voice behind them, “because having one is against Dr. Kasim’s rules.”

  Martin turned and saw Damon striding down the hall. The maid took advantage of the interruption to make her escape. “Pardon me, sir.”

  Martin stared as the young maid hurried away down the hall.

  “You have good taste,” Damon said with a mischievous smile.

  “What?”

  “The maid. Pretty little thing, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Her name’s Alice. Hottest girl on the staff. It’s like having Scarlett Johansson as a maid. And man . . . would I love to have me some Scarlett Johansson. You know what I mean?”

  Damon’s comments were just his typical guy talk, but at that moment they rubbed Martin the wrong way. It was because of Alice’s eyes. Martin was still haunted by those troubled green eyes. “So tell me,” Martin began, “what does Dr. Kasim have against telephones and email?”

  “He says they’re a distraction,” Damon said, “and he’s right of course. We come here to isolate ourselves from the everyday static.”

  “So telephones and email are distractions but a television is not?”

  “Exactly,” Damon said. “Dr. Kasim calls television his magic window onto the white world.”

  “There has to be some way to communicate with the outside world. What if someone gets sick? How do you call for help?”

  Damon shrugged. “There’s a shortwave radio set up somewhere, or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t think we’ve ever used it.”

  “You mean except for the time Donald Jackson committed suicide, right?”

  Damon smiled and nodded. “That is correct, counselor.”

  Martin frowned. “I really wish you had told me about the phone situation.”

  “Sorry,” Damon said. “I guess I just assumed that you knew there would be no cell service in the woods.”

  “You saw how nervous Anna was about the trip. She’s going to freak out when she doesn’t hear from me.”

  “And then what, counselor?” Damon’s tone was that of an instructor challenging a student to “think it through.” “After your wife ‘freaks out,’ what will she do next?”

  Martin considered. “I guess the first thing she’ll do is call your wife. See if there’s a way to reach you.”

  Damon smiled. “Exactly. Then Juanita will tell Anna that it’s impossible to reach us by phone. End of crisis.”

  Martin didn’t like the idea of worrying Anna, even if it was for a short while, but he couldn’t refute Damon’s logic either. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

  “Of course I am,” Damon answered. He glanced at his Rolex. “Hey, we still have time before dinner. Come on, let me show you the rest of the house.”

  CHAPTER 39

  When Damon said “the rest of the house,” what he really meant was the impressive recreation compound located behind the house. The sprawling area was divided into five distinct activity zones, all beautifully landscaped and connected by light
ed stone pathways.

  Eager stars already pierced the darkening sky as Damon led Martin out a rear door and down the path toward an elongated tinted-glass enclosure that housed the indoor swimming pool. Even before Damon pulled open the door, the familiar sharp aroma of chlorine greeted Martin’s nostrils. The pool was Olympic-size, maybe even bigger for all Martin knew about pools, with an ornate, mosaic-tiled bottom beneath the placid, crystal-clear water. Adjacent to the pool there was a sunken hot tub that looked big enough to accommodate a small crowd. There was also an elegant bar and lounge area worthy of a five-star resort hotel. The pool house was deserted now, but it wasn’t hard for Martin to imagine the fantastic parties that could be thrown there. But then again, how many guests would come to a party way out here?

  “Michael Phelps would love it here,” Martin said.

  Damon responded with an outbreak of laughter that seemed a bit much for such a minor quip. “Just wait until you get a chance to take a dip,” Damon said. “The water is always kept at a perfect eighty-one degrees.”

  Martin nodded. In truth, he had no idea why eighty-one degrees was perfect, but he took Damon’s word for it.

  “Did you gentlemen want to go for a quick swim?”

  Damon and Martin turned to see one of the guards standing in the doorway. The guard was tall, with a head full of neat dreadlocks. Instead of a rifle like the others carried, a sidearm hung from his hip. “If you like, Mr. Darrell, I can go grab a couple of houseboys to bring some towels and open up the bar so that you and Mr. Grey can go for a swim.”

  “No thanks,” Damon said with a smile. “Just giving the new guy the nickel tour.”

  The guard nodded. “All right. Have fun.” He made to leave, then suddenly poked his head back in. “Oh, Mr. Darrell. You’ll probably see a work crew doing some repairs on the golf course, but don’t panic.”

  “What do you mean? What happened to the course?”

  “Big storm hit two nights ago. Caused some damage. But Mr. Lennox is working them through the night to get the course in perfect shape by morning. Knowing how much you love golf, sir, I just thought I should give you the heads-up.”

  Damon smiled in appreciation. “Thank you,” he said, and as the guard made his exit, Damon led Martin around the length of the pool toward the door on the opposite side.

  “I have two questions,” Martin said. “One: when the hell do you have time to play golf?”

  “When I come here, of course,” Damon replied. “It’s just a six-hole course, but wait until you see it. It’s beautiful. Tell you what, I’ll give you a few lessons. You’ll love it, become completely addicted, then your wife will hate me for it.”

  Martin laughed.

  “What’s your second question?” Damon asked.

  Martin glanced back at the door where the guard had made his unexpected appearance. “Maybe I was hearing things, but did that guy actually use the term houseboys?”

  Damon laughed. “You know what, I think he actually did.”

  * * *

  After exiting the pool house, Damon led Martin down another path that took them past a tennis court and a basketball court. Both courts were regulation-size and equipped with lights to allow for use after sundown. The lights were off now, but even in the evening’s gloom Martin could see that both courts were in pristine condition. Damon asked Martin if he played either sport, and Martin had to admit that he did not. “Actually,” Martin said to Damon as they moved away from the darkened courts, “I’m really more of a Monopoly and Scrabble man.”

  Damon and Martin approached what, on the outside, appeared to be a cozy little guesthouse, but the instant Martin stepped inside, he saw that the building was actually a fully equipped gym.

  “It’s all here,” Damon said, guiding Martin through the maze of steel and chrome. “Universal machines, treadmills, ellipticals—”

  Damon’s tour was interrupted by a loud grunt. On the other side of the room, a mirror-lined area was set aside for the use of free weights, and a fit young black man was busy doing power squats with a fully loaded barbell perched on his broad shoulders. Martin couldn’t tell how many pounds the man was lifting, but the bulge of his muscular legs and those painful grunts said plenty. If the young man knew that he was being observed, he didn’t show it.

  Martin turned to Damon. “Who is that?”

  “I don’t recognize him. Must be a new guard. They’re allowed to use the gym when they’re off duty.”

  Martin’s brow furrowed with confusion. “You know, I’ve noticed something a little odd about all these security guards.”

  “Really? And what would that be?” Damon said with an expectant smile.

  “Any decent security guards should be in good shape, of course, but the guards here are in exceptional physical condition. At least the ones that I’ve seen so far.”

  Damon appeared amused. “That’s it? That’s what you find so odd?”

  “Yeah. Look at that guy.” Martin nodded toward the guard, who was still squeezing out power squats. “He looks more like a Navy SEAL than a security guard. They all do.”

  Damon nodded. “You’re right. Dr. Kasim demands that every member of the security force at Forty Acres be in perfect physical condition.”

  “That’s one hell of a job requirement. The pay must be great.”

  “As far as money goes, I have no idea what the guards are paid. But the knowledge that Dr. Kasim has to offer to those young men is priceless.”

  Martin shook his head and laughed. He didn’t mean to laugh.

  It was more from awkwardness than anything else. The praise Damon and the other men were heaping onto Dr. Kasim was beginning to sound a little strange.

  Damon’s face clouded over. “I say something funny?”

  “You guys talk about this Dr. Kasim like he’s a god or something. Aren’t you even a little worried that you’re setting me up for disappointment?”

  “Once you meet the doctor, you’ll understand our enthusiasm,” Damon said. “I can promise you that.”

  “See, there you go again. And you did say that Dr. Kasim was the funniest man you knew.”

  “True, true,” Damon said, “but also the most serious. Come on.” He took Martin by the arm. “Time to show you my favorite spot.”

  * * *

  Damon and Martin stood beneath a dome of stars at the very edge of the six-hole golf course. Nightfall had fully descended, bathing the perfectly landscaped rolling greens with pale moonlight. The omnipresent click of cicadas somehow added to the course’s haunting serenity. Martin knew nothing about golf, much less what a great golf course should look like, but as he gazed at the luminous field spread out before him, he couldn’t imagine one ever looking more beautiful.

  “It’s incredible,” Martin said.

  Damon nodded. “I told you.”

  “It all is. But it seems like a lot for just one person and some occasional guests.”

  “We’re not Dr. Kasim’s only visitors. There are other groups like ours all over the country who come to visit. And once every two years or so, all the groups come together. We call it the convocation. It’s an amazing experience. You’ll have to come with us next time.”

  A little more than a hundred yards away, the work crew that the guard had warned them about could be seen toiling away. Six male workers, their shirts off, were raking and shoveling and mowing beneath the harsh glare of portable work lights. Two guards, both cradling scoped rifles, were leaning on a golf cart watching their progress. In an odd way the entire scene reminded Martin of a prison work crew that you’d see in an old movie. The only things missing were the prison stripes and ball-and-chain leg shackles.

  “What exactly are they doing out there?” Martin asked Damon.

  “Patching up the green. Removing debris. Cleaning mud from the holes. That sort of thing.”

  “And why are the guards babysitting them?”

  “Why do you think? To make sure their lazy asses don’t run away.” Damon bur
st into laughter. Martin tried to join him, but all he could offer was a polite chuckle, and even that he felt slightly wrong about.

  They were standing on a slight rise, which afforded them an unobstructed view of the golf course’s natural boundaries. At the opposite end, a wide brook separated the tamed lawns from the wilderness beyond. A gravel road wound its way across the width of the golf course to a simple wooden footbridge that spanned the brook. On the other side, the road disappeared into the dark woods. Through the tree line that ran parallel to the brook, Martin could just make out the shapes of several squat structures grouped unusually close together. He pointed them out. “Are those houses over there?”

  “No. More like barracks,” Damon said. “That’s where the staff lives.”

  “Must cost a fortune to maintain all of this,” Martin said as he glanced back toward the main house. “The staff here has got to be huge.”

  Damon snorted. “Huge is an understatement. Guards, groundskeepers, servants—it takes a small army to run this place. Not to mention the gold mine.”

  “Gold mine?” Martin looked at Damon skeptically. “You’re kidding.”

  Damon smiled. “There’s an old working gold mine on the property. It’s about a half mile away.” Damon pointed beyond the bridge. “Once you cross the bridge, the road leads right to it.”

  Martin knew that gold mining had once been a major economic driver in the United States but thought that the resource had been tapped out well over a hundred years ago. When Martin thought of gold mining today, he pictured shirtless, sweaty African men slaving in some insanely cramped cave in South Africa, an image retained from some Discovery Channel documentary. He never imagined that there could still be a working gold mine in the American backwoods. “Is that how Dr. Kasim makes his money?” Martin asked. “From gold mining?”

  “Actually,” Damon said, “it’s not quite that simple.” Changing the subject, he glanced at his watch. “Almost dinnertime. We better get back. I’ll take you out to the mine tomorrow.”

  As they turned to leave, Martin glanced again at the work crew laboring to repair the golf course. An intriguing realization froze him in his tracks. The sight of the men toiling, their lean, bare torsos glistening with perspiration, continued to remind him of the African workers in the documentary that he saw, except for one striking difference. In the documentary all the laborers were black Africans, black men who were being supervised by white men. But out there on the golf course it was the opposite. The guards supervising the task were black, and all the workers were white.