That’s it. Anna was done. She was letting this whole rafting trip mystery spin out of control, to the point where she couldn’t even think straight. Of course it was crazy to suspect that Christine Jackson and her children’s lives were threatened. Whatever Damon Darrell and the rest of his cronies were up to, Anna was pretty sure that it was nothing worth killing over. They were millionaires after all, not murderers. Anna decided then and there that she would stop digging up fuel for her pregnancy paranoia. She’d just wait for Martin to return home, tell him their wonderful news, then never allow him to go on another trip with those men again, period. End of story.
Anna turned and gave Christine Jackson’s house one final look. Then she turned the ignition and began to drive home.
* * *
The Handyman waited until Anna Grey’s departing Prius was a full two blocks away, then he pulled out of his parking space and began to follow.
The white Camry the Handyman was driving was the most common car on the American road. This precaution, combined with his exceptional tailing skills, made the chances of Anna’s spotting her shadow practically nil. Nevertheless, there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. As long as he stayed within five hundred yards of Anna’s vehicle, the GPS device planted under her bumper would transmit her exact location to the Tracker Map app on his iPhone.
Even if, by some fluke, Mrs. Grey did detect his presence, she had absolutely no chance of eluding him.
Moments earlier, when he saw that car speeding toward her, the Handyman feared that his big double payday was lost. He was greatly relieved to see the Grey woman escape death, at least for the time being. The email reply that he had received from the client was inconclusive but still very encouraging.
Stay very close.
To the Handyman, “Stay very close” meant that the job profile had shifted from a possible kill to an inevitable one. He had no idea what final moves the client needed to make before pulling the trigger, but the Handyman felt certain that Anna Grey would not escape death twice that day.
CHAPTER 77
The stench was so thick and musky that he could taste it. Martin snorted to get the foulness out of his nose but it was useless. Every breath he took came with the nauseating odor of human funk.
Martin peeled opened his eyes to a blurry kaleidoscope of pale halftones. He blinked, and the shapes became more defined, pale circles and elongated blobs. He blinked again and saw eyes.
There were faces staring down at Martin. Dozens of dirty, ghostly faces, all watching him.
Martin groaned and sat up with a start. Bright pain lanced through his skull. He cried out and clenched his forehead with both hands. He felt a prominent knot of flesh near his temple that was tender to the slightest touch.
Martin heard voices urging him to lie back down and to keep still. He felt bony hands on his shoulders pushing him back down. Beneath him he felt a soft bundle of material that gave off a waft of stink every time he moved.
Martin blinked again, and the dirty pale faces were still there, only sharper. Men and women surrounded him on all sides. Some young, some old, some middle-aged. They were all withered shadows of formerly healthy human beings. Matted hair, rotted teeth, threadbare clothing sagging on wiry limbs. And they all reeked. Their facial expressions were eerily vacant, as if their minds had been stripped away along with their humanity.
Martin swallowed to moisten his dry throat. “Where am I?”
There was a puzzled stir. The dirty pale faces muttered and exchanged glances. Finally, an elderly man stepped closer. His bristled face was drawn, and his frame shaky, but there was a wisdom in him that the others seemed to respect. “You’re in the mine,” he said. “You’re with us.”
“What? What mine?” Still on his back, Martin glanced around. Then he remembered. He remembered the low, sagging ceiling, the nests of dirty clothes, the shielded security cameras, and that bright red cable hugging the perimeter of the ceiling. He was underground. In the slave quarters.
“They tossed you in here last night,” the elderly slave said. “I let you have my spot.”
Martin moaned as he sat up, wincing at another stab of pain. He rubbed the swelling on the side of his head and the memory of Oscar’s gun butt came rushing back.
“You might have a concussion,” the elder slave said. “Probably better if you stay down.”
Martin shook his head. “No, I’m all right. I—” Martin suddenly recognized the elderly slave. It was the same old man whose merciless beating had caused Martin to cry out for the guards to stop.
“You sure you’re okay?” the old man asked.
“Yeah.” Martin scanned the crowd standing around him. Their number was much larger than he had first realized. Every tortured soul in the slave quarters must have been there, eyeballing one of their former black masters, yet, somehow, Martin did not feel threatened.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Martin said, to no one in particular, “but why am I still alive?”
“’Cause they ordered us not to touch you,” a tall man at the back of the crowd growled. He was the biggest of the slaves, by far, with the sagging physique of a once formidable man now shriveled by years of bondage. “Otherwise,” he continued, “I’d rip your black ass apart.”
A majority of the other slaves instantly turned on the big man, hissing at him to shut up.
The elder slave turned to the bigger man with a chastising stare. “Vincent, you’re a damn fool. He’s not one of them. He risked his life to help us.”
Most of the other slaves nodded in agreement.
A young man peeled from the crowd to stand over Martin. He appeared meatier than the rest and his clothing, which included a Seinfeld T-shirt, wasn’t as worn. “Don’t listen to Vincent,” the young man said to Martin. “We all know what you did—or at least tried to do. I’m Louis Ward, from Southdale, Minnesota. Been here three months.” Then Louis did something that caught Martin off guard. He stuck out his hand.
For an instant Martin couldn’t move, the moment too surreal to digest. When he finally reached up and grasped Louis Ward’s hand, the hint of a grateful smile appeared on the slave’s face.
The elderly slave offered Martin his hand as well. The frail man’s hand felt like a bundle of twigs in Martin’s grasp.
“I’m Otis Rolley,” the old man declared, with a surprising amount of spirit. “Used to live in Fairbanks, Louisiana. Louis has the least time here and I have the most. Sixteen years.”
Martin shuddered at the number. For a man to lose so much of his life to a place so horrible was unimaginable.
A middle-aged man stepped forward next. He was balding and his left eye appeared dull and lifeless. He spoke with a slight southern drawl. “I’m Robert Moore, from Sandy Spring, Georgia. I figure I’ve been in this hellhole for seven years and three months. Kinda hard to keep track.” When Robert took Martin’s hand, he didn’t shake, he just gave it a firm squeeze.
Several more of the slaves felt the need to break away from the crowd and introduce themselves to Martin. Some shook his hand, some patted him on the shoulder, others just said their piece and retreated back to their spot. Martin didn’t understand it exactly, until a woman wearing a tattered dress stepped forward. She appeared to be in her early thirties. Even the crust of years of hard labor couldn’t hide the fact that at one time she had been very pretty.
“I’m Helen, from Far Hills, New Jersey,” the woman said. She tugged forward a boy who Martin judged to be about thirteen. “And this is my son, Aaron. He was born down here.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “Right in that corner over there.”
Unlike the muted faces of his fellow slaves, the teenage boy wore a tight, puzzled look worthy of a caricature. “Aren’t you scared?” he said. “They’re going to kill you, you know. Just like they did that other man.”
“Aaron!” the boy’s mother snapped as she yanked him back into the crowd. An awkward silence settled over the room.
Martin understood. The slaves weren
’t thanking him for risking his life; they were thanking him for sacrificing his life. He was going to die. He was never going to return home from this trip, never see his wife again . . . just like Donald Jackson.
Martin turned to Otis. “Donald Jackson? Is that who he means? Did they bring him here too?”
Otis nodded. “They did. But he was in far worse shape than you. Shot. Bleeding badly and barely alive. Then they came and took him away.”
Hearing the description of Donald Jackson’s injuries sparked another image in Martin’s memory.
Alice.
“There was a girl whipped last night,” Martin said to Otis. “She was left in the barn, badly hurt. Her name is Alice. Do you know what happened to her?”
Otis frowned. “I do.”
“Is she dead?”
Martin had no rational reason for caring so much about a girl whom he hardly knew when his own life was in jeopardy, but he did. It was as if his and Alice’s lives were bound, somehow. He had this crazy, illogical feeling that as long as Alice lived, there was still hope.
Instead of answering Martin’s question, the old man turned to Louis. “Help him up.”
Louis extended his hand and tugged Martin to his feet. Martin felt a throb of pain behind his eyes that dissipated quickly.
“Come,” Otis said.
The crowd parted as Martin followed Otis across the space. As Martin stepped over rows and rows of tightly spaced sleep areas, he realized something odd. The awful smell that had stung his nose only moments ago was now barely noticeable.
Otis paused over an elderly woman who was seated on the ground cradling the hand of a sleeping woman.
It was Alice. Her face was so calm and still that she almost appeared to be dead.
“They brought her down with you,” Otis explained to Martin. “She has a dangerous fever. My wife cleaned her wounds but—” He frowned. “Like I told you, I’ve been here a long time. I’ve seen men die from less severe whippings.”
Martin winced with guilt. He rubbed his right palm against his pant leg to erase the sudden sensation of the cowskin handle in his grip.
“She’s a strong girl,” Otis’s wife said.
Martin looked down and saw the old woman mopping Alice’s brow with a soiled rag. Alice moaned and rocked her head before settling back into a calm sleep.
“What do you think?” Martin asked the old woman. “Is she strong enough to make it?”
“I don’t know,” the woman replied with a doubtful shake of the head. “That all depends.”
Martin was almost afraid to ask. “Depends on what?”
“Rest.” The old woman uttered the word as if it were holy. “She needs lots of rest. If they don’t make her work too soon, I think she will have a very good chance. But only if.”
Martin stared at Alice’s unconscious form. “Well, they wouldn’t try to make her work in this condition. Would they?”
The old woman’s eyes fell as she went back to mopping Alice’s brow.
Martin turned to old Otis and the group of slaves who had trailed them to Alice’s bedside. Martin’s eyes burned with the question, but the only response he received was a wall of bleak stares.
A loud metallic clacking sound drew everyone’s attention to the chamber’s door. The thick steel groaned open and four uniformed guards entered fast and flanked the doorway. They were trailed by their leader, Roy, the same man who’d given Martin and Damon a tour of the mine only a day earlier.
“All right, get moving,” Roy barked at the slaves. “I’m not in the mood for any bullshit this morning.”
The slaves filed past Martin on their way to the door. Some patted Martin on the arm or squeezed his hand or just met his eyes for a moment. Otis and his wife each left Martin with an affirming nod before they followed the others off to work. Vincent, the big man, paused before Martin and looked him straight in the eye.
“Vincent,” Roy yelled, “keep your ass moving.”
Vince ignored the order and extended his hand to Martin. “Vincent Clarke,” he said. “Charlottesville. Three years.”
Martin shook Vincent’s hand.
“Vincent, I’m not going to tell you again, goddamnit!”
Vincent nodded to Martin, then trailed the others out the door.
Roy brushed past Martin as if he weren’t there and glared down at Alice’s sleeping form. He nudged Alice with his booted foot. “Hey.”
Alice, brow beaded with sweat, moaned and stirred.
Martin’s jaw clenched as he watched Roy nudge her with his boot again, harder. “You hear me?” Roy said. “Time to work.”
Alice groaned and tossed fitfully. Her eyes strained to open, but she was too weak.
Roy sighed. “I can’t believe this bullshit.”
“Can’t you see the girl’s too sick to work?” Martin said.
Roy whirled and drove his fist hard into Martin’s gut. Martin gasped and folded to the floor in a ball of lingering dull pain. Suddenly Martin’s entire world was the spit-shined tips of Roy’s combat boots.
Roy glared down at Martin’s writhing form with perfect contempt. “Don’t you ever say another word to me, traitor.” Roy turned to the guards at the door. “Two of you escort this piece of shit to the main house. They’re waiting for him.”
One of the guards pointed to Alice. “What about her?”
Roy watched the girl loll and mumble incoherently. “Let her be. But if she can’t work tomorrow, bury her.” With that, Roy marched out.
Martin shifted on the floor to afford himself one last look at Alice. He could see that she was settling again, drifting back off to sleep.
Martin felt himself seized by both arms and hoisted off the ground. “Time to die, asshole,” one of the guards snarled, then Martin was dragged across the chamber and out the door.
CHAPTER 78
Martin, eat something. Please,” Dr. Kasim said as he gestured to the breakfast banquet laid out before them. “Surely you must be hungry after last night’s adventure.”
Martin and Dr. Kasim were in the dining room, seated at opposite ends of the table. Dr. Kasim was draped in a simple African print robe. His carved walking staff leaned against the end of the table. Martin still wore the hooded fleece jacket and hiking attire from the previous night.
The spread of morning favorites, everything from pancakes and waffles to poached eggs and fresh ham, was as plentiful and beautifully arranged as always. There was even a cheerful centerpiece of fresh-cut flowers.
Martin didn’t touch a thing. He just sat there, empty plate in front of him, staring in shock at the other two men seated at Dr. Kasim’s breakfast table.
The two white forest rangers.
Seated directly across from each other, both men were dressed in their green-and-khaki uniforms. Wide-brimmed ranger hats rested on the table beside their plates. The senior ranger was tall and barrel-chested, with more hair on his rugged face than on his head. His partner was about ten years younger, wiry thin, with a black mop of hair that seemed a bit too long for his chosen profession. Both men wolfed down eggs and pancakes and slurped coffee, apparently taking no notice of Martin.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Grey?” Dr. Kasim asked across the table. “If there’s something you want that’s not here, I’ll have one of the girls fetch it.” He waved to the two white slave girls who waited against the wall. One of the girls was Felicia.
Martin said nothing, his thoughts in a maelstrom of disbelief. The fact that the two white men seated before him were collaborators in Dr. Kasim’s madness was almost too much to take. Now it was clear why Oscar had given in so easily. Martin’s escape plan was doomed from the start. By inviting the two rangers to breakfast, Dr. Kasim wasn’t merely rubbing Martin’s nose in his failure, he was also sending Martin a clear message about the reach of his power.
“What’s wrong?” the young forest ranger said, looking at Martin for the first time while reaching with his fork for more sausages. “Don’t like our company
?”
When Martin failed to respond, Dr. Kasim jumped in. “Nonsense, Mr. Grey loves you white folks. Even more than life itself, it would seem.”
Martin’s eyes flicked angrily to the old doctor.
Dr. Kasim responded with a thin smile that almost seemed pleasant.
“You should really try the blueberry pancakes,” the older ranger said to Martin. “They’re delicious.” Then he turned and snapped his fingers at Felicia. “Get the man some pancakes.”
“Yes, sir.” Felicia approached the table, transferred two pancakes from the warmer to Martin’s empty plate, and then returned to her spot against the wall.
Martin didn’t even look at the pancakes.
“You really should try them,” Dr. Kasim said. “They’re actually made from your wife’s recipe. Fitting, considering the significance of this meal, don’t you think?”
These words made Martin wince: Dr. Kasim’s way of pushing the knife even deeper.
“Try one bite. After all my trouble that’s the least—”
“I don’t want any damn pancakes!” Martin yelled as he stood bolt upright and swiped his place setting from the table. Plates and silverware landed with a crash. “If you think that I’m going to just sit here and chitchat with you, you’re crazy!”
Both rangers shot to their feet, but before they could act, the dining room door burst open and two guards charged in, weapons drawn.
Dr. Kasim raised a staying hand. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
The two guards froze but remained coiled for violence. Dr. Kasim met Martin’s angry stare. “Sit down, Mr. Grey. There is much to discuss and I would prefer to do that without you in shackles.”
Martin sank back to his seat.
With a wave of his hand Dr. Kasim dismissed the two guards and the shaken servant girls. Finally he smiled at the two rangers as if nothing had occurred. “Thank you for joining me for breakfast this morning. You can expect something extra this month.”
The rangers nodded appreciatively.
Martin watched as the two uniformed white men picked up their hats and started for the door. Neither man even glanced in Martin’s direction. It was as if, for them, he had already been erased from existence.
Forty Acres: A Thriller Page 29