“Actually,” Jones lied, “you had just finished. Is there anything else that you can tell us about this morning?”
“I’m kind of constipated. But I ate some prunes, so I’m hoping-”
“That’s not what he meant,” interrupted Payne. Even though he was sympathetic to McNally’s advancing age, he didn’t have the time to listen to him ramble about his bowel movements. “David wanted to know if you had anything else to tell us about Ariane?”
McNally pondered the question, then shook his head.
“Well, I’d like to thank you for your information.” Jones handed McNally a business card, then helped him back inside his apartment. “If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
Once Jones returned to the hall, he said, “I have to admit things are looking worse for Ariane, but I don’t think we can go to the cops quite yet.”
“Why not? You heard what he said. A group of guys dragged her to their van early this morning, and no one’s heard from her since.”
“True, but Mr. McNally is not exactly what you would call an ideal witness. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he’s lying or anything, but you have to admit he lost touch with reality a couple of times during our conversation.”
“Shit!” Payne thought they had enough information to go on, but Jones knew a lot more about police procedures than he did. “So what do you recommend?”
“Honestly, I think we should go upstairs and snoop around Ariane’s apartment a little more. Plus we can see if the peephole video camera recorded anything before they covered the lens.”
CHAPTER 10
INSIDE the plantation house, Theo Webster stared at his computer screen as he scrolled through page after page of painstaking research. After removing his wire-rimmed glasses, Webster rubbed his tired eyes and stretched his skinny 5’8” frame. The track lighting above him reflected off the ebony skin that covered his ever-growing forehead and highlighted the dark bags that had recently surfaced under his drooping eyelids.
After cracking his neck, Webster settled back into his seat and resumed his research, studying the in-depth genealogy of the island’s most recent arrivals. As he scrutinized Mike Cussler’s family, Webster heard a creak in a floorboard behind him.
“Shit,” he muttered as he reached inside his oaken desk.
Without looking Webster fumbled through various items until his hand made contact with his gun. Slipping his fingers around the polymer handle, Webster slowly pulled the .38 Special from his desk while staring at his computer screen.
The floorboard whined again, but this time the sound was several feet closer.
It was time to make his move.
In a sudden burst, Webster dropped to the hardwood floor and spun toward his unsuspecting target. The move stunned the trespasser so much that he dropped the cup of coffee he was carrying and shrieked like a wounded girl.
The pathetic wail brought a smile to Webster’s face. “Gump, what the hell are you doing sneaking up on me? Don’t you know we have nearly two dozen prisoners on this island that would like to see me dead? You got to use your head, boy! God gave you a brain for a reason.”
Bennie Blount lowered his head in shame, and as he did, his elaborate dreadlocks cascaded over his dark eyes, making him look like a Rastafarian sheepdog. “I sorry ’bout that. I was just trying to bring you something to wakes you up.”
Webster glanced at the brown puddle that covered the floor and grimaced. “Unless you have a straw, I think it’s going to be tough for me to drink.”
The 6’6” servant stared at the steaming beverage for several seconds before his face broke into a gold-toothed smile. “For a minute, I thought you be serious, but then I says to myself, Master Webster ain’t no dog. He ain’t gonna drink his drink from no floor, even with a straw!”
“Well, that’s awfully clever of you, but before I congratulate you too much, why don’t you run into the other room and get a mop?”
“That’s a mighty good idea, sir. I guess I shoulda thought of it since it’s my job to clean and all.” Blount slowly backed away from the spill as he continued to speak. “Don’t ya worry now.”
Blount had been hired by the Plantation for his strong work ethic and knowledge of the local swamps. Nicknamed Gump for his intellectual similarities to Forrest Gump, the dim-witted character from the movie bearing his name, Blount lived in the guest wing of the white-pillared mansion. During the course of the day, he spent most of his time cooking and cleaning, but twice a week he was allowed to journey to the mainland for food and supplies.
When Blount returned to Webster’s office, he was disappointed to see his boss working again. He liked talking to his superiors whenever he could, even though they often got upset when he interrupted their top-secret duties.
“Gump,” Webster asked without turning around, “what are we having for breakfast?”
The question brought a smile to his lips, and his gold teeth glistened in the sunlight. “Well, I figure since this be a big week for y’all, I should fix a big Southern meal likes my momma used to make. I makes eggs ’n’ bacon ’n’ ham ’n’ grits ’n’ biscuits ’n’ fresh apple butter, too. Oooooooweeeeee! I think my mouth is gonna water all day!”
Webster nodded his head in appreciation, at least until Blount’s statement sank in. He turned from his computer and faced the dark-skinned servant. “What exactly did you mean when you said this was a big week for us? What do you know about this week?”
With the soiled mop in his hand, he shrugged. “Not much, sir, but I can tell somethin’s up. There be an excitement in the air that’s easier to smell than the magnolias in May. I figured maybe it’s your birthday. Or maybe it’s ’cause the Fourth of July is coming!”
Webster studied Blount as he spoke, and it appeared that he was telling the truth. “I think it’s just the holiday that has everybody excited,” he lied. “I know I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well, I be, too! In fact, I was wondering if I can go to the city for the fireworks show on Saturday night. I don’t know why they on the third, but they is!”
“Let me ask the other guys at breakfast, then I’ll let you know. But as far as I’m concerned, that’s fine with me.”
“Thank ya, Master Webster! Thank ya! That’d be nice of ya!” Blount picked up his bucket and backed toward the open door. “Oh! Speaking of breakfast, I almost forgets to tell ya that it’s ready to eat.”
CHAPTER 11
ARIANE’S place appeared to be in order, with the exception of her splintered door. An off-white sofa sat against the wall to the left and faced a tasteful entertainment center that held a television, stereo, and DVD player. A leather chair rested in the corner of the room under a halogen lamp.
Jones walked to the security panel near the front door and pushed the button for a system check. Within seconds, the unit beeped and a digitized voice filled the room. “The crime alert system is operational. Current status is deactivated. Push one to activate the system.”
“The unit is working, which means she probably turned it off to answer the door. Either that or she forgot to turn it on last night.”
Payne shook his head. “When I walked her to the door last night, I made sure she got in and turned the system on before I left. In fact, I always wait until the damn thing beeps.”
“Then she turned it off for some reason. And my guess is to open the door.”
Payne swallowed deeply while opening the tiny black box that was mounted to the inside of Ariane’s front door. He removed the recordable DVD from the peephole surveillance system and carried it to the player. “I don’t know if we’ll see anything, but it’s worth a look.”
After slipping the disc inside, he hit play and waited for it to begin.
“How does this thing work?” Jones asked.
“It’s activated by movement in the hallway. That way it doesn’t record hour after hour of nothing.” Payne pointed to the black screen to show Jones what he meant. �
��Since the opening is blocked, the camera interpreted that as someone standing directly in front of the door.” Payne glanced at his watch, then looked at the electronic counter on the DVD player. “What time did Mr. McNally say he saw Ariane?”
“He said it was about an hour before we talked to him.”
“Well, I got here about seven thirty, and there was no black van in the parking lot, so I’d guess we’re talking about seven or seven fifteen, right?”
Payne skipped back several minutes until his own face filled the screen.
“When was that filmed?” Jones asked.
Payne studied the image and recognized the clothes he’d worn the previous evening. “That was from last night, but I’m not sure if it was before or after my date with Ariane.” The faint beeping of the security system could be heard through the TV’s speaker as Payne’s image turned and walked away from the door. “See, I told you she set the damn system last night. I told you!”
Jones started to defend himself when a figure flashed across the screen. “Whoa! What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Payne said as he hit the pause button, then frame advance.
The picture crept by at a sluggish pace. After several seconds of nonaction, a gloved hand emerged from the right side of the screen. Moving an inch at a time, the arm eventually reached the lens of the peephole, and once it did, the picture immediately went black.
“Damn!” Payne cursed. “Not a goddamned thing!”
“Be patient.” Jones grabbed the remote from Payne and slowly rewound the image to the moment before the tape was applied to the door. “Just because we didn’t see a face doesn’t mean it’s a total loss. There’s more here than you think.”
“Like what?”
“What color was the man who put the tape on the door?”
Payne stared at the screen. “I can’t tell. He’s wearing black gloves and long black sleeves.”
“True,” Jones muttered as he placed his finger on the image. “But look closer. There’s a gap where the glove ends here, and the sleeve begins there.”
Payne moved closer to the screen and stared. “I’ll be damned! You’re right. I can see the edge of each garment.”
“You thought they overlapped because of his skin. Whoever put the tape on the door is black. Not coffee and cream like me, but pure black. I’m talking hold the milk, hold the sugar, hold the freakin’ water black.”
“Hey,” Payne interrupted. “What’s that on his arm?”
“Where?”
“Right between the glove and sleeve. Is that a tattoo?”
Jones crouched in front of the TV and considered the question. Unfortunately, the image was too dark to see things conclusively. “Hang on a sec. Let me change the brightness on the TV. It might help.”
Payne stared at the screen as it brightened. “It might be a tattoo, but I honestly don’t know.”
“Don’t worry. I know a way we can find out. I have a computer program at my office that lets me blow up video images, alter color schemes, manipulate contrast, and so on. I’ll take the disc over there and see if I can learn anything else.”
“Sounds good to me.” Payne reached for the eject button, but before he pressed it, Jones grabbed his arm.
“Listen,” he said in a sympathetic voice, “I wasn’t going to mention this, but I have to be upfront with you. There’s still one thing we need to check. I was going to wait until later, but I feel you deserve to be with me when it’s done.”
“What are you talking about? What do you need to check?”
Jones placed his hand on Payne’s broad shoulder and squeezed. “The peephole camera records image and sound, right? I mean, we heard the alarm system beeping, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, so?”
Jones swallowed hard. “The video of what happened this morning is obviously unwatchable because of the duct tape, but there’s a good chance that we might be able to hear this morning’s events after the peephole was blocked.”
“Oh, God, you’re right! Put it on!”
“Jon, keep in mind if something did happen to Ariane, it might be painful to-”
“Put it on! I’ve got to know what happened.”
Jones nodded, then hit the appropriate button on the remote. After several seconds of silence, the faint sound of a doorbell could be heard from the blank TV screen. It was followed by a loud, rhythmic knock.
“You’re early,” Ariane complained. “I’m still getting ready.”
A brief silence followed her comment before a faint giggle emerged from the speaker.
“First you’re early, now you’re covering the peephole!”
Beeps from the security system chimed in the tape’s background.
“I’ll tell you what, Jonathon, I’m going to kick your butt all over the golf course. There’s no doubt about that!”
Her comment was followed by the click of a deadbolt, the twist of the door handle, and-
Jones pushed the pause button and glanced at Payne, whose face was completely ashen. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Yeah,” Payne muttered, his voice trembling with emotion. He didn’t really want to, but if he was going to help Ariane, he knew he had no choice. “Play the disc.”
“Are you sure?”
Payne shook his head from side to side. “But play it anyways.”
With the touch of a button, Ariane screamed like a banshee, sending chills through Payne and Jones. As her wail echoed through the room, it was quickly replaced by heavy footsteps, muffled squeals, and then the most frightening sound of all.
Silence.
CHAPTER 12
WHILE Holmes, Jackson, and Webster had breakfast in the mansion, Hakeem Ndjai, an unmerciful man who’d been hired as the Plantation overseer, took control of the captives.
Even though he was a valuable part of the Plantation team, his foreign heritage excluded him from the decision-making hierarchy. He had been handpicked by Holmes, who had heard several stories of Ndjai’s unwavering toughness in Nkambé, Cameroon, where Ndjai had been an overseer on a cacao plantation. Like most workers from his country, he had labored in unbearable conditions for virtually nothing-his average income was only $150 per year-so when Holmes offered him a job in America, Ndjai wept for joy for the first time in his life.
But that was several months ago, and Ndjai was back to his old ways.
In a cold growl, Ndjai reinforced the instructions that Jackson and Holmes had given during their cross-burning party, but he did it with his own special touch. “I am the overseer of this Plantation, and out of respect for my job, you shall refer to me as sir. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the naked group shouted.
“Each of you has been brought here for a reason, and that reason will eventually be revealed. Until that time, you will become a part of the Plantation’s working staff, performing the duties that will be assigned to you.” Ndjai signaled one of the guards, who ran forward, carrying a silver belt that shone in the sun. “While you are working, you will be positioned on various parts of our land, and at some point, you might be tempted to run for freedom.”
He smiled under his dark cloak. “It is something I do not recommend.”
Ndjai grabbed the metal belt and wrapped it around a cement slab that rested near the bloodstained chopping block. After clicking the belt in place, he handed the cement to a nearby guard, who immediately carried it fifty yards from the crowd.
“When you are given your uniforms, you will have one of these belts locked to your ankle. It cannot be removed by anyone but me, and I will not remove it for any reason during your stay on this island.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a tiny remote control. He held the gadget in the air so everyone could see it. “This is what you Americans call a deterrent.”
With a push of a button, the cement block erupted into a shower of rubble, sending shards of rock in every direction and smoke high into the air.
“Did I get
your attention?” he asked. “Now imagine what would have happened if your personal anklet were to be detonated. I doubt much of you would be found.”
A couple of the guards snickered, but Ndjai silenced them with a sharp stare. He would not tolerate disrespect from anybody.
“I know some of you will try to figure out how your anklets work, and some of you will try to disarm them. Well, I will tell you now: Your efforts will fail! We have buried a small number of transmitters throughout the Plantation. If at any time your anklet crosses the perimeter, your personal bomb will explode, killing you instantly. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing. If your device is detonated, it will send a signal to the anklets that are being worn by several other prisoners, and they will be killed as well. Do you understand?”
They certainly did, and the mere thought of it made them shudder.
CHAPTER 13
JONES returned to his scenic office and locked himself in his massive technology lab. The room cost a staggering amount of money and was filled with high-tech equipment that many police departments would love to have. The most important piece of hardware was the computer, but it was the instrument that cost Jones the least. Built by Payne Industries, the computer was a scaled-down version of the system used at FBI headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and had been given to Jones as an office-warming gift.
Placing the surveillance disc into the unit, Jones quickly broke the footage into manageable data files. He was then able to select a precise frame from the video and put it on his screen in microscopic clarity.
“What should I look at first?” he mumbled to himself.
Then it dawned on him. He wanted to examine the assailant’s right wrist to see if the black mark was, in fact, a tattoo.
Jones scrolled through a number of frames until he found the scene that fit his specific needs. The suspect’s arm was centered perfectly on the monitor, and the gap between the glove and the sleeve was at its widest. Then he zoomed in and sharpened the image.
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