Forty Acres

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  After tucking the gun and the suppressor into separate jacket pockets, the Handyman was ready. He peered back across the street at the Grey house. He saw the upstairs bedroom light switch on and caught glimpses of the Grey woman’s shadow moving behind the curtained window.

  The Handyman glanced at his watch. A little more than thirty minutes had elapsed since he received the kill order. He still had plenty of time to fulfill the contract as expected, so he decided to wait. People tended to move around a lot when they first arrived home. He’d wait ten more minutes to let the Grey woman get herself settled in, then it would be time to pay her a visit.

  CHAPTER 89

  A dingy bare bulb flickered to life to reveal a low-beamed underground space.

  Martin made his way down a creaking flight of stairs and found himself in a cellar.

  Metal shelves loaded with boxed supplies lined the brick walls. There were also a few racks of wine and several pieces of stacked furniture. The stagnant air had the dank, musty odor of a basement.

  It didn’t take Martin long to spot the unmarked steel door tucked between two shelves. He hurried across the cellar and gripped the knob.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  He yanked the door open and found himself staring into a room filled with glowing surveillance monitors and computer screens.

  Martin flung himself into the security room. The first thing that seized his attention was an image on one of the monitors. It was a grainy black-and-white video of a large group of people. They were crowded into a large room. Some were lying on the ground, others were leaning against the walls, others were pacing, and still others were holding each other.

  Martin realized that he was looking at a live video feed from the slave quarters deep inside the mine. The sight caused his chest to swell with emotion. “They’re alive,” he gasped. He reached out and laid his hand on the screen. He’d always believed in his heart, he truly had, but now he knew for sure.

  That’s when Martin noticed an odd flashing beneath his outstretched palm. Slowly, he peeled his hand away from the monitor. In the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, three green numerical digits rapidly cycled away seconds.

  4:43.

  4:42.

  4:41.

  Martin knew immediately what he was seeing—the life of every single person on that monitor, ticking away.

  Martin shoved two rolling chairs out of his way and turned his attention to the control console beneath the monitors. There were countless dials, switches, and buttons blinking for attention. Fortunately, many of them were labeled. Upstairs Hall, Kitchen, Dining Room, Driveway, etc. There were also several rows of electrical breaker switches, each coded with a number. In fact, Martin quickly noticed, on the entire panel, there was only one unmarked switch. It was located near the center of the console. A simple rotary switch with two indicator lights, one red and one green. The knob was pointed toward the green light, which was illuminated. This switch had one other feature that distinguished it from all its neighbors. It was the only switch that required a key.

  Please let it be here.

  Martin scanned the room. A small key cabinet was mounted on the opposite wall. He pulled at the door but it was locked.

  Martin grabbed a nearby fire extinguisher and hammered the cabinet’s lock. Two more hard strikes and the battered cabinet door clattered to the floor.

  Inside, there were two rows of silver keys. Each key had a labeled white tag. Storage, Electrical, Plumbing, Garage, and a dozen more. Only one key was different. There was no tag and the key’s head was wrapped with bright red tape. The exact same color as the red Primacord cable that Martin had seen snaking through the mine.

  That has to be the one.

  Martin grabbed the key and slid it into the silver keyhole beside the rotary switch.

  A perfect fit. He snatched back his hand, suddenly afraid to twist it. If the key didn’t work, what would he do?

  It has to work.

  Please turn. Please.

  Martin took a deep breath and reached for the key.

  “Don’t you move another fucking inch.” The voice came from the door.

  Martin froze. Slowly, he turned his head.

  Carver Lewis stood in the doorway pointing a gun. He waved the weapon at Martin. “Get away from that panel.”

  Martin didn’t budge. He knew that if he obeyed Carver’s order, he would never get within arm’s reach of that key again. “Listen to me,” Martin said. “It’s over. All of this is over.” He pointed to the monitor. “Those people don’t have to die.”

  Carver took a menacing step forward and aimed right between Martin’s eyes. “I’m not going to tell you again,” he said. “Get away from that fucking panel.”

  The gun barrel looked huge to Martin, as if he were gazing down a black abyss. The instinct to survive was strong, but something stronger in his heart held him to that spot. Martin peered past the gun, stared straight into Carver’s burning eyes, and said, “No, I can’t do that.” Then Martin lunged for the red key. He heard a sharp explosion followed by an impact to his shoulder that flung him backward into the wall.

  Martin crumbled to the floor, blood seeping from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Drunk with pain, he watched helplessly as Carver approached the console and did the unthinkable. Carver swung the butt of his gun at the protruding key, breaking it off in the lock. The top half of the key clattered to the floor near Martin.

  Vision beginning to blur, Martin lost sight of the broken red key among the drops of his blood that speckled the floor.

  CHAPTER 90

  While the bathtub filled up behind her, Anna, dressed only in a terry-cloth robe, stood at the bathroom mirror pinning up her hair.

  That’s when she heard the strange sound.

  The resonant churning of bathwater made it impossible for Anna to discern exactly what the sound was, but she definitely heard something. A knock but not a knock, sharper than that, and she was pretty sure it came from downstairs.

  Unable to let it go, Anna jabbed the last pin into her hair, then opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the upstairs hallway. The instant she shut the door behind her, the watery racket from the bathtub was reduced to a low hush.

  Anna listened. She heard the sound of a car passing outside, the distant roar of a jet approaching JFK, and the faintest chatter of a nearby conversation, but that was all.

  It was strange, standing there in that quiet house; Anna felt an urge to call out Martin’s name, as if he were just in the other room and could answer back. The feeling that she wasn’t alone was so powerful that Anna was tempted to run downstairs and check to see if Martin was plopped down in front of the television snacking on potato chips and beer. Of course he wasn’t, but God, how she wished he was.

  Anna listened one last time for any repeat of that strange sound; hearing nothing but an empty house, she frowned and stepped back into the bathroom.

  * * *

  Once the Handyman heard the bathroom door shut upstairs, he padded softly from the Greys’ kitchen into the living room.

  Usually he could bump-key a door with a single strike. Perhaps because of a faulty lock, it took three strikes to open the Greys’ back door. Apparently the Grey woman had exceptional hearing. If she had come downstairs to investigate, it would have made his job a bit more difficult. A mark who’s alert and keyed up for trouble is unpredictable. Preferable by far is a mark who’s preoccupied, a mark who never knows what’s coming. One minute they’re taking a relaxing bubble bath, the next they’re bleeding out into the tub.

  As the Handyman screwed the suppressor into the barrel of his Colt handgun he could hear the muffled roar of running bathwater coming from upstairs.

  The sound was like music to his ears.

  CHAPTER 91

  3:45.

  3:44.

  Martin, cl
utching his throbbing shoulder, could still see the monitor from his slumped position on the floor. With his head swimming, the flashing digits weren’t much more than a green blur.

  3:40.

  3:39.

  Carver was seated in one of the rolling chairs, his weapon trained on his prisoner. He watched Martin’s suffering, wearing a tight, satisfied smile. “I told them that it was you,” Carver said, “but they didn’t believe me. They refused to come back. Just fucking left me. Can you believe that?”

  Martin blinked and shook his head, struggling to fend off the tug of unconsciousness. “Please,” Martin said, “there must be another way to shut it down. You can still stop this.”

  “Fuck that,” Carver said. “You’re gonna sit there and watch the show. Then, when it’s over, I’m going to shoot your traitorous ass and take a photo to prove to them that I was right. How does that sound, brother?”

  “You’re crazy,” Martin said.

  “I’m crazy?” Carver leaned forward in his chair. “All white people, then and now, hate you because you’re black. They might wear it on their sleeve, they might hide it deep down, but it’s there. And if you don’t see that one truth, then you’re the one who’s crazy. Even worse, you’re a disgrace to your race. If I had the time, I’d peel that black off you, very slowly. Just looking at you makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Then Carver Lewis spat in Martin Grey’s face.

  Never looking away, Martin brushed away the spittle. “I take it back. You’re not crazy. You’re just stupid.”

  Carver flared with anger. He sprang out of the chair, raising the handgun to pistol-whip Martin. Martin drove his heel, as hard as he could, straight into Carver’s knee. There was a sharp snap. Carver hollered in pain as he crashed to the floor. The gun flew out of Carver’s hand and skittered toward Martin.

  Forgetting his pain, Martin lunged for the gun. Just as his hand brushed gunmetal, a raging Carver flung himself onto Martin. Carver slammed his fist into Martin’s bleeding shoulder. Martin wailed as pain lanced through his body. Carver hammered the wound again and again. Martin was jolted by rapid explosions of agony; the room began to tilt. And in that dizzy instant, he caught a glimpse of the timer.

  2:13.

  2:12.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” Carver growled. He crashed his knuckles into Martin’s shoulder once more.

  The pain was so intense that Martin saw a flash of white before the blackness began to draw him down. As he sank deeper and deeper, Martin could feel Carver’s hand groping desperately beneath his back for the gun. Martin heard a voice, low and anguished but determined. “No,” the voice said. He realized it was his own. It was his last ounce of will refusing to let those people die, refusing to let Anna’s death be for nothing, refusing to let Carver get that gun. “No!” Martin yelled. In a burst of adrenalized strength, Martin kicked a stunned Carver clean off him. Martin rolled clear and suddenly it was right there, lying between them.

  The handgun.

  Carver’s hand flew out, but Martin grabbed the weapon first. Carver scowled and screamed an obscenity and lunged at Martin, flailing.

  Martin shot Carver clean through the heart, hurling his body back to the floor.

  Carver lay dead.

  1:43.

  1:42.

  Martin groaned. He grabbed hold of the console and hauled himself to his feet. He heard a faint splattering sound, looked down, and saw blood dribbling to the floor. The bullet wound in his shoulder was bleeding freely. The room wobbled. He blinked at the monitor and saw double, two black-and-white images of the roomful of doomed people, and two timers.

  1:35.

  1:34.

  Martin dropped his failing gaze to the locked rotary switch, its green indicator light multiplying and rotating in his vision like a kaleidoscope. He grabbed the knob and strained to turn it. But of course it wouldn’t budge. It was still locked.

  Martin tried to focus his eyes on the lock itself. On the jagged edge of the broken key buried deep within the keyhole.

  Impossible to reach, but just maybe—

  Martin pressed his thumb as hard as he could against the keyhole. Applying constant pressure he tried to twist the cylinder.

  His thumb slipped.

  The lock did not turn.

  1:21.

  1:20.

  Martin pushed himself away from the console. Staggering about and leaning on anything he could for support, Martin searched the security room. He dumped out the contents of several storage boxes.

  1:05.

  1:04.

  Martin fished through the dumped supplies and found a pair of scissors. He stumbled back to the console and tried to force the lock with one of the scissor blades.

  The lock still did not turn.

  :39.

  :38.

  :37.

  Lacking the strength to hurl the useless scissors across the room, he just let them slip from his fingers. The scissors clattered to the floor directly beside Carver’s gun.

  Steadying himself by holding the console, Martin stooped down and picked up the weapon. When he stood back up the room spun, and spun, and spun. Flashing green numerals seemed to whirl around him.

  :25.

  :24.

  :23.

  The vertigo showed no signs of letting up, so Martin raised the gun and did his best to aim at the swaying console. Martin started squeezing the trigger, and he didn’t stop squeezing until he had emptied the gun’s entire clip.

  The control console flashed erratically, spit sparks, and spewed white smoke . . . but the countdown on the monitor continued.

  :11.

  :10.

  :09.

  Overwhelmed by helplessness and defeat, Martin was no longer able to resist the effects of his injury. His legs gave out and he crumbled hard to the floor. Flat on his back, beside Carver’s corpse, Martin watched the last few digits tick away.

  :06.

  :05.

  :04.

  That’s when every light on the console abruptly winked out. The surveillance monitor died. The lights in the security room and the lights beyond in the cellar began to flicker and strobe and then slowly dim to darkness.

  Martin found himself floating in a perfect blackness. He thought that maybe he had died, but he found it strange that he could still feel the floor beneath him. He thought about Anna, about the child they might have had. For some reason he imagined a girl. He imagined himself and Anna walking along a deserted forest highway with a beautiful little girl. He could hear the little girl giggling as she ran away down the leaf-strewn road. He could hear Anna shouting the little girl’s name as Anna chased after her.

  “Alice, stop,” Anna cried out. “Alice, please stop.”

  CHAPTER 92

  A twenty-two-foot 1984 Winnebago Chieftain motor home came to a screeching stop on a deserted forest highway. The sun dangled low in the sky, casting long tree shadows across the cracked blacktop.

  The Winnebago’s driver’s-side door swung open and Freddy Tynan carefully backed out and lowered himself to the ground. There was a time when Ol’ Freddy would have just leapt out, no problem, but that was back when he first bought the Winny. The year 1986 was a big one for Freddy Tynan. His wife of eight years had left him, he quit his ­­­bus-driver gig, and he decided to walk the earth. Well, drive really, and not the earth, just the continental United States.

  The instant Freddy’s Doc Martens boots were planted on the road, Jake, a seven-year-old cattle dog and maybe the smartest animal in the world, leapt out the door to join his master.

  Ol’ Freddy scratched the mess of whiskers on his chin and frowned at Jake curiously. “Who said you were invited?”

  Jake sat down and barked once up at Freddy.

  “Kind of late to ask now, don’t you think?” Freddy said.


  Jake barked again, and pawed Freddy’s blue jeans.

  Freddy laughed. “Okay, okay. Come on.” He buried his hands in his denim jacket and walked forward to get a better look at whatever the hell it was that lay across the middle of the road. He had been warned by other RVers to avoid this old highway for just the reason that he had slammed on his brakes. They said that the route was barely maintained and that fallen trees and rockslides were common. But as Ol’ Freddy and Jake stepped closer to the debris, Freddy realized that what he had seen wasn’t debris at all.

  Ol’ Freddy scratched his beard as he beheld the unexpected sight. “I’ll be damned.”

  Someone had used a bunch of sticks and stones to spell the word HELP across both lanes of the highway.

  Jake barked and took off up the embankment after a scampering gray rabbit.

  “Jake, don’t you go too—” Freddy’s words caught in his throat when he noticed a piece of paper pinned beneath one of the stones. The paper appeared to have writing on it. Ol’ Freddy quickly picked it up. It wasn’t a slip of paper at all. It was the torn front cover of a 2009 Land Rover LR3 owner’s manual. Someone had used the blank side to scrawl a message.

  When Freddy first spotted the word HELP spelled out with sticks and stones, he thought it was some kind of prank, but once he’d read that note, the rising hairs on the back of his neck told him it wasn’t.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Ol’ Freddy patted his pockets for his cell phone. Realizing that he’d left it on the dashboard, he jammed two fingers into his mouth and whistled. As Freddy turned and hurried back to the Winny, Jake came scrambling out of the woods and met him at the driver’s door.

  “Let’s go, boy.”

  Jake leapt up into the motor home in a single bound. Then Ol’ Freddy did something that he hadn’t done in maybe twenty years: he grabbed the door handle and yanked himself straight up into the driver’s seat. His back and shoulder would probably make him pay for that stunt in a day or two, but that didn’t matter now.