Forty Acres: A Thriller (25 page)

CHAPTER 65

M
artin couldn’t watch and he couldn’t shut his eyes, so he focused on a dark knot in one of the wood planks that made up the stall’s rear wall. To anyone watching he would appear to be riveted to the brutality before him, but only the blur of the whip invaded his peripheral vision. The sharp report of the striking weapon was impossible to ignore. Martin flinched at each crack and could only hope that no one noticed. After the first few lashes from Carver, he heard not a scream or a whimper from Alice, and this terrified him.

“Twenty-five,” Oscar called out. “That’s it.”

Carver coiled the cowskin whip into a loose loop, then swiped the back of his hand across his moist brow. His chest heaved as his exerted breathing settled back to normal. The deed was done. Carver gave his handiwork a final, satisfied glance, then emerged from the stall.

The instant Carver cleared the doorway, Oscar entered and inspected the limp, blood-soaked body. Careful to avoid staining his suit, Oscar pressed two fingers to Alice’s carotid artery. After a brief pause, he repositioned his fingers. Another pause, then he moved his fingers again.

Martin observed these post-whipping activities through a dazed fog. He felt numb, shell-shocked. And at that instant, as he watched Oscar search Alice’s neck for a pulse, his breathing ceased. The other men around him, even the barn, seemed to fade from perception. Every atom of Martin’s being was focused on Oscar’s face, desperate to see a sign, any sign.
Please let her be alive
, Martin begged the universe.
Please!

Forsaking Alice’s carotid, Oscar lifted his two fingers to Alice’s right temple and pressed firmly. There was a pause that seemed to go on for an eternity. Finally, Oscar’s detached features revealed a brief, indecipherable frown. Martin had to wait for Oscar to reemerge from the stall and move to Dr. Kasim’s side before learning Alice’s fate.

“She’s alive,” Oscar said to the doctor with the bend of surprise in his voice. “Barely, but definitely alive.”

Martin’s lungs released and he had to clench his diaphragm to avoid sighing aloud. Alice’s raw open wounds were critical, he knew that, but she was alive. If she could hang on just two more days, long enough for Martin to get home and contact the authorities, then she could, she might— These desperate hopes were shattered prematurely by what Dr. Kasim said next.

“Leave the girl where she is.” The doctor appeared neither pleased nor displeased with the report of Alice’s survival. “If she’s still breathing in the morning, have her wounds dressed and transfer her to the mine.”

Martin felt a sustained plummeting sensation, as if a trapdoor had been sprung open beneath his soul. His eyes fell to the bottom of the stall. To the droplets of blood that trickled steadily from Alice’s toes into the stained soil beneath her. A red, muddy stain that grew larger by the minute.
Drip, drip, drip.
Alice’s life leaking away.

It was clear to Martin that without proper care the sad, sweet girl with strawberry-blond hair would never be able to survive her injuries an entire night.

Dr. Kasim had just given Alice a death sentence.

CHAPTER 66

I
t’s called sorghum beer,” Dr. Kasim said. “It’s an African beer. Home-brewed.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like puke,” Tobias said. “Kind of smells like puke too.”

The men laughed, Martin along with them, but there was no levity in his heart. His thoughts were still in the barn, still with Alice. The image of her hanging by her shackled wrists, alone in the dark, dying, was as vivid as the cackling men seated beside him.

After leaving the barn and poor Alice to her fate, the men retired to Dr. Kasim’s library to celebrate Martin’s initiation with a drink. They were all settled in armchairs around the fireplace. Dr. Kasim, tall in his high-back leather throne that only looked like a chair, was the center of attention as usual. Martin took notice that Oscar was seated with the group as well. During the last gathering inside the library, Oscar served guard duty by the door, but this time he sat directly beside Dr. Kasim. With his legs crossed and his hands folded, Oscar, like a faithful pet, appeared quite content just to be at his master’s side.

At the very center of the group, atop a low coffee table, rested an old African wooden bowl. About the size of a punch bowl, the wood was dark grained and its exterior was decorated with a simple hand-carved geometric pattern.

Inside the bowl was a surprise for the group from Dr. Kasim—a pale yellow, milky substance flecked with black and tan grain pellets. Dr. Kasim called the concoction a traditional African drink, but the scowling faces around the table seemed to side with Tobias’s assessment. The stuff looked foul.

Even Martin found himself wrenched from thoughts of Alice when the African brew’s sour odor reached his nostrils.

Dr. Kasim, unsurprised and undeterred by the group’s initial repulsion, just smiled patiently. “I had it brewed specially, right here in my kitchen, from a very old recipe. Just for this evening.” Then his smile vanished. “I’d be greatly disappointed if each of you didn’t at least try it.”

The men grew tense with dread. Disappointing the old man was clearly not an option.

Dr. Kasim’s small smile resurfaced as he scanned reluctant faces. “So, who’s first?”

Martin was surprised to see Carver’s hand go up, but he wasn’t surprised when, instead of volunteering, Carver straightened his arm and pointed a finger at him. “Grey should go first. I mean, it’s his big night, right?”

Desperate to escape being the first guinea pig, the other men sided with Carver. Even Oscar pivoted his head to Dr. Kasim and said, “Mr. Lewis does make a good point, sir.”

Dr. Kasim acknowledged the consensus with a nod, but as he turned to Martin, Martin beat him to the punch.

“It would be my pleasure,” Martin said.

Everyone looked impressed, even Carver.

Martin just wanted to keep things moving. He was desperate for this nightmarish evening to end so that he could retreat to the privacy of his room. Beneath his forced smiles, Martin’s emotions were in a maelstrom and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it together.

Dr. Kasim rewarded Martin’s pluck with a pleased smile, then gestured to a gourd ladle resting beside the wooden bowl. The ladle was just as old as the bowl, but the worn native carvings on the handle were distinctly different.

“Please enjoy, brother,” Dr. Kasim said.

Martin picked up the ladle and dipped it into the milky beer. The men watched with pursed faces as he lifted it to his mouth and took a sip.

The consistency was thick like mucus and gritty. The flavor was sour yet surprisingly fruity. Martin swallowed. The aftertaste was awful. A rancid paste coated the inside of his mouth and sent his salivary glands into overdrive, causing his face to screw up in utter disgust.

The men cracked up at the sight. Even Dr. Kasim couldn’t resist a little laugh.

“Oh, come on, son,” Solomon said between chuckles, “it can’t taste all that bad.”

“It’s worse,” Martin said, still unable to relax his clenched face. “Much worse.”

The men laughed again. Dr. Kasim nodded to Martin as if to say,
Good job
,
then said aloud, “Now you pick who goes next.”

The laughter retreated as Martin scanned the circle of men. His weighing stares were merely a pretense. He already knew whom he was going to select. Martin extended the ladle to Carver. “Drink up,” he said with a smile.

Carver seemed to feed off the new guy’s push-back. He returned Martin’s smile, then snatched the ladle, dipped it deep into the beer, and drank. Not just a sip, as Martin had done. Carver tossed his head back and gulped down every last drop in the ladle.

There were sounds of astonishment from the men as Carver strained to keep the toxic stuff down. His jaw tightened, his eyes squeezed, his head cocked side to side, until finally Carver relaxed and cracked his familiar crooked smile. “Not bad.”

A burst of laughter and applause. Carver gloated as he watched Martin join in on the accolades.

None of the remaining men even came close to matching Carver’s feat. Tobias, the biggest man in the group, sheepishly ventured only the tiniest sip. Solomon’s brief taste was on par with Martin’s, just enough to repulse him without making him sick. Damon, smartly, swallowed so fast that he barely had time to taste it. Kwame, accustomed to a gentle, all-natural diet, suffered the worst reaction. After only a sip the ad exec had to clamp both hands over his mouth to keep from retching the foul liquid back into the bowl.

When the gourd ladle reached Oscar, Martin and the others watched carefully. They were all eager to see the pungent ale put a dent in Dr. Kasim’s lieutenant’s titanium facade.

They were all disappointed.

Oscar’s reaction to the drink was as calm and measured as the man himself. He simply dipped, sipped, and swallowed. No sour face, no gagging, no commentary, nothing. It was as if he had taken a cool sip of water.

Dr. Kasim received the ladle last. The men settled into silence and waited for their leader to partake.

Leaning on his staff, Dr. Kasim tilted forward in his seat and filled the ladle with the milky beer. He raised it to his mouth, but instead of drinking, he took a long sniff. “Oh, it’s horrible,” the doctor said, recoiling in disgust. “How could any of you drink this swill?” He flung the ladle into the bowl, splashing beer onto the table and floor.

As Dr. Kasim eased back into his seat, Martin gaped in utter confusion. What the hell was going on? Damon, Carver, Solomon, Tobias, and Kwame were also staring baffled at the doctor. Only Oscar appeared to be unrattled by the moment. He just sat there shaking his head, wearing an odd expression. He almost looked amused.

Then it struck Martin. The men had warned him about Dr. Kasim’s quirky sense of humor. Was it possible? Could this all be a joke?

As if he could hear Martin’s thoughts, Dr. Kasim broke out in a sudden burst of hearty laughter. He shrugged at the group and said, “You were all perfectly free to say no.”

The men groaned and sighed and shook their heads in disbelief. Martin couldn’t believe it either. It was just a joke. A prank.

Tobias pointed an accusing finger at Oscar. “Hey, did you know about this?”

Oscar frowned. “If I did, do you think that I would actually have drunk it?”

“What is that crap, anyway?” Kwame said, scowling at the bowl as if it were an old enemy. “Is that really a traditional African beer?”

“Of course,” Dr. Kasim said, his mouth turned downward, “and I still wouldn’t touch the stuff. You know, some of our African brothers eat monkey meat. Me, I prefer steak.”

All the men laughed.

“Hey, Martin,” Damon said, “now that you’ve been victimized by one of the old man’s jokes, you’re truly one of us.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, including Dr. Kasim. “Damon’s right,” the doctor said to Martin. “This was an amusing way to welcome you into the fold. But there’s more to it.” Dr. Kasim turned to address the other men and gestured toward the bowl of African beer. “Some black folks still drink that crap, just for the sake of maintaining a pointless tradition. As black men you must never forget this. Tradition is your enemy. Tradition is for the weak and the poor to make them feel like they have something. Sure, there are a few good traditions, like a man caring for and protecting his family. Like a wife standing by her husband. But most traditions are shackles, ignorant, primitive beliefs that do nothing but hold you back. You think the white puppeteers who run this world give a damn about traditions? They
trample
on tradition. So, how do you tell the useful traditions from the nonsense? If it’s hurting you and not helping you,” he gestured to the beer again, “or if it’s making you sick to your stomach, you should probably spit it out.”

Martin watched the men acknowledge Dr. Kasim’s lesson with earnest nods and murmurs. Then he remembered that he too was now one of the doctor’s acolytes. Martin put on a smile and forced a nod, hoping that the gathering was finally nearing an end.

Dr. Kasim reclined in his chair and said with a smile, “Now, how would you gentlemen like some real beer?”

“Please,” Tobias begged.

Dr. Kasim signaled to a uniformed male house slave who stood by the door. The slave nodded obediently, then yanked open the library door. Four more uniformed house slaves, another male and three females, entered briskly carrying two silver ice buckets jammed with frosty bottles of Guinness and trays of hors d’oeuvres.

As he watched the men grab for beer and food, Martin realized the evening wasn’t winding down at all; no, the party was just getting started. By the look of things Martin would have to keep up the slavemaster act for hours before he’d be able to escape scrutiny. That meant more agonizing hours before he’d be able to shower off the dirt and blood of the crime that he’d been forced to commit. More heart-wrenching hours before he’d be able to burrow beneath the covers and acknowledge what he really felt about the girl bleeding to death in the barn.

“Would you like a beer, master?”

Martin looked up and his heart stopped. Either his eyes were playing tricks on him or the pretty girl standing over him, holding a beer and wearing a pleasant smile, was Alice.

CHAPTER 67

M
aster?”

Martin just gazed at the slave girl. He couldn’t help himself. Her strawberry-blond hair, her green eyes, the way her small body filled the maid’s outfit, even her voice was similar. She wasn’t Alice—that was clear after a few seconds—but the likeness was chilling.

“Are you okay, master?”

Lost for words, Martin nodded and took the beer. He was about to say thank you, then caught himself.

The girl flashed an awkward smile, then backed away. Martin watched as she and the other slaves began to file back out the door carrying away empty trays and the bowl of African beer. He recognized her four coworkers—he had seen them working around the house—but this girl was new.

Behind him, Martin heard Oscar say, “Her name’s Felicia.”

Martin turned and discovered that all the men, Dr. Kasim included, were watching him. They must have been well aware of Felicia’s resemblance to Alice and been waiting to see his reaction.

“They could be sisters,” Martin said aloud.

“Felicia and Alice are cousins actually,” Oscar said. “They were captured together. Felicia used to work the house grounds. Now she’ll replace Alice inside the house.”

“Hell,” Carver said with a crooked grin, “the way Grey eyeballed that, I’m guessing Felicia will take Alice’s place in his bed as well.”

Martin feigned amusement, but there was something that Oscar mentioned that jarred him. It was the way he said, “captured together.” He sounded as if he were talking about animals and not two human beings.

There was still a great deal about the logistics of operating and concealing a place like Forty Acres that was a mystery to Martin. Those details could prove crucial for the authorities to track down all involved and bring them to justice. Up until now, to avoid suspicion, Martin had kept his probing gentle. But now he was initiated and a full-fledged member of the club. Now he should be able to ask anything.

He turned to Dr. Kasim. “How does it work exactly? How do you capture these . . . slaves?”

Dr. Kasim smiled, amused by the question. “Well, son, I don’t do it personally.”

“Dr. Kasim actually has a special team for that,” Damon said. “Ex-military. Real badasses.”

“Are they members of Forty Acres as well?”

Damon shook his head. “No. Not like us. More like the guards who work here. Exclusive confidential contractors.”

“Yeah,” Carver added. “Our very own in-house hit men. Only these guys are more badass. Ask Tobias. He went on a hunt once.”

Tobias nodded. “Carver’s right. Those dudes do not play around. They’re like ghosts. They can get to anyone, anywhere, anytime. They don’t just abduct people, they break their will. And if they don’t break—” Tobias shook his head. “Let’s just say those brothers scared the shit out of me.”

The fact that Dr. Kasim controlled a private strike force that stalked the nation’s cities and suburbs chilled Martin even more. “Do these ‘contractors’ just grab white people off the street?” he asked. “How do they choose their victims?”

“It’s not their job to choose,” Dr. Kasim said. “It’s just their job to hunt and capture. I choose. The people brought here to serve us weren’t picked at random. I have researchers as well. They trace bloodlines and family trees. Even do genetic testing. Every slave here is a direct descendant of a major plantation owner or of an individual like a ship captain or slave trader who reaped enormous profits from the bondage of the black man.”

“Like the white man’s Bible says,” Kwame added, “the sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons.”

“And the daughters,” Carver joked. “Can’t leave them out. The white master used our great-great-grandmothers as sex dolls. It’s only fair we return the favor with their great-great-granddaughters.”

Tobias raised his bottle. “Sounds goddamn fair to me.”

Martin joined in as the men clinked bottles and sucked beer. But inside, these new facts burned in his brain. Apparently, Forty Acres was a far more complex conspiracy than he’d assumed. Slave hunters, researchers, and, according to what Damon told him earlier, about a dozen more secret members all over the country. Successful black men who crept away from society and civility for a few weekends each year to fatten their egos at Dr. Kasim’s hidden retreat. Making this place go away would have a devastating ripple effect.

It struck Martin that the most important piece of information that he could provide to authorities was something he still did not know. Where exactly
was
Forty Acres? Damon had refused him this knowledge earlier for the same reason they had drugged him on Solomon’s jet. Details about the location of their private slave camp were far more dangerous than accusations of its existence. Accusations could be denied, spun, and buried, especially by these powerful men. But to be able to direct authorities to the actual scene of the crime would be damn near indisputable.

Martin took a long swallow of his Guinness, then turned to Dr. Kasim. He made an effort to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “So, Doctor, I’m curious. Where are we really?”

The men quieted. Dr. Kasim’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, brother.”

Martin glanced around from group member to group member. “I was drugged on the plane, I assume because you wanted to keep the real location of this place a secret. Am I right?”

Dr. Kasim looked at Martin a moment, then gave Damon a nod. Damon turned to Martin. “We all felt awful about doing that to you, but when you started questioning the flight plan, we had to do something.”

Dr. Kasim offered Martin an apologetic smile. “Certainly, you understand why we must be extraordinarily cautious.”

“Of course,” Martin said. “I get it. But I’m part of this now. And it’s really strange not knowing where I am.”

“You’re a smart young man,” Solomon said. “Think about it. Where do you think you are?”

“Well,” Martin considered, “when Damon took me to the mine, Roy mentioned that slaves used to work it. I assumed he meant African slaves, so I’m guessing we’re not out west. We’re somewhere in the South. One of the old slave states. Am I right?”

The men exchanged impressed smiles. Solomon said, “Not bad, son. Keep going.”

“Roy also mentioned the first gold rush being in North Carolina,” Martin said.

From the men came playful groans and headshakes. Carver made a loud “wrong answer” buzzer sound.

“Good try,” Solomon said. “You were close.”

“But we are in one of the Southern states,” Martin said. “Which one?”

Solomon deferred the question to their leader with a glance.

Dr. Kasim measured Martin for a cautious second, as if he were putting the final stamp of trust on the newcomer before proceeding. The old doctor turned to Oscar and said, “The map, please.”

With a wave of his hand, Oscar ordered the slave boy stationed by the door out of the room. Then he crossed the library to an old floor safe that dominated an entire corner. The gray steel behemoth was half the size of a refrigerator and looked old enough to be a prop in a western. Oscar dropped to one knee, worked the dial, then yanked the heavy door open. An instant later Oscar returned to the circle of men, carrying a wide and flat leather binder. To Martin it looked like an oversized photo album that was missing most of its pages. There was no lettering on the cover and, compared to the antique safe, the binder looked fairly new. Tobias and Kwame cleared the coffee table of bottles and plates, making room for Oscar to set down the binder and flip it open.

The first page was a map of West Virginia protected by a clear plastic sleeve. This wasn’t a map torn from an atlas or printed from the Internet. This was a one-of-a-kind original.

The map was clearly drawn, lettered, and painted by hand, but its clean design suggested the work of a professional cartographer. Only major cities like Charleston and Huntington were labeled, preserving the map’s uncluttered design. The few colors used were applied sparingly, mostly to accent water features and forested areas.

“Welcome to West Virginia,” Dr. Kasim said with a smile.

Martin’s puzzled eyes dropped back to the map. “But where?” he said. “I mean, West Virginia isn’t exactly uninhabited. Where do you hide a place like this?”

Dr. Kasim glanced at Oscar, who leaned forward and tapped a large patch of green at the very eastern edge of the map. The label read George Washington National Forest. “This is where we are,” Oscar said. “Right here.”

“That’s a national forest,” Martin said, perplexed.

“That is correct,” Dr. Kasim said. “Largest this side of the Mississippi. Over one million acres. Can you think of a better place to preserve our privacy?”

“But you can’t own private property in a national forest.”

Carver made that annoying buzzing sound again. “Wrong again, Grey.” Carver’s voice took on a rapid clip that Martin recognized from his late-night infomercials. “Timber mills, ranches, farms, fisheries, you name it. All private companies allowed to own land smack-dab in the middle of a national forest. What most people don’t know is that private individuals can too, if they have enough money and the right connections.” Carver glanced around at the titans in the room, then turned back to Martin wearing a smirk. “Need I say more?”

Martin shook his head in amazement. He turned to Dr. Kasim. “All this, right under the nose of the government and the public. Another one of your little jokes?”

Dr. Kasim smiled like he had just swallowed something delicious. He tilted his head toward the open binder. “Turn the page.”

Martin did so to find another custom-painted map sealed in a plastic sleeve. This one showed a closer view of Forty Acres and the surrounding wilderness. A large black rectangle encompassing several smaller multicolored rectangles represented the walled compound and the structures within. Prominent land features like hills and rock formations were also detailed. Just north of the compound, a thick, wavy blue stripe snaked across the entire map. Martin recognized it as the river that he and the men had crossed in the 4x4 to reach Forty Acres. Martin searched for the airstrip as well, but failing to spot it, he assumed that its location fell outside the map’s range.

“So, how big is this place really?” Martin asked. “It’s gotta be more than forty acres.”

“Seventy-two acres within the wall,” Oscar said. “But we own five square miles—thirty-two hundred acres in total—east of the river. This is the remotest part of the forest, and our private property signs are pretty aggressive to discourage the few campers who do get too close.” Oscar swept his hand over the vast greenery that dominated the map. “As you can see, we’re pretty isolated out here and we have people in the right places to keep it that way.”

It was then that Martin noticed two symbols on the map that seized his attention. The first was at the very top of the sheet, the farthest object on the page from the Forty Acres compound. A spaghetti-thin gray line snaked across the wilderness, from one end of the map to the other. Was it a hiking trail or just a dirt road, or could it actually be a rural highway? The line was unlabeled, so there was no way to tell, but seeing a link to civilization so close to Forty Acres sparked something in Martin’s mind. The second symbol that he noticed was even more encouraging.

Toward the center of the map, just a short distance from the river’s opposite shore, Martin spotted a tiny brown-colored square. This brown square was identical to the icons used to represent the Forty Acres compound, only it was nowhere near the compound. It sat alone, isolated in the wilderness. Martin estimated the distance between Forty Acres and the river’s nearest bank to be about a mile and a half, so the brown square had to be just three or four miles away. Logic told him that it was a structure, but what kind? Martin felt confident that the mysterious structure, situated on the opposite side of the river, well beyond Dr. Kasim’s property line, was not a satellite of Forty Acres. Could it be possible that Dr. Kasim had a neighbor? Could that tiny brown box be a small vacation cabin or some rich guy’s hunting lodge? And if it was, were the neighbors at home? Even more crucial, did the neighbors have a phone?

Time seemed to pause as Martin’s eyes ticked back and forth between the two unmarked symbols—the gray line that looked an awful lot like an active road, and that tiny brown square where there might be people and a way to contact the outside world. These slivers of hope set Martin’s heart racing, because if either one was true, an entirely new possibility presented itself. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for him to save Alice’s life.