Forty Acres: A Thriller (28 page)

CHAPTER 74

M
oments later, both men were seated again, but with two major differences. First, to discourage any quick movements, Martin had ordered Oscar to sit as far back in the easy chair as possible with both hands in his lap, while Martin sat on the edge of Oscar’s bed. Second, instead of holding a glass of bourbon, Martin held the nine-millimeter pointed at Oscar’s heart.

Oscar’s eyes ticked down and up between the pointed gun and Martin’s face. Martin could see Oscar’s mind working. Sizing up the threat.

Martin warned him, “In college Glen dragged me to the gun range a few times, so I know how to use this.”

For an icy second Oscar studied him, then challenged, “Shooting paper targets is not the same as shooting a man.”

“Make no mistake,” Martin said. “If I can bring myself to whip that poor girl, I can definitely shoot you.”

Oscar’s hard, steady stare gave nothing away. But the fact that Oscar remained planted in the easy chair told Martin that his point had been made.

“What now?” Oscar growled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s simple,” Martin replied. “You’re going to get me to the ranger station.”

Oscar frowned as if Martin were wasting his time. “Maybe you haven’t noticed but this place is a fortress. You’ll never—”

“Wait,” Martin said, raising his free hand. “Before you tell me that we can’t get past the guards, or we can’t get through the gate, or anything else like that, let me say this. I don’t care how you do it, but either you get me to the ranger station in the next hour or I’m going to kill you. It’s that simple.”

Oscar just stared, trying to gauge Martin’s resolve. “What makes you so damn sure that I won’t die to protect Forty Acres?”

“I’m not. I’m only sure of one thing. I’m willing to die to shut Forty Acres down.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Ridiculous question,” Martin said. “But if you really need an answer, here it is. Forty Acres is wrong. Plain and simple.”

“Plain and simple?” Oscar shook his head in disappointment. “Clearly you haven’t thought through the potential repercussions of what you plan.”

“The repercussions are that Dr. Kasim and the rest of his maniac followers will end up behind bars, where you all belong.”

“Keep in mind,” Oscar said, “that these so-called maniac followers are influential, conscious black men. Doctors, businessmen, politicians, even one prominent church leader. These men that you’re so determined to destroy do a lot of good for our people. Ruin them, and countless innocents will suffer as well.” Oscar paused to underscore his next point. “And that’s just the beginning. Once you tell the world about Forty Acres, just imagine the resentment and distrust. It will be directed not only toward the men involved but toward the entire black community. You think blacks are discriminated against now? Just wait. What you do here tonight will set race relations back decades. If you truly believe that this matter is ‘plain and simple,’ then, Mr. Grey, you are a fool.”

Martin was held by a specter of doubt. Everything Oscar said made sense. It would be naive to think that the bombshell that he was about to drop didn’t have the potential to hurt innocent people. But there was one intangible saving grace that Martin hoped would help temper the inevitable shock and outrage.

“You’re right,” Martin said to Oscar. “Everything could happen just the way you say. But because a black man will be the one blowing the whistle, I don’t think it will. I believe that the world will understand the truth—that a few twisted men, men who just happened to be black, did something really stupid.”

Oscar snorted. “You’re kidding yourself. This world you imagine does not exist.”

“Another point on which we will always disagree,” Martin said. “Now, will you get me to the ranger station, or not? And before you answer, let me offer you an incentive.”

“What incentive?”

“Once we reach the station and I have contacted the authorities, I will let you go. I’ll do everything in my power to help the police find you later, but tonight I will let you go.”

A smile creased Oscar’s face. “Now I see why you’re such a good lawyer. You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“We’ve wasted enough time. Just give me your answer.”

Oscar sighed. “Brother, please listen to me. What’s happening here is just part of what we talked about. Misplaced guilt. Why don’t you let me wake up the doctor? We can deal with this.”

Martin glared. “Deal with it how? The way you dealt with Donald Jackson?”

“No,” Oscar said, maintaining his composure. “Jackson was different. Jackson was too far gone to help.”

“So am I,” Martin huffed. He extended the gun, bringing it a foot closer to his intended target. “I need an answer. Now.”

Martin saw Oscar’s cool, calculating eyes drop to the gun.

“Just so you know,” Martin said, “if you think you’re going to be saved by the guards or anyone else, you’re not. Anything goes wrong, I’m aiming at one person, and that’s you.”

Oscar frowned. “I figured that.”

It was so quiet Martin could hear the tick of the clock on the wall.

“Well?”

Oscar shut his eyes as if trying to visualize the problem. “I get you to the ranger station, you let me go. If I don’t, you kill me.”

“That’s right.”

Oscar opened his eyes and conceded with an easy nod. “Then the ranger station it is.”

Martin felt as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. He had pulled it off. His simple plan had worked. The rest was up to Oscar. “Okay,” Martin said. “So how do we get out of here? What’s the plan?”

“Don’t need a plan,” Oscar replied. “Dr. Kasim owns Forty Acres and serves as its leader, but I run this place. I assume that’s why you’re waving that gun at me, not him. Getting past the guards will not be a problem, I promise you that.”

Martin’s eyes darkened with suspicion. The overseer’s sudden cooperation was making him uneasy. “I’m warning you, if this is a trick—”

“You’ll kill me, I know. I swear, it’s not a—”

Oscar was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door.

Startled, Martin sprang to his feet and took aim at Oscar’s head. The first thought that raced through Martin’s mind was that Oscar had a secret way of signaling for help. Gun trembling in his grasp, Martin whispered, “Who is that?”

Oscar shook his head and threw up his hands.

Martin made an instantaneous determination that Oscar’s puzzled expression was genuine.

The knocks came again, this time followed by a voice. “Hey, Oscar, you still up? I need to talk to you. It’s about Martin. He’s not in his room.”

Martin experienced a surge of panic. The gun suddenly felt heavier in his hand.

It was Carver.

CHAPTER 75

M
artin stood pressed against the wall beside the bedroom door, gun trained on Oscar’s temple. As Oscar reached for the knob, Martin whispered, “Keep in mind, I’m very nervous.”

His heart pounding in his chest, Martin watched Oscar twist open the door. From his position Martin couldn’t see Carver, just the annoyed stare that Carver received from Oscar.

“It’s late,” Oscar grumbled. “Why are you bothering me?”

“I told you,” Carver said. “Grey’s not in his room.”

The closeness of Carver’s voice made Martin’s heart hammer even faster. If Carver became even a little suspicious, things could get ugly fast.

Oscar’s reaction to Carver’s news was calm, bordering on bored. “And how do you know this?”

“I knocked,” Carver replied. “When I got no answer, you know, I peeked in.”

Martin could practically hear the stupid smirk on Carver’s face.

Oscar sighed. “And this is why you woke me? There’s no problem. I know exactly where Mr. Grey is.”

Martin stiffened. What was Oscar doing?

“You do?” Carver said. “Where?”

The puzzlement in Carver’s voice mirrored what Martin felt. His palms grew slick with sweat, causing him to adjust his grip on the gun. He didn’t want to shoot Oscar, but if Oscar called his bluff—

With a casual nod of his head, Oscar said to Carver, “Mr. Grey is right here pointing a gun at me.”

These words were uttered so matter-of-factly that, for a fraction of a second, Martin wasn’t sure that he had heard right. This fleeting instant of hesitation was all the time Oscar needed to turn the tables.

Oscar whirled and fixed Martin with a defiant stare that dared Martin to murder him in cold blood.

Martin’s trigger finger tensed, but he couldn’t do it. Oscar grabbed Martin’s outstretched hand. Sharp, twisting pain shot through Martin’s wrist and he felt the gun snatched from his grasp. A sinking wave of emptiness spread from Martin’s hand to his heart. His plan had failed. It was over.

Martin saw the steel butt of the handgun coming at him. He felt a sharp blow to his temple and a cascade of pain filled his skull. The room tilted. The hardwood floor came up and smacked the side of his face. Martin saw blurry bare feet and what looked like a pair of shoes approaching fast. He heard faraway voices. Alarmed voices. Shouting. Then blackness closed in and dragged Martin down.

CHAPTER 76

Y
ou have arrived at your destination,” the GPS announced in a friendly female voice.

“You can say that again,” Anna muttered as she pulled her Prius to the curb and gazed out at the impressive house that stood directly across the street.

Wow
, Anna thought.
Christine Jackson lives here?

The house was a classic two-story redbrick colonial, nestled upon a sprawling emerald-green lawn. A curved brick path snaked past perfect hedges and a looming shade tree to reach the steps of an elegant entryway shaded by a portico. But it wasn’t just the amazing house that enthralled Anna; it was the entire neighborhood. Located in affluent Westchester County, the picturesque street buzzed with the morning rituals of suburban life. Several neighboring minimansions had teams of gardeners hard at work outside, trimming and snipping the shrubbery. At one nearby home, a uniformed housekeeper chatted with the mail carrier. Down the street Anna saw two very fit young women jogging side by side. One woman pushed a racing stroller and the other led an adorable Yorkshire terrier by a brown leather leash.

Anna loved the modest house that she shared with Martin, and was fond of their lively Queens neighborhood as well, but turning onto this street was a little like entering a dream. Whenever Anna would fantasize about her future with Martin, a street like this one, with big beautiful homes and friendly neighbors, was exactly the setting that she would imagine. Where better to raise a family and nurture a long and loving marriage? Of course, Anna was neither naive nor shallow. She knew that the neighborhood’s picture-perfect facade said nothing about what truly went on behind all those high hedges and brass-knockered doors. The trappings of the American dream were a nice ideal to strive for, but ultimately they guaranteed little, happiness least of all. Donald Jackson’s apparent suicide was proof of that, wasn’t it?

Still behind the wheel of her idling car, Anna returned her gaze to the Jackson home as she recalled a curious fact. Tracking down Christine Jackson’s address on the Internet had been a challenge because Christine and her two children had moved only a few months after her husband’s death. The family’s former address was a two-bedroom condo in upscale Brooklyn Heights. For a first-time author experiencing modest success, this seemed right in line with what Mr. Jackson would have been able to afford. What struck Anna as peculiar was the lifestyle that the family was able to maintain after Mr. Jackson’s death. Their current Westchester address indicated a significant upgrade in the Jackson family’s finances. The house alone had to be worth $3 or $4 million. Even the finest life insurance policy in the world couldn’t sustain this sort of expensive lifestyle for very long.

The mystery that had inspired Anna to take the day off, get up early, and drive forty-five minutes out of the city had suddenly become more puzzling. To Anna it now seemed quite clear that Damon and his rich pals had done considerably more for the late Donald Jackson’s family than merely cover up his suicide. But if loyalty and generosity were the whole story, then how to explain the vicious look that Christine Jackson had leveled at Damon Darrell in that photograph? It simply didn’t make sense. No, the mysterious trips, the secret suicide, that photo, they all told Anna that something was not quite right about Martin’s new friends. And judging from that unforgettable look in Christine Jackson’s eyes, Anna had a strong suspicion that Mr. Jackson’s widow would be able to provide some answers.

Anna killed her engine and climbed out of the Prius. Before she had a chance to cross, a yellow school bus rumbled down the block and squealed to a stop in front of the Jackson home. A single honk of the horn brought two backpack-laden kids, a boy and a girl, both about eight years old, bounding out of the house. The spritely siblings were trailed down the path by an attractive, light-skinned woman. The woman’s slender figure made the burgundy silk robe that she wore look like a designer evening dress. The smoldering cigarette in the corner of her mouth completed her morning-chic look.

Anna recognized Donald Jackson’s widow immediately.

Christine Jackson kissed and hugged her children good-bye and then dragged on her cigarette as they charged onto the bus.

As the yellow bus motored away, Christine noticed Anna standing across the street, watching her. If Christine Jackson found it odd to see a black woman in her neighborhood that she didn’t know or recognize, she didn’t show it. She simply flashed a fake smile, took another long drag of her cigarette, and started back toward her house.

“Mrs. Jackson,” Anna called out as she hurried across the street. “Wait. Please.”

Christine paused on her walkway and watched, perplexed, as Anna approached.

“Hi,” Anna said, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. “You are Christine Jackson, right?”

Christine did not return the stranger’s smile. “I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”

“No,” Anna said, “and I apologize for ambushing you this way. I was about to knock on your door, but then the bus came, and you came out, so—”

“Yes, yes. That’s fine. Now, who are you exactly?”

*   *   *

The Handyman was seated in a parked white Toyota Camry, half a block away, sipping black coffee from a thermos lid while watching Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Jackson’s early morning chitchat.

“Well, well,” he muttered to himself. “Isn’t this interesting.”

The Handyman was not in the habit of taking last-minute assignments. He preferred plenty of prep time. That was the only way to ensure that everything went just so. But when the client called at 3:17 in the morning and offered to double his already substantial fee, he was tempted to make an exception. What sold him were the particulars of the gig. Essentially, the client wanted him to be on standby. He was to shadow Anna Grey for twenty-four hours and wait for an extinguish order, which might or might not come. If the order came, he’d score the double payday. If not, he’d still receive his standard rate just for babysitting. To the Handyman that sounded like a pretty sweet deal, and from the looks of things down the street, it was about to pay off big-time.

The Handyman had worked with the client for several years, on countless assignments. The fact that the client wanted Anna tracked told him that there were problems with her husband, problems that might not have a tidy solution. At such a critical time, the last thing that the client would want to see was their current dilemma grow more complicated because of a past dilemma.

The Handyman had no doubt that a meeting between Anna Grey and Christine Jackson was an unexpected development that the client would be extremely interested in.

The Handyman drained his cup and screwed it back onto a stainless-steel thermos. From the passenger seat he hoisted a Canon 5D Mark II DSLR camera outfitted with a heavy 400 mm telephoto lens. After a glance around to ensure that he wasn’t being observed, he raised the camera to his eye and shot two quick photos of the women. He returned the camera to the seat and grabbed his iPhone from the dash. He opened an app called Shutter Shuttle, which was tethered wirelessly to the Bluetooth memory card in his camera, and quickly found the two photos. Both were perfect, high-resolution shots of the two women conversing on Christine Jackson’s front walk. He typed out a quick email, attached one of the photos, and hit send.

The Handyman returned his iPhone to the dash, poured himself another cup of steaming coffee, and continued to watch. He couldn’t hear a word they said, but it didn’t matter. As the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words—or in this case, a big, fat double payday.

All the Handyman had to do was wait for a response.

*   *   *

Christine Jackson squinted at Anna. “And you say that your husband’s name is Martin Grey? Would that be Martin Grey the attorney?”

“Actually, yes,” Anna replied with surprise. She did not expect Christine Jackson to know anything about her husband.

Christine saw the puzzled look on Anna’s face. “I’ve seen him on the news,” she explained. She dragged on her cigarette and sized Anna up through a tendril of smoke. “So what is this about, Mrs. Grey? I’ll admit that I’m incredibly curious.”

“Well, it’s about our husbands really.”

Christine expelled a stream of smoke. “Our husbands? I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake. My husband has been deceased for several years now.”

“Yes, I know,” Anna said. “And I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.” The reply sounded sincere. “Now, what is this about?”

“Some old friends of your husband are now friends with my husband, Martin. And, well, I guess I’m a little worried.”

Christine’s brow furrowed warily. “These friends, who are they exactly?”

“Well, Damon Darrell introduced Martin to them. It’s the same group of men who went on that rafting trip with your husband five years ago. Now Martin’s on a rafting trip with them, and he’s completely out of contact. They told me what really happened to your husband. But they lied about it at first. And—I don’t know—I just get the feeling that they’re lying about something more. I thought that you might be able to—”

“You thought wrong,” Christine snapped. She glanced nervously up and down the block, then fixed Anna with a stare. “Now, you listen to me. I want you to get the hell off my property and never come back. And do not try to contact me. No phone calls, no emails, nothing. Do you understand?”

Anna felt dazed, as if she had just been sucker punched. “No, I don’t understand. Did I say something wrong?”

Christine Jackson took a long drag and used the pause to scan up and down the street again. Finally she frowned at Anna and said something chilling. “I have kids, okay? I have two small children. Leave us alone. Please.” Mrs. Jackson’s eyes welled with tears. She flicked her smoldering cigarette onto her perfect lawn, then turned and marched back toward her beautiful house.

*   *   *

The Handyman’s iPhone chimed.

He set down his coffee and checked the screen. He saw what he was waiting for. Like all of the encrypted emails received from the client, the reply, regarding the photo, was brief and to the point. There were just three tiny words to decide Anna Grey’s fate.

The Handyman smiled at the message, then flung his phone into the passenger seat and started up the Camry.

Time to get to work.

*   *   *

Anna’s mind reeled as she headed back to her car. She actually felt a bit muddled, as if Christine Jackson’s sudden shift had jarred something loose in her own head.

Anna paused at the curb to let a van zip by, then stepped into the street and began to cross. Christine Jackson was clearly afraid, but afraid of what? Did Damon and the others threaten to take away her big house and her family’s comfortable lifestyle if she ever talked about what happened to her husband? Or was it more than that? It almost seemed as if the woman feared for her life. But that was crazy, wasn’t it?

Anna blinked to clear her head and spotted something odd.

A gardener on the opposite sidewalk was pointing frantically up the street. The Mexican appeared to be shouting something, but the leaf blower strapped to his back was drowning out his—

A horn screamed.

Anna whirled and froze at the sight of a white car bearing down on her fast. In a panicked reflex Anna threw out her hands before her as if she could fend off the speeding car.

There was a long, smoky screech of tires before the car lurched to stop, the car’s front bumper just an arm’s length from crushing Anna.

A white-haired old man stuck his head out of the car and hollered, “Pay attention where you’re walking, lady! Are you crazy or something?”

“Sorry,” Anna said, panting. Her heart was still racing. “My fault. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The old driver wheeled around Anna and sped away down the block.

Anna hurried to her car, unlocked the door, and jumped in. She snatched the seat belt around her as if it could retroactively protect her from what had just occurred. For a moment she just sat gripping the steering wheel, allowing the adrenaline rush to fade.

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.