Forty Acres: A Thriller (20 page)

CHAPTER 53

M
artin was roused from sleep by movement on the bed. Head still buried in the pillow, he peeled open his sleepy eyes and saw the blurred, naked figure of Alice easing herself out of the bed. Pretending to still be asleep, Martin watched as Alice slipped into her dress, picked up her shoes, then tiptoed toward the door. Carefully, she inched open the door, but before making her exit, she glanced back. Alice froze with alarm when she saw Martin watching her. Martin smiled to dispel any fear that he might be upset at her surreptitious departure. Alice nodded, then quickly slipped out of the room. Martin wondered if she would tell any of the other slaves what he had done . . . or hadn’t done. He had considered whispering an instruction to Alice to keep quiet about their little pantomime but he decided that that was too risky. Better to let the girl assume that he possessed an odd sexual kink rather than give her a reason to doubt his loyalty to Dr. Kasim and the other men. If she suspected that Martin intended to expose Forty Acres the moment he returned to civilization, she might tell the others. Such a rumor would spread fast among the slaves and be nearly impossible to keep from the guards. And if that happened, Martin was certain that the next time Anna laid eyes on him, he’d be dead.

Martin glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was only a little after three in the morning. He rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. When Martin returned, he heard a strange sound, a low rumbling that seemed to be coming from just outside his window. It sounded like a vehicle of some sort, but who’d be out for a drive at this hour? Martin rounded the foot of the bed, drew back the curtain, and peeked out the window. A dark green SUV, its engine left idling and its headlights blasting a row of hedges, was parked directly in front of the house. Martin noticed that the SUV was similar to the one that he and the other men had arrived in earlier. It might have been the very same truck, but his vantage point from the second-floor window and the gloom of night made it difficult to tell for sure. Besides the fact that someone saw fit to disrupt the night with that throaty vehicle, there was something else about the SUV that struck Martin as peculiar. The driver’s side door and the two rear doors were hanging wide open and the vehicle was empty. It was as if the SUV had sped to a stop and the passengers all jumped out and sprinted into the house. But who were they and what could be so critical at three o’clock in the morning? Was there some sort of emergency occurring in the house? Was someone sick? If so, where were the urgent voices and sounds of commotion? Martin turned to the door and focused his hearing. Except for the grumbling of the SUV, the house was dead quiet. But as he stared at the bedroom door, another possibility occurred to Martin. A very troubling possibility. Maybe he was the emergency. Perhaps Damon or Oscar had questioned Alice and deduced his secret. They wouldn’t need to be absolutely sure; there was too much at stake. All it would take was a seed of doubt to transform Martin from a prospective member into a threat that needed to be eliminated.

Martin’s heart began to pound. Armed guards could be creeping toward his room at that very moment. Coming to take him. He glanced around the room for a possible weapon. Anything to fight with. He knew his chances were slim, but if he could somehow get past the guards and make it into the woods, he could—Martin froze when he heard the
click
of the doorknob turning. Then the bedroom door began to swing open.

“Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.”

It was Alice in the doorway. She was alone and, even with the door wide open, the house was still quiet.

She touched her bare neck. “My necklace. I think it fell off. May I look for it quickly, sir?”

Martin was still dazed by residual panic.

“Please, master. My mother gave it to me. It’s all I have.”

Martin nodded, then watched Alice move to the bed and draw back the covers. After a moment, she held a thin silver necklace with a small crucifix up for Martin to see. “Sorry, master. It comes loose a lot.” She started for the door.

“Wait.”

Alice paused at the door. “Yes, master.”

“That truck outside. What’s going on?”

“That’s Master Lennox’s truck.”

“Are you sure?” Even as he said it, Martin knew that he sounded too anxious.

Alice appeared baffled by the question. “Sir?”

Martin reminded himself that his every move was likely being observed, his every word monitored. With a wave of his hand, Martin told Alice, “Never mind. Forget it.”

“May I go now, sir?”

Martin nodded as coldly as he could for his unseen audience.

“Good night, master.” As Alice shut the door behind her, Martin heard the voices coming from outside. He turned back to the window in time to see Oscar descending the front steps of the house trailed by two young women. Like most of the women that he had encountered at Forty Acres, both were blond and very pretty. Martin only got a glimpse of their faces, but neither of the girls appeared familiar to him. Although they were both dressed casually in simple sundresses and flip-flops, Martin found something alluring about their appearance. It was their hair. Instead of wearing it tied back, like most of the girls he’d seen around the compound, both girls wore their hair down on their shoulders, as Alice had when Carver first brought her into his room. Along with Oscar, who was dressed in a suit as always, it almost looked as if the trio was headed out to a club or a bar. Oscar loaded the girls into the back and then shut the door. When Oscar climbed into the driver’s seat, Martin caught a glimpse of steel beneath Oscar’s jacket. It was a holstered, stainless-steel nine-millimeter handgun. An instant later, the SUV was speeding away around the front garden, then up the oak-bordered drive toward the main gate. Martin watched the receding red taillights of the SUV flit away into the darkened landscape until they disappeared.

Martin slipped back into bed. He lay there wondering where Oscar could be taking the two female slaves at such a late hour and for what purpose, until sleep overtook him once again.

CHAPTER 54

U
nlike dinner, there was no formality to breakfast. Oscar had informed Martin the night before that breakfast would be served in the dining room all morning, so Martin could sleep as long as he liked. Unfortunately, Martin was too anxious to sleep in. A little after eight, he was squinting at the sunlight streaming through his window. The sky overhead looked clear, but he could see a cloud front in the distance. Perhaps a storm was coming.

After a quick shower, Martin threw on jeans, a T-shirt, a light jacket, and hiking boots—an outfit he hoped would be suitable for Damon’s promised early morning tour of the gold mine. In truth, the last thing Martin wanted to do was spend another second palling around with Damon Darrell. Not only had Martin liked Damon, he had admired and respected him. Never had Martin bonded with someone so quickly. He expected that in time their friendship would have become as close as the one he shared with Glen. But last night had changed all that. Whether Damon was truly evil or just brainwashed by Dr. Kasim’s madness, it didn’t matter. Martin could never look at Damon Darrell the same way again. But to survive and to shut Forty Acres down forever, Martin would pretend. He’d go on taking Damon’s advice and laughing at Damon’s jokes, but it would all be an act. Just a ruse to learn the place’s secrets. As far as Martin was concerned, his onetime friend was now a dangerous enemy.

Martin wandered into the dining room and was greeted by Damon and Carver, who were chatting over breakfast. Damon was working on a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, and syrup-drenched pancakes, while Carver seemed satisfied with just a slice of toast and a cup of black coffee. Before Martin could take a seat, he was intercepted by a white-jacketed slave who politely asked Martin for his order. After seeing Damon’s and Carver’s selections, Martin decided to split the difference. He ordered scrambled eggs with two slices of toast and some coffee to start.

“Try the bacon,” Damon said. “It’s delicious. Trust me.”

Martin gave the slave the okay to add bacon, then took a seat at the table.

Carver and Damon shared mischievous smiles. “Well?” Damon finally asked.

“Well what?”

“Carver told me that he brought you a little present last night. How was she?”

Martin leveled a stare at Carver. Carver deflected it with a grin. “What’s wrong, Grey? It’s a secret you like pussy?”

Damon pressed, “Come on, Martin. Tell us. What did you think of Alice?”

Clearly the men traded notes on the girls. “She was nice,” Martin said, and left it at that.

Carver and Damon frowned at his chaste answer. As the slave approached with Martin’s coffee, Carver said to Martin, “Would you quit the Gentleman Jim act? Was Alice the best piece of white ass you ever had or not?”

Martin glanced self-consciously at the slave, who was at that very moment setting down the cup of coffee. Then Martin turned sharply to Carver. “Let’s change the subject.”

Carver scoffed and pointed at the slave. “Are you worried about him?” he asked Martin. “They don’t hear anything we say.” Carver turned to the slave, “Do you hear anything?”

The anxious young man shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing at all.” Then he hurried back to the kitchen.

“You’re their master,” Damon said to Martin. “They worry about your feelings, not the other way around. I know that takes a while to get used to, but never forget it. Especially around them.”

Martin nodded, accepting Damon’s advice like an obedient student. He realized that his newness to life at Forty Acres could be a good cover for the disgust he felt.

“So come on,” Carver pushed. “How was Alice? You have to give us more than ‘she was nice.’”

“Okay, okay,” Martin said, summoning the best smile that he could. “It was just like you said, Carver. Best piece of white ass ever. Damn, that girl is something special.”

“Special is right,” Carver said with a wry grin. “If you think she’s good now, wait until she gives you a blow job.”

“It’s true,” Damon said. “That girl will make you see stars.”

Martin watched the two men laugh. Carver’s big mouth had just confirmed his suspicion that his room was under video surveillance. That’s the only way that Carver could have known what Alice did and did not do the night before.

Carver noticed Martin staring. “Something wrong, Grey?”

“Not at all. I was just thinking I wouldn’t mind spending some time with Alice again tonight. According to you guys, she’s got some other talents I should know about.”

Damon shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

The slave walked in with Martin’s breakfast. As the food was placed on the table, Carver said, “You really like Alice, don’t you, Grey?”

“What’s not to like?”

“No. I mean you
really
like her. That’s why you were holding out on the juicy details, wasn’t it? Because that sweet little thing really got to you.”

Martin felt his pulse quicken. He was pretty certain that Carver was simply fishing, but still his response had to be unflinchingly convincing. Martin set down his fork. “You’re right. You figured it out. I’m deeply in love with Alice. In fact we’re running off tonight to get married. Maybe you’d like to be my best man. Whaddaya say?”

Carver just eyeballed him for a moment, keen for the slightest revealing tick on Martin’s face. Then he broke the tension with a small smile. “You’re a funny man, Grey. Very funny man.”

Martin noticed that there was still a glimmer of suspicion in Carver’s eyes.

“Carver does bring up a good point,” Damon said to Martin. “Have all the fun you want with these girls, but be careful. Do not let yourself grow attached to them. Got it?”

Martin put on a casual smile. “Guys, come on. I spent one night with the girl. I’m not attached to her, I’m just real horny.”

Damon laughed.

Carver did not.

CHAPTER 55

A
n angry-looking storm front loomed in the distance above the treetops. Directly overhead, a few scattered clouds slid across a bright blue sky like the advance unit for Mother Nature’s forces. Martin followed Damon along a dirt path that trailed away from the main house and ran parallel to the golf course. Last night’s work crew was long gone, and the rolling, manicured greens looked immaculate.

“How far is the mine?” Martin asked.

“Not far. About a ten-minute walk from here.”

Martin looked sideways at Damon. “And where is here, exactly? Please don’t say outside Seattle.”

Damon did a poor job of stifling a smile. “What do you mean? Of course we’re outside Seattle. Have you been staring into the sun again?”

Martin was relieved to see that Damon took his inquiry lightly. “Damon, come on, I know that we’re nowhere near—”

Damon raised a hand, cutting him off, his tone suddenly serious. “For now we’re outside Seattle. When the time is right, you’ll know more. Cool?”

Thinking it unwise to push, Martin nodded and let the matter drop.

Soon they reached the stream. The rushing water was as clear as glass. They walked across an old wooden footbridge and then continued along a dirt path into an untamed section of the estate. Unlike the manicured landscape surrounding the main house, on this side of the stream trees and brush were allowed to flourish unchecked. To Martin it would have seemed like they had exited Forty Acres and gone back into the deep woods, if it wasn’t for the strange cabins. Set back from the trail and partially hidden by trees stood a row of four squat and elongated structures. They were all boarded up, weather-beaten, and overgrown with wildlife, like army barracks that had been long abandoned. As they strolled by, Damon pointed to them like a tour guide. “Over there is where all the slaves used to live. But about twenty years ago Dr. Kasim decided to make some changes.”

“Why? What happened?”

“This was before I was a member, but Solomon once told me that it had something to do with too many planes flying over and that they were worried about the slaves being spotted. They decided to move most of them inside.”

That made perfect sense, Martin thought. With scores of laborers and armed guards running around, Forty Acres must have looked like a prison camp from the sky. Factor in the steady increase in private air traffic and the growing sophistication of consumer video and photographic equipment, and the result that some aerial passerby would eventually notice something fishy about Forty Acres was inevitable. “But where did they move them to?” Martin asked.

“The house. Slaves all live in the east wing of the house, down in the cellar. The guards live on the floors above them and take up the rest of that wing.”

“What about the mine workers? Where are they housed?”

“In the mine, of course.”

“You mean underground?”

“Exactly. Not only does it keep them out of sight, it makes escape damn near impossible.”

Off to his right, through a dense grouping of trees, Martin could barely discern a section of the huge encompassing wall. The imposing barrier looked impossible to climb, but Martin knew that desperate people sometimes found ways to achieve the impossible. “Has anyone ever escaped?” Martin asked.

Damon’s response was matter-of-fact. “No. And they never will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Damon paused on the trail and turned to face Martin. “Look, when I was the new guy, I worried about the same thing. If just one slave escapes from this place, my career, my life, everything is ruined.”

Martin had belabored the point to gather information, not because of any concern for future repercussions. But Damon’s assumption served as the perfect cover. “It’s true,” Martin said. “I’d be paranoid about the FBI banging down my front door one day. How the hell do you even sleep at night?”

“Think about it like this,” Damon said. “The oldest nuclear power plant in the country, built atop a geological fault no less, is located just fifty miles from eight million New Yorkers and your front door. You ever lose sleep over that?”

“Not really.”

“Of course not, because you know that there’s too much at stake for the operators of Indian Point to leave anything to chance.”

Martin thought this over. “Sounds like you’re saying that Forty Acres is too big to fail.”

Damon nodded. “Now you got it. This thing we have here, and the people involved—if our secret ever got out, it would be—”

“Catastrophic.”

“Exactly. So, while it’s impossible to eliminate all risks, every precaution imaginable has been taken.”

Damon smiled at the doubt that still remained on Martin’s face. “Trust me, once you see the mine, you’ll get a better understanding of how seriously security is taken around here.”

Martin followed Damon deeper and deeper into the wooded section of Forty Acres. For a short stretch the only visible signs of civilization were the deep tire ruts in the dirt path; then they emerged into a small clearing. A brick guard shack with two jeeps parked out front stood adjacent to the entrance of the gold mine. The mouth of the cave was set into the base of a small stony hill and an impenetrable-looking rusty steel door barricaded the entrance. On a fading hand-painted sign over the door were the words Our Mine. Martin’s jaw tightened as he stared at the sign. The wordplay about ownership revolving around the double meaning of the word
mine
was no doubt another example of Dr. Kasim’s skewed humor.

A tall guard with a clean-shaven head and a gun on his hip emerged from the guard shack to greet them. He shook hands with both of them. “Mr. Darrell. Mr. Grey. How can I help you gentlemen today?”

“I want to give Mr. Grey here a quick tour,” Damon said.

“Sure thing. Just let me clear it with my boss.” The guard raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth and keyed it. “Roy, you copy? I got Mr. Darrell and Mr. Grey up top. They’d like a tour.”

“Sure,” a deep voice squawked from the device. “Send ’em down to gate two. I’ll meet them there.”

“Copy that.” The guard holstered his radio and returned his attention to Damon and Martin. “Hold on, let me grab you some headgear.” He disappeared into the guard shack and returned with two hard hats. He tossed one to Damon and the other to Martin, then led them over to the mine entrance.

The guard pulled out an odd-looking four-sided key, inserted it into a shielded keyhole, and gave it a twist. Martin heard the loud clack of an electronic-powered latch unlocking, then watched the guard repocket the key. He found himself wondering if all the guards carried such a key. Was it some sort of master key, perhaps?

The guard gripped a thick steel handle with both hands and heaved. The heavy door groaned, slowly swinging outward. The guard looked like he was opening a bank vault. The open cave belched a gust of chilly, pungent air that caused Martin to recoil. The odor was so earthy rich that Martin could taste it. Martin pressed a hand over his nose to dampen the smell.

“Yeah, it’s pretty damn funky,” Damon said. “Takes a moment to get used to.”

Beyond the steel doorway a narrow, low-ceilinged passage reinforced by timber columns and crossbeams descended into the earth. Shielded light fixtures mounted along the ceiling provided a dingy gloom. On the dusty cave floor, rusted mine-car rails offered a foreboding trail downward.

“Just keep straight until you reach gate two,” the guard said. “It’s not far and there’s no other way to go, so you can’t miss it. I’ll keep the hatch open until you reach Roy.”

“I’ve been down a few times before,” Damon said. “We’ll be fine.”

The guard nodded. “See you when you get back.”

Martin followed Damon across the threshold and into the mine. Their footfalls crunched hollowly as they progressed downward. Very quickly the reassuring glow of daylight from the mouth of the cave was no longer visible behind them. Directly ahead, the passage’s curving descent afforded them only a view of the jagged chiseled walls.

Damon smiled at Martin. “Pretty crazy, huh?”

Martin didn’t say a word. He was too busy studying an old overturned mine car that abutted the tunnel wall. What puzzled Martin was that the mine car wasn’t just old, it was very old. The crumbling and corroded iron carcass, with its monstrous rivets and crudely forged parts, lay in a burnt-orange bed of its own rust. That mine car had to have been abandoned over a hundred years earlier. And then there was the tunnel’s construction. The hand-carved wooden beams that held back the crushing earth were so ancient that they almost looked fossilized. Martin noticed that some of the beams had been repaired over the years with modern metal brackets. The electrical light fixtures were also a relatively recent addition. Martin could tell this by the charred scorch marks spaced along the walls, most likely the result of oil lanterns or maybe even torches.

Jesus, exactly how old is this mine?
Martin wondered. A day ago when Damon mentioned that there was an old working gold mine on the property, Martin assumed that the mine would be a fairly modern operation. He pictured shaft elevators, conveyor belts, maybe even a few dump trucks. Martin never imagined that he’d be hiking down a ramshackle hole that could have come straight out of the Old West.

The passage doubled in width as Damon and Martin arrived at another guard shack standing before a formidable steel wall. The wall cut off access to the deeper sections of the mine like a big steel plug. It had no windows or view ports, just one reinforced door at its center. A white number two was painted on the door. The guard shack was twice as big as the one up top and appeared to be far more sophisticated. Martin noticed several bundles of electrical cables that ran from the shack and disappeared through the steel wall, headed toward some destination deeper in the mine. Martin came to the conclusion that the windowless structure had to be the nerve center for the entire mine. This was confirmed when the door swung open and Roy stepped out. For the brief instant that the door remained open, Martin spotted another man inside the shack seated at a bank of surveillance monitors and a tall rifle rack loaded with weapons.

Roy, with his unshaved face and a stogie clamped between his teeth, didn’t look like the other guards. He didn’t dress like them either. There was no firearm hanging from his hip, just a walkie-talkie, and instead of wearing all black, he sported jeans and a stained blue sweatshirt. Printed on the front of his shirt in big, bold letters was the unlikely phrase Obama Is My Homeboy. Martin couldn’t help wondering what Roy’s homeboy would think of Roy’s chosen occupation.

Roy plucked the cigar from his mouth and raised his walkie-talkie. “I got ’em. We’re all good.”

“Copy that.”

Wearing a big smile, Roy held his arms out wide, and his deep voice boomed off the walls. “Welcome to hell, my brothers. My name is Satan and I’ll be your tour guide today.”

Damon greeted Roy with a warm hug. Roy turned and pulled Martin into a hug next. “Just so you know, I’m not really Satan. It’s Roy Cooper. I’m in charge down here.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Martin Grey.”

Roy snorted. “Shit, I know who you are. You’re the brother who beat the unbeatable Damon Darrell at his own game.” Roy goaded Damon with a mocking smile.

Damon scoffed, “As you can see, the foul air down here has affected his mind. Roy’s been running this mine forever.”

“Thirteen years, four months, and three days,” Roy said with a swelled chest. “My little way of making a difference in this fucked-up world.”

“Nice shirt,” Damon said.

Roy grinned. “Yeah. I’m convinced that our work at Forty Acres is a major reason why brother Obama slam-dunked it. Good shit ripples out, you know?” He glanced at his watch. “Shit. We should get going. It’s almost noon and I’m sure you guys didn’t come down here to see the slaves eat lunch.” Roy ushered them over to the door in the steel wall and unlocked it with another four-sided key. He pushed the door open but paused before walking through. “I forgot to ask. If either of you are armed, you have to leave your weapon here. No guns allowed beyond this point.” Martin and Damon both assured Roy that they were unarmed, then followed him through the door.

The mine tunnel funneled back to its narrower proportions as the trio followed it downward into the earth. The grade began to increase sharply and Martin found himself leaning backward and reaching for the wall to maintain his balance. They encountered several more overturned mine cars, including a few that impeded the passage and had to be climbed over. Occasionally Martin spotted other relics on the cave floor. An old dented bucket, a broken pick handle, even a small pile of dust that held the distinct shape of a boot. “Exactly how old is this mine?” Martin asked.

“Old,” Damon replied with a laugh. “Close to two hundred years, right, Roy?”

“Close, but no cigar.” Roy frowned at the fading embers of his spent stogie, then tossed it away. “All this goes back to around 1829. There was a big gold rush back then.”

“I’m no history expert,” Martin broke in, “but I’m pretty sure the gold rush was in California in the 1840s.”

“You’re talking about the gold rush of 1849. That’s the most famous gold rush that took place in the United States. But there were others. Ever hear of Reed’s gold mine in North Carolina?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Not really. Gold was struck there in 1799. That’s considered the first real gold rush in the United States. The second was in 1829. That’s when these tunnels were dug—and all by slaves.” In reaction to Martin’s quizzical look, he added, “Don’t tell me you think that slaves were only used to pick cotton.”

Whenever Martin thought of American slavery, the standard image of Africans stooped over in cotton fields always came to mind. Of course it made perfect sense that slaves would have been used for even more arduous tasks, he just never gave the subject much thought. “Of course not,” he said. “I just didn’t know that slave labor was also used for mining in the South.”

“Oh shit yeah,” Roy said. “Slaves were used for every fucked-up job imaginable. And believe me, there were a lot of fucked-up jobs back then. Mostly they were forced to work the coal pits, but slaves were used in all sorts of mines, including gold mines like this one.”