Forty Acres: A Thriller (24 page)

CHAPTER 62

T
he shackles on Alice’s wrist were old and crudely wrought, like the pair on display in Damon’s game room. Martin could see rings of blood where iron cut into the girl’s flesh. Alice moaned in pain as she twisted her body to peer back over her shoulder at Martin. The sight of those terrified emerald eyes made Martin numb.

Why her?
Martin thought.
Out of all the slaves held captive at Forty Acres, why did it have to be Alice?
Martin had mentally prepared himself to do what had to be done, but he wasn’t prepared for this. He knew that it shouldn’t matter which one of the slaves he had to whip, but the awful truth was it did matter. Inflicting punishment on a complete stranger would be far easier than harming this sweet young girl whom he felt he had come to know intimately. Then it struck Martin, a question that filled him with instant panic. Did they know? Did Dr. Kasim, Oscar, and the others know that he and Alice had faked intercourse? Did they know that he was just playing along with their insanity and that he planned to expose them?

Martin whirled back around to face the men. He expected to confront a wall of hate-filled stares. He expected accusations of race traitor as the guards rushed over to seize him. But none of that happened. From Dr. Kasim and the others, Martin received only stares. Not even a hint of malice.

The exception was Carver. Carver’s mocking smirk hit Martin like a knife in the back. Martin realized instantly that Alice’s presence had nothing to do with the group’s suspicions about his loyalty. It was Carver’s doing. For the sole purpose of making Martin’s initiation as difficult as possible, Carver had, somehow, convinced the other men to select Alice for the brutal ceremony. Because Carver stood at the rear of the group, the other men could not see the relish on Carver’s face as Martin locked stares with him. Martin was onto him but this fact only broadened Carver’s smile.

“Something wrong, brother?” Carver asked.

Martin’s jaw tightened. He shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

“You sure? I mean, you’re looking a little pale there, my brother.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Martin repeated.

“Oh, so you’re just stalling, then?”

Martin could not respond. He knew that if he did, the wrong thing might come out, so he was thankful when Dr. Kasim turned and leveled Carver with a silencing stare. The doctor then turned back to Martin, exuding a fatherly calm. “The fear you feel is natural,” he said. “We’re not evil like the white man. Violence does not come naturally to us. But we are forced to do violence to set things right. Do you understand?”

Martin nodded. It was to Martin’s advantage to play along with the assumption that he was nervous before the task at hand. The less he had to hide his true emotions, the easier his role at Forty Acres would be to play.

“What you do here tonight,” Dr. Kasim continued, “is not simply a test of dedication; it is a reclaiming of power. A power that you must learn to wear as comfortably as you would a fine business suit.” He gestured toward the stall. “Now, please. You must continue.”

Martin began to turn but stopped short. He had know. He had to ask the question, but to avoid suspicion he had to ask it just right. He jerked his head indifferently toward Alice. “Why this one?”

There was an awkward pause, then an exchange of glances among the men. Martin’s pulse raced. Had he gone too far? The thin smile on Carver’s lips seemed to answer yes. It was Dr. Kasim who spoke. “Why does that matter to you, brother?”

Martin shook his head. “It doesn’t. Not really. It’s just . . . I had a good time with her last night. I was looking forward to a repeat performance.”

There was another strained pause, but the tension was broken when Damon snickered. Tobias and Kwame cracked small smiles. But this departure from ceremonial composure was fleeting; in the blink of an eye the men’s faces had returned to stone.

Dr. Kasim shook his head at Martin. “It’s unwise to become attached to the property. Very unwise.”

Martin nodded. “I understand.”

Dr. Kasim peered past him, deep into the dark stall. He exhibited no sympathy for the whimpering woman inside. “This one has broken our rules and must be severely punished. That’s all you need to know. Now, we’ve wasted enough time. Please begin.”

Martin turned back around to face the stall. He passed through the open doorway.

Approximately twelve feet of open space separated him from the rear wall and Alice. The cowskin whip that hung heavy in Martin’s grip was about half that length. He had to move closer.

Hearing his approaching footsteps, Alice glanced back over her shoulder like a frightened animal. She spotted the whip in Martin’s hand and became frantic. She squirmed and shook her head and screamed “No!” through the rags jammed in her mouth. The shackles rattled and thudded against the wooden wall.

With each closing step Martin tried to hold Alice’s gaze with his, but she was too terrified. Her darting eyes were too flooded with tears.

Martin paused at the halfway point. The darkness of the stall and the distance between him and his watchful audience gave Martin the confidence to whisper, “Alice.”

Alice found Martin’s gaze. The moment lasted no longer than a single breath, but that was long enough for Martin’s eyes to say,
I’m sorry
.

Martin lashed out with the cowskin. A fast, overhand swing. There was no crack of air, just the sharp slap of leather striking skin and Alice’s muffled scream. Her body jerked; there was a bloody gash down her back.

The sight of Alice’s torn flesh roiled Martin’s stomach again. He had to swallow to keep from vomiting.

“One,” came a shout from behind him. It was Oscar’s voice. “Harder.”

Martin whipped the cowskin across Alice’s back again. Alice cried out as a gash appeared on her shoulder blade.

“Two,” Oscar called out. “Still harder.”

Martin knew they’d notice if he tried to pull his swing too much, but he thought that he might get away easing up a little. Now he saw it was no good. The mechanics of swinging a whip made it impossible to fake. He had no choice but to use all the power he could muster.

Martin swung for a third time. The force of the whip’s contact nearly snatched the handle from his grip. Alice’s head snapped back. She wailed mournfully.

“Three. That’s good, brother. Keep going.”

Martin swung the cowskin again, and again, and again. Each stinging strike was answered by a convulsive jerk and grunts of pain from Alice. By the time Martin reached ten lashes, Alice hung limp in her chains. Blood seeping from deep slashes in her back trailed over her buttocks and down the back of her pale thighs. But far worse was Alice’s crying. Her entire body trembled with feeble, whimpering sobs. The urge to drop the whip, free Alice from her chains, and pull her into his arms tugged hard at Martin’s soul. His eyes burned, verging on tears, but he squeezed back his grief and kept swinging.

“Fifteen.”

His brain and body ached with the effort to remain focused, but with each swing of the whip, with each muffled shriek from Alice, he could feel the facade slipping away. Martin did not know how much longer he could last.

“Twenty.”

Martin couldn’t bear to see the whip claw into Alice’s back again, so he delivered the last five lashes with his eyes closed. He didn’t care if he missed. He didn’t care if they saw him miss. He just wanted it to end. Martin lashed out at the dark, over and over until finally he heard Oscar shout—

“Twenty-five. You’re done.”

Martin’s hands dropped to his sides. Hesitantly, he peeled opened his eyes.

Alice, her butchered back drenched in blood, dangled before him. Motionless.

CHAPTER 63

T
he fear that Alice might be dead smothered Martin. His lungs ached for air, but he couldn’t take a breath. He couldn’t shut his eyes from the horror before him. He couldn’t move a muscle. The only sound was the thump of his hammering heart.

Then Alice’s foot twitched.

She moaned and stirred weakly. She was barely conscious, but she was alive.

Martin breathed again. He took a moment to slip back on his mask of indifference, then turned and rejoined the men outside the stall.

Instead of stony stares Martin was greeted with welcoming smiles. After the brutality that the men had just witnessed, brutality executed by his hand, the sight of their happy faces struck Martin as particularly monstrous. The simple act of curling his mouth into a smile took every ounce of willpower he had left.

Even Dr. Kasim was smiling proudly. “You have done your ancestors proud,” he said to Martin. “Now, brother, you are truly one of us.” The old man spread his arms wide. The staff in his hand and the grand spread of his dashiki gave Dr. Kasim the air of an African king. With a small motion of his hands, he beckoned Martin to approach.

The other men watched as Martin stepped forward and shared an embrace with their leader.

The hug was firm and gentle at the same time. The doctor’s hair had a sweet, musky aroma. Oddly, Martin was reminded of being wrapped in his mother’s arms, rather than his father’s.

The moment the two men parted, Oscar laid a firm hand on Martin’s shoulder. Dr. Kasim’s second in command didn’t utter a single word. He simply nodded with approval, then sealed the moment with a brief hug.

Damon Darrell threw an arm around Martin like a proud older brother. “I told you guys he had the right stuff.” He yanked Martin toward him. “You made it, Grey. You’re truly one of us now.”

Tobias pulled Martin into a smothering bear hug. “I knew you could do it, brother.”

Both Kwame and Solomon also congratulated Martin with hugs.

Carver approached him last. The young entrepreneur surprised Martin with a big crooked smile that actually appeared genuine. “You’re tougher than you look, Grey. I’ll give you that. Congratulations, brother.”

Was it possible that after doing his damnedest to undermine Martin at every turn, Carver had finally come around? Scratching Carver’s enmity from his list of worries would have been a great relief. Unfortunately, this small hope disintegrated in Martin’s mind the instant Carver wrapped his arms around him. The hugs from the other men were truly heartfelt and accepting. Even Oscar’s stiff embrace still managed to radiate a sense of camaraderie. But the hug from Carver was mechanical and cold, more like a wrestling hold than a display of brotherhood. In those empty seconds, as they stood heart to heart, Martin realized that despite everything that he had just gone through, Carver’s attitude toward him remained unchanged. Even more troubling, as the two men parted, Carver whispered, “Now we’re really gonna have some fun.”

The ominous twinkle in Carver’s eyes made the man’s meaning clear.
There was something far worse to come.
But what? The initiation was over. Glancing back into the stall, seeing poor Alice’s torn body hanging there, Martin found the idea of something worse very hard to imagine.

Then Martin realized that he still held the cowskin. He wrapped it into a coil and tried to hand it back to Oscar. “Here you go.”

But Oscar did not take it.

Confusion and dread hit Martin like a slap when, instead of accepting the whip, Oscar just shook his head and said, “We’re not done here yet.”

CHAPTER 64

F
oolish girl,” Dr. Kasim said. He frowned at the bloodied form that hung limply in the dark stall. “She has committed a crime that demands a punishment far more severe than twenty-five lashes.”

“What exactly did she do?” Martin asked.

The doctor offered no reply. Instead he turned and signaled Carver with the slightest nod.

Martin felt a jolt of anger as he stood with the other men in the middle of the barn watching Carver Lewis gingerly unbutton his shirt. Carver winced as he reached for each button. Martin couldn’t tell if Carver was acting or if the bastard was truly in pain, but of one thing Martin was absolutely certain: whatever Carver was about to reveal under that shirt was a lie. Martin knew that Carver had somehow persuaded the other men to choose Alice for the initiation. Now Martin was going to see how. But what gnawed at Martin’s insides more was that he could do absolutely nothing about it. He was helpless to save her. “Never take the side of a slave against a master.” That was the takeaway from the morning tour of the mine. A stern lesson that Martin assured Damon he understood.

Carver unfastened the final button, then flung his shirt to Tobias. Carver’s torso was lean and muscular, with taut six-pack abs. Even dressed, Carver appeared to be in exceptional shape, but Martin never expected the real estate huckster to possess the physique of a world-class athlete.

Dr. Kasim said to Carver, “Now turn. Show Martin what the girl did to you.”

The other men already seemed to know the details of Alice’s offense. Martin was the only one still left unaware.

Carver pivoted to present his back to the group.

The angry red scratches that raked across Carver’s shoulder blades resembled claw marks from some savage beast.

“See what that bitch did to me?” Carver said as he glared into the stall at the target of his accusations. “She attacked me for no reason. She’s crazy.”

Alice moaned “No” through her gag and shook her head so weakly that her chains barely rattled. The sight stung Martin and at the same time confirmed Carver’s cruelty. If the other men noticed Alice’s delirious denial, they gave no indication.

Then Carver turned back to face Martin. “So, what do you think, Grey?” he asked. “How many more lashes should that whore get for what she did to me?”

Martin’s knees began to feel weak again, and his right hand, the hand clutching the cowskin, began to tremble. He couldn’t believe that this was happening. He couldn’t believe that they actually wanted him to hurt Alice again.

“Come on, Grey.” Carver’s lips were taut with the effort to hold back a smirk. “How many more? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Give me a number.”

Martin wanted to shout out at the top of his lungs,
None! She’s had enough!
Even better, he wanted to strangle Carver with the whip. But all he could do was shake his head and feign confusion. “I don’t know. How do you decide these things?”

“We don’t,” Oscar said, frowning wearily at Carver. “The doctor decides all punishments. And as Mr. Lewis is well aware, it has already been decided.” Oscar turned to the group’s leader. “Your instructions were fifty lashes in total, correct?”

Dr. Kasim nodded. “Yes. So the girl is to receive twenty-five more.”

Martin’s heart stopped. Twenty-five more lashes? The idea was unthinkable. He glanced at Damon and at the other men, hoping to see any sign of sympathy for the girl. Hoping to spot someone who might side with him if he dared speak up. But all Martin found were cold stares, the faces of men whose humanity had been eroded away by hatred. They were indifferent to Alice’s suffering through the first beating, and just as indifferent to the fact that twenty-five more lashes would almost certainly kill her.

“Let’s get on with it,” Dr. Kasim grumbled. “Then we can get back and have a little celebration in Martin’s honor.”

While the other men murmured their agreement, Martin felt something give way inside him. It was as if the mental dam that he had formed to hold back his emotions had suddenly cracked a leak. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t hurt Alice again. And no amount of logic or rationalization regarding the greater good could change that physical reality. At that instant Martin just knew that he no longer had it in him.

But he had to do something. He couldn’t just refuse. That was too risky. For all he knew, doubling the slave’s punishment was a test. A regular part of the initiation designed to catch the initiate with his guard down.

The solution came easily to Martin, because there was no solution. His only choice was to tell the truth. He’d just tell Dr. Kasim that he couldn’t bring himself to hurt Alice again. What Dr. Kasim’s and the other men’s reactions would be, he wasn’t sure. More than likely they’d see his perceived weakness as a threat, but there was another possibility. Maybe, just maybe, they’d lay the blame on his fledgling status at Forty Acres. Like when he lost his cool in the mine: Damon did chastise him, but he let it slide as a rookie move. Maybe it would be the same now in the barn. Maybe there was an unspoken grace period that could save his life. Maybe. But deep down, Martin knew this was bullshit. Deep down, he could still hear Damon’s last piece of advice, echoing. Advice that now sounded more like a warning.
Be strong. Be strong.

The truth was, after whipping a helpless girl to within an inch of her life, Martin Grey was all out of strong.

Martin took a nervous breath, then turned to face Dr. Kasim. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, the cowskin was snatched from his hand.

Martin turned and saw something that froze him—Carver, still bare-chested, cowskin in hand, taking practice swings at the thin air. The loud
whoosh
,
whoosh
,
whoosh
of the whip reverberated through the rafters. Carver took a final swing, then gave the cowskin handle an upward jerk, causing the frilled tip to flip backward. Carver caught the tip with expert ease, then turned and winked at Martin. “My turn.”

Realization screamed in Martin’s head. He’d had it all wrong. His initiation truly was over. They didn’t want
him
to give Alice twenty-five more lashes. That job went to Carver. Carver was the one offended, supposedly, so Carver got to mete out the punishment. It all made terrifying sense. And it chilled Martin to the core.

Martin could only stand there watching as Carver crossed the threshold into the stall.

When Alice glanced back and saw Carver looming with the cowskin, she found new energy. She writhed and struggled desperately, screaming into her gag.

Carver seemed fueled by the sight. He swished the whip in the dirt between him and Alice, teasing out the moment before the first strike.

As much as Martin did not want to swing the whip himself, he also didn’t want to watch Carver whip Alice to death. But he couldn’t look away because he himself was being watched. From the moment Carver stepped into the stall with Alice, Martin noticed that he was receiving glances from several of the men, including Dr. Kasim and Oscar.
Was
this part of the initiation then? Were they expecting him to crack?

Martin felt a hand on his arm. It was Damon. “You okay?”

Martin nodded stiffly. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Damon leaned closer and whispered, “Then wipe that look off your face.”

So, that was it. Martin wasn’t aware of any “look,” but the deluge of emotions that he was experiencing at that moment, everything from horror to sorrow, was nearly impossible to stem. Martin redoubled his focus. He slowed his breathing, clamped down on his jaw, and turned his face to stone.

The muscles in Carver’s back and arm bulged as he unleashed the first strike. The crack of leather cutting flesh filled the barn, muffling Alice’s scream.

Martin flinched.

Oscar shouted, “One!”