Forty Acres: A Thriller (8 page)

CHAPTER 20

T
he key ring that Martin had given Glen two years earlier held just three keys. The first two keys Glen tried on the rear door of Martin’s house did not turn the lock. The last key did the trick. Glen pulled open the door and stepped into Martin and Anna’s spacious kitchen. Soft moonlight through curtained windows glistened off chrome, marble, and tiles. Glen locked the door behind him, then reached for the security keypad to punch in the code—and froze. What Glen saw made no sense. The small LED screen on the keypad read Disarmed. Martin and Anna must have forgotten to set the alarm before they left. But that wasn’t like Martin. Not even close. Glen’s partner was a cross-all-his-Ts kinda guy. Glen couldn’t imagine Martin forgetting something as important as securing his home. The excitement of the concert must have really gotten to him.

Glen headed into the living room. Just enough light bled through the windows for Glen to find his way around the furniture. Even in the dark, the place looked great, Glen thought. He remembered when Anna and Martin had first moved in. Martin got a great deal because the house needed a lot of work. And boy, did it ever. It took them a while, but Martin and Anna had done a fantastic job of transforming a neglected house into a beautiful home.

Glen moved past the stairs and headed down the short hall that led to Martin’s study. The door was closed. Glen hoped it wasn’t locked. He had no reason to believe it would be, but since he had no idea where to find the key, he couldn’t help the worry. He had to get those docket numbers.

Glen smiled when the doorknob to the study turned with ease. But when Glen pushed open the door and switched on the light, he saw something that made his heart stop.

CHAPTER 21

H
idden inside Martin’s walk-in closet, the Handyman watched through the cracked-open door as Grossman entered the study and switched on the light. Even before Grossman entered the study, the Handyman had surmised that there could be only one logical reason for the lawyer’s unexpected visit. Grossman was there to pick up something. Something important related to their work that could not wait. Of course, suspecting this as he did, the last place the Handyman wanted to be was inside Martin’s home office, Grossman’s likeliest destination, but he had no choice. By the time the Handyman had returned the desktop computer to normal and cleared Martin’s desk, he could already hear Grossman moving through the house. The only place that the Handyman could readily conceal himself was Martin’s records room. He just hoped, for Grossman’s sake, that the lawyer would find whatever the hell he came for and leave promptly. Unfortunately, the shocked look on Grossman’s face was not a good sign. Why was Grossman staring at Martin’s desk like that?

The Handyman watched puzzled as Grossman rushed over to the desk and searched it frantically. He rifled every drawer, not once but twice. Grossman even looked under the desk.

What the hell was he looking for?

Grossman gaped at Martin’s desk as if something had vanished right before his eyes. It was at that moment that the Handyman realized his mistake.
I took too many
, he thought.

To simplify the scanning of Martin’s personal documents, the Handyman had removed any pertinent file folders from the closet and used Martin’s desk as a work space. After he was done, instead of immediately returning the folders to the closet, he left them stacked on the desk with the intention to refile them after he completed cloning Martin’s computer. Then Grossman showed up.

When the Handyman rushed to hide in the closet, he grabbed the stack of folders, but he took too many. When he had first entered the study, besides the computer and telephone, there was a lone folder on Martin’s desk. Now it was gone. The Handyman glanced down at the stack of file folders that he still gripped tightly. There was no time to refile them without making a racket.

In the confined gloom he could just make out that all of the folders were light in color—except one. The folder at the very bottom of the stack was darker and thicker than the others. How could he be so stupid? There was no doubt that this dark folder was what Grossman searched so desperately for.

The Handyman’s eyes glazed over with cool resolve as he watched Grossman dial his cell phone. He heard Grossman leave an urgent voicemail message for Martin to return his call, then saw him slap his phone shut in frustration.

Then, just as the Handyman expected, Grossman turned and stared in the direction of the closet. The Handyman could see the unfortunate realization take shape in Grossman’s head. What better place to search for a file than inside a closet filled with files?

As the Handyman watched Glen step toward the closet, he cocked his handgun.

CHAPTER 22

G
len paused outside the closet door. He didn’t like the idea of rummaging through Martin’s personal stuff and he was pretty sure that Martin and Anna wouldn’t like it. But wasn’t this situation Martin’s fault? Martin assured him that the file was on his desk, when it clearly wasn’t. To make matters worse, Martin’s phone was off or had no service, so there was no way to contact him. Glen glanced at his watch. It was already after nine. If he was going to get his minimum requirement of four hours’ sleep, he had to be in bed by two. Reading time was burning up fast. He had no choice. Glen twisted the doorknob.

Brinnnng!
Before Glen pulled the door open, his cell phone chimed. Glen grabbed it fast, expecting to hear Martin’s voice, but it was his assistant, Akiko.

“Sorry,” she said in her perpetually chipper voice, “I just got your message.”

“Where were you?”

“It’s Thursday. Hello? Yoga. You know I turn off my phone during class.”

Glen did recall something about Akiko teaching a yoga class. The trouble was Akiko was involved with all sorts of new age nonsense. Everything from astrology to zombie parties. “I was looking for the docket numbers you looked up,” he said.

“I know. You ready to write them down?”

Glen grabbed a pen and paper from Martin’s desk and jotted down the six docket numbers. He promised to take his assistant out to lunch and then ended the call with a phrase that, at that moment, held more significance than he would ever know. “Akiko,” Glen said, “you’re a lifesaver.” Then Glen flicked off the lights and exited Martin’s study.

*   *   *

The Handyman watched from the living room window as Grossman climbed into his SUV and sped away.

It upset the Handyman that he would have to remain inside Martin Grey’s house longer than expected to complete his work. But sparing the lawyer, that pleased him. It made the Handyman feel like a God.

CHAPTER 23

T
he limousine ride was fun. The concert was amazing. Having drinks with Stevie after the concert was incredible. But making love to his beautiful wife inside a hot, steamy shower at two o’clock in the morning? Priceless.

Martin nestled Anna from behind as his soapy hands glided over her curves. The press of her pert bottom against his hardness was almost too much to bear. The heat from the rising steam combined with his coursing lust made his head swim. Unable to stand it any longer, Martin bent Anna forward beneath the hot spray and entered her from behind. Anna gasped and clawed the slick tiles as Martin pumped and pumped.
Smack!
He slapped Anna’s ass cheek and Anna issued a little whimper that he liked very much.
Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Yes,” Anna moaned as water dribbled from her mouth and she pushed back with her hips. “Yesssss!” Anna’s entire body shuddered as she climaxed, causing Martin to cry out and explode as well.

*   *   *

Martin and Anna cuddled beneath the sheets on their king-sized bed, both bleary with sweet exhaustion. Anna’s head nestled on Martin’s chest. “So this is what happens when you hobnob with power? You beat your wife?”

“Guess I got a little carried away.”

Anna moaned at the memory. “It was nice.” Anna pecked a surprised Martin on the cheek, then she shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER 24

W
hat about his African ancestry?” Oscar asked via the WhispeX teleconferencing window on Damon’s computer monitor.

“Give me a second.” Damon slid his cursor to another window on his screen that had a PDF document simply titled “M.GREY.” This 103-page dossier contained an exhaustive examination of Martin Grey’s background. The report had a polished academic look with a table of contents, twenty-three numbered chapters, photographs, charts, a few maps, and even footnotes. The research spanned four generations before Martin’s birth right up until the present day. Of course, with a price tag of $30,000 cash and a waiting period of thirty days, Damon expected nothing less.

While Damon waited for Martin’s background report to arrive by encrypted email, he had continued to nurture their budding friendship. Since the night of the concert they had gone out to lunch twice, and each time they split the bill. Damon always offered to pay, but Martin wouldn’t have it. Damon genuinely liked Martin Grey. He liked Martin’s smarts and drive and skills in the courtroom. He reminded Damon of his younger self, before he met Dr. Kasim. A young black man filled with extraordinary potential and untapped power, but stymied by an invisible disease that afflicts all black men. The sickness. Damon was confident that Dr. Kasim would see in Martin Grey what he did and welcome Martin into the cure.

Damon continued to scroll through the report until he reached chapter eleven, which was titled “DNA Analysis.” Along with a breakdown of the racial makeup of Martin’s DNA, there was a tribal map of the African continent. Each color-coded territory was labeled with the name of its native tribe and a percentage number. These numbers represented the likelihood that the subject’s ancestors descended from that particular region. One tribe scored strikingly higher than the others. Damon stared in surprise when he saw which tribe it was.

Even over the webcam Oscar could read Damon’s reaction. “Well?” Oscar’s cool voice blared from the computer. “Which tribe is it?”

“The Zantu,” Damon replied, and he saw that Oscar’s interest was piqued. Just as he knew it would be.

“Zantu? Are you certain? By what percentage?”

“Ninety-three percent.” For a moment, Oscar’s image on the computer screen just stared in astonishment. Damon had never seen this level of emotion from Dr. Kasim’s assistant. And Damon knew exactly why. Many tribes were ravaged by the African slave trade, but to Dr. Kasim, a tiny, forgotten Ivory Coast tribe called the Zantu held special meaning. Damon couldn’t help gloating a little. “I knew it. I knew Martin would make an excellent prospect.”

Oscar nodded. “Indeed. I still have to discuss the details of your report with the doctor, but I think it’s safe to say that Dr. Kasim will be very anxious to finally meet a member of his ancestral tribe.”

CHAPTER 25

T
he poker game in Damon’s game room had been going for hours and Martin wasn’t doing so well. Martin had started the game with $200 in chips, then watched helplessly as his stack dwindled down to a little over twenty bucks.

They were several rounds in by now and the competitive tension in the room loomed as thick as the lingering cigar smoke. Tobias was doing best, but Martin chalked that up to the big man’s sheer recklessness and crazy luck. Damon, who had the second biggest stack, seemed to play with the most skill and focus. Kwame and Solomon shared a very relaxed style of play and both still possessed a decent number of poker chips. Carver, who barely had more chips than Martin, seemed to grow more and more ornery with each hand. When Martin lost yet another hand to Tobias, Carver shook his head in disgust. “Man, your game is weak. Save yourself some time and just give Tobias all your chips.”

“Shit,” Martin drawled casually, “I thought that’s what I
was
doing.”

All the men cracked up. Except Carver.

Damon passed the cards to Carver to shuffle. “It’s his first time playing with us. Give the man a break.”

“Yeah, Carver,” Tobias said. “If I remember correctly, the first time you played with us you weren’t exactly Phil Ivey.”

“And he’s still not,” Kwame said, pointing to Carver’s feeble chip stack. “Your ammo’s looking a little weak there, my brother.”

Solomon shook his head at the pitiful pile of chips. “Weak, nothing. He’s on life support.”

When the men finished laughing, Carver turned to look at Martin. “I just hope he paddles better than he plays cards. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Paddles?” Martin said. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, Damon didn’t tell you? My bad.”

Martin turned to Damon. “What’s going on?”

Damon relit his cigar. “We’re planning another trip and we want you to come along.”

“Another trip? You mean rafting?”

“White water. Yes. We always have a great time. Trust me, Martin, you’ll love it.”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t think so. I told you I’m a city boy. I’d be a complete klutz in the woods . . . not to mention on a raft.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll help you pick out the gear, give you some instructional books to read. We’ll teach you everything you need to know. That’s part of the experience, learning from your fellow men, trusting them, and eventually becoming a teacher yourself.”

“Yeah,” Tobias said, wrapping a friendly arm around Martin. “We’ll turn you into a real outdoorsman in no time.”

“I don’t know, guys. It’s just not who I am.”

“I hear you, brother,” Kwame said. “I really do. Before I went the first time, I felt exactly the same way. I didn’t want to be anywhere that didn’t have a toilet and cable TV. But let me show you something.” Kwame got up, grabbed a photo from the wall, and handed it to Martin. The photo showed Kwame and the others, dressed in hiking gear, standing at the base of a towering waterfall. They were all smiling, but the expression on Kwame’s face was nothing short of elation, like he had just had some sort of religious experience. “That was taken after my first trip. Look at my face. That’s the look of a changed man.”

Solomon took the photo from Martin and smiled. “What you see in this photograph is much more than a rafting trip. It’s a reaffirmation of our manhood. It’s reconnecting to our roots. It’s spiritual bonding. But most of all, Martin, it’s freedom. Freedom like you’ve never felt freedom before. This is our thing. Something that we do only for us. And we are inviting you to join us. To be a part of our thing. And, son, believe me when I say it, we do not extend that invitation to everyone.”

Solomon’s speech was a little sentimental, but Martin could tell that the old man meant every word. They weren’t just inviting Martin on a rafting trip. They were extending their hands and inviting him into the fold. Opening a door that did not open very often, and would not stay open for very long. Martin realized that if he refused their invitation, he might still get invited to a poker game or dinner party once in a while, but he would never truly be a part of that exclusive inner circle.

Solomon laid a supportive hand on Martin’s arm. “We won’t badger you, son. Just let us know if you’re coming or not by the end of the week.”