Forty Acres: A Thriller (10 page)

CHAPTER 29

M
artin peeked out the living room window and frowned at the empty driveway. He didn’t really expect to see Damon out there, since Damon was due at 8:00 a.m. and it was only 7:47, but Martin was anxious and just wanted to get this party started already.

Working extra hours at the firm to get ahead of his legal work helped the two weeks leading up to the trip fly by. During that period, because of Damon’s schedule, Martin and Damon met just once more for lunch. Martin tried to milk Damon for details about their upcoming adventure, but oddly, Damon showed little interest in discussing the topic. Instead Damon did what he loved to do, tell war stories. He entertained Martin with firsthand accounts of his legendary courtroom conquests. Martin remembered the headlines, of course, and found every word fascinating, but he would have preferred to discuss the trip. Even Martin’s request for a list of needed rafting wear was blown off by Damon.

“Everything you need will be provided,” Damon said, then he catapulted onto something else.

Despite Damon’s assurances, Martin spent a Saturday afternoon shopping for items he thought he might need. He purchased a pair of hiking boots, some new jeans, a waterproof jacket, and a backpack. He considered charging the items to the firm as a business expense, but Martin wasn’t sure if Glen would agree. Considering the chilly mood in the office lately, Martin decided to just eat it.

Before turning in last night, Martin, prickly with anticipation, packed for the trip. Now, like him, his new backpack waited near the front door, ready to go.

Martin checked his watch, 7:54, and frowned out at the empty curb again. Then a thought occurred to him.
Where’s Anna? Doesn’t she know it’s almost time?

Martin knew that Anna wasn’t thrilled about the trip but there was no way that she would let him leave without kissing him good-bye.
Would she?
At first the YouTube rafting videos that Martin showed Anna really seemed to do the trick. For the last two weeks Anna seemed fine. Her fears had been calmed. But last night something had changed. While Martin packed his gear, Anna was quiet and sullen. Martin knew that Anna had left the hospital early because she wasn’t feeling well, but he had the distinct feeling that her bout with what appeared to be a mild stomach flu was not the source of her sour mood. He asked her repeatedly if she was okay, he even asked if it was the trip that was bugging her, but each time Anna just smiled and said that she was fine. Martin didn’t believe her but there was no point in pushing. Martin wouldn’t exactly describe his wife as a delicate flower. If something was bugging Anna, she was going to let him know sooner or later.

Three sudden blasts of a car horn threatened to wake the entire neighborhood. Martin looked out and saw Damon’s shiny black Range Rover creeping to a stop in the driveway. Damon, dressed in a windbreaker, waved from the driver’s seat. Martin waved back, signaling that he’d be right out.
But where is Anna?
When Martin turned from the window to call his wife, he found Anna standing directly behind him. The look on Anna’s face was a troubling mix of reluctance and guilt.

“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

Anna sighed. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I lay awake half the night thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?”

“I know how much this trip means to you, I really do. So I didn’t want to say anything, but if I don’t and something happens—”

“Anna, what are you talking about?”

Anna held up a piece of paper. A printout of a newspaper article. “I found this on the Internet yesterday. You should read it.”

Damon’s horn beckoned Martin outside.

“Listen, couldn’t I read it when I get back?”

Anna shook her head. “No, you need to read it now. Before you leave. Please.”

Martin frowned and took the printout. There was a photo of a bespectacled middle-aged black man beneath the headline “Writer Dies in Tragic Accident.”

Martin sighed and tried to hand the printout back. “Anna, come on, I really thought we were past this.”

Anna crossed her arms. “Just read it, Martin.”

Martin sighed, knowing there was no way in hell that Anna was going to let him leave until he read that article. End of story.

The article was about a novelist named Donald Jackson, the man in the photo, who went on a river-rafting vacation in Wenatchee, Washington, with some friends and drowned when their raft capsized. Now Martin could see what was so troubling to Anna. Martin had to admit that the coincidence was a bit disturbing. How many black men go on river-rafting trips to Wenatchee? But that’s all it was: a coincidence. Martin tried to explain that to his wife, but she wouldn’t have it. What Anna said next blindsided him.

“It’s them, Martin. Damon and his friends took that man on one of their crazy trips and he got killed.”

“You can’t really believe that.”

“Five friends. Doesn’t it sound like them?”

“This says that it was a class VI river.”

“Maybe they were lost. Maybe they’re lying to you. Who knows?”

Martin shook his head. “Anna. Just because this guy is black—”

“This guy? You mean to tell me that you never heard of Donald Jackson before?”

The name did sound familiar but Martin couldn’t place it. He shook his head.

“Donald Jackson wrote a huge best seller about four years ago. It was a big deal because it was his first book. They were going to make a movie and everything.”

“Okay, that sounds a little familiar. So what?”

“Doesn’t Donald Jackson sound like someone that Damon and his rich friends would want to rub shoulders with? Young, black, up-and-coming. Sound familiar?”

Beep, beep, beep!
Damon’s horn was losing its patience.

“Anna, think about what you’re saying. Damon, Solomon, Tobias—these men are famous. Captains of industry. If just one of them was involved in this accident, it would be national news. Hell, it would be international news.” Martin held up the article. “Do you see them mentioned anywhere in this article?”

Anna shook her head. “No. In fact, none of Donald Jackson’s ‘friends’ are mentioned by name. Don’t you find that a little odd?”

Martin scanned the article. She was right. The only name in the entire article belonged to the victim. None of the “five friends” were identified.

“Sure,” Anna said, “newspapers sometimes conceal the name of an accident victim to protect the family and all that. But why hold back the names of the survivors? I’ve never seen that. Why would they do that unless the survivors’ identities needed protecting?”

Martin stared at the article. He tried to remember the photos in Damon’s game room, tried to recall if Donald Jackson’s smiling face was in any of those photographs. No. Only Damon, Tobias, Kwame, Solomon, and Carver were in those photos. Of that much he was sure. Martin shook his head. “No. I don’t believe it. Everything you’ve said is circumstantial at best. This story can’t have anything to do with them.”

A prolonged horn blast trumpeted from the driveway, followed by Damon’s bellowing voice. “Martin, let’s roll! We’ve got a jet to catch!”

Anna said to Martin, “I hope you’re right. I really do. But before you go anywhere with that man, I want you to ask him.”

CHAPTER 30

D
amon Darrell stood in the center of the living room reading the printout of the news article. Martin waited for recognition or agitation or any reaction on Damon’s face, but the superstar attorney remained stone-faced. Only when Damon had finished reading and began to crumble the document into a tight ball did his lips wilt into a slight frown.

Martin and Anna exchanged puzzled looks. Was that a frown of guilt or indignation or was it maybe just disappointment? “I’m sorry,” Martin said. “But Anna found that and—”

Damon interrupted by raising one finger. “Gimme a sec.” Then he pulled out his iPhone, thumbed a message, and stuffed the device back into his pocket. “Just letting Solomon know that we’re a little delayed. It’s going to take me a few minutes to explain what really happened.”

Martin and Anna gaped as Damon lowered himself into one of their club chairs and crossed his legs. “So, I was right?” Anna asked. “Donald Jackson—he was part of your group?”

Damon gestured to the sofa as if he were the host and this were his own living room. “Please, sit. This isn’t easy to talk about . . .”

Martin tugged a hesitant Anna onto the sofa. Damon began by apologizing to Martin on behalf of the others and himself for not telling Martin about the incident sooner. He and Solomon and the others weren’t trying to deceive Martin, Damon explained, the group just found it very difficult to discuss the way Donald died.

Anna glared at Damon. “Did all of you lie to him about how safe your trips are—the same way you lied to Martin?”

Damon shook his head. “We never lied to Donald or to your husband.”

“Class III rivers only,” Martin repeated coldly. “That’s what you guys told me. Donald Jackson drowned in a class VI.”

“Donald Jackson never saw a class VI river,” Damon said. “We made all that stuff up about the raft capsizing. It never happened.”

“What?” Anna said.

Martin’s jaw tightened. “Damon, what the hell is going on?”

Damon sighed. “Donald had quick-fame disease. The unholy trinity—drugs, gambling, and women. But worse than all that, he couldn’t write. He’d been trying to write his follow-up book for years, but nothing. The whispers of one-hit wonder and all the bills piling up finally got to him. That’s why he did it.”

Martin listened to Damon’s words carefully. “Are you saying that he drowned himself?”

Damon shook his head. “No. I’m saying that in the middle of the night, while we were all asleep in our tents, Donald Jackson took a hike up to the top of a three-hundred-foot waterfall and threw himself off to the rocks below.”

“My God!” Anna gasped. “That’s horrible.”

“Donald did have one hell of a dramatic streak. Guess that’s what made him a good writer.”

Anna turned to Martin. “I do remember reading something about the trouble he was having writing a second book. But honestly, I didn’t even know he was dead until I saw that story.”

“Thanks to our very considerable influence,” Damon said, “the story pretty much got buried. And what did get out was just our version.”

Martin shook his head, astonished. The level of string pulling and favor calling required to downplay the death of even a minor celebrity like Donald Jackson had to be an enormous undertaking. “That means you guys had to lie to the police and the press,” Martin said. “Did you do it to protect his reputation?”

Damon shook his head sadly. “No, we couldn’t do anything to help that kid’s reputation.”

“Then why?”

Damon paused a moment to stress the gravity of what he was about to reveal. “It’s simple. If Donald had done something crazy like throw himself off a waterfall, that would have been suicide, and his insurance policy would have been null and void. But since he died in a tragic rafting accident, his wife and two kids collected a check for $2.5 million, tax-free, in under a week. I handled the whole thing for Mrs. Jackson, and of course it goes without saying, I did it all pro bono.” Damon leaned back in his chair. “We did what we did to help a friend. I hope that you two can understand and more importantly . . . keep it in the family.” Damon said these last words directing his eyes only at Martin.

“Of course.” Martin nodded after only a minor hesitation. He glanced at Anna and she nodded as well. That word
family
rolled so naturally from Damon’s lips that he could tell it sounded right to Anna. That’s what they were becoming in a way, Martin thought. A family. And families looked out for each other.

“What you guys did for Donald,” Anna said, “that’s amazing.”

“I’m just glad we got this cleared up,” Damon replied. “Everything I told Martin about our trips is true. We’re strictly safety first. Scout’s honor.” Damon flashed the Boy Scouts’ high sign and winked at her.

Anna smiled shamefully. “I feel so damned stupid. I was just so worried about Martin and—”

“Anna, please. Stop it. It’s my fault for not telling Martin sooner.” Damon stood up and extended his arms. “Friends?”

Martin watched as Damon hugged his wife in the middle of their living room. Three months ago, Martin thought, when he was going briefcase to briefcase with the notorious Damon Darrell in a courtroom, he could never have imagined this scene taking place.

Damon slapped Martin on the arm. “Kiss your lady good-bye, then hurry up. Carver’s gonna freak.” Damon grabbed Martin’s backpack and strode out the door.

“Oops,” Anna said to Martin, wearing a sheepish smile.

“Somebody’s getting a spanking when I get back,” Martin teased.

“Keep talking like that and I won’t let you leave.”

Martin pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her. As he headed for the door, Anna called out, “Martin, wait.”

Martin stopped and looked back.

“This doesn’t mean you can forget your promise.”

“Never,” he said, then walked out the door.

CHAPTER 31

A
Gulfstream G200 executive jet sliced across the crisp blue heavens at 550 miles per hour and at a cruising altitude of 32,000 feet. Below, puffs of sunlit clouds stretched to the horizon like a cotton field in the sky.

Reclining in a sleek leather seat while sipping a Stoli vodka tonic, Martin gazed out the window at the awe-inspiring view. Martin had never ridden in a private jet before, so except for what he had seen in the movies, he really had nothing to compare the experience to. Of course Martin expected luxury and comfort, that was a given, and Solomon’s flying wood-paneled cocktail lounge had plenty of that. What Martin didn’t expect was the exhilarating sensation of velocity. The constant thrum of turbines and the steady buffeting of microturbulence made Martin feel as if he were rocketing through the upper atmosphere at light speed.

If the other men on board took even the slightest notice that they were traveling at three-quarters the speed of sound, they sure didn’t show it. Damon and Tobias were on the sofa near the bar drinking beer and talking fantasy football. Solomon and Kwame were in their seats, swiveled to face each other, playing a quiet game of chess. Carver was seated across the aisle from Martin, barking into one of the sky phones that were mounted beside each chair. It was the first time that Martin had seen any of them in casual attire. Jeans and khakis, sweatshirts and sweaters, hiking boots. Without their custom-tailored suits, Martin thought that they all looked a little smaller, the same way, Martin supposed, that a knight would appear diminished without his armor.

Martin liked flying, and every time he had the opportunity he went out of his way to book his flight early so that he would be guaranteed a window seat. How often does a person get to take in the world from this perspective? Martin never understood the people who would score a window seat but keep the shade pulled down throughout the entire flight. Not even take a peek. Who were these people? Were their lives so exciting and filled with so much beauty that watching the sun play peekaboo with the clouds right outside your window paled in comparison? Martin strived for the same level of success and power that his new friends possessed. He just hoped that when he reached that lofty goal, he would still have his sense of wonder.

Just then Martin noticed something odd outside his window. It was the sun, looming slightly right of their flight path, almost directly ahead of the jet. Martin squinted out at the fiery orb, puzzled. He was no flight navigator, but by his calculation, the sun was in the wrong place.

Solomon’s jet had taken off a little after ten a.m. from Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. Destination: Seattle, Washington. They were already more than an hour into what was expected to be a five-and-a-half-hour flight. Logic told him that if they were flying west, the sun should be behind them. Then how, Martin asked himself, could he be able to see the sun out the left side of the plane?

Martin pressed his forehead against the portal glass and peered downward. He tried to study the terrain, but the cloudbanks beneath the jet were thick and never allowed more than a teasing glimpse of land. Even if he could see the land, how would that solve the mystery? It’s not as if the borders of each state were outlined and the names of each state, city, and town printed across the terrain the way they were in an atlas.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked a voice behind him.

Martin turned and saw Carver sneering at him. He was done shouting into his phone and had swiveled his chair around to face Martin. “You see a gremlin on the wing or something?”

“No. Actually I was wondering about the sun.”

“It’s hotter than hell. What else you need to know?”

“It’s just if we’re traveling west, shouldn’t the sun be behind us?”

Carver’s brow furrowed. “You a pilot, Grey?”

“No.”

“A navigator?”

“Nope.”

“Then how the hell can you tell shit just by staring out that tiny window?”

Martin did not like Carver Lewis. He remembered feeling an instant dislike for the young tycoon the moment he met him. Three months later, Martin liked him even less. He was also certain that the feeling was mutual. Carver never passed up an opportunity to ridicule or belittle Martin in front of the other men. Initially Martin assumed that Carver’s hostility stemmed from his fear that Martin somehow threatened his position in the group, but after spending a little quality time with Mr. Lewis, Martin finally saw the inconvenient truth. Carver Lewis was a genuine, Grade A, free-roaming asshole. Plain and simple. And Martin knew that when dealing with an asshole, one rule applied. If you take their shit, they’ll just keep shitting on you. After all, that’s what assholes do. Martin had decided that he wasn’t going to take any of Carver’s shit on this trip. Not even a little bit.

“I’m just saying,” Martin said with a shrug, “west is west and anyone with their eyes open can see that we’re not flying west.” Martin leaned back to give Carter a view of his window. “Go on, take a look.”

Carver’s smile disappeared. He seemed uncertain as to whether or not he had just been insulted. After a moment, he cracked a smile and swiveled to face the others. “Guys, listen up. I think we got an emergency on our hands. Martin thinks that the sun is in the wrong place.”

Damon, Solomon, Kwame, and Tobias laughed.

“Go on,” Carver said to Martin, “tell ’em.”

Martin did. “Judging from the sun, it doesn’t look like we’re headed west.”

“Then where the hell do you think we’re headed?” Carver said, more to the men than to Martin, “
The Twilight Zon
e
?”

The men continued laughing. Solomon rose from his chair, strolled up the aisle, and leaned over Martin to squint nose-ward out the window at the sun. He gave a surprised look. “Hm, you’re right,” he said to Martin. “The sun should be behind us. We’ll probably make a course correction soon. The FAA approves all flight plans. Private aircraft rarely get a direct route.”

Martin nodded through his doubts. “I’ve never flown on anything except commercial airliners,” he explained.

Solomon patted Martin on the shoulder. “My pilot’s one of the best in the world. There’s no need to worry.”

The smirk on Carver’s face gnawed at Martin like a dentist’s drill. “I wasn’t worried,” Martin assured Solomon. “Just curious.”

Solomon turned to the others. “I think we should drink a toast to Martin’s first flight on a private jet.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Martin said, but Solomon and the others insisted.

Solomon turned to Damon. “The good stuff,” he said.

Damon nodded, then slipped behind the bar and removed a crystal decanter from an overhead cabinet. The decanter was filled with a liquor as clear as water. Damon filled six shot glasses, then worked his way up the aisle handing each man a glass. Martin was surprised to see Kwame take one.

Kwame shrugged when he noticed Martin staring. “You don’t get a chance to drink the most expensive tequila in the world every day.”

Damon handed Martin his shot glass last. “It’s called Porfidio. It’s delicious, but it really packs a punch.”

“Yeah, be careful,” Carver said, feigning concern. “You might wanna take itty-bitty sips.”

“Bullshit! One quick swallow. That’s the only way,” Tobias bellowed.

Solomon, still on his feet, raised his shot glass high. The other men, including Martin, stood up and joined him. “To Martin’s first ride. May there be plenty more in his future.” The men clinked their glasses, then tossed back the shots.

“Whooo!”
Tobias shouted. “Now that’s something!”

The other men blurted out similar exclamations as 80 proof liquor hit their systems.

Martin winced and issued a guttural sound that he had never heard himself make before as the velvety hot liquor oozed down his esophagus and branched through his chest like lava.

Damon laughed and slapped Martin’s shoulder. “You did good. You okay?”

“Great,” Martin replied, his voice hoarse.

“I think he could use another,” Carver said.

“Absolutely,” Tobias agreed. “One more.”

Martin found it difficult to even utter the word
no
. He waved off the offer of another shot and flopped back into his chair.

“No more,” Damon said to Carver and the others. “Looks like he’s had enough.”

Martin heard the men chuckle, but strangely their voices seemed far away. Martin felt his head swim and thought it was odd that one shot could have such a quick and potent effect. They did say it was strong, but . . . He glanced out the window at the sun again. The fiery eye glared back—and began to wink and throb and grow dimmer and dimmer. It was as if someone were lowering an enormous shade over that gazillion-watt lightbulb in the sky. Before Martin passed out completely, he turned in his seat and tried to speak. He tried to tell them that he was feeling sick . . . but there were too many faces staring at him. Too many eyes. Then the world went black.