“You thought they overlapped because of his skin. Whoever put the tape on the door is black. Not coffee and cream like me, but pure black. I’m talking hold the milk, hold the sugar, hold the freakin’ water black.”
“Hey,” Payne interrupted. “What’s that on his arm?”
“Where?”
“Right between the glove and sleeve. Is that a tattoo?”
Jones crouched in front of the TV and considered the question. Unfortunately, the image was too dark to see things conclusively. “Hang on a sec. Let me change the brightness on the TV. It might help.”
Payne stared at the screen as it brightened. “It might be a tattoo, but I honestly don’t know.”
“Don’t worry. I know a way we can find out. I have a computer program at my office that lets me blow up video images, alter color schemes, manipulate contrast, and so on. I’ll take the disc over there and see if I can learn anything else.”
“Sounds good to me.” Payne reached for the eject button, but before he pressed it, Jones grabbed his arm.
“Listen,” he said in a sympathetic voice, “I wasn’t going to mention this, but I have to be upfront with you. There’s still one thing we need to check. I was going to wait until later, but I feel you deserve to be with me when it’s done.”
“What are you talking about? What do you need to check?”
Jones placed his hand on Payne’s broad shoulder and squeezed. “The peephole camera records image and sound, right? I mean, we heard the alarm system beeping, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, so?”
Jones swallowed hard. “The video of what happened this morning is obviously unwatchable because of the duct tape, but there’s a good chance that we might be able to hear this morning’s events after the peephole was blocked.”
“Oh, God, you’re right! Put it on!”
“Jon, keep in mind if something did happen to Ariane, it might be painful to-”
“Put it on! I’ve got to know what happened.”
Jones nodded, then hit the appropriate button on the remote. After several seconds of silence, the faint sound of a doorbell could be heard from the blank TV screen. It was followed by a loud, rhythmic knock.
“You’re early,” Ariane complained. “I’m still getting ready.”
A brief silence followed her comment before a faint giggle emerged from the speaker.
“First you’re early, now you’re covering the peephole!”
Beeps from the security system chimed in the tape’s background.
“I’ll tell you what, Jonathon, I’m going to kick your butt all over the golf course. There’s no doubt about that!”
Her comment was followed by the click of a deadbolt, the twist of the door handle, and-
Jones pushed the pause button and glanced at Payne, whose face was completely ashen. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Yeah,” Payne muttered, his voice trembling with emotion. He didn’t really want to, but if he was going to help Ariane, he knew he had no choice. “Play the disc.”
“Are you sure?”
Payne shook his head from side to side. “But play it anyways.”
With the touch of a button, Ariane screamed like a banshee, sending chills through Payne and Jones. As her wail echoed through the room, it was quickly replaced by heavy footsteps, muffled squeals, and then the most frightening sound of all.
Silence.
CHAPTER 12
WHILE Holmes, Jackson, and Webster had breakfast in the mansion, Hakeem Ndjai, an unmerciful man who’d been hired as the Plantation overseer, took control of the captives.
Even though he was a valuable part of the Plantation team, his foreign heritage excluded him from the decision-making hierarchy. He had been handpicked by Holmes, who had heard several stories of Ndjai’s unwavering toughness in Nkambé, Cameroon, where Ndjai had been an overseer on a cacao plantation. Like most workers from his country, he had labored in unbearable conditions for virtually nothing-his average income was only $150 per year-so when Holmes offered him a job in America, Ndjai wept for joy for the first time in his life.
But that was several months ago, and Ndjai was back to his old ways.
In a cold growl, Ndjai reinforced the instructions that Jackson and Holmes had given during their cross-burning party, but he did it with his own special touch. “I am the overseer of this Plantation, and out of respect for my job, you shall refer to me as sir. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the naked group shouted.
“Each of you has been brought here for a reason, and that reason will eventually be revealed. Until that time, you will become a part of the Plantation’s working staff, performing the duties that will be assigned to you.” Ndjai signaled one of the guards, who ran forward, carrying a silver belt that shone in the sun. “While you are working, you will be positioned on various parts of our land, and at some point, you might be tempted to run for freedom.”
He smiled under his dark cloak. “It is something I do not recommend.”
Ndjai grabbed the metal belt and wrapped it around a cement slab that rested near the bloodstained chopping block. After clicking the belt in place, he handed the cement to a nearby guard, who immediately carried it fifty yards from the crowd.
“When you are given your uniforms, you will have one of these belts locked to your ankle. It cannot be removed by anyone but me, and I will not remove it for any reason during your stay on this island.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a tiny remote control. He held the gadget in the air so everyone could see it. “This is what you Americans call a deterrent.”
With a push of a button, the cement block erupted into a shower of rubble, sending shards of rock in every direction and smoke high into the air.
“Did I get your attention?” he asked. “Now imagine what would have happened if your personal anklet were to be detonated. I doubt much of you would be found.”
A couple of the guards snickered, but Ndjai silenced them with a sharp stare. He would not tolerate disrespect from anybody.
“I know some of you will try to figure out how your anklets work, and some of you will try to disarm them. Well, I will tell you now: Your efforts will fail! We have buried a small number of transmitters throughout the Plantation. If at any time your anklet crosses the perimeter, your personal bomb will explode, killing you instantly. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing. If your device is detonated, it will send a signal to the anklets that are being worn by several other prisoners, and they will be killed as well. Do you understand?”
They certainly did, and the mere thought of it made them shudder.
CHAPTER 13
JONES returned to his scenic office and locked himself in his massive technology lab. The room cost a staggering amount of money and was filled with high-tech equipment that many police departments would love to have. The most important piece of hardware was the computer, but it was the instrument that cost Jones the least. Built by Payne Industries, the computer was a scaled-down version of the system used at FBI headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and had been given to Jones as an office-warming gift.