The prisoners listened, trembling.
“Take a look around you! This plantation was built several decades before the Civil War. Nice, isn’t it? It’s probably hard to imagine, but the people who worked this soil were my ancestors. My
actual
ancestors! That’s right! Through painstaking research, I have traced my family tree back to this plantation. Isn’t that amazing? My forefathers worked this land! They slept here, ate here, and raised families in the tiny cabins that surround us!”
Webster shook his head at the thought, rage boiling inside of him.
“And because of you, my family was forced to die here, too!”
A slight murmur rippled through the crowd. What did Webster mean by
that
?
“For the past few days, you have been subjected to un pleasantries. Long hours in the hot sun, a scarcity of food and water, nothing to sleep on but the hard ground itself. But guess what? That pales in comparison to the hardships that my relatives had to endure. Back in the eighteen hundreds, slaves were forced to live in these tiny cabins year-round. Ten, twelve, sometimes as many as fifteen people were thrown together into one cabin and forced to make do, huddling in the center of the dirt floor for warmth. And if they bitched, they were beaten!
“During the rainy season, the ground became so saturated with water that the moisture would rise up into their cabins, forcing them to sleep in the mud. Like animals! These were my ancestors, for God’s sake, and they were treated like beasts! Meanwhile, the Delacroix family, the white bastards that owned this property, slept in the comfort of the plantation house. They didn’t work, but they lived like kings! Do you know what my relatives got to eat? At the beginning of every week, each person was given three and a half pounds of bacon from the smokehouse and enough corn to make a peck of cornmeal. That’s it! For the entire week! Just bacon, cornmeal, and water for every meal, for a lifetime!”
Webster paused to catch his breath.
“And what about punishment? Do you actually think we’ve been rough on you? The punishment that occurred in the nineteenth century was far more brutal than anything we’ve implemented here. Back in the old days, slave drivers used to whip their niggers until they could see
ribs
. The gashes on their backs were so wide and deep you could see their lungs! Have we done anything like that to you? Anything that brutal? Tell me, have we?”
Despite his point-blank questions, the crowd remained silent. They were way too frightened to talk. But that didn’t matter to Webster. He viewed the slaves’ silence as insubordination, which needed to be dealt with. Turning toward Master Holmes, he said, “Can you believe that? They don’t respect me enough to answer. Maybe you better show them what I mean about discipline.”
Holmes grinned savagely under his black hood. He’d been on his best behavior since the finger-chopping incident, but now that Webster was encouraging him, he figured he could slide back to his sadistic ways.
He stepped forward, searching for a target, staring at the scared faces in the moonlight. Who should he choose? Which person would be the most beneficial to their cause? Then he saw him, the perfect victim. He was the finest specimen in Group One. A middle-aged male, father of Susan and two other brats. What was his name? Ross. Jimmy Ross. Yes, he would do nicely. An impeccable sacrifice.
Devastate the strong and the weak will crumble!
With unblinking eyes, Holmes focused on him, quietly selecting him as his prey. And Ross knew it. Holmes didn’t even say a word, yet Jimmy dropped to his knees in fear. His entire body trembled with trepidation.
“Pick up the coward,” Holmes growled.
And the guards obliged, pouncing on Ross like hungry wolves before they dragged him to the front of the crowd. Then, just as quickly as they had attacked, they backed away, leaving Ross at the feet of his master, with nothing between the two but a palpable wall of hate.
“Master Webster?” Holmes continued. “Why don’t you tell our guests about the white man’s temple? I think they’d enjoy that tale.”
Webster readjusted his glasses, grinning. “In the nineteenth century, the white man considered his body sacred. It was a divine and holy temple that was not to be defiled by the dirty black man. Sure, it was fine for Massah to sleep with all the good-looking black women of the plantation. Famous men like Thomas Jefferson were reputed to have fathered many biracial children during their day. But if a Negro ever touched a white man for
any
reason, the slave could legally be killed. Can you believe that? The courts actually allowed it! Of course, that didn’t make much financial sense to the slave owner, so it was rarely done. I mean, why murder someone who is doing your chores? So the white man was forced to come up with a better punishment than death.”
Jimmy Ross gulped, waiting for Master Holmes to make a move. But the black man didn’t budge. He stood like a statue, not blinking, not breathing. Silent. Completely silent. Listening to the words of his friend.
“No one knows where the idea of the post first came from, but its popularity spread across the Southern states during the early part of the eighteen hundreds. In fact, it spread like wildfire.”
Suddenly, without warning, Holmes burst from his trance and lunged in Ross’s direction. The prisoner instinctively flinched, raising his hands to protect himself, but it was a grave mistake.
“You tried to hit me!” Holmes screamed, stopping six inches short of Ross. “You white piece of shit! You tried to hit me!”
“I didn’t, Master Holmes. I swear! I—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you swear! I’m in charge of your sorry ass, so your words mean shit to me! If I say you tried to hit me, then you tried to hit me!” Holmes turned toward his guards. “Get me the post, now! I need to teach this cocksucker a lesson!”
“In fact,” Webster continued, as if he was narrating an evil documentary, “even if the threat was an implied one—a swing that never landed, a tip of a cap to a white woman, or a hand being lifted for protection—slave owners were encouraged to administer this punishment.”
The guards carried a six-foot wooden post, approximately six inches in diameter, to the front of the group and slammed it into the ground. After straightening it with a careful eye, they drove the long peg into the pliable turf with several swings of a sledgehammer. Once it was anchored in the ground, the device was ready for use.
“Now get him!” Holmes ordered.
The guards clamped onto Jimmy’s arms much rougher than they had before and slammed him against the post. Then, before Jimmy could move, the larger of the guards forced Jimmy’s cheek against the rough wooden surface, holding his face against the post with as much strength as possible. And Holmes was pleased by the sight.
While watching Jimmy tremble, Holmes slid in behind him while pulling a claw hammer out of the folds of his dark cloak. The sight of the savage tool brought a smile to his lips. Even though he enjoyed chopping fingers, there was nothing Holmes enjoyed more than the post. The fear. The blood. The disbelief in his victim’s eyes. He loved it! For one reason or another, it satisfied something inside of him that most people couldn’t understand.
The desire to be violent.
Reaching into his pocket, Holmes fumbled for a nail. Four inches in length, silver in color, sharpened to a perfect point. He lifted the tiny spike behind Jimmy Ross’s head, then studied it with a suspicious eye. It was so small, yet capable of producing so much pain. God, it was beautiful. Holmes breathed deeply, thinking of the impending moment of impact. The smile on his face got even broader.
“The post,” Webster said, “was a two-step process. Step one was the attachment phase. In order to prevent a messy scene later, the slave needed to be attached to the post in the most appropriate fashion. According to the journals that I’ve read, there was one method in particular that was quite popular.”
Holmes raised the tip of the metal spike and ran it through the back of Jimmy’s hair, tracing the ridges of his skull, looking for the proper insertion point. Once it was located, Holmes lifted his hammer, slowly, silently. The crowd, realizing what was about to be done, gasped with fear and shouted pleas of protest, but to Holmes, the murmur of shock sounded like a beautiful chorus, only adding to his enjoyment.
With a flick of his wrist, Holmes shoved the nail through the elastic tissue of Jimmy’s outer ear, piercing the cartilage with a sickening snap. Before Jimmy could even yelp in pain, Holmes followed the attack with a swift swing of the hammer, driving the nail deep into the wood, anchoring the ear to the post.
After a moment of shock, Jimmy screamed in agony, then made things far worse for himself by trying to pull his head away from the wood. It was a horrible mistake. The more he pulled, the more flesh he tore, causing sharp waves of pain to surge through his skull. Blood trickled, then gushed down the side of his face. Warm rivulets of crimson flowed over his whiskered cheek, adding gore to the already vicious attack.
And the sight of it was too much for his family to endure.
In the crowd, Jimmy’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Susan, fainted from the gruesome scene. The image of her battered father was simply too much for her to handle. Tommy and Scooter, his two boys, vomited, then dropped to their knees in a series of spasmodic heaves. They had never seen anything that horrible in their young lives.
Unfortunately, the brutal part was yet to come.
With his left forearm, Holmes slammed Ross’s face against the post. “Stop your fuckin’ squirming,” he grunted. “You’re just causing more pain.”
“Okay,” Ross sobbed, willing to do anything to stop the agony. “Okay!”
“I promise if you stop moving, I’ll let you go. I’ll free you from the post.”
“All right, whatever you say!” He took an unsteady breath, wanting to believe the vicious man. “I will. I swear! I’ll stay still.”
Holmes nodded. Things were so much easier to complete with a calm victim.
“Good,” he hissed, “because your squirming is ruining my souvenir!”
From the constraints of his belt, Holmes unsheathed his stiletto, slipping the five-inch blade behind Ross’s head. Then, while calming his victim with words of reassurance, Holmes lowered the razor-sharp edge to the tip of Jimmy’s ear, pausing briefly to enjoy the scene. He truly loved this part. The quiet before the storm. The silence before the screams. There was something about it that was so magical, so fulfilling, that he couldn’t put it into words.
Finally, when the moment felt right, Holmes finished the job. He removed the ear with a single slice, severing the cartilage from the side of Jimmy’s head in one swift slash, like a movie on the life of Vincent Van Gogh.
A wave of pain crashed over Jimmy, knocking him to the ground. Blood oozed from his open wound, flooding his neck and shoulder with a sea of red. That, coupled with his loud screams, caused his wife to break from formation. She rushed to his side, crying, hoping to administer as much first aid as possible, but there wasn’t much she could do.
Her husband was missing his ear, and she didn’t have a sewing kit.
“The second part of this punishment, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, was the removal of the ear,” Webster said. “As a sign of the white man’s power, it was left hanging on the post right outside the slaves’ cabins for several days. Not surprisingly, it was an effective way to get the master’s message to his slaves.
If you do something wrong, you will pay for it in agony!
”
Holmes stared at his souvenir, left dangling from the pole like a freshly slaughtered pig. “And that, my friends, is how the Listening Post was born.”
CHAPTER 33
PAYNE
wasn’t sure about Greene until that very moment, but one look into his eyes told him everything he needed to know. The Buffalo Soldier was a member of the Posse.
“Were you always with them, or did they get to you after we showed up in New Orleans?”
Jones’s eyes widened when he heard Payne’s proclamation. “What are you talking about?”
But Payne ignored him. “Just answer me that, Levon. From the beginning or just recently? I’ve got to know. To me, it’ll make all the difference in the world.”
Greene continued to stare at Payne, no emotions crossing his face.
“Come on, Levon, just one little answer. Which was it? Before we arrived, or after?”
Greene refused to dignify the question, and to Jones, the silence was maddening. Because of his current position, he couldn’t see what was going on. “Bennie!” he called, trying to get involved in the conversation. He strained his neck, trying to find the dreadlocked servant. “Bennie! Help a brother out! Kick me closer to the action! Anything!”
“Be quiet,” Payne ordered. “If my guess is correct, Bennie’s one of them, too, so he won’t help you. He’s on Levon’s side.”
Jones’s eyes got even larger. He had no idea where any of Payne’s theories were coming from, but the mere possibility that they were true was mind-blowing. “Bennie? Levon? Guards? Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on? I’m supposed to be the detective here. Someone throw me a crumb.”
Payne shook his head. “D.J., just shut up and listen. Levon’s about to tell us everything.”
Greene glanced at Jones, then returned his gaze to Payne. “I can’t believe you, man. How can you think that after all the things I’ve done for you? I showed you my city. I let you sleep in my house. I let you eat my food—”
Payne interrupted him. “You gave us faulty guns. You tried to have us shot. You kidnapped my girlfriend. . . . Should I go on?”
“No,” Greene growled, “you shouldn’t. I’ve heard all that I’m gonna take. You called me up, and I went out of my way to help you guys. And this is how you’re gonna repay me? You accuse me of trying to have you killed? Get fucking real!”
