Chris Kuzneski - The Plantation

“You can’t be that stupid!” Jones said. “What, are you a buckwheat or something?”

The comment brought a smile to Bennie Blount’s heavily bandaged face. “I haven’t known what to think,” he whispered. “I haven’t seen you guys since my accident.”

Payne placed his hand on Blount’s elbow and gave it a simple squeeze. “We’re sorry about that. We would’ve been here

much

sooner, but we’ve been tied up in red tape. Of course, that tends to happen when you sneak into a foreign country and kill a bunch of people.”

Jones shook his head in mock disgust. “The Pentagon and all its stupid policies. Please!”

Blount laughed despite the pain it caused in his cheeks.

Payne said, “I hear the swelling around your spinal cord has gone down. How’s your movement?”

“Pretty good. I’m still a little wobbly when I walk, but the doctors think I’ll be fine.”

“That’s great news, Bennie! I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“Me, too,” added Jones.

“Now my biggest concern is my face. That crazy dog did a lot of damage.”

Payne gave Blount’s elbow another squeeze. “Well, stop worrying about it. I’m flying in the world’s best plastic surgeons to treat you. They’ll have you back to your old self in no time.”

Jones nodded. “Unless, of course, your old self isn’t good enough. They could make you look like Denzel, or Will Smith,

or

give you a nice set of D-cups. Whatever you want.”

Payne frowned. “Do you think his frame could support D-cups? I’d say no more than a C.”

“Really? I think he’d look good with-”

“Forget the tits.” Blount laughed. “My old self would be fine, just fine. But . . .”

“But what?” Payne demanded. “If you’re worried about the money, don’t be. All of your hospital bills have already been taken care of.”

“What?” he asked, stunned. “That’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is! After all you’ve sacrificed, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Listen to him, Bennie. Even with a truckload of insurance, you’d still have tons of out-of-pocket expenses.”

“Yeah, but-”

“But, nothing!” Payne insisted. “Furthermore, you’ll never see another tuition bill for the rest of your life. As soon as you’re feeling up to it, you can head back to school, compliments of the Payne Industries Scholarship Fund. We’ll take care of everything-including a monthly stipend for beer and hookers.”

Blount shook his head. “Jon, I couldn’t. Seriously.”

“Hey,” Jones added, “that’s not all. We have one more surprise for you, something that’s more valuable than money.”

“Guys, enough with the gifts.”

“Hang on,” Payne insisted. “You’ll really like this one. We saved the best for last.”

Then, with his typical flash of showmanship, Payne threw the door aside to reveal the most attractive woman Blount had ever seen.

Dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Unbelievable figure. Simply dazzling.

She stood there for several seconds, speechless, unsure of what to do next. Finally, with her composure regained, she grabbed Payne’s arm and glided across the room to meet the family member she’d never even known she had.

“Bennie,” Payne said with a lump in his throat, “I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s very special to me. This is your cousin Ariane.”

Author’s Note

While conducting my research for this novel, I read hundreds of journal entries that detailed the ungodly horrors that occurred on many nineteenth-century plantations. And

not

just the accounts of ex-slaves. In order to keep my research as balanced as possible, I studied just as many narratives from slave owners as I did from the slaves themselves. And do you know what? I’m glad I did, because it wasn’t until I read the firsthand accounts of these brutal men that I started to understand how malicious and sadistic some of them really were.

Sure, it was unsettling to read about the sting of a bullwhip from a slave’s point of view, but not nearly as disturbing as the words of one overseer who described the process of whipping his workers in near-orgasmic terms. “The delicious crack of leather on flesh fills my hand with delight and sends my body a shiver.”

Chilling, indeed.

It was those types of quotes that convinced me to include the graphic sequences that I did, scenes that are so full of carnage and torture (the Devil’s Box, the Listening Post, etc.) that some readers have complained to me about nightmares. Well, I’m sorry for your loss of sleep. But if I didn’t stress the gore and bloodshed of plantation life, then I would have been the one losing sleep. Because my story would have been less than accurate.

And now a special excerpt

from Chris Kuzneski’s

THE LOST THRONE

Coming soon in hardcover from

G. P. Putnam’s Sons!

PROLOGUE

Christmas Day 1890

Piazza della Santa Carità

Naples, Italy

THE greatest secret of ancient Greece was silenced by a death in Italy.

Not a shooting or a stabbing or a murder of any kind-although dozens of those would occur later-but a good old-fashioned death. One minute the man was strolling across the Piazza della Santa Carità, pondering the significance of his discovery; the next, he was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the cold square. People rushed to his side, hoping to help him to his feet, but one look at his gaunt face told them that he needed medical attention.

Two policemen on horseback were flagged down, and they rushed him to the closest hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour. They asked him his name, but he couldn’t answer. His condition had stolen his ability to speak.

The man wore a fancy suit and overcoat, both of which revealed his status. His hair was thin and gray, suggesting a man in his sixties. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip.

Doctors probed his clothes, searching for identification, but found nothing of value. No papers. No wallet. No money. If they had only looked closer, they might have noticed the secret pocket sewn into the lining of his coat, and the mystery would have ended there. But as hospital policy dictated, no identification meant no treatment. Not even on Christmas morning.

With few options, the police took him to the local station house, an ancient building made of brick and stone that would shelter him from the bitter winds of the Tyrrhenian Sea. They fed him broth and let him rest on a cot in an open cell, hoping he would regain his voice.

In time, he regained several.

Starting with a whisper that barely rose above the level of his breath, the sound slowly increased, building to a crescendo that could be heard by the two officers in the next room. They hurried down the corridor, expecting to find the stranger fully awake and willing to answer their questions. Instead they saw a man in a semicatatonic state who was babbling in his sleep.

His eyes were closed and his body was rigid, yet his lips were forming words.

One of the officers made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer while the other ran for a pencil and paper. When he returned, he pulled a chair up to the cot and tried to take notes in a small journal. Maybe they’d get an address. Or if they were really lucky, maybe even a name. But they got none of those things. In fact, all they got was more confused.

The first words spoken were German. Then French. Then Portuguese. Before long he was mixing several languages in the same sentence. Dutch followed by Spanish and Latin. English layered with Greek and Russian. Every once in a while he said something in Italian, but the words were so random and his accent so thick that they made little sense. Still, the officer transcribed everything he could and before long he noticed some repetition. One word seemed to be repeated over and over. Not only in Italian but in other languages as well.