Southern Poison (3 page)

Spud retrieved his walking cane so he could poke it into the concrete floor a few times. “Well, I’m tired of waiting! It’s been almost a month now. That car was fully insured and I want my money. Any idiot can see that it’s totaled, for crying out loud.” That was an understatement. Demolished would be more like it.

I bit a hush puppy in half and let it melt on my tongue. “Calm down, Spud. They’re probably just reviewing the police report. Maybe they found out that the car had been sunk, burned, and almost stolen during your failed foray into insurance fraud.”

“Yeah.” Bobby spurred it on. “Maybe they’ve launched an official investigation.”

“Well the insurance company can launch this.” Spud shoved his cane in the air, in lieu of an arthritic middle finger.

Before he could get into a full-blown tirade about the insurance industry, Hal and Trip showed up. My father and his three poker friends—after much old-age shuffling and grunting—headed upstairs to Spud’s kitchen table for a round of Texas hold ’em.

I tried to focus on the information in front of me but couldn’t help but to look at Ox instead and wonder—if my budding retirement hadn’t been so rudely interrupted—whether we might have finished what we started. The night of the shootout at the Block, he had stayed with me and I distinctly remember the glorious sensation of being enveloped in his arms as I drifted into the deepest sleep I’d had in a long time. Physically and emotionally drained from the week’s events and relaxed by too much alcohol, my body wouldn’t cooperate with my mind’s desire to ravage Ox’s body. Awakening beside him the next morning, I quickly came to my senses. He was certainly willing, but sex with my best friend could change everything. There might be no turning back. Ox is tall and has traditional Native American features with some surprises tossed into his DNA, such as the dimple set into a square chin and a unique cinnamon eye color that changes with his mood. Just hearing him speak sometimes drives me crazy. A Lumbee can be anywhere in the country and immediately recognize another Lumbee, simply by hearing the other speak. Their unique dialect is sort of Southern, but influenced by several ancestral sources and Ox retained the distinctive manner of speaking even though he’d led a mobile military life. When he first appeared in Wilmington, I didn’t fall into bed with Ox because he needed time to heal after a nasty divorce. In the years to follow, he always had a gorgeous woman on his arm and I always had a somewhat steady male companion. The timing had never been right. Either that, or the spirits had different plans for us.

“What’s on your mind?” he said.

“Oh, uh, nothing really.”
Just thinking how good it would feel to press our naked bodies together.
“I’m still blown away by this assignment. I feel like a commodity, like they own me or something.”

“You’re mad because you are accustomed to doing things your own way, on your own terms.” He had a knack for seeing through bullshit. Hopefully, though, he didn’t know what was
really
on my mind. Him. Naked.

“I suppose.”

“Let’s get you in place and get this thing figured out so we can be finished with it. Then you can go play on your boat and ponder life after retirement.”

I smiled. “We?”

“I’ve got a feeling you may need me on this one.” He looked outside, at the placid river. “Oddly, I’ve got a feeling that we may need each other more than usual in the coming weeks.”

Ox’s predictions were always right on target. “I don’t understand,” I said.

“I don’t, either.” He opened the file and together, we scoured my notes and the computer printouts.

In typical covert fashion, an envelope had been delivered earlier by a woman I thought was a tourist. She handed it to me personally, saying only, “Don’t leave this shit lying around.” Inside I found a dossier containing detailed information on all Sunny Point personnel, or in government lingo, “the population served.” There are soldiers and Army reserve units, as expected, but few in comparison to the more than two hundred civilians who work at the facility.

The packet also contained general operating info on Sunny Point and a fairly detailed blueprint. Built along Highway 133, it is surrounded by a huge buffer zone of undeveloped land and large sand dunes, and at sixteen thousand acres and more than two hundred thousand square feet of buildings, it is the largest ammunition port in the nation. The facility receives ammunition, explosives, and various
other hazardous cargo by both train and truck, and loads the stuff on outgoing ships.

We went over the report detailing possible terrorist scenarios and potential weak spots in MOTSU security. Nothing jumped out and said, “Look at me! I’m an open invitation for a terrorist!” Other than familiarizing myself with the information, there wasn’t anything to do except park the roach coach as scheduled and cook some eggs.

“I don’t even cook breakfast for myself and now I’m supposed to go cook for a bunch of strangers every morning?”

“Least they didn’t make you a janitor,” Ox said.

The Block had slowly filled up while we concentrated on the task at hand, and another server and bartender arrived for the evening shift. The noise level climbed accordingly and soon leveled off to steady hum of good-natured chatter. All heads suddenly swung in Ruby’s direction when her entire body erupted into a loud, jiggling belly laugh. Two confused tourists stood by her side, and like the rest of us, didn’t understand what was so funny.

Ruby stopped laughing and pointed at me. “That there is the Block’s owner, Jersey, and the manager, Ox. I’m sure one of them can help you out.”

I stood to greet the couple, reminding myself to let Ruby know that Ox was an owner, too. I’d finally gotten him to agree to accept 50 percent ownership in the Block, which I took as a good sign. It meant that he didn’t have plans to leave Wilmington anytime soon.

“What can we do for you?”

“We’d like to find out who the artist is,” the man said.

“Artist?”

He pointed outside, at the pathetic remains of Spud’s car. “It’s a really incredible piece. Makes a statement, you know?”

Stupefied at their interpretation of art, I forced myself to nod.

“I just love the way he patterned all the bullet holes,” the woman
chimed in. “And the giant fork prongs must symbolize that humans are really insignificant in the overall scheme of things. Like maybe we’re really
not
at the top of the food chain.”

“Right,” the man agreed. “Anyway, we couldn’t find a signature plate on the sculpture and my wife wants to know who created it. Does the artist have a gallery around here?”

I looked at the twisted, impaled monstrosity that used to be Spud’s car. “It was a coordinated effort by a group of local artists.”

“They’re actually law-enforcement officers who dabble in art,” Ox confided to the couple with a straight face.

“Really? Wow. That would make a great story.” The woman pulled a camera phone out of her handbag. “I’ve got to tell my editor about this. I write for
Eclectic Arts&Leisure
magazine. We have a national subscriber base.”

The man led his wife outside, where the couple started taking digital photographs of the Chrysler from various angles. Ox let loose with a deep throaty laugh.

“Think they’ll notice that Cracker uses the sculpture as his personal fire hydrant?” I said.

He laughed harder.

John Mason prided himself on his appreciation for discipline. A complete lack of discipline had made Americans weak and dishonorable, in his opinion. That, and all the greedy politicians who pretended to work for the public good, when all they really cared about was padding their pockets and jetting around the country, gorging themselves at Ruth’s Chris Steak Houses and shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue stores for their mistresses. In an obscene display of indulgence, the U.S. Congress had just voted themselves a pay raise and continued to up their already fat pensions while sending other people’s family members into combat zones without the proper equipment.

He knew the exact moment his twin was killed, even though he lay in bed asleep, on the other side of the globe. He’d been awakened by an alarming blanket of dismay that slammed into him as though it were woven of lead and dropped from fifty feet. He died right then and there along with his brother, and only a pounding heart and sweaty body made him realize that he remained physically alive.
There were plenty more like him—people who lost family members for no good reason. God-fearing, hard-working Americans who’d been screwed by their own government.

Veins bulged in his temples as he grunted out a final military press and let the chrome weight bar drop to the carpeted floor in his den. He loved the old, utilitarian house because it was surrounded by trees and set on a large lot that offered plenty of privacy. He was especially pleased with the old hidden root cellar that was left from the original house built on the property. Inside, he’d converted the living room into a gym and stocked it with free weights, a pull-up bar, and a treadmill. Just like a real health club, mirrors covered one wall so he could study his contracting muscle groups and monitor his form. A stack of neatly folded and bleached towels were within easy reach on a table, along with a bottled-water dispenser. A by-product of discipline, self-sufficiency made one stronger and that was the basis of his spiritualism. Stay disciplined and self-sufficient. A reflection in the mirror grabbed his attention and the image staring back almost seemed a stranger. Weekly injections of steroids had produced thirty added pounds of sheer muscle, and shaving off the wavy hair gave him a commanding appearance.

John removed the forty-five-pound plates and returned them to their proper rack, toweled off, and dropped to the floor to complete his workout with one hundred sit-ups. Knees bent, he wedged his feet beneath a worn sofa, and, holding a twenty-five-pound weight over his chest, proceeded to count out rapid sit-ups. He reveled in his daily workouts and never missed one, even when away from home. At this point, it was crucial to stay in top physical condition and keep his eye on the prize. The success of his mission depended on it.

Breathing deep, John willed his heartbeat back to normal and stretched for exactly five minutes. His Luminox watch, the same model many Navy SEALs wore, indicated it was time to drink a
liter of water and prepare for the night’s assemblage that should have been a total of five men but would be just as effective with four.

He couldn’t be happier with the location and event they would disrupt in less than a month. The guest list was even better than he’d originally hoped. His maneuver, the plan he’d been working on for nearly a year, would get the attention of those who mattered. Most—if not all—of them would be dead, but he’d get the attention of their cohorts and associates and maybe
those
people would realize what their job was supposed to be. Serve the public, not themselves, the greedy bastards. Maybe in the future, they’d be a little more disciplined in the choices they made.

Before he showered, John decided to dispose of the body sprawled on his sofa. To keep things tidy, he’d asphyxiated the man with a simple choke hold. A slight but steady drizzling rain would keep the pleasure boaters indoors, and the marina should be relatively quiet. Before he carried the body to his boat, he’d be sure to get a photo of the would-be tattler, eyes still open and bulging. A good reminder to the remaining three men that discipline must be served above all else, and that rats would be squashed dead. They had a mission to accomplish, and variances from the original plan would not be tolerated.

Not being privy
to labor-force specifics, I didn’t have a clue how many people were working to intercept a potential terrorist action in Wilmington. But somebody was churning out a lot of theories. SWEET liked to keep things neat and organized by putting a number on anything that could conceivably have a figure attached to it. In relation to all the military ammunition storage facilities in the country, somebody decided, a 70 percent probability of a potential terrorist action was awarded to MOTSU. Conjecture is imperfect, however. The same number crunchers couldn’t suggest who, how, and when. Or exactly what, for that matter.

In addition to the personnel info for all Sunny Point employees, I had a list of everyone who’d had access during the past year—right down to the folks who’d serviced the air-conditioning units—and was instructed to be on the lookout for both employees and MOTSU visitors while working the roach coach. Extra security measures had quietly been implemented at the ammo dump, and while some Washington brains were thoroughly vetting all relevant military personnel,
other Washington drones were executing background investigations on every civilian employee. So far, though, nobody stood out as a strong person of interest.

I had thought about going to the Barnes Agency for a quiet place to work, but opted instead for my kitchen table. Heading to the office in stretch lace panties and a Victoria’s Secret satin, white fur-trimmed robe might draw unwanted attention to the nondescript building that houses my agency. I have a penchant for quality lingerie and collect camisoles, chemises, and bras with abandon. One of my prized pieces is a custom-sewn bodice that includes a leather holster for my standard backup weapon, a Sig Sauer P232. Seriously. An Arizona friend makes the quick-release holsters with ultrathin cowhide that is first softened and then vacuum molded around the gun. He’d originally made two for me: a thigh holster and an ankle holster. My partner Rita commissioned the third holster—the bodice—as an official retirement gift for me, attaching a card that read, “Just in case you start jonesin’ for the feel of steel.” Her attempt at humor. It is a perfect fit, though.

Happy to be working in my sexy jammies—even if only for one day before reporting to work in the food truck—I peeled a banana, gave Cracker his customary bite, and called my friend Soup, knowing he’d pulled off seemingly impossible feats before. Strong coffee loaded with cream and sugar poked at the motivation sensors in my brain and I tried to think like a terrorist.