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.
FIVE
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.
It stood to reason that a bad guy eyeballing MOTSU would desire one of two things: disable the facility to interrupt operations, or blow something up to kill lots of people. The planning and resources required to disable the facility would overwhelm even the most dedicated of terrorist cells, so I figured the goal had to be a body count. Question was, who were the targeted bodies?
“Hey, Jersey,” Soup answered. “Since you only call when you need something, I assume you’re back in the workforce. I knew the retirement thing wouldn’t stick. Did you get tired of eating early bird specials at four o’clock? Or was it the nasty taste of all those fiber supplements?”
I ignored the retirement barbs. “It’s a long story. By the way, how are you enjoying the cushy job for Chesterfield Financial?” Soup is a technology junkie and one of the best hackers in the country. After helping me on my last case, he was hired by Samuel Chesterfield, head of a national brokerage firm, to overhaul their online security system.
Keyboard clacks were rapid and nonstop. “Pays a helluva lot better than working for you.”
“If you hadn’t been working a job for me, you never would have met Samuel Chesterfield.”
“True.” He slurped something—probably soup, which is how he got his nickname—and a loud swallow traveled through the fiber-optic cable.
“And,” I said, “you wouldn’t have just enjoyed a fabulous week on Incognito with your friends.” My one extravagance, the forty-eight-foot sport fishing yacht was a gift from a grateful client. As a thank-you to Soup, I had the boat fully stocked with food and booze, and hired Captain Pete to haul Soup and company anywhere they wanted to go.
He blew out a long sigh and stopped keyboarding. “Okay, lay it on me. What do you need?”
I needed a complete schedule of events that were happening within a two-hundred-mile radius of Wilmington, I told him. Anything, public or private, that involved more than one hundred people or anything that would be attended by high-profile power figures. For the upcoming four months.
“That’ll cost you more than a return favor, Jersey. You’re talking some major time consumption.”
“Let’s shave the parameters, then. How about a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius for the next three months?”
“How about fifty miles and one month?” Soup said, admitting that he could in fact produce the information. He is brilliant that way. He just doesn’t like to work harder than necessary. And he would uncover some nifty details that Ashton’s people would overlook.
“One-hundred-mile radius and two months out,” I countered.
“Done. What do I get out of it?”
“The opportunity to save lives.”
“Anything else?” Keyboard sounds started up again and I knew his mind was already figuring out which databases he’d have to hack to fulfill my request.
“The who-owes-whom-a-favor pendulum swings back in your direction,” I said.
He snorted out a laugh. “By the way, we gave your boat a few tweaks. Incognito’s, GPS navigation system and depth finders are now coupled with a voice feature. Your radar screen is hooked up to a DVD player for those long trips. Oh, and the plasma flat screen in the salon? It gets satellite reception pretty much anywhere you go in the world. Same for the onboard emergency mobile phone.”
“I don’t have an onboard emergency mobile phone.”
“You do now.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t want to pay every month for those satellite services.”
“You’re not. I wouldn’t burden you with a satellite phone bill, you being on a fixed income and all,” he chided and hung up.
I ran a foot back and forth over Cracker’s f
ur. “Remind me to never turn Soup loose on my boat again,” I said to the dog. He flopped onto his back and would have started snoring if not for timid knocking on my kitchen door at the top of stairs that went down to the Block. Thinking it was probably a stray customer in search of restrooms, I flipped on the security monitor and was surprised to see Ox’s daughter.
I rushed to hug the girl and her chin was nearly even with mine. I am taller than average at five eight, and she is a still-growing teen. Cracker nosed his way between us and wiggled his hello. “Lindsey, how are you? Your dad didn’t mention you were visiting this week.”
Ox’s only child, Lindsey is high-energy and beautiful. Even though her mother, Louise, was awarded full-time custody after the divorce, Lindsey spends her summers with Ox and she and I are pretty tight. When she’d gotten out of school for the summer a few months back and informed us that she was staying in California with her mom, Ox was understandably upset. But he didn’t pressure her and although Lindsey never did tell us exactly why she’d decided to remain on the West Coast for her summer break, I suspected it had something to do with a boyfriend.
“I didn’t tell him I was coming,” she said in a small voice, sniffled, and came through the door, dragging a wheeled piece of luggage behind her. She’d been crying, but even with red-rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders, she was a stunner. Anyone who didn’t know would assume her to be twenty instead of sixteen years old. Every time I see her, she looks more and more like Ox. Olive skin, the same cinnamon-speckled eyes, dimpled chin, and knockout smile—when she chooses to display it.
Her gaze narrowed when she looked at my attire. “You realize an animal had to die to make that robe, right?”
“It’s faux fur.”
Her eyes moved to my boobs. “Well it suits you, then.”
“Thanks,” I said, unsure if her comment was a compliment or a cut on my store-boughts. “You want a cold drink?”
“You have anything diet?” Like she needed something diet.
“No. How about a regular Coke?”
She shrugged.
I retrieved two cans of Coke from the fridge and we sat down. Lindsey knew that she could tell me anything. We’d been hiking, camping, kayaking, and seen tons of movies together. I’d gone on weeklong summer vacations with her and Ox, taught her how to shoot, and comforted her when she broke her arm and couldn’t play in the softball state finals. I have been her friend, guardian, and sometimes disciplinarian. But she was a well-adjusted kid and had never before just shown up unexpected.
“What’s going on, Lindsey?”
“I can’t live with my mom anymore and I came here to live with Dad. I thought he’d be happy, but when I told him, he was, like, shocked. He sort of went pale and that’s pretty tough for an Oxen-dine to do, you know? I guess he just doesn’t want to deal with me. Even though Mom probably wouldn’t fight him this time.” She shrugged. “So I left and came here.”
“Wait a minute, let’s back up. First of all, does your mother know where you are?”
Lindsey shook her head. “I told her I was staying over at a friend’s.”
“How did you get here from the airport?”
She popped the tab on her soda. “I’m not a baby, Jersey. I took a cab to Dad’s place. Then I walked here. It’s only a mile or so.”
“Honey, your father loves you more than you’ll ever know. What you saw on his face was probably surprise. You did sort of blindside him.”
Her wide-set eyes darkened, much like Ox’s do on occasion. “I won’t go back to California.”
Cracker’s tail started wagging a second before Ox beeped in the security code and came through my door without knocking. Ox is not one to lose his cool, ever, but he was flustered to say the least. The two Oxendines stared at each other until he broke the silence.
“Lindsey, what is going on?”
She slumped lower in her seat. “You don’t want me, that’s what’s going on.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I want to live with you, but it’s clear you don’t want me.”
Ox pulled his daughter out of the chair and hugged her tight. “Never think I don’t want you,” he said in a low voice I almost didn’t recognize. “You just surprised me, is all.”
Eyes downcast, Lindsey drank some soda. Ox looked at me, silently asking what was going on. I did a palms up. I was as clueless as he was.
“Why don’t you guys go into the living room, where it’s more comfortable,” I said.
At my urging, Lindsey moped her way out of the kitchen.
“Go talk to her,” I whispered to Ox. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
He caught my arm. “Please, stay. I don’t know what to say to an upset sixteen-year-old.”
“I think she had a fight with Louise,” I said, retying the sash on my robe that had worked its way loose.
Ox’s eyes moved over my satiny, fur-lined outfit. “Nice.”
“Thanks. Your daughter wasn’t as impressed by it.”
He smiled. “Will you help me out here?”
“Let me put on some clothes first.” So much for enjoying a leisurely morning in my jam jams. I found Lindsey sitting on the floor with Cracker, letting him exuberantly lick her face. Ox watched them from the sofa. Even when he and Louise were still married, Ox had always let his wife deal with the emotional, sometimes irrational side of their daughter. He still didn’t quite know how to deal with this side of Lindsey.
I settled into a chair. “Since you are two of my favorite people in the world and I love you both, I will moderate the discussion,” I said, hoping to lighten the tension a notch. “Lindsey, you can start by telling us what happened. Did you have a fight with your mother?”
She shook her head. “Not really. But her boyfriend is a total jerk. Dealing with him coming over to the house was bad enough, but now he’s moved in.”
Ox’s jaw clenched. “Roger moved into your and your mother’s house?” It was the house he’d paid for, the one Louise got as part of the divorce settlement. Ox could have made her sell, but he chose to give her what she wanted and walk away, once his ex said she no longer loved him.
“Not him. Her new boyfriend. Albert. She calls him Allie. It’s disgusting.”
“So, your mom has a new boyfriend who is at the house a lot?” I said to clarify.
Lindsey pushed Cracker away from her face and the dog settled his wide head across her lap. She absentmindedly rubbed his neck. “I told you, he moved in. He lives there and he’s a pig. The game room is now his office—he made Mom get rid of the pool table—and now I’m not even allowed in there. It’s like his private Zen space, or something. He totally rearranged our furniture to enhance the energy flow. And there are like, new phone rules and stuff. She’s cooking tofu and seaweed for God’s sake, because he’s a health nut.”
My eyes flicked to Ox, wondering if this was all news to him. It was.
“When did Albert move in?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe two weeks ago?”
I slid into the role of counselor. “So it’s understandably a big adjustment. You must feel left out of the whole equation.”
“Duh!”
Ox’s jaw muscles were working overtime, but his words came out calm. “Clearly, you don’t like this man, but what exactly makes him so unbearable?” After all, his ex wife was free to do what she wished, as long as his daughter wasn’t neglected or in danger.
Lindsey threw her hands up. “You don’t get it! This weirdo has moved into my house and brought all his things and he’s changed everything around and now we have to live by his rules and eat that nasty stuff he calls food and Mom just runs around fussing over him like he’s royalty or something!” She wiped her eyes with a sleeve before tears had a chance to roll down her face. “I don’t want to live there anymore. I want to live here, in Wilmington, with you.”
I hated to ask but we had to know. “Did Albert do anything to hurt you, Lindsey?”
“H
ello? He’s destroyed my life! Does that count?”
“Has he done anything to physically harm you?”
“You mean like come on to me or something? No way. I’d kill him if he ever tried to touch me.”
“If I didn’t get to him first,” Ox said under his breath. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed.
“Louise, it’s Duke,” Ox said when his ex answered. “Lindsey is here with me and everything is fine.” He paused to listen before walking back into the kitchen, to get out of earshot. Lindsey looked at me with raised eyebrows. Sound carries relatively unobstructed between my kitchen and living area, and Ox’s voice was faint but clearly decipherable.
I tried to start a conversation with Lindsey but she shushed me, preferring to eavesdrop instead. I couldn’t blame her. I wanted to hear his side of the conversation, too.
“No, she’s not at her friend’s house,” we heard Ox say. “She’s here in Wilmington.” Pause. “Yes, she told me all about Albert.” Pause. “Really, Louise. Your personal life is your business. But this … sudden new live-in is a bit much to force on our daughter, don’t you think?”
Lindsey unfolded her long limbs from the floor and plopped down on the sofa to get a better vantage point from which to hear.
“Are you planning to marry him?” Ox continued. Long pause. “I think I do have a right to know since it involves Lindsey. Not to mention that I send you an alimony check every month and continue to pay the tax bill for the house that he now lives in.” Another pause. “Seriously, Louise. I’d be happy for you and your new husband, if marriage is in the cards for you.”
Louise’s voice must have risen to a shout because Lindsey and I could actually hear faint sounds coming out of the handset when Ox paused to listen. The girl’s mouth twisted with amusement.
“Now is not the time to discuss it,” Ox finally said. “Lindsey is fine and we’ll take good care of her, as always. Let’s talk later.” He hung up without listening to her reply.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 3