John, gripping the handhold on one side of the encased propeller, and Fred, doing likewise on the other, slid rapidly through the water as one and—despite all the extra weight they carried—arrived at their first destination in less than seventeen minutes. John surfaced briefly to ensure he found the correct green buoy that marked the navigable portion of the channel, then followed the chain straight down, thirty-five feet, to where it was weighted at the bottom. The buoys were usually handled by buoy tenders—boats equipped with a crane—but John planned to relocate them the easy way. He watched while Fred cut the chain loose from its anchored block of concrete, and floated the buoy closer to shore. In this stretch of shipping channel, water depth ranged between thirty and forty feet. Even though boats would now be directed into water a bit more shallow—twenty-six or twenty-seven feet perhaps—it was a slight enough change so that the container-ship captain would simply mutter to himself, rather than complain to the Army Corps of Engineers.
Satisfied with the buoy’s new location, John gave the thumbs-up sign. Fred attached the chain to a tie-down screw—the kind used to secure mobile homes—and using a pole, worked the giant screw into the bottom of the channel. Winds were predicted to be light and there weren’t any offshore storms to create rough currents, so their jury-rig would hold the hot tub-sized buoy in place long enough to serve its purpose. Like the soft wire antenna he’d run to the exterior of the C-4 container, directing the cargo ship closer to the shores of Bald Head Island was an insurance policy.
Working as a team, the men moved two additional channel markers. It was a strenuous task and their lungs absorbed much more oxygen than if they’d been pleasure diving. After securing the third marker, Fred pointed to his watch, indicating that his tank had run low. John pointed at the last tie-down screw, wanting Fred to make sure it was secure. When Fred kicked his way back to the bottom, his headlamp caught a sweeping flash of fishing net. He spun to avoid it, but John—seizing upon the unexpected opportunity—pulled the netting around his partner and yanked the regulator from his mouth. Fred’s eyes went wide beneath his mask when John jerked the man’s head backward and used an S hook to attach his long braided pony tail to a wad of the netting. A scream came out with a muted bellow of bubbles.
His light shining on the other man’s face, John waited for Fred to die. Head arched back and lashing about, Fred struggled to find his regulator, but it had become tangled in the netting, too. He felt for the diving knife attached to his leg, only to realize that, in his haste to be on time, he’d strapped on an empty sheath. During the last seconds of his life, it dawned on the diver that John meant to kill him one way or the other. Just like the man he’d strangled and photographed, as a message to the others. But Fred didn’t understand why. He was a simple body for hire. He didn’t know or care what John was up to. He just wanted his money, Fred thought, his body suddenly light and prickly as puzzlement overcame panic in his oxygen-starved brain. Reflexively, he sucked in a breath of cloudy brackish water, shut his eyes tight, and tried to think of something pleasant as he died. Nothing came to mind.
TWENTY-SIX
“I can’t do this. What was I thinking?” Janie paced in the spare bedroom that had been converted to a dressing room, unconcerned about the loose snap on her gown. “I don’t even really know Daryl. I mean, who is he?”
“For God’s sake, Janie,” her mother said, attempting to corral the girl so a waiting seamstress could mend the snap. “Of course you know Daryl. You love him, remember?”
The girl shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to do the wife thing.”
“You are and you will. Now, stop being a brat and let this woman fix your gown! A crowd is already here and the ceremony starts in half an hour.”
Janie stood in place to let the seamstress put a needle and thread to the tiny snap at the back of her waist. “But it doesn’t feel right, Mom. It’s like all of a sudden, I feel sick or something.”
Her mother removed a gold pill case and fished around until she found a small pink round one. “Take this. It will calm your nerves. You’re experiencing the prewedding jitters, or whatever they’re called. Everybody does. It’s normal.” The woman didn’t know Daryl all that well, either. But she knew that he came from an upper-class family and the man owned his own business. Her daughter could have done much worse. And with help from her husband, her son-in-law would grow into a hugely successful land developer. Janie would live in a beautiful home and have everything the girl deserved.
Janie swallowed the pill, sucked in a deep breath, and straightened her spine. “You’re probably right. I’m okay. I’m fine, really. Just a little nervous, I guess.”
A bridesmaid in a sleeveless coral-toned satin gown poked her head in the door. “Everything okay in here? You need anything, Janie?”
“We’re all set,” the mother answered for her daughter. “Is the rest of the wedding party dressed and ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid of honor said and ducked out of the room. Janie’s mom didn’t look happy, and she wasn’t going to stick around to find out why. They just needed to get Janie through the ceremony and on to the fun part of this day—the reception and drinking and dancing to Feather Heavy.
Outside, the wedding planner surveyed the grounds, relieved to see that everything was moving along as scheduled. Guests mingled, security was in place, the decorations were perfect, a pianist happily pounded out background music, the band’s crew had finished setting up, and he couldn’t have ordered better weather if he’d written the forecast himself.
From a distance, Joe watched the activity through binoculars. The old Bald Head Island lighthouse was in relatively good condition, probably since there were periodic tours through the landmark. He’d broken in and climbed to the very top, the area where the original lantern used to burn with oil that was later changed to an electric light, and took a few minutes to catch his breath. He wasn’t in as good shape as he used to be, but that didn’t matter. His orders today were simple. Watch for a specific ship—he’d written the name down—coming through the channel, and push a button at the exact moment it cruised by the target house. Joe didn’t understand why he had to wait for a specific container ship, but then he didn’t really care. John had been quite specific on when to detonate the bomb he’d planted at the wedding, and if the man said he had to wait for a ship, then he’d wait. He just wanted his money. Hot, Joe drank a bottle of water and settled in to get comfortable. As he monitored the river, he couldn’t help wonder who the bride and groom were. And wonder if anyone would die as a result of his actions: raising an antenna and pushing a button. He didn’t let his conscience bother him, though. Money was money, and if he hadn’t taken the job, another man would have.
Chila Turner, lead singer of Feather Heavy, despised weddings. She hated all the billowing white fabric, the ugly bridesmaid dresses, and all the stupid rituals, such as throwing the bridal bouquet. Besides that, exchanging vows was simply stupid. Nobody really meant it when they agreed to stay together until death. Death was much too far away.
She hated weddings so much that she told her booking agent she’d never perform at one, even if there would be VIPs present. But the woman was relentless and convinced her to take the job. The People magazine exposure would be great, she said, and the money was absurdly good for such an easy gig. What cinched the deal, though, was when Chila learned that she could parachute in as soon as the happy couple said, “I do.” Special permits were required from local authorities, but that was her agent’s problem. Her job was to fling herself out of an airplane and wow some fans. The sound man had fitted her with a special high-frequency, long-range wireless microphone, so she could actually talk to the crowd, after her chute deployed and she floated down. She might even sing a few lines, she thought. She’d made countless jumps and could land on a dime. Or, in this case, fifty thousand dollars. It would be one of her more memorable entrances to a performance. It was going to be a blast.
TWENTY-
SEVEN
I Lounged on Incognito, unable to fully enjoy the delicious feeling of seclusion. A sense that something bad was about to happen—and happen soon—nagged at me, and on top of that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching me. I’d moved my boat several times and even had Soup sweep the decks and cabin for a GPS tracking device. He assured me that Incognito was clean. I chalked it up to being paranoid—a bad thing—rather than merely cautious—a good thing. I called the Block wanting some reassurance from Ox. Or maybe I just wanted to hear his voice. Probably both.
“He hasn’t been in for a few days, Jersey,” Ruby practically yelled into the phone. “Ever since you took off on vacation. But everything’s fine around here. Except your daddy keeps trying to make off with the fixtures.”
“What?”
“I caught him and Bobby dragging out a booth seat. Said it was for his new sculpture.”
“Good grief.”
“Don’t worry. We put the booth seat back and we’re keeping an eye on him. We’ve tightened all the screws and bolts on everything.”
“How’s Lindsey doing?”
“Happy as a clam. Making friends and jumping around like rock star over that Derma-Zing thing. Her commercial is already airing on TV. Nationwide, they say.”
I nibbled a slice of apple and listened to melodic clanging sounds from a nearby sailboat. “You think Ox might be at home?”
“Not my turn to keep up with that man,” Ruby said. “Listen, we’re busy so I’ve got to skedaddle.”
Great, I thought, sulking. I’m trying to stay alive and my best friend is spending quality time with his ex wife. They were probably doing the tourist thing … sightseeing and shopping. And if Louise had her way, looking at real estate. No longer hungry, I tossed the remaining chunks of apple overboard and watched them bob on the water’s surface. A fish came to investigate and picked at the fruit until it sank.
I pulled out a notepad and scribbled lines of scattered thoughts about MOTSU, Mama Jean, and John. There had to be a simple connection. Something obvious I’d overlooked. I went back over the copy of Mama Jean’s autopsy report that Ashton had sent me, for the third time. Nothing. Earlier, I’d asked Soup to keep tabs on Lady Lizzy’s personal calendar and was just about to call him for an update when the satellite phone beeped.
“Hello?” I said, unsure if the beeps meant an incoming call.
“I’ve got something for you.”
“Soup? I didn’t realize people could call me on this thing. How’d you get the phone number? Oh, wait. You set it up,” I said. “Anyway, what is my phone number?”
He slurped something. “Lady Lizzy had a nail and hair appointment this morning.”
“So?”
“She has her nails done every other Monday. She has a standing hair appointment the first Tuesday of each month. Today was not her regular appointment day for either one.”
“I’m listening.”
“I called the salon, pretending to be her assistant. Told them I was confirming an appointment. They said she’d already been in and left. They did a wash and set on her.”
I rolled my head in slow circles to stretch my neck. A mere hint of concussion headache lingered. “Maybe she has a hot date.”
“Not according to the nail place. Lizzy told them she was attending a big event tonight. Wouldn’t say what, but according to the nail guy, she was all atwitter. His exact words. And I’d imagine that Lady Lizzy wouldn’t get all atwitter unless it was a big deal.”
Two jet skis zipped by the marina, faster than they should have, and Incognito rocked slightly from the wakes. “Any thoughts on where she’s going?”
“Guess you’re going to have to get that direct from Lizzy’s atwittering mouth.”
“You have a—”
Soup rattled off Lady Lizzy’s cell phone number. And then he gave me another useful morsel—of the cosmetic surgery variety—in case I may need it for persuasion purposes.
“Thanks, I—”
He cut me off again. “Yeah, yeah. You owe me. You always owe me.” He hung up.
When I reached the gossip columnist, she was baffled. “I don’t recall giving you this number, Miss Barnes!”
“You didn’t. But you did hold out on me, Lady Lizzy. We had a deal, remember?”
“Yes, and I e-mailed you my calendar of happenings as agreed!”
“I hear there’s a big shindig tonight.”
Traffic noises sounded in the background. “Well, ah, yes. There’s a wedding tonight, but I didn’t think it’s anything you’d be interested in.”
I kept quiet, to let her imagine that I knew much more than I really did.
“Okay, okay. Lots of heavy-hitters attending. But, look. It’s too late for you to get any bodyguard work out of it now.”
I usually don’t resort to threats but in this case, I didn’t have time to be my usual sweet and cunning self. “Here’s the deal, Elizabeth. You’re going to tell me everything about tonight’s event. VIPs, location, everything. And don’t even ask, because I’m not going to tell you why I need it. If you’re a good girl and cooperate, then I won’t leak it that your last vacation—the one to help vaccinate Third World children—was really a trip to Thailand for a breast lift and eye job.”
She gasped.
“You remember the trip, right? It’s the alleged missionary work you wrote a column about. You told readers how rewarding it is to help make a difference in the world.”
Her voice lost its endless supply of exclamation points as she pulled off the road and gave me the rundown on the wedding. Of particular interest was the Bald Head Island location and the fact that the bride’s father was also the United States secretary of Defense. The news made goose bumps pop out on my skin. Ignoring a lone seagull that begged for food from its perch on an outrigger, I called Ashton, who should have already known about the Sec Def’s presence in North Carolina.
“Is there a container ship going out of Sunny Point tonight?” I said after he verified that I was not under the influence of coercion with his silly secret questions.
He cleared his throat. “Jersey, I’m not going to tell you again. You are off—”
“Ashton, please. I don’t care if you load up my file with demerits or play the threaten-to-withhold-my-pension card. Is there a boat going out?”
He put me on hold and came back in seconds. “Scheduled to depart at seventeen hundred hours.”
I told him about the wedding, the VIPs, and my theory that there was something on the container ship scheduled to blow up as it passed the wedding party. John had access to the container loads of munitions and, if he sought revenge for his brother’s death, who better to go after than the Sec Def?
“Give me something concrete, Jersey. I can’t stop a shipment based on a hunch from a single agent who is recovering from a concussion. There are people on the receiving end of the shipment who need those supplies.”
“Can’t you prevaricate?” I said. “Stall until your explosives people examine every container?”
“Do you know how long that would take? Not going to happen. For some reason, you’re convinced our bad guy is John, when he keeps coming up clean.” He paused to sneeze, a deviation from his usual throat clearing when dealing with me. “One, we’ve just decoded some intel that may discredit our earlier information, so the whole Sunny Point thing might have been a false alarm to begin with. Two, we’ve thoroughly vetted John Mason. We’ve searched his house and his property. We’ve spoken with his superiors. Nothing.”
“But—”
“You’ve obviously stumbled into something. The close call in your car. Mama Jean and the body from the shrimp boat—both with similar markings on their necks. Rest assured that we’re staying with it until we figure out what’s going on.”
“So you won’t—”
“They’d have my ass if I intercept a munitions shipment based on a damn hunch. Get some rest, Jersey.”
I tried again. “The container
ship—”
“Is moving out as scheduled. Security inside MOTSU is so damn tight right now, a mosquito couldn’t get through without a security clearance.”
He hung up before I could say anything else and I wanted to throw my fancy satellite phone in the air and shoot it like a clay pigeon. I had to get to the wedding, but then what? I picked up Mama Jean’s autopsy photographs and studied the purplish markings on both sides of her neck. What had Ashton just said about the other body, the floater? That it had the same markings on the neck as Mama Jean.
“Holy crap,” I said to the seagull, which had moved to perch on the bow rail. A vivid memory of John Mason fighting in the parking lot at Elijah’s restaurant replayed in my head. He had grabbed the remaining drunk with one huge hand and all but lifted the fisherman off the ground. It was his left hand with the stubby ring finger—the one that got mangled in a corn chopper. The neck bruises seen in Mama Jean’s death photos perfectly matched my recall of the one-handed choke hold John had on the fisherman: thumb on the left side of the throat, up under the jaw, and the other thick fingers on the right, all exerting enough inward pressure to asphyxiate somebody. But the ring finger was too short to leave a bruise. There were only four marks instead of five, as would be left from a normal hand. John was the killer and the photographs would prove it.
I redialed Ashton’s private number, but he didn’t answer. Frantically, I called the main number, gave my identification code, and asked for Ashton. They said he was unavailable. My handler had blown me off. It would be fruitless to keep trying.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 13