T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Dr. Warner nodded. “It’s true. Maybe a million eggs or more, each resting in its own little sac. When your hormones kicked in during puberty, the ova began to mature. Then you ovulate—that’s when an egg is released and you have a menstrual cycle. An average woman may only use about four hundred of her ova and the rest are absorbed back into the body.”

  “Yeah, I remember the part about ovulation,” Lindsey said. “One egg goes every month. So what’s going on with me? I started my period when I was twelve and I’ve never been late.”

  “We’re not sure, but right now, I’d say it’s nothing to worry about. For some reason, you didn’t ovulate like you usually do. But it’s not that uncommon for a young girl to skip periods, especially athletes and people who are really physically active. Even stress can cause a missed menstrual cycle. Are you having any problems at home or at school, Lindsey?”

  The girl shook her head. “I just moved here, but I love Wilmington, and it’s excellent to spend time with my dad. I got a modeling job for Derma-Zing and I’ve made a bunch of friends. Everything’s great.”

  I nodded in agreement. “I’d have to say that Lindsey is a happy, really well-adjusted kid.” I asked what we needed to do about Lindsey’s symptoms.

  “Nothing right now. As long as the nausea stops and she doesn’t have any other symptoms, we’ll just wait for her cycle to resume. If she goes longer than two or three months, we’ll do additional testing to see what’s going on.”

  “I feel pretty good,” Lindsey said. “I mean, my stomach is still a little queasy, but it’s not as bad as it was.”

  Pam Warner spent another ten minutes talking to us. Noticing a photograph of two girls on the desk, Lindsey asked the doctor if she wanted a Derma-Zing kit for her daughters. She pulled an unopened kit from her handbag, explaining that she got them for free.

  “Lord, yes, I’ll take one,” Dr. Warner said. “My girls have gone crazy over this stuff. You’ve just saved me twenty dollars.”

  Lindsey showed off her television smile. “Eighteen ninety-nine for the deluxe kit, plus tax, of course.”

  Pam thanked Lindsey and we thanked the doctor. Outside, we climbed into the corpse caddy and, heading to the grocery store, drew more stares.

  “You’ll get used to it, Jerz,” Lindsey said. “Pretend you’re a celebrity in a stretch limo. It’s fun.”

  Yeah, right. I’d have rather been driving the Volvo station wagon. And I still wasn’t convinced that the casket carrier hadn’t toted dead people before the money launderers bought it. Or maybe after. Yuck.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Angry that my cell phone had been turned off, Ashton explained that causing his agents to lose track of me had endangered my safety. I’m not sure that a stringy kid with an iPod stuck in his ear would have been able to do anything but watch as Incognito blew up with me on board, but in any event, I claimed that the powered-off cell phone was a simple oversight. Ashton still refused to believe the man Ox wrestled with in the water was John, but then I had seen the diver with my own eyes.

  Media continued to swarm around the site of the container ship explosion and speculation ran thick, but at the Block, things had returned to normal. At least as normal as they could be with Spud—the resident artist—repeatedly trying to confiscate a commercial blender and Lindsey—the resident celebrity—signing autographs for customers. And, of course, John Mason, who was still on the loose. Security measures at the bar were quietly upped and Ashton assured me that neither John nor any other suspect would be able to get within half a mile of the historic building. I asked what other suspects Ashton was referring to but he had no answer.

  It was another beautiful but sticky-hot day, the kind that would draw lunch orders of cold salads, sandwiches, and iced-down drinks. Lindsey and Ox were meeting with Holloman and his advertising agency rep at the Block and I’d been invited to join them, along with Spud, who was decked out in his “agent” gear: fedora hat made of straw with a white feather stuck in the band, unlit cigar, diamond pinky ring, and his fancy redwood walking cane with a giant sperm whale tooth for the handle. That was in addition to the plaid shorts, penny loafers, and black knee-high socks. Geriatric pimp was the occupation that came to mind when I saw the getup, but Lindsey didn’t seem to notice her agent’s unusual attire.

  “Before we get into the new contract negotiation,” Holloman said, “I want to thank you, Jersey, for your great idea about marketing Derma-Zing to college coeds. We’re in the process of obtaining licensing rights for the top fifty universities with athletic programs and we’ll have Derma-Zing kits on the shelves of college bookstores within weeks. Each will have three tubes—the school’s colors—and stencils of their mascot and logo.”

  “I’m surprised your company moved so quickly, but that’s great. I hope it sells well for you.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Oh, I’m certain that it will. And it was all your idea. Simply brilliant.”

  Lindsey finished applying a smiley face to the back of her hand. “Will I get to model for the colleges, too?”

  “Well, that’s one thing we addressed in your new contract. We’ll add a few new faces to the new Derma-Zing products, but we still want to use you to target the high school girls. And we’d like to do one shoot of you with the college girls, too.”

  “That’s super,” she said, adding a few sun flare marks to her design, turning the smiley face into a sunburst.

  “No it ain’t super, for crying out loud,” Spud said, tapping the cane’s giant tooth on the tabletop. “Have you read this contract, doodlebug?”

  “How could I have read it?” she said. “We just got it and you’ve had it the whole time.”

  Holloman drank some black coffee. “What’s the problem?”

  “Cleavage is the problem, for crying out loud. You’re not going to plaster her cleavage all over for the world to see. It says right here that clothing for the shoot will include bikini bathing suits with push-up tops, miniskirts, and tank tops. What’s that about? I’ve seen those Victoria’s Secret ads with the push-up things.”

  The ad agency gal jumped in. “That’s standard attire for this type of ad campaign, but let me assure you that there will be no vulgarity or nudity.”

  “Damn right there won’t,” Spud said. “She’s not going to be prancing around in a bikini.”

  My mouth twisted with amusement at the irony of Spud acting like a protective grandfather over someone who wasn’t even a blood relative. He’d never been protective over me, but then how could he? He wasn’t there to make me change an outfit before going out, or scare a boy into bringing me home on time after a movie date.

  “Well,” the woman explained, “to reach the college market, we have to spruce things up a bit. Take it to the next level. Coeds out having fun, partying, showing off their Derma-Zing designs.”

  “Like those wild girls you see on late-night TV? They can’t keep their tops on.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” the ad agency woman said. “If it will make you feel better, you can modify the wording on that part of the contract. Limit the girl’s skin exposure. No cleavage. No bare navel shots.”

  Spud gave Lindsey the once-over. “Ain’t nobody going to be drooling over doodlebug’s body.”

  “Hello, people?” Lindsey said. “I’m sitting right here. And I think I should make the decision about what to show or not to show. Right, Dad?”

  “No swimsuits, no low-cut tops, no short shorts or miniskirts,” Ox said. “And no missing school to travel. They either do the photo and video shoots in Wilmington, like before, or we don’t do them at all.”

  Lindsey rolled her eyes and Spud started crossing out lines on the contract.

  Holloman’s arms shot out to his sides. “We’re happy to shoot here again. The town of Wilmington is surprisingly accommodating. And, we’re not going to degrade our models, Mr. Oxendine. Trust me. We don’t have to. This product sells itself. We’re filling so many orders that we can barely keep up with dema
nd. My company manufactures Derma-Zing, but the plant I contract with to package and distribute the product had to hire additional staff.”

  “If a business grows too fast, won’t that cause problems?” Lindsey said. “I took a business class last year, an honors class.”

  Holloman shook his head. “No, it’s perfect! My goal is to expose as many teenagers to Derma-Zing as possible, and sales have already exceeded my expectations. But now, I want to take the advertising to the next level, while the product is hot. We’re even looking into Europe and Japan. In trial markets, the Japanese girls have gone nuts over Derma-Zing. They love western fads. Even do their cute little designs using a string of American words that don’t make sense.”

  He continued on his rant for several minutes while his ad agency gal took notes and Spud finished amending Lindsey’s contract. Holloman’s enthusiasm bordered on maniacal, especially for someone who was president and owner of a large corporation. And to top that off, Cracker didn’t much like him and the dog has excellent instincts. I met Ox’s eyes over the table and could tell he thought the exact same thing about Holloman. It would be easy enough to sever ties with the man and let him find a new high school spokesperson. But Lindsey had kept her grades up as promised, and her first paycheck had cleared with no problems. It was excellent money for a sixteen-year-old to earn, and Holloman appeared to be a legitimate businessman. Still, something seemed off.

  The six of us met for another hour, going over the revised contract and discussing exactly what Lindsey’s responsibilities would be. When everything was settled and Ox had signed the contract, Holloman returned to his normal, more relaxed self and asked if he could buy everyone a drink.

  “Not for me,” Spud said. “I’ve gotta get to my studio to finish Nature’s Wrath so the magazine can get their pictures. That’s the name of my new sculpture. And speaking of the arts magazine, the lady wants to interview you, Lindsey. I told her about you and Derma-Zing, and how it’s really nothing but artwork, with kids using their bodies as the canvas. So the magazine wants to do a story on it.”

  “Exactly!” Holloman said, revving up again, his eyes looking a bit crazed. “Derma-Zing isn’t just a product, it’s a movement. An artistic statement. Great work, Spud. I’ll let my secretary know to expect a call from the magazine. Perfect. Perfect.”

  I wondered if perhaps Holloman was bipolar. His demeanor had flip-flopped between polished professional and hopped-up Derma-Zing fanatic.

  Lindsey kissed Spud on the cheek. “Thanks, Spud. That’ll be fun. And, no thanks on the beverage, Doc. I’m meeting some friends.”

  “Glad that you’re feeling better, Lindsey,” Holloman said. “Those stomach bugs can be pesky.”

  With a wave, Lindsey disappeared. Ox and I declined Holloman’s offer for a drink, too, and once the man and his ad person were out of the bar, we treated ourselves. We both wanted a beer; we just didn’t want to drink it with him.

  “What is up with that guy?” I said, enjoying the welcoming chill as a swallow of Amstel Light flowed down my gullet.

  Ox shook his head. “Something bothers me about this whole Derma thing, but I can’t quite figure it out. I don’t know if it’s because Lindsey suddenly seems so grown up, and it makes me realize I’ve missed a lot of her life since the divorce. Or, if it’s because Holloman is a nut bag.”

  “Maybe both?”

  “Maybe. But Lindsey is having so much fun with the modeling, I hate to take it away from her. The spirits brought her to live with me, and I don’t want to do something that will chase her back to California.”

  “I see your point, but I think every young woman needs—and wants—a strong, caring parent in her life. I know I did.”

  Ox looked at me, his thoughts unreadable.

  “Lindsey might get mad if she doesn’t get her way,” I said. “But ultimately, she’s going to appreciate that you care enough to be involved and watch out for her.”

  He thought about that. “For now anyway, I’ll let her do the modeling, as long as her grades don’t drop.” We clinked Amstel bottles to Lindsey’s newfound fame and her next paycheck, which would fatten her college savings account even further, but as we drank, my thoughts were disquieted.

  I’d done a quick background and credit check on Holloman’s company, but decided to look further, just for my own peace of mind.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  As Ashton and I walked through Airlie Gardens, sixty-plus acres of walking trails and landscaped, blooming grounds on the east side of Wilmington, I couldn’t remember ever being so infuriated. He led me to a small, ornate gazebo and we sat on the bench inside. A marker told me the structure was actually a chapel. I didn’t feel closer to God, but it did offer some shade. My body was damp with perspiration and if I was hot, I knew Ashton had to be suffering in his slacks and long sleeves. But the gardens were guaranteed privacy. I poured some bottled water onto a paper towel, wiped the sweat from my face, and waited for my handler to tell me why he’d knowingly endangered my life.

  “John Mason was an agent for us back in the late 1990s. We recruited him from the law enforcement pool and, after he completed training, we put him to work in North Carolina for SBI, undercover, to root out what we thought was a cover-up of incoming weapons on charter fishing boats. SBI came up clean and I transferred John to MOTSU in December of 2001, in a cooperative effort with Homeland Security after nine-eleven.”

  I drank my remaining water and watched a hand-holding couple walk by. “He left SBI for MOTSU when his twin brother died.”

  “Affirmative. But the timing was coincidental.”

  I waited.

  Ashton pulled a handkerchief from a pants pocket and wiped his face. “Almost immediately he wanted something better, more exciting, more dangerous. I chose to keep him in place at Sunny Point, but the more time that went by, the more persistent he became in putting in for transfers. Eventually, I let him go, after we realized he wasn’t agency material. But he’d been doing a fine job as far as MOTSU was concerned when he went to work for AJAT Security. Has been working at Sunny Point since. Well, until he resigned, that is.”

  “How was he recruited?” I asked.

  “That’s not relevant,” Ashton said, making me think that it could be very relevant. I’d have to enlist Soup’s help to get all the details, since my handler wouldn’t divulge them. Soup had broken into the SWEET system before, back when I was an active agent. I knew he could do it again.

  “Have you been keeping tabs on him?”

  “Of course, but nothing to the level that we would for an agent of your caliber,” Ashton answered. “John always got his reports in on time, he did exactly what we asked him to do, and we never had any problems with him.”

  A black and purple butterfly landed on my knee, fluttered its wings briefly, and flew off. “Then why didn’t you grant his request to transfer to fieldwork, or whatever it is that he wanted?”

  “A good agent is eager for action, Jersey.” Ashton wiped the area on his forehead where the hair had begun to recede. “But a great agent tempers that desire with caution. Maybe it was due to the death of his brother, but John asked for the most dangerous stuff we could throw at him. Actually told another operative that he didn’t care if he lived or died.” He studied my eyes. “That’s the type of man who will not only get himself killed, but endanger others as well. I couldn’t chance it.”

  “But you let him stay at the ammo dump?”

  Ashton’s forehead moved up briefly. “Private citizen, just like you. And there was no reason not to. As I said, he’d done a fine job.”

  The saving grace breeze died down to nothing and we got up to walk back toward his car.

  “Dammit, Ash, you should have told me about John Mason before you put me on the roach coach. At the least, I think I deserved to know he is a former agent once you knew I’d had contact with him.” No wonder his background checks came out clean. It was the background that SWEET invented for the man, up until the point that he
’d gone to work for AJAT Security.

  “There was no reason to suspect him. We’ve had another agent working at MOTSU, undercover, for the entire time. Still there, in fact. Says that John was well adjusted, showed up for work on time, and did his job.”

  Yeah, right. Well adjusted enough to want to kill people with explosives.

  “Tell me about the incident on your boat, full details,” Ashton said.

  I told him everything, right down to what I’d eaten for dinner, and how Ox had been keeping an eye on me without my knowledge.

  “Oxendine is good,” Ashton mused. “We didn’t know he was watching you, either.”

  “Good thing he was.” Ox’s people originally survived by melding into an environment of swampland and riverbanks, and it seemed as though he had inherited those skills. We reached the car and I climbed in, automatically aiming the air-conditioning jets at my face.

  We sat in the car, air blasting. “You’re positive of the ID?” Ash-ton said.

  I didn’t bother to respond.

  “Did you see the hand?”

  I sighed. “He wore gloves. The kind divers wear so they don’t get cut up by coral and such.”

  “And you said his face was smeared with greasepaint?” Ashton persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re still sure the man in the water was John Mason.”

  “Yes, Ashton, I’m positive,” I said flatly. “By the way, where is John now?”

  “We’ve been unable to pick him up,” Ashton said. “His house has been listed for sale and as you know, he turned in a resignation letter to AJAT. But he isn’t living at the forwarding address he left.”

  “And you’re still in doubt as to who is after me?”

  He shifted into gear and pulled out. “Don’t make this personal, Jersey.”

  “It’s very personal to me, Ashton. It’s my life you seem to be taking so lightly.” There had to be a good reason why he refused to accept the fact that John Mason was a SWEET agent turned bad. I needed to find out what it was.