“The whole lot of it fell off. Had traffic backed up in both east-bound lanes. Not all that horrible in itself, but then Spud went and got himself in a fight with a woman on a Vespa scooter.”
Spud’s voice came over the line. “She mowed down one of my mannequins! Tore both its arms right off, she did. And I still can’t find the head, for crying—”
Dirk took the phone back from my father. “The woman is eighty, she swerved trying to miss what she thought was a dead body lying in the road, and Spud ought to be glad that she didn’t hurt herself. There’s still a hand stuck in the front wheel spokes of her gas-powered scooter.”
I told Dirk I’d get there as soon as I could.
“Listen, thanks for the invite John, but I’ve got to run.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“No, thanks.” I dropped some bills on the table and rushed out, thinking that—while I was smart enough not to involve John with my personal business—it would be great to have Ox along. He was accustomed to dealing with Spud crises and would have gotten a good laugh out of this one. I thought about calling him to meet me. But I’d been purposely keeping my distance, and martyr-like, I couldn’t stop now.
By the time I got to the scene, Bobby, Hal, and Trip were sitting on the rear edge of the van, back hatch open, laughing and drinking Pepsi. Spud stood on a grassy median, staring at the pile of debris that Dirk had cleared from the road: an animatronic alligator with the tip of its tail slowly moving back and forth, scrap metal, and various body parts. A silver-haired woman in a bright orange, long sundress sat on her Vespa, arms crossed, watching my father. Her eyes were covered by oversized black sunglasses. A slim plaster hand, detached at the wrist, was wedged in her front wheel.
“Well, at least he’s quieted down,” I said to Dirk and gave him a hug. “Thanks for calling me.”
“Nobody was injured, so if Spud settles things with Miss”—Dirk consulted a notepad—”Fran Cutter, he’s free to go. Of course, somebody’s going to need to haul this trash to the dump.”
“It ain’t trash,” Spud said, thumping his way over with a mermaid walking cane. When angry, he always pokes his walking stick into the ground much harder than necessary. “It’s supplies to make another sculpture. That is the makings of art.”
“Oh, you’re a metal sculptor?” Fran asked, fluffing her short hair.
“For crying out loud, woman! Of course I’m a sculptor. Why else would we have been hauling this stuff to my workshop?”
“What workshop?” I said.
Ignoring me, Spud thumped his way back to the pile of debris and stood there, talking to himself. We managed to fold down all the van seats and shove everything in. Dirk separated the alligator’s long tail from its body and the two pieces of the damaged animal fit perfectly. We stuffed the mannequin parts anywhere they’d go. Before he left, Dirk got the hand out of Fran’s wheel by breaking off the fingers. After Spud settled down, he promised to repay Fran for any repairs the scooter would need. They exchanged phone numbers, Fran fluffing and my father grumbling. Bobby drove Spud in the van and I followed, toting Hal and Trip.
I quizzed them about our destination—the workshop.
“Your daddy leased an old welder’s place,” Trip explained. “We were on our way there when Bobby swerved to miss a squirrel and everything went kaplooey.”
It was another ten minutes to Spud’s rented workshop, which turned out to be a dilapidated building about the size of a large two-car garage. When we’d all piled in, Spud pointed out that he was allowed to use the welding equipment and tools, as long as everything was accounted for at the end of his lease.
“Isn’t it great?” my father said, arms outstretched until he lost his balance and almost fell over. “We can use the power tools, weld, and do whatever we want in here. It’s a perfect art studio.”
It was a dingy, cobweb-coated structure with a roof that appeared to have several leaks. And the words “power tools” and “weld” do not belong in any sentence referencing Spud and his poker buddies.
I envisioned more than just mannequin parts lying around. “Just be careful in here, will you?”
“I know everything there is to know about welding and such,” Trip assured me. “I was a shop teacher before I retired, so I’ll keep an eye on your daddy.”
Trip’s announcement made me feel an infinitesimal bit better about Spud’s newfound hobby. We unloaded the road-rash-coated alligator and its tail—which had ceased moving—and the anatomically correct human body parts. I left the four artists sitting around a folding table, collaborating about their sculpture.
Ignoring Ashton’s orders, I pointed the X5 toward John’s house. I wasn’t going to stop and search anything, but I wanted to see where the AJAT contractor lived, partly due to curiosity but mainly because I felt there was more to him than met the eye. Maybe something would jump out and announce itself as a clue. Since I’d turned down his offer to spend the day playing hooky, John probably went to work. If I happened to run into him, I’d just say I changed my mind about spending the day together.
According to the address in his personnel file, John’s place sat in an unincorporated area of the county, just outside the town of Boiling Spring Lakes, which put his house a five-minute drive to Sunny Point. I took the same route I’d driven when going to work in the boxy truck. The roads proved much more pleasurable in my road-hugging BMW with the sunroof open and speakers blasting Santana. When my mobile rang and the caller ID told me it was Ox, I punched the ignore button to send the call to voicemail. The phone immediately sounded again, caller ID the same.
“What’s up,” I answered, leaving the music volume up. Any news in his world would involve Louise and I didn’t really want to hear it, unless the woman was on a plane headed back to California.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Heading south. Just out for a drive, enjoying the day.”
“Are you alone?”
As if he had a right to ask, or care. “Yup.”
“Is everything okay?”
I muted the music. “Sure, why?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
I made the left turn onto Highway 87. “Oh, please, Ox. What, did you have a vision or something? If so, maybe it’s Louise you need to check on. I’m perfectly fine.” I snapped the phone shut and had barely gotten the volume back up when he called again.
“Yes, I did have a vision, sort of. Somebody wants to hurt you.”
“So what else it new?” I said, knowing that I was being a total bitch but unable to stop myself.
“I think you should stop whatever you’re doing and come home.”
“I told you, I’m not doing anything except driving.”
“Then you should stop doing that. I’m serious, Jersey. Let me come pick you up.”
I spotted a high-pressure car wash and, just to humor him, pulled into one of the concrete bays. The Beemer needed a bath, anyway. I hopped out and fished through my handbag for some quarters. One spilled out of my wallet and rolled into the parking lot. I jogged after it. “Okay, I’ve stopped driving. Are you happy now?”
“Where are you?” he demanded and the urgency in his voice spooked me. Before I could answer, a rumbling explosion sounded and I felt a hot pain sear into my back as a wave of force slammed me several feet through the air and into a patch of grass and weeds. I still gripped the cell phone when I landed, and heard Ox’s voice, faint and tinny, calling my name as my world got smaller and smaller and then went dark.
SEVENTEEN
The electronic hum of machinery and unpleasant tinny odor of antiseptic penetrated the fog in my brain before I fully came to and realized I was in a hospital room. Ox smiled down at me. “Welcome back.”
I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry to make any sounds. He lifted my head with a large hand and held a cup of lukewarm water to my mouth. I gulped it down and my vocal cords worked again. “Tell Ashton I want my haza
rd pay bonus.”
Ox laughed. “You just missed him.”
I tried to sit up. A blast of nausea instantly rolled through my midsection, sweat popped out on my entire body, and the walls moved. Breathing hard, I dropped back to the pillow and felt a padded bandage on my back.
“You’ve got a few scrapes and bruises. A piece of sheet metal was lodged in your back, beneath your shoulder blade, but it didn’t puncture anything vital. Nineteen staples to close you up.” He refilled my water cup and helped me drink some more. “The reason you feel so crummy is the concussion. Took a pretty rough hit to the back of your head.”
“What time is it?”
“Your car exploded at eleven o’clock this morning and it’s now almost midnight. Good job, by the way, pulling into that car wash. Owner’s not too happy. But it contained the explosion and nobody was hurt. Except you.”
“I only pulled in because my car was dirty. That, and to humor you.”
“Well then, that dirty car saved your life.”
I reached for his hand and when our palms met, my body relaxed as though I’d had a shot of morphine. It was his phone call that had kept me alive. Not a dirty vehicle. It wasn’t the first time Ox had saved my life, either. “Thanks,” I said, thinking the single word to be most inadequate but unable to come up with something better.
He squeezed my hand. “No problem.”
I started to apologize for acting like a bitch since his ex had shown up, but he stopped me. “I was being stupid, too, Barnes. Trying to accommodate Louise without considering your feelings. It’s a tough situation for everyone.”
At once, the wall of awkwardness between us crumbled. I wanted to talk more, but there’d be time for that later. “Help me get dressed and drive me home? I hate hospitals. There’s always a dead person hanging around somewhere.” I can handle blood and gore, but completely freak out around a dead person. Totally irrational, I know, but I can’t even stand to be near a crime scene until the bodies are hauled away. My government-appointed shrink labeled the condition necrophobia, back when I was active with SWEET. That aside, she’d given me a clean bill of mental health.
Ox shook his head. “No can do. You’re spending the night so they can scan your brain again tomorrow, to make sure there’s no swelling.”
“Well, crap.”
A nurse entered the room, followed by Spud and Lindsey.
“You’re awake! How ya feeling, Jerz?” Lindsey leaned in to give me a hug and I tried not to grimace when a stab of pain ran through my back.
On my other side, Spud leaned over the bed rails to look at me. He held up some knobby fingers and wiggled them in front of my face. “How many fingers do you see, kid? Who’s the president? What year is it? Do you know your name?”
“My brain is fine, Spud. Thanks for coming to see me.”
His walking cane shrugged. “Doodlebug here wouldn’t go to bed until we came to get a look at ya, make sure you’re still in one piece.”
“They’ve both been at the hospital since Lindsey got out of school at three o’clock,” Ox confided. “Lindsey’s driving Bobby’s van. She just got her California license, so she’s up for driving anyone anywhere, anytime.”
“In this traffic?” I said.
Lindsey whipped out the laminated card to show me. “I’ve been driving in California on a provisional permit for, like, a year before I got this. Trust me, the traffic at home makes Wilmington seem like the kiddie car rides at an amusement park.”
Everyone stood back while the nurse checked my vitals and injected something into my IV line. She asked how I felt—an absurd question considering my condition—and made a quick exit. Ox reminded Lindsey that it was a school night and time for her to go. Spud said he was ready, too, since he had a big day planned at his art studio. After another ten minutes of high-energy chatter and well-wishing, they left and the room was quiet once again.
“His dilapidated workshop is now a studio?” I asked Ox.
“Like I always say, your father is one hell of a thinker.”
A uniformed man poked his head through the door to ask if there’d be any more visitors for the night. Ox said no. The door shut.
“Ashton put a guard on me?” I asked.
“Round the clock.”
“Well if you’re not going to help me break out of this joint, at least give me an update before you go.”
Ashton’s people were going through the remains of my X5 looking for evidence, Ox told me, but it appeared that a car bomb had been strapped to the underside and remotely detonated.
“I knew it! I mean, I obviously didn’t know about the bomb. But I knew I was getting close to uncovering something. I could feel it, and this proves it.”
A frown flashed on his face. “It does appear that you’ve made someone nervous.”
“How did you know about the bomb?”
“Difficult to explain,” he said. “But I saw—or rather I felt—it happening. I sensed an emptiness, like you were gone, and I knew something bad was about to happen.”
Tokens, or toat’ns as the Lumbees call them, are signs that a spirit is present. Such experiences are a regular part of Ox’s life and can be as simple as an unusual smell or as intense as a full-out vision. My best friend also has an uncanny sense of future events that borders on psychic. I don’t understand it, but I certainly can’t argue with it.
“Was the explosive military-issue stuff?” I asked.
“Made from common industrial stuff. It just so happens that a road construction crew reported a theft of several sticks of explosive to ATF last week.”
That didn’t necessarily rule out someone who had access to MOTSU inventory. It just meant they chose not to use it. “Who would want to blow me up? Who have I met recently that might think I’m anything other than a woman filling in for Mama Jean?” I asked aloud, but kept the answer to myself: John.
“They swept Mama Jean’s truck and found a bug, just inside the little push-out triangle window on the driver’s side. Ashton said it had to have been placed while you were parked and on the job.”
My whole body throbbed and it hurt to think. “He left the table for about ten minutes when we were eating at Elijah’s the other night.”
“Who?”
“John. The security guy that I’ve been out with a few times.”
“You really need to be more careful about who you date,” Ox teased, but the comment hit close to home. My last boyfriend was involved with the woman who shot up the Block and nearly killed me.
“John said he had to take a phone call, but he could have easily gone to the parking lot. Working beneath my car to strap on the bomb, he’d have gone unnoticed, since it was nearly dark. As for the bug, he could have popped that in place anytime I was parked and cooking. From the serving area, the driver’s seat is blocked from view.” My breaths were coming short and fast and I felt helplessly weak. But I’d take weak over dead any day. “I always locked the front doors, but left those little windows cracked for some air circulation. They’re just big enough for a man to get his forearm through.”
“You served a lot of coffee and biscuits to a lot of different people in two weeks’ time,” Ox said.
“Right, but I only voiced suspicions about one person—John. I called Ashton from Mama Jean’s truck. Whoever planted the bug could have been listening in.”
“When was that?”
“Yesterday, after I finished the morning shift. Once I spoke with Ash, he pulled me off mobile meal truck duty. Told me to stay away from John and the ammo dump until I received further instruction.”
“Where were you driving this morning, when your car blew up?”
“To check out John’s place.”
While I ate some applesauce, Ox told me that John—along with several other supervisors—had been interrogated by the local police chief and one of the head honchos at MOTSU, with an AJAT Security representative and Ashton looking on. Again, John had come up clean. He had an answer for ever
ything, including why there wasn’t a paper trail for the flowers he took Mama Jean. He’d cut them from his yard.
The bosses at AJAT and supervisors at the ammo dump claimed that John’s work ethic had been exemplary and they stood behind the man 100 percent. John continued to work his scheduled shifts and politely offered himself to be questioned further if he could help in any way.
But Ashton was not one to buy into seemingly friendly cooperation and, based on the teeny little detail that I’d almost been car-bombed, was in the process of obtaining a warrant to search John’s home. When it comes to terrorism and public safety, traditional rights don’t always apply to suspects. Even though there was no real evidence, Ashton would have his warrant within hours.
“Where’s the best place for a guilty person to hide?” I said, my eyelids suddenly leaden.
“Out in the open,” Ox said. He dropped a soft kiss on my mouth and disappeared.
My head pounding as though clamped in a vise, I flipped on the wall-mounted television and barely caught a glimpse of Jay Leno before heavenly sleep overtook me.
EIGHTEEN
John Leaned against a wall to watch while a swarm of important-acting people searched his house. Just as he thought, Ashton was too much of a coward to join them.
After the police first questioned him, John figured it was only a matter of time before they would show up with a warrant. They’d already searched some of his coworkers’ houses. They showed up at his place sooner than he would have guessed, but he didn’t really care. If these assholes wanted to dig through his underwear and search the packaged goods in his freezer, then so be it. He didn’t even mind when they took the tank lids off the toilets, removed air vents from the ceiling, and pawed through his tools in the garage. They would leave a mess for him to clean up, but that was a minor inconvenience.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 10
