Southern Poison (20 page)

Two fire engines were on hand and several men in full gear struggled to keep two high-pressure streams of water pointed at the rustic clubhouse. But the mood appeared light. No lives were in danger and only the shell of the wood-shingle building was on fire. Strangely, though, it only burned in patches. Fifty yards away, something moved beneath a giant fire-retardant tarp, and wisps of caustic black smoke escaped from the edges. I angled my bike through the men to find Dirk holding a shotgun, my father, Bobby, and several grinning firefighters.

“Remember the giant animatronic alligator that spilled all over the road, along with the mannequins?” Dirk said without preamble.

I nodded.

“That’s the alligator under the blanket. Spud and Bobby attached the tail back to the body. Brought it here in Bobby’s van to shoot holes in it with this.” He held up the shotgun. I didn’t tell Dirk that it was my.12 gauge Benelli Super Sport, but I did glare at my father long enough to make him flinch. I made a mental note to take away his key to my gun cabinet.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Spud said. “This place is a shooting range. And since Sally the art-magazine lady went so wild over the Chrysler sculpture, we figured we’d shoot up the gator, too.”

A fireman laughed out loud and a coworker elbowed him. The thing beneath the blanket continued to move and hiss, but it seemed to be slowing down. The firefighters patiently waited for it to die a slow, mechanical death.

“When they started shooting, something activated the animatronic battery pack. Sparks from their ammo hitting metal must’ve caught the gator’s vinyl skin covering on fire,” Dirk continued. “From what I can ascertain from the only witness”—he looked at Bobby—”a section of the tail exploded, spewing pieces of the flaming gator skin into the clubhouse. As you can see, the pieces stuck, and set the building on fire.”

“Aw, it’s not my fault,” Spud whined, mermaid walking cane in the air. “The mini golf course should have disabled all their animals before they sold ’em. We didn’t know the stupid alligator could come alive out of the blue, for crying out loud.”

Looking at my lieutenant friend, I tried to keep a straight face. “Has Spud done anything illegal? Aside from burning down a building, I mean?” The flames were now extinguished, but blackened spots on the exterior of the clubhouse continued to sputter and smoke.

“I’m not sure if it’s illegal to shoot a fake alligator, or not,” Dirk
deadpanned, and the beginnings of a grin appeared on his mouth. “But surely your daddy was trespassing.”

“We weren’t trespassing, for crying out loud,” Spud said, voice rising to a near-screech. “I’m a member of this gun club!”

“Then you should have known that it was closed today,” Dirk countered. “The clubhouse was locked up tight. There aren’t any cars here. The big sign on the gate says
CLOSED
.”

“That’s why we did it, you fool! Because the range wasn’t open today. Nobody would try to stop us.”

Our mini circle stared at the blanket as the gator let out a squeaky groan and finally stilled.

“We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a loved one …” a firefighter said and they all laughed.

Dirk pretended to be angry and scolded my father. “First, you cause a traffic jam and several near-accidents. And now you almost burn down a two-thousand-square-foot clubhouse. I think you ought to reconsider the art career.”

A silver-haired woman rushed up and threw her arms around my father. “But he’s a sculptor at heart, don’t you see? You can’t blame him for trying to create another masterpiece!” It was Fran Cutter, the woman he’d nearly killed with a mannequin in the road.

“Fran, what are you doing here?” I asked.

She fluffed her hair. “Why, I’m his girlfriend, sweetie. I’ve come to bail him out, if they take him to jail.”

I looked at Spud. “She’s your girlfriend?”

The walking cane shrugged. “Was cheaper than fixing her scooter.”

Anchored in the
Cape Fear River on the west side of Carolina Beach, I’d cooked dinner for myself and it was divine. The relatively secluded spot offered some privacy and a first-row seat to view all the wildlife and critters that lived along the banks of the river. Following directions on the light-in-the-bag briquettes, I’d fired up a small charcoal grill and cooked a fresh grouper filet, skin side down. Just for kicks, I cut a sweet potato in half and threw it on there, too. Tending to the smoking grill while relaxing on
Incognito’s
aft deck was delightful, and when I tasted the results, it dawned on me that I could actually cook. I’d even squeezed on fresh lemon juice, drizzled some olive oil, and chopped sweet basil leaves. Give me a set of egg molds and steamer bin or put me in front of a charcoal grill and I could rock on with the best of chefs. Unself-conscious in my favorite skimpy bikini and enjoying the solitude, I ate slowly, relaxed and perfectly content.

Body swaying to the lazy tunes of Van Morrison, I was sipping a glass of brandy for dessert, watching the lower sky change colors as
an orange sun kissed the water, when a chill surged through my body. Internal alarm bells vibrating, I grabbed my Glock, chambered a round, and turned off the music to listen to my surroundings.

Hearing nothing unusual, I climbed to the flybridge for a 360 view, when movement in the water grabbed my attention. Aiming at something I couldn’t see on the portside, I waited, thinking it could be some playful marine life or a pair of rowdy ducks. With an abrupt expulsion of water, two men surfaced, entangled, fighting. One in full scuba gear and the other bare-chested with only a mask and snorkel, they wrangled, treading water, in water too deep to stand up. I could only watch, gun aimed between them, unsure of who they were or what they fought over.

They ripped the masks off each other’s faces and when the bare-chested one spit out his snorkel, I realized it was Ox. The other well-muscled figure was John Mason, his face smeared with camouflage grease. I shimmied to the lower deck and took aim, but couldn’t lock in on a clean shot. Ox’s fist connected squarely with John’s nose and blood squirted before John lunged, shoving Ox underwater. In full-out hand-to-hand combat, they worked their way to shore with a series of grunts and splashes. Rolling on the sand, Ox stabbed John in the leg with a knife at the exact same moment that John pulled what looked like a garage door opener out of a zippered dry bag that was secured around his waist. Bloodied teeth showing through a smile, he pushed a button. As it occurred to me that my boat was about to blow up, both men dove back into the water—John heading away from
Incognito
and Ox swimming toward it. Still gripping my gun, I jumped overboard and swam for shore, praying that Ox would get away from the boat in time. I moved inland and took cover behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, squatting, listening for movement, hoping that John would come back onshore and give me the opportunity to kill him. My surroundings
remained quiet for what seemed like ten long painstaking minutes—in real time perhaps thirty seconds—until Ox’s form surfaced, clutching what looked like a plastic lunch box. As soon as he was in shallow enough water to get a good foothold, using both hands, he heaved the thing out over the open water. With a muffled pop and hiss, it exploded just before it hit the water, and sent a mushroom ball of water high into the air.

I ran to meet Ox at the water’s edge. Dripping wet and breathing heavy, he reached out to touch my face. “You okay, Barnes?”

I nodded. “I’m fine. Are you hurt?”

“Don’t think so.”

Gun still in a ready position, I surveyed the thick brush and trees. We were on an undeveloped section of the river and John could easily circle back through the woods. I almost hoped he would.

“He’s gone,” Ox said. “Didn’t want to stick around for the explosion. Looks like he put a forty-five or fifty second delay on it, to give himself enough time to get away.”

Ox had thrown the bomb in the same direction that John went. “You think the explosion got him?”

“No.”

“Where was it?” I asked.

“Attached to the prop shaft, below the engine room.”

“How did you—” I started to ask how my best friend had known about the bomb, and then I knew. The feeling of being watched ever since I started living on my boat was real. “You’ve been following me.”

“Wiping the water from his body with bare hands, he breathed deep to catch his breath. “Of course I’ve been keeping an eye on you, and everything around you. From my Carolina Skiff. Center console makes it a bitch to sleep in, but you’re worth it.”

“Ruby said you took time off from the Block.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off his bare chest and slippery stomach. And thick biceps,
still pumped from exertion. “I thought you were spending time with your ex.”

“Louise flew home to California.”

I searched his eyes for emotion. “Are you okay with that?”

“I’m very okay with that, Barnes.” He took my hands, placed them around the back of his neck, and waited for me to pull him close. After a moment, I did.

I could have stayed right there on the sandy strip of beach, in his arms, damp skin pressed against damp skin, for hours. But Ox was thinking more clearly than I and smartly suggested that we get back to the Block. Now that John knew my boat, there was no reason for me to continue living aboard
Incognito.

With Ox leading the way in a single-engine inshore fishing boat, I stayed in his wake all the way to the Cape Fear Marina, keeping the Glock within easy reach just in case. Shaking out my jumpy muscles, I backed into my regular slip while Ox tied off his boat at the dry-storage loading dock. His truck waited in the parking lot and, after changing into dry clothes and securing
Incognito
, he drove me to the Block.

I tried to thank him for once again saving my life but he interrupted by telling me that I’d saved his life, too. Five years ago, when he showed up in Wilmington, a broken man. I didn’t know what to say to that and we rode for several miles, deep in our own thoughts. I wanted to ask what happened with Louise, but decided Ox would tell me when the time was right.

“Your new vehicle was delivered,” he said, when we were almost at the Block. “Ruby signed for it.”

“Excellent. What did I get?”

He looked at me and grinned. “You don’t know?”

“Floyd didn’t say. But he promised to send me something in my favorite color—black. After being without a car, I’m happy with anything. As long as it’s not that gross station wagon.”

“Well, he did keep his word on the color.” Ox smoothly avoided a car that pulled out in front of us, and watching his calm, capable, and masculine profile, my thoughts wandered to our encounter in bed. I craved more of the same and wondered if the desire was reciprocal.

“What did I get?”

“Better if it’s a surprise,” Ox told me, turning in to the Block’s parking lot, right next to a black hearse. Undertakers were dining at the Block? Their vehicle could be bad for business. I asked Ox if he knew who the meat wagon belonged to. He smiled.

“Nuh-uh. No way. Tell me that thing is not my new car.”

He handed over a set of keys and his smile grew bigger.

“You’re screwing with me, right?” I scanned the lot for other, unfamiliar cars. “It’s really that Buick Lucerne over there, right?”

Smiling, Ox headed inside the Block, leaving me in the parking lot, staring stupidly at the hearse. The doors unlocked when I pushed the button on the key fob. Just to be sure, I stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The hearse cranked right up.

“Oh, crap.” I sprinted to the nearest phone I could find and dialed Floyd.

“What were you thinking?” I yelled into the handset before he’d finished answering. “This thing is a limo for dead people and you know how I can’t stand to be near dead people!”

“Is there anyone back there right now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

“Probably not,” Floyd said. “But if you do find a body in there, let me know and I’ll give our mechanic a good talking to. He should have caught something like that before the hearse went out.”

“This isn’t funny, Floyd. I can’t drive a meat wagon. You’re going to have to take it back and send me something else.”

I heard foil crunching and then chewing. Probably the nicotine
gum. “It’s a late model. Perfect condition. Leather seats, a kick-ass sound system, power everything.
And
it only cost you a grand.”

I thought about that, and my declining checking account. “Only one thousand dollars? Why so cheap?”

Floyd explained that the hearse was confiscated from a crematory in New Jersey that was really a money-laundering and drug-running operation, and profits were indirectly ending up in the pockets of a known terrorist. The business wasn’t cremating bodies nor did it have the equipment to do so. And the hearse sported numerous modifications. In Floyd’s words, it was “tricked out.” The saved street locations on the hearse’s navigation system, in fact, busted the case wide open and led agents to a commendable takedown.

“Well,” I said, trying to envision myself behind the wheel of a hearse, “the whole dead-body thing still creeps me out.”

“Best we can tell, the vehicle was purchased new, right off the assembly line. It was probably never in service as a hearse, so it never transported any bodies.” I heard Floyd ripping into another piece of gum. “At least none that were on their way to a legitimate funeral, anyway.”

That news made me feel a tiny bit better. That, and the one-thousand-dollar price tag. “But if the car is uh, tricked out, and has low mileage, why is it so cheap? And at that price, why didn’t somebody snatch it up, then turn around and sell it to a funeral home for a big profit?”

“Vehicle can’t go to the general public, not even a funeral home. It’s a condition of sale. In addition to the modifications I told you about, the hearse has compartments for weapons and several nifty places to stash drugs. Oh, by the way, you’ll need to fill up when the needle reaches the halfway mark or you’ll run out of gas. Fuel tank was modified with a holding compartment, as well.”

“Still,” I said, “for that price, you’d think
somebody
would’ve snatched it off the auction block.”