Southern Poison (32 page)

The chemist smiled. “And it worked wonders.”

Edward Charles Holloman
acted shocked when two federal investigators showed up at his office, escorted by a local city cop. A man and a woman, both wearing suits and stern expressions, flashed badges and asked for twenty minutes of his time.

He kept them waiting an appropriate ten minutes before buzzing his secretary to usher them to his office. When they explained they were there to discuss Peggy Lee Cooke and Derma-Zing, Chuck made a worried face.

“She tore up our new satellite lab and I haven’t heard from her since. At first, I thought it was a burglary, but then I realized my own employee had done it. I didn’t bother to file a report with the Wilmington police because it was more vandalism than actual monetary damages.”

“Why would your employee do such a thing, Mr. Holloman?”

Chuck stood, shut the office door, and returned to his executive leather chair. “We were having an affair and I broke it off with her,” he confided. “I know, I know. It’s bad policy to date an employee
and I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen. But things were fine until recently, when she started making demands. She even bought herself an engagement ring and said she wanted to get married. I think she’s delusional.” He leaned on the desk and released a heavy sigh. “The next thing I know, she’s demolished my lab, and trashed the computer.”

“I’m curious,” the woman interviewer said. “Why did you set up a lab in North Carolina to begin with?”

Chuck opened a desk drawer, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the desk. “I’ve had plans to open some satellite labs in the southeast for some time now. Those are the maps and demographic statistics of locations we’ve considered. The journals say that satellite labs are good for independent thinking and innovative research to generate new products. You know, get away from the status quo and all that. Strategically, Wilmington is a good location. It’s the first satellite we opened.” He waved a hand at the file of maps and demographic data. “But now, after this incident with Peggy, I’m no longer sure that satellite laboratories are a good idea.” He chuckled. “I think I’ll just stick with my real estate investments as far as out-of-state holdings.”

One of them consulted a list. “Your company owns beach condos in South Carolina and Florida, land holdings in West Virginia, and a chalet in the Montana mountains. You personally own a soybean farm in Iowa, and a ranch in Texas.”

Holloman tried to appear modest. “I don’t like to play the stock market, but I’ve done very well with real estate. The condos and the ski chalet are wonderful write-offs because we use them to entertain clients.” He stopped to ask if anyone would care for a bottled water or cup of coffee. Everyone declined. “After all, ECH adhesives can be found in products everywhere, from automobiles to airplanes to high-rise construction sites. It’s good business to wine and dine the decision makers who buy raw materials.”

The woman jotted something down. “Mr. Holloman, have you ever heard of Project Antisis?”

Chuck wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Project Ant-what?”

“Project Antisis.” The woman spelled the letters out for him.

“We often assign nicknames to various research projects, or a new custom-manufactured adhesive,” Chuck said, rubbing his chin. “But no, that name doesn’t ring a bell. I’ve never heard of it. Why?”

Ignoring his questions, the two suits quizzed Chuck for another half-hour while the policeman looked on, seemingly bored. Finally, Chuck allowed some annoyance to show, and turned the questioning on them.

“Look, you said twenty minutes and I’ve tried to accommodate you. But I have a full schedule and I really don’t understand why you’ve come all this way,” the company president said. “I know I should have probably filed a police complaint about the damaged lab, but nobody was injured and it’s not like the research was confidential or high-tech information. My company produces adhesives. Has the Cooke woman done something I don’t know about?”

Looking at each other, the agents decided they’d already gotten all they were going to get out of Charles Holloman. He’d performed brilliantly and had a reasonable explanation for everything they’d thrown at him. The woman told Holloman that something in Derma-Zing might be toxic and harmful. Some users of the product had exhibited physical symptoms related to their reproductive systems.

“What?” Chuck stood up. “Derma-Zing is formulated with a nontoxic adhesive! It’s been independently tested and proven safe. We took extra precautions with the formula, since it was our first product marketed to individual consumers. Are you sure these girls’ problems are tied to Derma-Zing?”

“We’re fairly certain,” the man said, and explained that testing was in progress.

Chuck fell back into his chair. “It’s inconceivable. But if there’s even a chance that Derma-Zing contains a harmful ingredient, then we must do an immediate recall. It’s going to cost the company a ton of money, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Once again, the two agents eyed each other. Holloman agreed to a recall, even before they’d suggested it.

“It must be the Cooke woman,” Chuck mumbled to himself. “She must have altered the formulation somehow. But why would anyone do such a thing?”

Before the interrogators left his office, Chuck agreed to implement a full product recall, citing potential side effects. He agreed to refund consumers’ money and postage costs if they mailed in their unused Derma-Zing, or even if they sent an empty package. And he agreed to halt further production, pending a complete investigation.

When the visitors had gone, Chuck sat back in his chair and smiled. The recall simply meant a delay in selling off the Derma-Zing division. Both retail buyers and consumers had short memories, he thought. As soon as he launched another advertising campaign, Derma-Zing sales would be stronger than before, at which point he could market the division for sale. Peggy had run off like a scared rabbit and he didn’t get the opportunity to kill her as planned, which was a bothersome detail. But if agents ever did catch up with the woman, she’d go to jail for a long time. All the evidence pointed to her—he’d made sure of that. He’d even been so helpful as to provide the agents with a recent photograph of Peggy from her company ID card, as well as all the information from her personnel file, and the make and color of her car.

Outside, as they climbed into their rental car, the agents had a gut feeling that Holloman knew a lot more than he was telling. But they couldn’t do a thing about it.

The best thing
about having a handsome, brightly clad giant shadow me is that Paul gave me something to think about other than sterile teenagers and a rogue former SWEET agent. And even though I found it disconcerting that Paul slept on a cot inside my bedroom by the door, the nearness of a mysterious hunk helped to keep my mind off of Ox and his night with Louise.

“Shouldn’t you have one of those curly wires or something sticking out of your ear, like they do on TV?” I said to him, when I’d emerged from the bathroom and he followed me to the kitchen.

“I’m in direct contact with every operative assigned to coverage duty.”

Maybe he was bionic. Maybe there was a communications device wired inside his head. Maybe he didn’t really exist and I’d conjured Paul from my imagination.

Spud sat at the table with a nearly empty plate in front of him. Since my father isn’t supposed to use any heat-generating appliances, I could only assume that Paul made breakfast. And since
illusions can’t cook, I decided that Paul wasn’t a figment of my imagination, after all.

“Spud, you have got to get your trash off my property,” I said, poring through yesterday’s mail, which contained a written warning about the debris in front of the Block. Dirk had already stalled as long as he could, and said I would receive a citation and hefty fine if the abandoned vehicle wasn’t removed.

Spud shook a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo, his breakfast drink of choice. “Even though nobody bid on it doesn’t mean it’s not art, for crying out loud.”

“I don’t care what you call it.” I handed him the written warning. “Just get it off my property. I want it gone
today!”

“Okay, okay. You sure are testy this morning, for crying out loud.”

Paul handed me plate of food: omelet, fried potatoes, sliced tomatoes, and toast. He must’ve cooked breakfast while I was in the shower. I thanked him. Not wanting to go overboard with the conversation, he nodded. Checking him out, I dug in. This morning, the baggy shorts were a flowery part of his attire, complemented by a simple white shirt with bright yellow trim. I caught glimpses of leather straps and holsters and metal. He was a walking arsenal.

Spud used a piece of my toast to wipe up the remains from his plate. He finished chewing and made food appreciation noises. “Tall Paul is a great cook. Can we keep him?”

Paul’s mouth did the twitch thing.

After breakfast, my shadow and I met Ox and Lindsey downstairs. Erring on the side of caution, Ox had pulled her out of school for the week. Unconcerned about the reason, Lindsey thought all the attention was pretty “rad,” even if she did still have to complete her homework assignments.

In Ox’s four-door truck, we spent the next hour running errands and ended up at Soup’s place to retrieve the memory stick. Ox and Lindsey waited outside.

“Yo, Paul, whassup?” Soup said, when the flowered giant followed me into Soup’s apartment. They did a handshake thing that ended with a fist bump.

Eyeing my bodyguard, Soup whistled. “You must be deep in some major shit, Jersey.”

“Why’s that?” I said.

He pointed at Paul. “To warrant this guy. He’s legendary. Wow.”

“He is?”

Soup whistled again. Paul did his version of a smile. Soup gave me the memory stick and a stack of printouts.

“You got most everything on the hard drive,” Soup said, “but it’s all gibberish to me. Data was password protected with the word
antisis.
All scientific notes, spreadsheets, a mathematic formulation program with a time line of entries.”

“Bottom line?” I said.

“Nothing personal on there. Nothing connected to ECH or Holloman. No financial files, correspondence, calendars, viruses, keystroke-tracking programs. Nothing except working files that a chemist would use.”

“Thanks, guy.”

“You’re welcome,” Soup said. “Now would you please get out of here? No offense, but it’s making me a little nervous, knowing they put this guy on you.”

We climbed into Ox’s truck and headed to the safe house.

Peggy
Lee let out a shrill scream when I told her I had the entire hard drive from the lab. Weapons were instantly out and ready, aimed our way, in the hands of no less than four men. Paul gripped the minicannon in one hand and a second, shorter-barreled weapon in the other.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I called out. “She’s just, ah, excited.”

The weapons disappeared.

“Do you realize how much time this will save? After the hard drive got destroyed, I thought it was all gone! This is great, Jersey.” She rushed to her makeshift onboard laboratory, erected inside a cargo bay. Two tractor-trailer rigs that looked ordinary from the outside were buzzing with equipment, workstations, computers, and air-conditioning on the inside. Three motor homes, parked side by side, had been driven aboard for living quarters.

In the mobile lab, scientist-types huddled around Peggy Lee as she loaded the data into a computer. I wondered which agencies the chemists had come from and what other jobs they’d been pulled off of. But it didn’t matter. They’d soon have an antidote. And meanwhile, every last bit of Derma-Zing was being removed from shelves and destroyed.

“Agent Barnes,” Ashton called, poking his head in the lab. “You are aware that the SS
Cape Pelican
has been designated as a secure shelter, security clearance required.”

I moved out of the lab. Paul, Lindsey, and Ox followed. “Yes, sir,” I said.

“The girl, I can understand. Knowing Ox, I’ll even make an allowance for him. But what in the hell is that?” Ashton pointed to another cargo bay, directly across from the one where we stood. Spud’s demolished Chrysler and deformed alligator had been dumped there. Fresh tire marks—probably from a flatbed tow truck—could be seen on the deck.

“They’re my father’s sculptures, sir.”

Ox’s stomach moved with silent laughter. Paul’s mouth twitched. Lindsey went to get a closer look.

“And they got on this ship
how?”

“I don’t know, sir.” I made a mental note to kill my father. Or at least yell at him. As if I’d conjured him up, Spud rolled from behind the alligator and using his cane, hauled himself upright.
Wearing a tool belt, Bobby did the same. They’d been doing something to the animatronic animal.

“What’s all the ruckus about?” Spud demanded.

“You, Spud. The ruckus is about you,” I said. “What were you thinking, having this crap hauled to the ship? And what are the two of you doing with tools?”

“First off, it ain’t crap. It’s my artwork. Secondly, you said I had to move my sculptures away from the Block, remember? So I did.” He wobbled for a second, caught his balance, and spun the cane around him in an arc. “This ship is huge, for crying out loud. Look at all this empty space. Bobby and I just figured we’d stash my sculptures here until they sell.” He stopped to count on his fingers. “And third of all, we brought tools to fix the alligator. If we can get the tail to move again, somebody will buy it.”

Ashton one-push dialed somebody on a digital phone. “Nobody else gets on this ship without the required clearance, you got me? Nobody,” he said into the tiny phone and paused for the reply. “I don’t care if he is Barnes’s father! I said nobody! No old ladies with fruit pies, no kids, and no deliveries of totaled vehicles! If I so much as see a seagull on this ship without the required clearance, I will have your ass!”

Ashton flipped the phone shut harder than necessary and stalked off, dropping a file folder as he went. Its elastic band enclosure popped off and a single paper came loose to dance in the breeze. Lindsey snatched the sheet before it had a chance to blow overboard.