Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  He was a highly respected FBI agent. A PhD, for God’s sake. And yet in the presence of Tate’s mother, he’d regressed to possibly seventh grade.

  Maggie smiled. “You’ll be working, then, again today?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve a colleague coming into town. I’ll be assisting with the investigation until she no longer needs me.”

  “Very well, then. I’d better not keep you.” She moved aside so he could pass. But when he drew even with her, she stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. “You’re a fine man, Clay.”

  Well, hell. If that wasn’t the strangest compliment he’d ever received. Not so much the sentiment, as the circumstances under which it was given.

  He’d just been caught leaving her daughter’s bedroom, and Mrs. Hennessy called him fine.

  Why couldn’t this kind of shit have happened to him when he was seventeen? Adulthood really did have its notable benefits.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” But how much longer would she feel that way? He found himself regretting things that hadn’t even happened. “And just for the record, you’ve raised a really fine daughter. I… Well, she’s really… very fine.” He forced a smile. “It’s important to me that you know that.”

  Maggie patted the shoulder under her hand. “I believe you’re right. Now run along, dear, and grab a cup of coffee and a muffin on your way out the door. Tate can pack you something for the road, since you’re in a hurry.”

  He was no stranger to hospitality – it was the southern way – but this humbled him. It had been a very long time since he’d been mothered. “I’ll do that. Thank you.” He watched Maggie go up the stairs.

  And then continued down toward Tate.

  She was in the kitchen, humming as she moved around, and he took a moment to simply appreciate that particular sight. There was something ridiculously pleasing to a man about finding the woman you’d spent the night loving glowing with satisfaction while she prepared food.

  God save him if any women of his acquaintance heard that particular thought, but it didn’t make it any less true.

  Tate pulled a fresh batch of the most delicious smelling blueberry muffins he’d ever had the pleasure to encounter out of the oven, and he was glad, after the initial insult of waking up, that his hangover hadn’t lent itself to nausea.

  The noise of happily breakfasting guests drifted in from the dining area, and Tate glanced toward the door as if to listen for potential problems.

  Then, sensing either his presence or his malodorous clothes, turned around as she set the muffins on a cooling rack. “You’re awake.” And her eyes were all smiles. “And not looking too worse for wear.”

  “You’re either blind, or you’re lying.” Pulling himself away from the doorway, he moved close enough to stroke her hair.

  “Maybe I have beer goggles – oh, wait! That was you last night.”

  He wrapped the sleek black strands around his fist, and pulling her close, kissed the teasing smile right off her lips. “I may have been a little drunk,” he admitted, because there was no denying that fact. “But I’m stone cold sober this morning. And you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “WELL.” Feeling her knees turn liquid, Tate struggled to stay upright. And just to keep things light, and maintain some perspective, patted his arm with an oven mitt. “I’m glad to see that your hangover hasn’t made you grumpy. A little vision-impaired, maybe. But certainly pleasant.”

  “No.” He kissed her throat, nipped her ear. “If I had more time, I’d prove to you how very desirable you are.” He cupped her butt to draw her closer.

  “I do believe you made that point quite a few times last night.”

  “Yeah. About that. It was some kind of fluke of nature. Like Haley’s Comet. Or a blue moon. I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that’s what you’ll have to put up with every time. I’m not sure whether you’ll be disappointed or relieved.”

  Actually, Tate was more struck by the fact that he’d spoken as if that was something they’d be doing again in the future. She’d hoped, of course, but…

  “Where’s Max?” he asked, drawing her attention away from their sex life, and focusing it on her son. And she could tell that he wasn’t asking out of mere courtesy. He looked around the kitchen, searching for signs of little boy life, and there was a flash of disappointment in his eyes when he found none.

  “He’s in the back parlor, watching cartoons.” She’d shut the door to the family room earlier, because she wasn’t sure of Clay’s reaction this morning. So she’d tried to make his passage easier on both of them by distracting Max.

  “Do you mind if I say good morning to him, or… do you not want him to know I spent the night?”

  “He would love to see you,” she said, pointing toward the door which led off the back hall. What had she done to deserve this turning out so well? “But just to warn you, you’ll have to let him know up front that you have to run. Or else he’ll be trying to talk you into another trip to the carnival.”

  Groaning, Clay backed toward the door. “Well, the carnival’s out, but depending on what time I finish today, how about a little dinner? The three of us. My treat.”

  Tears pricked her eyes, but Tate blinked them back. “We’d love that.” Then, because she wasn’t sure she could keep the emotion from her face, turned away and started working on the muffins. “How about I fix you up some breakfast to go?”

  “That would be great.”

  Tate thought the whole damn thing was great.

  But unfortunately, the really great things in life were never easy.

  “I thought you said the locals were friendly.” Kim’s blue eyes danced over him as she opened her hotel room door. “Was that before or after they busted your lip?”

  “Ha, ha.” Touching his finger against the flesh in question, Clay moved past her into the room, noting that Kim had made the bed. And actually used the closet. A row of neatly pressed business attire hung obediently along the rod, several pairs of shoes standing at attention beneath.

  If she wasn’t so much fun, he’d probably be obliged to hate her.

  “What?” She turned from the mirror, tidying a deep auburn curl that had dared spring loose from her efficient twist.

  “Nothing.”

  Clay moved from inspecting the closet to looking over Kim’s shoulder into the mirror. He prodded his busted lip. Kim’s hand flew to her nose. “Good God, Copeland. Tell me that’s not you.”

  Clay stopped messing with his lip and sent her mirror image a grimace. “You can still smell it? I was hoping the Febreze would work. Apparently, I was overly optimistic.”

  He’d been seriously unhappy when he’d gotten back to Justin’s only to discover that he’d packed no extra dress pants. He hadn’t counted on needing even the one pair he’d brought. And he sure as hell hadn’t anticipated sadistic bartenders and their lethal drinks.

  “You smell like the barroom floor,” she informed him, getting close enough to sniff his shirt. It was clean, nicely ironed, but his pants were another matter. Motioning for him to turn around, she gave his backside a considering glance. “You might want to consider emptying the whole bottle on your butt. What did you do, sit in a keg of beer?”

  “These are the only pants I brought with me.” Kim shooed him from the room, and as he looked down at the black trousers, he couldn’t quite keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “It was either smelly pants or swim trunks, and I opted for malodorous as opposed to ridiculous. But after seeing your reaction, I’m questioning my decision.”

  Her room was on the fourth floor of the hotel, and by unspoken agreement they headed toward the stairs. The smell was bad enough out in the open, let alone closed up in a moving box. On the landing of the second floor, she deployed the bottle of body spray she lifted from her purse.

  He jumped back when she covered him in fine mist. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Sniffing again, Kim nodded her approval before precedin
g him down the final flight and out the door. And spotting Clay’s SUV in the relative shade of a palmetto, headed in that direction. “Making it tolerable for me to ride with you,” she informed him over her shoulder. “Now stop acting like a baby and unlock the door.”

  He stood, arms akimbo, and plotted vile things as he hit his keyless entry. “At least the beer smell was something the folks at the sheriff’s department could relate to. Now I smell like a freaking Gerbera daisy.”

  “I like daisies.”

  Clay grimaced as he took a tentative sniff, thinking of Josh Harding’s expertly groomed face. The dude would probably laugh his ass off.

  Ah, well. He hadn’t spent the night in Tate’s bed, now had he?

  Fancy after-shave-smelling son of a bitch.

  Feeling entirely more amenable, Clay climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. The air conditioning blasted with a satisfying whirr. He caught the look on Kim’s face as he backed out.

  “What?” he asked, because she was definitely smiling. That smug little female smile that drove him nuts.

  “Despite your aromatic contribution, you’re giving off all kinds of interesting vibes. You fell into more last night than a bottle of whiskey.”

  It hadn’t been phrased as a question, but she obviously expected an answer. So like any good game player, he executed evasive maneuvers. “Oh yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  I see your innuendo, and I raise you a question.

  “Met any girls on your vacation? Seen any action? Gotten laid?”

  He wasn’t ready to talk about Tate, not yet, and definitely not that way. So he reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a bald-faced lie.

  “Like I’ve had the time?”

  When the phone vibrated in his pocket, he held up a finger to indicate a conversational pause.

  And ruined his bald-faced lie by pulling out a condom.

  A used condom, stuffed into his pocket after the couch episode last night.

  And currently stuck, like dried glue, to his actively vibrating cell phone.

  Having no prayer that Kim hadn’t seen it, he pried it off his phone’s face. Then stuffed the damning prophylactic into the door’s side pocket while he took the call.

  “Copeland.” Clay could feel the heat of embarrassment steam out of his pores. “Oh, hey Tate. No, you’re not interrupting anything all that important. You found my badge under your bed?” Shit, it must have fallen out of his pocket. He did a quick pat, came up empty. “Oh no, that’s okay sugar. I think I can get by without it. Luckily the officers I’m working with already know that I’m legit. But thank you. I’ll pick it up tonight.”

  He sent a quick glance in Kim’s direction, noted that she was watching him with unabashed glee. “Uh-huh. Tell Max that McDonald’s is fine, if he really has his heart set on it. But if you can talk him into it, see if you might steer him in a different direction. Something with more emphasis on the ‘food’, as opposed to the ‘fast.’ I’m not sure my stomach can take another greasy hamburger… I know. It’s my own fault for trying to outguess your cousin. I’ve learned never to trust an Irishman when it comes to whiskey or women.”

  He chuckled, a sound full of private meaning. “Uh-huh, I guess you’re right. I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him. Take care, sugar, and tell Max I’ll see him later.”

  He hung up, rather slowly, making a production out of pocketing his phone. The longer he could draw out that simple task, the closer they got to the station. And the closer they got to the station, the less time Kim had to grill him.

  When it became glaringly obvious what he was doing, Kim shocked the hell out of him by laying a hand on his arm. “Whatever it is, I think it’s wonderful.”

  Luckily, he didn’t have time to respond to that, because they’d arrived at the Bentonville sheriff’s.

  “IT could be him.”

  Clay leaned back in his chair, studying the image of the muscle-bound asshole beating the life out of a teenage girl. The balaclava hood he wore made facial recognition impossible, but the body was certainly similar to the man he’d seen at the carnival, and the behavioral profile fit.

  Something had gotten away from his control during the assault, and he’d lashed out in blind fury. In the case of the girl on the screen, it was his own body that had defied him. With the victim they’d found in the woods it was the girl herself. Regardless, the man’s obsessive need for control mixed with the predictable effects of the steroids served to form a potent combination which had turned deadly.

  “Are you sure?” Sheriff Callahan asked from the edge of his desk.

  “With his face covered that way, it’s impossible to make a positive ID. You know that.” Clay swiveled his chair toward the sheriff. Kim was seated in a chair to his right, and Deputies Jones and Harding stood behind him. Blinds closed tight against the sunlight, the only thing that stirred the air was an uncomfortable silence, as each of them processed the horror they’d seen. “But I can say, with absolute conviction, that the man who we just watched on this tape is more than capable of killing our second vic, and also of taking Casey Rodriguez. This is a business for him, but make no mistake, he likes doing things to the girls. He’s what we call a power reassurance rapist, and hurting them isn’t his usual agenda. Both from a financial standpoint – it’s not good business to kill the merchandise – and regarding his psycho-sexual needs.”

  Clay looked around to make sure everyone was following. “In other words, he’s not a sadist, nor could we classify him as a serial killer, despite the fact that we suspect he’s killed at least twice. But he got no satisfaction from the killings. He probably views them as unfortunate accidents, and may even feel some remorse. But whatever remorse he feels is tempered by his justification that the girls somehow brought it on themselves. He can’t admit to his own culpability, because that would mean that he wasn’t in control. The control issues he’s dealing with are long-standing, and probably derive from a power struggle in childhood.”

  “The classic garden variety psycho excuse: don’t blame me, blame my mother?” Deputy Jones’ dark features twisted, his disgust more than apparent.

  “In this case, I wouldn’t be so sure it was his mother,” Clay clarified, “because he doesn’t appear to exhibit hatred toward women.”

  Jones looked incredulous. “He beat the shit out of those girls, for God’s sake.”

  “What Agent Copeland means,” Kim interjected, “is that his behavior indicates no deep-seated need to punish women. Both times he killed, it was because the situation was beyond his control. We also have reason to believe that he treats his victims in what could be called a courteous manner. I know.” She held up a hand, warding off the protests before they could get started. “That sounds crazy. But what I mean is that the power reassurance rapist often treats his victims as if they were dating, as if they really like what he’s doing. He’s convinced himself the rape is consensual. It gives him control over the outcome of the ‘relationship’ he’s constructed in his mind.”

  She looked at Clay, who picked up the conversational baton.

  “When we see this type of rape, it suggests that the perpetrator lacks control in his everyday life. He can’t sustain a normal male/female relationship, most likely due to an image crisis suffered as the result of an overbearing parent, and some factor that leads to social awkwardness or unacceptability.”

  “But this guy was, you know, attractive,” Jones pointed out, grimacing slightly when everyone looked at him. He glanced with some discomfort toward Kim. “Ms. Hennessey’s words, not mine.”

  “Despite the fact that the man isn’t obviously outwardly unattractive – we have both Agent Copeland’s observations and the composite Ms. Hennessey helped with to back that up – something sets him apart from others. Something that he hides, that brings him shame and insecurity, and that he makes up for by exerting control over these young women. That’s why we also believe that his business partner is domi
nant. It partially explains his continuing need for reassurance.”

  “So how does that help us?” Deputy Harding wanted to know. Clay flicked his eyes toward where the man was leaning against a file cabinet, and met his blue-eyed gaze. “I mean it’s great that we understand that, but how does that help us catch him?”

  “It helps, because if we can figure out what sets him apart, we’ll have a better idea of how to find him.” Clay flipped through his mental files for a pertinent example. “We once hypothesized that a serial killer we were profiling suffered from a speech impediment, and when that got out it made him that much easier to identify. We just keep narrowing the focus on these guys, getting more specific, and then eventually when you ask around you can say: ‘hey, have you seen anybody around who’s kind of a loner, not well-groomed, drives a van and has a speech impediment? Well then, that’s when the neighbors start to say ‘hey, that sounds like John down the street.’ ”

  Of course it wasn’t that easy. It was never that easy.

  “Understood.” Deputy Harding nodded at Clay. He looked like he slept, standing upright, in a vacuum. Nobody should wake up that perfect. “Do you have any theories on what it is that makes him different?”

  Clay gave Harding points because he was unafraid to ask the right questions. And unlike other officers he’d worked with, wasn’t skeptical about the answers. “Well, aside from his obvious physical attributes, I noticed something the other day that bothered me. It was hotter than hell at that carnival, but our boy wore a long sleeved shirt and jeans. Now, usually when people go to all that trouble to build their bodies, they’re inclined to show them off. But this guy kept himself covered, which led me to notice him and wonder why. After looking at this video, I think I’m starting to have an idea.”

  They all turned to the TV screen, where a slightly grainy image of the masked man was frozen. Harding looked for identifying features which might have given the man away, thereby leading him to wish to conceal them. “No tattoos or easily identifiable markings.”

  “That’s what I wondered about at first,” Clay admitted. “But then I got to thinking about his behavior that day, and both times I observed him he was avoiding the sun.”