The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  “Yeah. A real poster boy for anger management.”

  Clay motioned to Kim, moving a little farther away from the car, toward the shelter of the live oak which shaded the roadside. No point smelling that more than they had to.

  “What’s his motivation?” She chewed on her lip and followed. “This guy’s bent over backwards to stay off the radar, and suddenly he’s playing games. He obviously got wind that his partner’s face was plastered all over town – no question that was the stressor that pushed him to pick up the gun – but why bother setting up this little dog and pony show? Wouldn’t it have been much more in character for him to cut and run?”

  Clay scratched the back of his neck as he played out the scenario. “The obvious answer is distraction. He’s given us just enough crap to wade through to slow us down, which means he’s concerned we’re getting close to him.”

  “So what, he sets this up,” she gestured toward the crime scene, “hoping to buy himself some time to get out of Dodge? It would have been a hell of a lot easier to just shoot the guy, hide the body, and hit the road.”

  “Exactly,” Clay agreed. “So what does that tell us about his motive?”

  Kim considered. “He obviously has something else on his agenda now, other than escaping detection. Maybe killing his partner wasn’t enough for him in the way of punishment. Suicide is sort of the ultimate act of cowardice and personal failure. Maybe he wanted to humiliate this man in death. Put him down.”

  “I think you’re right. This perp is definitely into retribution, of an almost eye-for-an-eye nature. His partner was stupid enough to get caught, so he blows his brains out. The man obviously had an ego – the weightlifting suggests as much – and suicide could be considered the ultimate destruction of ego. Only people who truly feel desperate or worthless take their own lives.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “But how do we apply it to the investigation?”

  Clay sighed, plucking at his damp shirt and cursing the heat. “For one thing, the remaining perp has suffered enough of a psychic stressor that he’s now willing to take some risks. And we both know that risks often equal mistakes.”

  “Agents Copeland and O’Connell!”

  Clay and Kim both turned to see Josh Harding striding their way, waving a piece of paper like a flag. “We ran the tags, and the car’s registered to a William Wayne. Driver’s license photo matches our vic, with the addition of blond hair, a mustache and a tan. Beaufort address. I just got off the phone with the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office, and they’ve executed a search of the apartment. No sign of Casey, but I figured you’d want to take a look. You want a ride?”

  “We’ll follow,” Clay said, after getting a nod from Kim.

  Harding walked off, and Clay pulled his keys from his pocket. “Okay, Tonto. Let’s go see what kind of clues William Wayne left behind.”

  LAUGHTER chimed in the front hall, and Tate poked her head out of the office to find her mother chatting with an elderly woman. The white hair, long floral dress and no-nonsense, thick soled shoes said grandma. And despite the fact that she was stoop shouldered and pleasantly plump, it was obvious that she’d once been statuesque.

  A small valise, looking like it dated back to the fifties, perched on top of a rather large Samsonite suitcase, forming a baggage mountain at the woman’s feet.

  Spying her daughter, Maggie waved her out to greet their guest.

  “Tate, this is Alma Walker. You spoke to her on the phone this afternoon, when you took her reservation.”

  Smiling, Tate strode forward and extended her hand. The woman’s grasp was firm and warm, roughened with calluses, which surprised Tate a bit until Alma spoke.

  “Don’t mind these old hands,” she said, chuckling as she tucked them into the deep pockets of her dress. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of an overzealous gardener. It tends to… how do they say it these days? – do a number on the skin.”

  Afraid that she must have given something away from her expression, Tate covered her discomfort with a warm laugh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alma. Is this your first time in Charleston?”

  “Oh, heavens no! I grew up over near Summerville, and lived around there most of my life. I’ve been living in Atlanta for a number of years, but when you get to be my age you just can’t resist the urge to revisit the old stomping grounds. Get back to your roots, so to speak.”

  “Tate and her sisters were raised, for the most part, just north of Atlanta,” Maggie contributed. “A little town called Woodstock, up near Lake Allatoona.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Alma said, looking from Maggie to her daughter, blue eyes remarkably clear. “Nice place.”

  “It was a wonderful place to raise a family,” Maggie agreed, and continued to chat with their elderly guest about the area.

  The conversation began to recede into the background, as memories from her childhood flooded unbidden to Tate’s brain. Casey’s abduction had brought so many old feelings to the surface, and her mother’s words seemed to release them from their dam. The shock of seeing a trusted adult defiling one of her peers. The fear, revulsion, and even guilt she’d felt during Donald Logan’s trial. The nightmares she’d lived with for years afterward. And more recently, her struggle with overprotectiveness toward her own child.

  Feeling unbalanced, Tate braced her hand against the wall.

  “Are you alright?” Maggie asked, laying her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” she lied, not wanting her mother to worry. And faintly embarrassed, turned her forced smile toward their guest. “Let’s get you checked in, shall we?” She bent to grab the valise.

  “Oh no, dear.” Alma stepped forward, nudging Tate with her hip, and took the valise from her hand. “I’m not so old that I can’t pull my own weight.” And indeed, she hefted the large piece of Samsonite as if it weighed nothing at all.

  “If you’re sure –”

  “I’m sure.”

  Okay then. “Well, why don’t you follow me to the office? We’ll get the paperwork taken care of and then I’ll show you to your room.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Tate’s cell phone rang in her pocket. She would have ignored it except for the fact that she hadn’t heard from Clay since that morning. Considering the awkward circumstances, and the fact that he’d all but burned a hole in the floor in his hurry to leave, she couldn’t help but feel the pinch of worry that he’d decided this gig wasn’t for him. So quietly slipping the phone from her pocket, she couldn’t stop the small smile when she saw his number.

  Seeing her daughter’s expression, Maggie grasped Alma’s elbow. “Tate, why don’t you take that call, and I’ll go ahead and get Ms. Walker settled.”

  “Excuse me,” Tate apologized to their guest, and moved toward the privacy of the parlor. “But this is a call I’ve been waiting for all day.” And how pathetic was that? She felt worse than a lovesick teenager.

  Closing the doors behind her, she walked over toward the settee, which seemed rather ironic as that was where she and Clay had first…

  Okay. Not good. She chose a wingback chair instead.

  “Hello?”

  “Tate?” Clay’s voice crackled.

  “Where are you?” she asked automatically. “You’re not getting very good reception.”

  “…Beaufort… storm knocked out… tower. I’ve been trying to call you… hours. This is the first… get through.”

  It was completely garbled, but she gathered that he’d gone to Beaufort, and a storm had knocked out a cell tower. And – hip, hip hooray! – he had a good reason for not calling. Not that she’d been worried, or anything.

  “What are you doing in Beaufort?” she wondered, as that town was more than an hour south of Charleston.

  “There’s been… development. …going to be here awhile. It’s going… late when I get in. …wondering if you’d prefer… to Justin’s.”

  Tate held her breath. He was calling to tell her he was going to be late
coming home. That was sweet. God, that was sweet. “You’re welcome to stay here. No, scratch that. I would like for you to stay here. Love for you to stay here. I’ve gotten kind of used to you hogging all the covers.”

  His laughter was clear on the other end of the line. “I guess if you want the covers, you’ll have to sleep on top of me.”

  Funny that that statement was the only one that came out intact.

  “I’ll be awake until about eleven, but if you get in past that I’ll leave the alarm off and the back door key under the mat.”

  “No!” Their connection had grown stronger. And the note of censure in his voice was perfectly clear. “Under the mat is burglar code for easy targets live here. Engage the alarm, give me the code, and I’ll let myself in. And remind me that we need to talk about security.”

  Rolling her eyes, Tate realized this was a downside she hadn’t foreseen. “I guess you’re going to use some of your FBI voodoo to open the door?”

  “I never give away my secrets. I have to go, sugar, but I’ll try to make it back before you’re asleep. If not, I’ll be the strange man climbing into your bed.”

  Tate laughed, a warm sound filled with happiness. “And I’ll be the woman wallowing in the temporary luxury of covers. Anyway, take care and I’ll see you tonight.”

  CLAY snapped his phone shut with a click, thinking that a little blanket tug-of-war sounded like a damn good idea.

  Winner gets naked.

  Or maybe the loser gets naked.

  Hell, they should both get naked and forgo the blankets altogether. They’d been generating enough body heat the past couple of nights to incite some kind of nuclear reaction anyway, so nighttime chills shouldn’t even be a factor.

  Grinning, he realized that having Tate waiting for him in bed made the end of the work day a hundred times more appealing than it ever had been before.

  He turned to find Kim, standing way too far inside his personal space. She grinned.

  “So am I ever going to get to meet this woman who’s put a smile on your ugly mug?”

  “Now why would I want to scare her like that?” He slid his phone into his pocket. “Was there some specific reason you’re hovering, or just your all-around need to be obnoxious?”

  She pulled a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of her jacket – dear, sweet Lord, the woman actually carried a handkerchief – and wiped the delicate sheen of sweat that had dared to gather on her brow.

  He, meanwhile, stood by looking like he’d run under somebody’s sprinklers.

  “They’re getting ready to start bagging and tagging the evidence.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the open apartment door behind her. “Is there anything else you wanted to look at again before they take it away?”

  Clay shook his head. The evidence amounted to jack, because even though the weightlifting pills and powders, impressive collection of workout equipment, equally impressive but not so innocent collection of homemade pornography, fake ID’s, professional level costuming equipment, bottles of Insta-Tan, etcetera, etcetera, told them a great deal about the sex offender known as William Wayne, the fact was that William Wayne was dead.

  And Clay hadn’t seen one shred of evidence which suggested the man had any type of association, professional or otherwise, with anyone else. Either the man they were searching for had come and swept the apartment prior to staging his accomplice’s suicide, or their normal protocol involved living completely separate from one another.

  Which was probably the case. The man who’d obviously engineered this enterprise was too smart to spend more time in the albino’s presence than he had to, and he was probably adamant about circumspection in behavior.

  Until today.

  And now, joy of joys, Clay and the other law officers who’d drawn the short stick that was this case, got to sit through several hours of thoroughly stomach-turning porn, in the hopes that they might A.) Be able to identify some of the girls shown on the tapes, or B.) Find any clues which might help lead them to the dead man’s partner.

  “Tell ‘em to go ahead with whatever they need to do. I’ve seen enough.” And wasn’t that the truth.

  Kim disappeared through the door, and Clay leaned against the railing, watching the colors of impending sunset dance across the broad expanse of sky over Beaufort Bay. The apartment which William Wayne had inhabited for the past few months was one of four in an elegant old building, a shining example of antebellum architecture from the city’s pre-Civil War heyday.

  A graceful collection of curved balustrades, heavy masonry, tabby foundation and waved glass windows, the building was surrounded by both ancient oaks and towering palmettos, and offered stunning views of the water over which it stood watch.

  Sailboats, wings unfurled, glided past other pleasure craft on the silent waters, which lapped gently along the seawall in undulating waves. A salt breeze blew in periodically, carrying the scents of diesel and brine, breaking the stillness of the air which hung thick and damp after the earlier storm. Lingering raindrops fell from the fronds of the nearby palmettos in a steady, rhythmic patter. A lone blue heron, unfurled wings more graceful than the sailboats’, soared high and far into the heavy cover of dusk.

  It was too beautiful a view for a degenerate.

  Sighing, Clay loosened his tie from his sweat-dampened collar, trying to catch some of the cooling whisper of air as it sighed past. He was hot, tired and disgusted. More than ever, he’d like to pack it in and call it a day.

  But there was a monster still out there somewhere, who saw dollar signs in a young girl’s innocence.

  And since he had to get into the forbidden corners in the mind of that monster, he, like evil, couldn’t sleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JR double-checked the contents of his grandmother’s valise, making sure he had everything he needed. The chloroform would suffice until the stronger drug in the syringe could take effect, and he stuffed both into the deep pockets of his housecoat.

  The padding he wore slicked his stomach with sweat, and the fake skin on his face and arms itched. But these were minor inconveniences, considering the end goal. He comforted himself with the fact that this was the last time he’d ever have to assume the old bitch’s persona.

  Of course, it was also the last time he’d be able to walk about publicly as JR Walker.

  It wouldn’t take long, after he’d done what he’d come to do, for the police to run everyone who’d stayed at the Inn tonight. And even though he’d done all that he could to eradicate his trail, eventually the fuzz would get around to putting two and two together. Then they’d show up at his grandmother’s farm with a search warrant.

  The place would be empty, but they’d find Billy Wayne’s blood on the floor and the walls, and inevitably they’d start a search for sweet little Alma’s grandson.

  Of course, by that time he’d be long gone, with a completely new identity. Maybe this time he’d make his transformation a little more final with plastic surgery.

  JR Walker, no more.

  He’d move around for a while, lose himself in city after city. After the trail had gone cold and the search died off, he’d pick a nice spot and settle down.

  Maybe get a dog.

  Kids liked dogs.

  He laughed lightly, thinking how perfect this whole thing had turned out. He’d jettisoned Billy Wayne, whom he’d been carrying like excess baggage for too many years, and he finally had the opportunity to mete out a little justice to Tate Hennessey.

  He wondered how long it would take for her to figure it out.

  She’d stood there, shaken his hand, and hadn’t had an inkling of who he was.

  He had to admit there was a little thrill in that.

  He unlocked the latches on the old piece of Samsonite, and studied the size of the space within the hard walls. She’d come awfully damn close to picking up the suitcase, and then the little bitch might have realized it was empty. And wouldn’t that have been an interesting situation? He cou
ld have played the crazy old lady card, but why make anyone suspicious before he had to?

  He ran his hand around the inside of the case. It was solid, and air might be a problem after a while, but he wouldn’t allow enough time to pass for suffocation. He’d only gotten one brief glimpse of the kid, as he was being shepherded upstairs for bedtime, because Tate hovered over him like a mother hen. Not encouraged to mingle with the guests. Blah, blah, blah. Paranoid bitch, wasn’t she?

  The boy looked like the mother, all dark hair and big green eyes.

  And he was small enough to fit in the suitcase.

  After milking the old lady – who was like most normal grandmas, and couldn’t pass up a chance to talk about her progeny – he’d discovered the kid’s name was Max.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be Max for long.

  Like JR, he’d have to undergo an identity change. And while it might be tricky at first, after a while he’d have the kid believing whatever he wanted him to. Kids his age were malleable. Vulnerable.

  Naïve.

  Soon, his mother would be no more than a bad memory. Especially after he told the kid she’d wanted him to be taken.

  Oh yeah, he was familiar with the tactics.

  A little brainwashing, a little love, a nifty little system of reward and punishment. A few months, maybe less, and the kid would be totally his.

  He laughed again, this time a little louder. Whoever said revenge was sweet didn’t know the half of it.

  CLAY fought a stomachache the entire way home.

  It could have been the pound of grease he’d choked down several hours ago, in the form of a fried fish sandwich and homemade chips, dutifully chased by at least a gallon of sweet tea. It could have been the fact that Kim volunteered to drive, and her Mario Andretti-blindfolded-and-hopped-up-on-speed style of piloting brought an entirely new dimension to motion sickness.

  Of course, more likely, it was the fact that he’d just spent the past three or four hours watching tape after tape of scared, young girls being assaulted in the worst possible way.