Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (31 page)

Something inside Clay moved.

Whether his heart, his soul, his latent paternal instincts – he couldn’t decide and it really didn’t matter.  In every way other than the strictest biological sense, he had the overwhelming feeling that this child was his.

It was one of the most powerful emotions he’d ever felt.

Negotiating the toy-strewn floor, he lifted Max away from the edge of the bed, tucking the sheet in, nice and tight, around his pajama-covered bottom. Then lingered long enough to drop a kiss on one sweet-smelling cheek before backing from the room.

And very nearly bumped into Tate.

“Hey,” he whispered, surprised.  “I didn’t see you there.”

He had just enough time to catch the sheen of tears before she launched herself into his arms.  “Hey now.”  He squeezed her tight, then gently pushed her back so he could cup her face.  And rubbing his thumb across her cheek, caught the first tear as it spilled over.  “What’s this all about?”

“You,” she admitted, smiling as she swiped at her other cheek.  “If I hadn’t already fallen for you that certainly would have done it.”

Whatever had moved inside Clay began to shimmy.  Do a happy little tango inside his chest.  “I love you, Tate.”  And he said it without stuttering.  “I never believed it when people said it happened like this, but I think I was gone the moment I saw you.  In that yellow bikini, on the beach.  Trying to burn all this beautiful skin to a crisp.”

She laughed.  Cried some more.  And then took his hand to draw him with her.

“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward her bedroom.  “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes so that I can cry all over your manly chest.”  And stopping at the door, stretched up to kiss his cheek. 

“And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I love you too.”

C
HAPTER TWENTY

CLAY
considered that next morning at breakfast that he was happier than he’d ever been in his life.

Not content, merely. But actually
happy
.

Goofy happy.  The kind of happy that made other people reach for the Pepto Bismol, because they got indigestion just looking at you.

He’d found himself singing in the shower.  Of course, the fact that Tate had slipped into that steamy little enclosure with him and given him something to sing about could very well have had something to do with it.

Oh yeah.  He’d definitely gone off the deep end.  A big ole’ fat belly flop into love.

And yet here he sat, grinning like an idiot.

Max, who was firmly ensconced on his lap while they debated the merits of having syrup versus powdered sugar on their waffles, twisted around to peek over Clay’s shoulder when he heard
the squeaky hinges on the door.

Rogan Murphy – looking more disreputable than ever with his shoulder length
brown hair all loose and wet around his face; a face heavily shadowed by at least three days worth of stubble – made an appearance at the doorway to the dining room. The man’s jeans looked like they’d been through a shredder, and his T-shirt today recommended
Peace, Love and Beer.

Clay, resplendent in his newly dry-cleaned suit, frowned.

Max, sporting bed-head and Sponge Bob Squarepants pajamas, was a little more gracious with his greeting.  “Cousin Rogan!”

“Hey squirt.”  Rogan snagged a muffin and an apple from the sideboard, pulling a chair right up to their table.  And crunching noisily into the fruit, flashed a grin at Clay.  “Copeland.  Fancy meeting you here.”

Clay’s frown twisted into a rueful grimace.  He had no doubt that Rogan had known exactly what he was doing the other night.  Clay’d made a crack about bar psychology, but the joke seemed to be on him.  “You know, if you ever get sick of pulling pints, I might be able to get you a pretty good gig.”

Rogan snorted, and then laughed outright.  “Why, so I can dress like Ward Cleaver? No thanks.  But, you know,” he crunched another bite of apple, “it was nice of you to offer.”

“Cousin Rogan’s taking me to the aquarium today,” Max piped up, and reached for the powdered sugar.  He hit the bottom of the canister hard enough to send a cloud of white all over his waffles, Rogan’s wet hair, and Clay’s black suit.

“So you said,” Clay coughed, waved the powder away, and looked at Murphy through the haze.  “Max says these Thursday outings are something of a tradition.”

“Yep.”  Having finished with the apple, Rogan pulled the wrapper away from his chocolate muffin, sinking a row of white teeth into the side.  “It goes back to when the little guy was a baby.  We were all pitching in so that Tate could finish up her degree, and Thursday sort of fell to me.  I figure since he’s off to the School of Hard Knocks this year when he gets locked down in kindergarten, I better snatch my Thursdays while I can.”  He chewed, pointed the muffin at Clay.  “That’s not going to interfere with any plans you might have made now, is it?”

“No.”  It was absolutely stupid to feel jealous.  As a reasonable adult he should be happy for this man who was a pretty solid fixture in Max’s life. 

Even if he
was
teaching the kid to cuss.

But damn it, this whole
male role model
thing was new and he was kind of enjoying it.

“I’ll be working, pretty long hours, probably for the next several days.” 

“You gonna stick around after that?”  Rogan came right out and asked.

“Since I’ve ended up working this case while I was supposed to be on vacation, I’ll have a week or so coming to me when my part’s through.  And after that,” he reached around Max’s shoulders and began cutting the waffle into neat little pieces.  “I’ll be here as often as I can.”

Seemingly satisfied, Rogan nodded and worked on his muffin.  “That’s good to hear.  I got the impression you were a stand-up kind of guy.”

Clay dug into his own waffles.  “In all honesty, Murphy, I used to be the guy that trips and falls down while trying to run away.”

“That happens to me,” Max agreed “when I forget to tie my shoelaces.”

Clay and Rogan both stopped, mid bite, and looked at the child between them.  Then burst out in shared laughter. 

THE
son of a bitch was laughing.

Just sitting over there at that table, like he owned the damn place, stuffing his face with waffles.

Holding the kid on his lap.

He’d been so close –
so damn close –
to snatching the boy last night.

He’d waited, well past a reasonable hour, for the friggin’ FBI agent to show up.

When midnight had rolled around, JR thought he was in the clear.  He’d tucked the chloroform, the syringe, and a lock-pick into his pockets.  And his pistol. Just in case somebody tried to get in his way.

Except the friggin’
FBI agent
had gotten in his way.

Killing a federal cop was just asking for some serious shit.  A bullet with his name on it, discharged with “necessary force.” Or worse yet, a massive manhunt that would result in his arrest, and then he’d spend the next fifty or so years as some lifer’s girlfriend.

No.

He was not going to go to prison.  There was no way he’d end up dead on some shower floor, bleeding to death from the shank that had been shoved up his rectum.

Like Logan.

His tea cup slipped in his hand.  The china dropped to the table with a clatter, spilling the stupid-ass tea that crazy old ladies were required to like all over his
ugly dress and friggin’ support hose.

The hot liquid scalded his hand, threatening to dissolve the latex skin which covered it, and seeped into the layers of padding filling the dress.

He stifled the string of curses trembling on the edge of his lips, because
yes,
the FBI agent, his long-haired hippy-looking friend, the kid, the old lady and everyone else in the dining room were now looking at him with concern.

The FBI agent actually started to move the kid off of his lap and rise from his chair, but –
surprise, surprise –
Tate friggin’ Do-Gooder Hennessey put her hand on his shoulder to keep him down, and then hurried over with a bunch of napkins.

Concern marred her pretty face.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Walker?” She took a napkin and patted it on his lap.

Thank God for layers of padding, or else there might be some pretty interesting questions coming up.  He wanted to snatch the napkin away, and take care of the problem himself.  But hey, since the little whore was here, he might as well sit back and enjoy it.

“Thank you dear.”  He entertained visions of doing the mother in front of the kid.  Of doing the kid in front of the mother.  “I apologize for making a mess.  It seems the cup slipped right out of my hand.”

“That’s okay.”  Tate smiled at him as she blotted.  Leaning over as she was, JR could see down her shirt, and thought she’d filled out much nicer than expected.

She’d been such a gangly little thing.

Looking at him with those big green eyes, all but begging him to throw her a little action.

He should have just gone ahead and done the bitch back then, and then she wouldn’t have come to the boys’ camp that night.  Probably looking for him.  Wanting to crawl into her favorite lifeguard’s bunk for a little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. 

And Logan wouldn’t have landed in jail.  Wouldn’t have bled to death in that shower.

His hand fisted beneath the folds of his dress.

But he couldn’t get greedy, or careless, or he’d end up dead as Logan and Billy Wayne.  So as much as he’d like to do otherwise, he’d have to leave the little blabbermouth alone.  If he so much as blinked wrong in her direction, she’d run over and tattle to her boyfriend.

JR looked over, and sure enough, FBI was watching.

Making sure his little bed-warmer was safe.

He probably kept his tie on while he screwed her.

He briefly entertained a new, exciting fantasy, about pulling Tate’s head into his lap.  Blowing her head off while the FBI man watched.

But that was neither prudent, nor smart, so he reached up to pat her cheek instead.

She smiled, and then hurried off to fetch more tea.

From across the dining room, JR felt the agent’s stare. 

JOSH
Harding wasn’t a real big fan of autopsies.

He tried to approach the whole process from an entirely objective standpoint, looking at the corpse on the stainless steel table as no more than one of the anatomical dummies he’d used in his life drawing classes, but the smell made it
rather difficult.

Was there anything more nauseating than the aroma of bone dust as the medical examiner used his electric saw – which seemed
much
more appropriate at one of those Home Depot
You Can Build A Tree House
type things – to cut through what was left of a man’s cranium?

That
whirr, whirr, whirr
was almost as stomach-turning as the smell.

Josh looked up, caught Copeland’s glance from across the room, and managed a weak nod for the other man’s benefit.  No doubt the FBI agent had witnessed dozens of autopsies, and this was business as usual for him.

He probably had a bottle of
Eau de Bone Dust
that he spritzed around just for the hell of it.

Behind Josh, a door opened, and he gratefully turned toward the distraction.  Agent O’Connell entered the room, looking as cool and put together as always, though he could tell from the set of her mouth that she hadn’t enjoyed her conversation with the local Bureau honcho.  Apparently he was one of those people who didn’t believe in interdepartmental task forces, cooperation, democracy or anyone or anything that otherwise challenged his self-appointed position as God.

So far, he seemed content to let her handle the situation out in East Podunk, which was no doubt how he felt about their little town. But when the results of this autopsy came back as homicide – a given, as far as those present were concerned – there was every chance he would try to throw his weight into the investigation.  Murder, as such, was not necessarily a federal crime, but the murder of one of the main suspects in an interstate human trafficking ring had media coverage written all over it. 

And there wasn’t much that was more appealing to a glory-seeking bureaucrat than positive media coverage.

Finally, after what seemed like eons – mountain ranges eroded to plains before that damn autopsy was over – the ME pronounced that the man on the table had died from gunshot trauma to the head.

Inflicted from a distance of at least eight feet.

In short, he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

A secondary shot, fired at point blank range, was responsible for the powder residue on the man’s fingers.

And speaking of fingers – boy wasn’t this fun? – it turned out that the dead man’s fingerprints had been removed with a razor.  All except for a partial thumbprint.  The thumbprint might give them just enough to be able to run the man through AFIS, but it would make the search both longer and less conclusive.