Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

The words his boss had uttered as he’d basically booted Clay’s ass out the door were going to be Clay’s own little incantation.  This vacation was long overdue, and given the nightmares he still suffered after having his last case blow up in his face, Clay was forced to admit he needed the break.  So for the next several days he was not Special Agent Clay Copeland, officer of the federal government.  He was Clay Copeland, beach bum.

A worthy calling.

To that end, Clay locked his badge in the glove box of his 4Runner, tucking his gun and holster into the duffel bag that he dragged from the back seat.  Eyes gritty from so many hours of staring at the road, he made his way down the oyster shell path toward what he presumed was the back door.  Justin was a man of his word, and Clay found it unlocked.

Stepping quietly into the kitchen, Clay discovered it was pretty much more of what the house had offered from the front.  At one time, a woman had lived here and left her mark.

Unfortunately, that mark was singularly ugly.

Taking in the lay of the land, Clay noted the slightly musty smell, the bumper crop of florals.  He wandered into the living room, where the deep leather sofa, recliner and large screen plasma TV indicated the reassuring presence of a male.

Clay followed the open doorway off to the right in hopes that it led to a bed.

He encountered a linen closet, a room which housed some exercise equipment, a surprisingly updated bathroom – Justin had obviously gotten started on at least some of the home improvements – and a closed door which boasted a piece of paper attached to it with a strip of medical tape.  A closer inspection revealed a scrawled message:

I’ll eat the apple if you’ll stay away.

It took Clay, in his sleep deprived state, a moment to make the connection.  “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”  He grinned, suppressing the urge to barge into Justin’s room, just on principal.  But he was too tired to mess with his friend.  There’d be plenty of time for that later.

By process of elimination, Clay determined that the door which faced the opposite direction from Justin’s must be the guest room.   The wide plank floors had been refinished, the king bed attractively adorned with a simple blue quilt.  Tasteful lamps topped washed pine nightstands, and white sailboats crossed a decorative pillow’s calm sea.

Clearly, Mrs. Wellington had already paid a visit.

Exhausted, Clay tossed his bag in a chair, toed off his sneakers, and didn’t even bother to pull the covers back before he collapsed on the bed.

The smell of coffee drew him from sleep like a penitent to a revival.  From the level of daylight seeping through the wood blinds he guessed it was sometime around noon. A glance at his watch confirmed he’d slept for four and a half hours without moving.

And without dreaming of dead little boys.

Shaking off that thought along with sleep’s vestiges, he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed.  Despite the fact that he and caffeine had an uncertain relationship lately, he couldn’t deny the allure. Seeing as this was now vacation coffee as opposed to work coffee, maybe he’d have better luck.

He shuffled toward the kitchen.

A skivvy-clad Justin was hovering over the coffee pot, dark head resting on the nearest cabinet.  Clay thought of several cruel and immature ways to gain his attention, but hell, he was crashing at the man’s house for the week, so common courtesy prevailed.  “Hey,” he drawled by way of greeting.

“Ah! Damn.” Justin cracked his head against the cabinet before turning bleary gray eyes on his friend.  “God, Clay, you scared the piss out of me.  I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Obviously.  Nice reflexes there, son.  An efficient burglar could have waltzed in and out of here and you wouldn’t have had a clue.”

Justin’s shrug was tired, or maybe just indifferent.  “Other than the TV, I can’t imagine what any self-respecting thief would want.”  Moving to take two chipped but functional mugs down from the cabinet, he proceeded to fill the first with coffee.  “Aside from that, I’m six-three, one-ninety, and I grew up with four brothers.  Self-defense wasn’t a class in my house; it was how you survived until puberty.”

Clay chuckled, accepting the steaming mug.  He’d gone through Quantico with Justin’s brother Jesse, so knew whereof the other man spoke.  “You can rest assured that you won’t be hearing any personal safety lectures from me this week.”  He took a sip of the rich dark brew while Justin poured his own.  “I’m just here for sun, surf and loose women.”

Justin grinned and motioned Clay toward the table, unconcerned about the fact that he was entertaining in his underwear.   “I wish I could help you out there, but I’ve been pretty well out of circulation for the past…  God.”  He scratched his head.  “I don’t even want to think about how long.  My little black book probably has moths.”

“Now that’s just sad.”

“Tell me about it.”  Justin took a bolstering sip of coffee.  “What about you?  I understand you’ve been pretty busy as well.”

“An unfortunate guarantee that comes with the job.” There never seemed to be a shortage of evil.

Despite all his talk, the pain of the past week was still fresh.  As a member of the Bureau’s Investigative Support Unit, he saw the very worst of human behavior, though for the most part, the victims he dealt with were beyond help.  The best he could do was help overburdened law enforcement officials narrow in on the offender by understanding the behavior.

Until last week.  When the suspect to which Clay helped lead Topeka officials took his own family hostage.  Clay’d been thrown into the role of negotiator, and even as he’d tried to talk the desperate man down, the man turned the gun on his wife and his son.

A day hadn’t gone by that Clay hadn’t heard that