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

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