The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  As he well knew. He’d seen it happen before.

  BEN’S headlights caught the unmistakable reflection of an animal’s eyes right before it darted into the road in front of him.

  “Shit.” He swerved, barely missing it. A dog, he thought. A small, brown and white dog.

  Cal’s dog.

  “Shit!” he said again with more vehemence.

  Ben shifted the SUV into park and drew his sidearm before opening the door. The dog trotted casually toward him, tail wagging.

  Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

  He started to grab his radio, call for backup, when a sound coming from the woods at the edge of the road caused him to swing his gun in that direction.

  “Police!” he said. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

  Two hands slowly rose into the air, and Ben realized that they belonged to the person lying near the trees, mostly obscured by vegetation.

  “Paulson?” a voice said. “It’s me. Wes.”

  Still cautious, Ben moved toward the woods, weapon trained on the man on the ground.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Ben demanded when he was close enough to see that it was indeed Wesley Fisher.

  “Came to talk to Cal. Left to get help. Tripped over a log. Dropped the damn dog. My head…” He lowered one hand to rest it against his forehead, but then looked at Ben. “You gotta go help him. Cal. There’s someone in the house.”

  And Ben had a good idea who that someone was. “You stay right here,” he said to Wesley. “Right here.”

  “Not going anywhere,” Wes assured him while Ben made a quick call for both emergency services and backup.

  And then he took off through the woods, which was the fastest way to reach Cal’s house.

  His grandmother’s house.

  Ben said a quick prayer that he wasn’t too late.

  INSTEAD of walking through the living room – which was the most open and therefore the most exposed room in the house – Cal went into the small, old fashioned butler’s pantry that separated the kitchen from the formal dining room. As the dining room was another room he hadn’t yet gotten around to decorating, it contained his mother’s castoff, puppy-chewed table and chairs, a hutch Cal had built, and the ever present boxes. Using them as cover, he took up position where he could see the entry hall and a small part of the formal parlor that lay on the other side of the staircase.

  The parlor was completely bare – Cal was planning to add French doors and built in bookcases and to use it for a home office – and as such didn’t make a logical place for an intruder to hide.

  Cal stared hard at the stairs. He doubted Ainsley would have voluntarily climbed them, as her ankle was giving her more trouble than she wanted to admit. And if the intruder had forced her up them, Cal imagined he would have heard the thump of her medical boot on the treads.

  That left the powder room and the little hobby room behind the staircase, which was no bigger than a large walk-in closet. From his position, Cal could just see the door.

  It stood open a couple of inches.

  He wasn’t obsessive about doors under normal circumstances, but with Beaumont in the house, he’d closed off as many rooms as possible in order to limit the damage the puppy wrought. Cal was pretty sure that door had been closed earlier.

  His jaw set, and Cal considered his options. Whoever was in that room had the superior defensive position, and was no doubt looking out for any activity from this end of the house. Cal wasn’t sure what the man had planned. If he was the one who’d run them off the road and attacked Wesley, pulling the shelves down on top of him, that suggested he was impulsive, and probably not prone to think things through.

  If he was expecting an attack from the front, he might leave his six unprotected.

  Cal decided to approach the room from outside, see if he could get a clear shot through the window. Because as much as he didn’t want any more blood on his hands, figuratively or literally, he would do whatever it took to protect Ainsley.

  Provided the bastard hadn’t already harmed her.

  Because that thought wasn’t conducive to keeping a clear head, Cal started to ease back toward the kitchen.

  Until the unmistakable sounds of a struggle stopped him in his tracks.

  Something fell over. Someone cried out.

  And Cal abandoned his plan to approach with caution.

  He rushed toward the open door.

  WHEN the man tried to press the cloth to her mouth, Ainsley resisted.

  Although really, lost it might be a far better term. Self-preservation suggested that fighting with a man who held a gun to her temple wasn’t the best idea, but an anger that was far more potent, far more primal took over. This man had admitted to killing Carly. He’d ripped her family apart. He’d taken Sabrina from her. He assuredly intended to murder her and Cal and Wesley Fisher.

  In the matter of fight versus flight, fight won out.

  Ainsley pushed off with her feet, rolling the chair backwards and setting him off balance. He stumbled, knocking into a stack of boxes and toppling them over. Something shattered.

  He grabbed her arm to steady himself, and ended up pulling her to the floor with him. The back of her head hit the hardwood, the sudden pain of it stealing her breath.

  But she quickly rolled onto her side, making a grab for the gun before he had a chance to use it.

  “Bitch,” he hissed, wrestling her for control. “I’ll kill you!”

  “No. You won’t.”

  Both of them froze as Cal’s voice seemed to fill the room, despite the fact that he’d spoken no more loudly than normal volume.

  But his tone carried a note of absolute authority, one that he’d no doubt acquired through two tours of duty, caring for wounded men under the most hostile of conditions.

  Ainsley could feel the labored breathing of the man who sprawled beside her, hot against her cheek.

  She screamed when he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up so that her body partially covered his.

  “What are you going to do?” the man said. “If you shoot me, you risk hitting her.” He clucked his tongue. “Such a dilemma.”

  “More of a dilemma,” Cal said, again in that almost frightening even tone “if I didn’t have excellent aim and a great degree of anatomical knowledge.”

  The man’s chest rose and fell, brushing against Ainsley’s back. She was afraid to move, afraid to push him over the edge, afraid to distract Cal.

  Until he caught her off guard with an unexpected laugh. “Go to hell, Elias.”

  “Been there,” Cal said. “It’s someone else’s turn.”

  Glass rained down around her as high-pitched screaming filled the air. Ainsley fell to the floor, bringing her hands up to cover her head.

  “Don’t you fucking move,” Cal said from right above her, leaning over to pick up the gun which had fallen to the floor. “Or I will finish what Paulson started. Are you okay?” he directed toward Ainsley.

  Ainsley sucked in several short breaths, and then nodded. “I think so.”

  The man lay on the floor beside her, holding onto his bloody shoulder. Ainsley jerked around, saw a shape standing outside the window, lowering his sidearm. Moonlight glinted off his fair hair, turning it silver.

  Ben.

  Sirens rent the air, but he didn’t look in their direction.

  Instead he turned away, disappeared into the fog.

  BEN knocked on the partially open door to Wesley Fisher’s hospital room before peeking around it. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Of course not,” Wes said, and then he pushed a button on the remote to turn off the TV he hadn’t appeared to be watching. He cleared his throat. “How’s the other patient?”

  “I assume you’re talking about Michael Johnson. He’ll live.”

  And Ben wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. He’d wanted, rather desperately, to blow the man’s head off. But he’d not only risked hitting Ainsley, he’d also reali
zed that if he killed Johnson, he’d likely never get answers.

  And he needed answers, rather desperately. Especially regarding Sabrina. They knew what the man had done to Carly all those years ago, but Sabrina’s fate remained uncertain. And if there was anything that allowed an emotional wound to fester, it was not knowing what happened.

  So he’d walked away. After taking the shot that disarmed Johnson, he’d had to remove himself from the scene, to trust Cal to keep the man covered until backup took over. It wasn’t the most professional thing he’d ever done, but it also saved him from making the irreversible mistake of beating Johnson to a bloody pulp before emptying his magazine into him.

  “Did he tell you anything?” Wes looked down at his hands, which clenched into fists on the bedsheet. “About Bree?”

  Ben sighed. He’d also removed himself from directly questioning the man, for obvious reasons. “He’s stonewalling right now. Lawyered up. From what I’ve been able to piece together, though, he must be the one she went to for permission to check out the old store. They were friends?”

  “Yeah. He worked across the hall, as you know. Got to be buddies. They hung out. Sometimes went to dinner or whatever when I was out taking pictures.” His voice cracked, and he looked away again. “It makes me sick. Sick to even think about the fact that he killed her sister. Your sister. I’m sorry. That he killed her, and then befriended Bree. It’s twisted. Pathological.”

  A wave of exhaustion overcame Ben. “You mind if I sit down?”

  “Oh. Of course not.”

  Ben dropped into the room’s only chair, ran both hands over his head. His hair felt stiff. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered. Or eaten.

  “There are a couple questions I have to ask you, to wrap up a few loose ends. Did you ever take any nude shots of my sister? In one of the hotel rooms?”

  Wes’s pale face reddened, and Ben held up a hand. “I’m not going to be angry. I just need to know exactly what happened.”

  “I didn’t,” Wes said. “The only nude shots I took are the ones that hang in the gallery, and those are mostly silhouettes. Uh, Bree took a couple, though. Of herself. And sent them to me. Shit.” He closed his eyes. “One time she accidentally sent one to Michael. Replied to the wrong message thread. We laughed about it, and Mike teased her for days. Is that… significant?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “Yeah, I think it is.” Because it explained how Michael Johnson had gotten ahold of the picture of Bree that he uploaded to Joe Cooper’s computer. “You and Cooper were good friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he know about my sister – Carly – did he know that Callum Elias found her photo albums and journals?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I don’t think Sabrina said anything to him. You… you think that Michael killed him. Joe. Don’t you?”

  “I think it’s a strong possibility. Joe must have known something that Johnson wanted to know, although at this point I don’t know what. Maybe they fought, it got out of hand. Johnson panicked, tried to make it look like a suicide to cover it up.”

  The only reason Ben could think that Johnson would upload the picture of Sabrina is maybe he wanted to make it seem like Bree, Cooper and Wes were involved in some sort of love triangle. It would provide motivation for Bree’s disappearance and cast suspicion on Cooper. Of course, Wes would be able to refute that argument, so he had to be gotten rid of as well. But he’d showed up at the gallery unexpectedly, and Johnson had panicked. He probably thought he’d hit Wesley hard enough to kill him.

  “Where I went,” Wes said, interrupting Ben’s thoughts. “Joe knew where I went last weekend. If Michael was trying to find me, to see if I knew where the journals were…”

  “Well, the journals were stolen.” And not by Ben’s mom. He’d made sure of that. “So Johnson had to have already gotten that information from Sabrina.”

  “And then… killed her?”

  “She would have been suspicious if they went missing from Cal’s shed after she’d told Johnson about them. Could be he wanted to eliminate both of you just to cover his bases. Cal knew about the journals, but he would have no reason to connect them to Johnson, so he wasn’t a threat.” Not until Ainsley showed up anyway, and the two of them started digging around in places that Johnson would rather they didn’t.

  Wes turned his head on the pillow, looked out the darkened window. “It kills me that I left her at the store that night. I was in a rush to get packed up for my camping trip and get some sleep so that I could leave at first light. I guess Michael showed up after I left.”

  “That might explain why Bree went ahead and checked out another abandoned property. Maybe Johnson offered to go with her. Chat her up while they were out at the old mill.”

  Wes looked back around. “Wait. I thought you found her car at the store. That was the story I heard.”

  “No,” Ben said. “It was abandoned alongside Old Mill Road.”

  Wes’s brows drew together. “That’s only about eight, nine miles from my cabin.”

  Ben slowly sat up. “Did Sabrina know about your place?”

  “Of course.”

  Ben’s heart beat just a tiny bit faster. “Where is this cabin of yours?” he said. “Exactly?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CAL commandeered one of the available wheelchairs in the lobby and pushed it toward Ainsley.

  “This will be faster,” he said when she gave him a look.

  “Good thinking,” she decided, and sat down without further argument.

  They found the admissions desk, were pointed toward the right direction. Cal wheeled her onto the elevator. As the doors closed he glanced at Ainsley, noted that her fingers were clasped together so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned white.

  He reached down and squeezed her shoulder.

  When her hand came up to rest on top of his, something settled inside him. She’d been through hell over the past week, but he thought she could now face any challenge that lay ahead of her.

  Of them.

  Because he wasn’t letting her go.

  The doors opened, and Cal followed the directional signs. The sounds, the smells of grave illness and injury made his stomach threaten to roil – he didn’t think he’d ever get past that – but Ainsley leaned her head back against him in the sort of unspoken language of support they’d developed over the past week.

  She’d faced her demons with his help, and he would face his with hers.

  The critical care unit required additional permission for access. Cal identified himself and Ainsley, was told that they were expected.

  When the doors swung open, Ben waited for them on the other side.

  Ainsley launched herself out of the chair, and was immediately caught up in his arms. Ben’s eyes squeezed closed, a lone tear leaking from one corner.

  Cal’s throat felt suspiciously tight.

  He glanced away, allowed the two of them a moment of reunion. Of all the things that had come from the events of the week, Cal thought that Ainsley’s repaired relationship with her oldest cousin was probably among the most meaningful to her.

  Life was short. And sometimes it took a near tragedy to drive that point home.

  “She’s okay?” Ainsley said, pulling back, framing Ben’s face with her trembling hands.

  “She will be. So don’t let the way she looks scare you too much, okay? Her vitals are all basically stable.”

  “Okay,” she nodded. Rubbed a hand beneath her nose. “Okay. Just let me see her. I don’t think I’ll believe she’s really alive until I do.”

  Cal hung back a little as Ben wrapped his arm around Ainsley’s waist, led her toward one of the cubicles. A nurse warned them about time limits, and Ainsley nodded before limping into the room.

  Ben stood staring at the door for a moment, and then turned around to face Cal. The other man looked worn to the bone, haggard in a way that only total physical and emotional exhaustion could bring about.


  But he also emanated quiet relief.

  “Thanks for bringing Ainsley down here.”

  They’d flown Sabrina to a higher level trauma center in Atlanta, given the fact that her dehydration and mild hypothermia were compounded by an infected bullet wound.

  Just a graze, luckily. It had been dark by the time she’d fought with Michael Johnson and fled into the woods, and his aim wasn’t the best. The bullet had torn a path across the fleshy part of her thigh, which explained the amount of blood on the shoe Ben had discovered. Much more than was warranted by stepping on a piece of glass.

  “Of course.” He nodded toward the room. “I can’t get over the fact that she hiked nine miles with a bullet wound and a bare, cut, foot.”

  “She’s a lot tougher than I gave her credit for,” Ben agreed. “And has a pretty amazing sense of direction. She’d only been to Wesley’s cabin one time. They usually met up in town, when he stayed at the hotel.”

  “He might reconsider his off the grid philosophy after this,” Cal said. “If Bree had had access to a phone, she could have called for help days ago.”

  “He’s already beating himself up about that,” Ben agreed. “But at least she had shelter. She probably would have hiked back out of there if she hadn’t been nearly delirious with fever.”

  The sound of weak laughter spilled from the room, and Cal smiled. But it faded when he turned back to Ben. “Did she say what happened? With Johnson?”

  “It was a lot like we thought. He wanted to know about the photo albums, the journals. Seemed really adamant to know if she had read them, if Wes had, or if you had. And where exactly you found them. Bree got suspicious. It seemed like more than passing curiosity. And when she attempted to leave because she felt uncomfortable, to brush him off, he tried to stop her. She kneed him in the balls and took off. He gave chase, and took a shot. Grazed her. But despite growing up in the area, he’s no kind of woodsman. She lost him. Made her way to Wes’s place.”

  “Amazing.” Cal would never think of Sabrina as a fluffy gypsy again. “So Carly must have written something damaging about Michael in the journals.”