The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  And that tree house, despite being located in the massive oak in Gloria Mayhew’s back yard, by equal rights belonged to the four Murphy children because it was their father who had built it. It was simply an unfortunate accident of timing that Sadie had been coming down the ladder when Declan desired to go up, and now here they were, squaring off over a stupid snake.

  She almost wished she’d put a pillow over him and smothered him back when she had the chance.

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you, Murphy.” Sadie drew herself up to her full height, which unfortunately wasn’t all that impressive.

  Declan waggled his eyebrows and sidled closer, forcing her to scratch her sweat-dampened skin against the bark. “Come on, Sadie. It won’t bite. It’s just a harmless little snake out of my mamma’s garden. She doesn’t even let my dad kill this kind because she said they discourage pests.”

  Well if that was true, then why hadn’t the dumb thing discouraged Declan? Because she was pretty sure if you looked in the dictionary under “pest,” you were bound to find his ugly mug.

  Deciding she’d had enough of his particular brand of irritation for the day, Sadie located her backbone and thrust out her fingers. The move was lightening quick, and Declan blinked as if he wasn’t quite sure what had happened.

  “There. I touched it.”

  His brows drew together under the thick fall of his hair. “That doesn’t count, Sadie.” He was sounding a bit discouraged. Probably because he hadn’t managed to make her run screaming from the scene in terror, which was the obvious goal of this little exercise. Then a solitary brow arched heavenward, the only body part with aspirations, and his tongue darted over his lips. “Do it again,” he ordered, in some new voice she didn’t recognize. It was like he was trying to sound like some of the high school boys who worked over the summer at his parents’ downtown Charleston restaurant – Murphy’s Irish Pub.

  One side of Sadie’s face scrunched up as she regarded him with suspicion.

  “No.” It was pretty succinct, as far as answers went. Then he did that licking thing again, and Sadie drew back in alarm.

  “Touch the snake, real slow-like, or else you’re gonna have to kiss me.”

  “I’d rather kiss the snake,” she told him, before thinking.

  Declan looked disgruntled, but then grinned as evilly as always. “That can be arranged.”

  Before Sadie could prepare to defend herself, the snake was thrust toward her face. She had a fleeting image of lurid green scales and forked tongue and beady little eyes before the thing made contact with her lips. The touch was less than fleeting, but for Sadie that was more than enough to send her shrieking into full-blown hysterics. She trampled right over Declan, who’d been weakened by his own fits of laughter, and left him writhing on the ground like the snake that he was as she shot back toward her house. Her screams rent the still summer air, drowning out the cicadas which had been chirping languidly and the sound of Declan’s guffaws. Somewhere down the street a screen door banged as some concerned neighbor came to investigate the ruckus, but her own house remained placidly oblivious because her Granny was deaf as a post.

  Sadie shut down the siren only after she’d made it to the safety of the wide back porch, where she turned, panting and furious, toward the tree house. “I’ll get you, Declan Murphy!” she promised, her little face red and twisted with rage. “One of these days, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get you good!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  EDWARD “Skeeter” Cooper shook like a brown leaf in a stiff autumn wind as he ducked behind the aisle of packaged snack foods. A Moon Pie fell off the end of the display, landing in a noisy crinkle of plastic wrap at his feet. Terrified beyond reason, he inadvertently stepped on the thing as he scuttled closer to the metal shelving, causing the creamy white filling to shoot out like a preservative-laden bullet. The packaging succumbed to the pressure from the assault and tore open with a noisy pop!

  Skeeter nearly wet himself as he dropped down to all fours.

  Nothing like drawing even more attention to himself by acting like a brainless idiot.

  How the Marshall brothers had managed to find him, he had no earthly idea. But then Brady – the younger of the two but indisputably the most intelligent – had always been real good at figuring stuff out. And he’d worked for that private investigator for a while, too, which undoubtedly afforded him an edge.

  But damn it, he thought that he’d been playing things smart. Skeeter had been real careful not to contact any of their mutual friends – well, except for one old girlfriend, but there was no way Josie would have given him up – and had moved around for weeks on end, alternating between crashing at fleabag motels and sleeping in his car at parks and rest stops. He’d run fast and far, backtracked, and even set up a false trail by using his credit card at some places near Macon, knowing that the statement would be coming in the mail at home and that Brady would be smart enough to check it. If, that is, Brady didn’t know how to track the transactions by some sort of hocus pocus with the computer. Because that thought had entered Skeet’s mind, he’d quickly headed east toward the coast, stopping for a while in Myrtle Beach before making his way to Charleston. There the cash he’d withdrawn from his bank account had just about run out, and he’d realized he needed to stop darting around like a scared jackrabbit and get together some kind of plan. A plan that never again would involve driving the getaway car for his thieving buddies.

  He never would have agreed to such a thing if he’d had any idea what would happen.

  Sucking in a breath and pulling his denim cap down to hide his distinctive white blond hair and wildly freckled face, Skeet peeked around the Moon Pies toward the register. Wilson – the older Marshall brother and the brawn of the operation – was reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, his thick fingers opening his wallet. He pulled out some bills which he extended toward the convenience store cashier, a bubblegum-snapping teenager who wore her boredom like a trendy accessory. Wilson didn’t bother looking behind him. His deep-set brown eyes stayed focused on the rack of Boat and Auto Traders displayed beside the counter, and the hope that maybe this was just a horrible coincidence began to pierce Skeet’s cloak of terror.

  Sweat trickled from beneath the brim of his cap as he eased himself back to his feet.

  It was conceivable that Brady and Wilson had no idea he was here. Neither of them had given any indication of awareness, and Wilson was now thumbing through the selection of used pickups for sale while he waited for the teenager to make change. There was no doubt that they’d somehow followed his trail to Charleston, but Skeet was starting to think that maybe they hadn’t followed him here. They had no idea that they’d just alerted their prey to their presence by stopping at this particular BP.

  Skeet emitted a soft sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow. If he hadn’t had a hankering for some processed bakery snacks he might never have known they were in town. He would have just gone about his business, innocent as a lamb, and they’d probably have slaughtered him in his sleep.

  The image hit way too close to home for comfort.

  Visions of the bloodstains he’d never quite been able to eliminate from his car seats caused fresh sweat to break out along his collar.

  As he waited for Wilson to conclude his business and get out, Skeet planned what he had to do. He obviously couldn’t stay at the place he’d been subletting from Josie’s brother, a National Guardsman who’d been called up to active duty. But coincidentally that lease was about to run out. The rental lady had been leaving messages on the machine wanting to know if he was going to renew it, and while he’d been considering that very option, it was clear now that he had to get out.

  It wouldn’t take him long to head back across the river into Mount Pleasant, and pack up what few things he’d left in the closets and stashed in the cupboards, the most important being that for which Brady and Wilson were now chasing him.

  Of course he’
d hidden that really well. Someplace no one would ever think to look.

  All this for a stupid necklace.

  He should just FedEx it back to them and be done.

  But it didn’t belong to them. It belonged to the family of that little old lady whom he hadn’t known they were going to murder.

  A deep sigh threatened to break from him as Skeet looked toward the uncertain future. He had nowhere left to run now and no one he could turn to. His ready cash was pretty much gone and his credit cards already frozen for nonpayment. He needed to find some work, but wasn’t sure how to go about getting any without using his real name and social security number. Before this, his jobs had always been on the up and up.

  And besides that, Skeet knew the Marshall boys wouldn’t stop huntin’ him until they’d recovered what he’d taken from them– the reasons behind which were still not entirely clear to him, even now. He’d just been so… angry. So scared and so angry that they’d lied to him and made him a part of the terrible thing they’d done. Maybe he wanted to teach them a lesson. Maybe extract a small bit of justice.

  Maybe he was just a dumb, dumb man who had no clue why he’d ever done anything.

  But the fact was the necklace was worth too damn much money for them to just call it a loss. Not to mention that he was an end they couldn’t afford to leave dangling loose – no one else could tie them neatly to the robbery/murder which had so shocked the small town of Beaufort. Skeet thought again about seeking out the police, but he was terrified of the consequences. He didn’t want to go to jail. And even if they offered immunity for testimony rendered it wouldn’t guarantee his safety. There were a lot of people angry over the brutal, senseless murder in which he’d inadvertently played a part.

  Maybe he could just send the police an anonymous tip, try to fence the necklace and adios down to Mexico. But he didn’t speak Spanish, and the idea of living in a foreign country made him uncomfortable.

  He hated life on the lam.

  Shifting on the soles of his worn-out Reeboks, Skeet dared another peek at the counter. Wilson had left and the skinny clerk was studying her nail polish while Auld Lang Syne piped from the store’s speakers in a tinny tribute to the season. Relief shivered through him. Scary as the thought of turning himself in might be, the prospect of running into his pursuers was even worse. After what had gone down back in October, he knew exactly what they were capable of, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Forgetting about the craving for chocolate cupcakes which had drawn him into the store in the first place, Skeeter edged his way toward the front window where he could survey the parking lot. An old Buick Regal sat under the glare of lights out by the pump, a harried-looking woman shivering beside it as she filled her tank, but other than that the lot was empty. A string of leftover Christmas lights, half darkened, wrapped the jagged trunk of the palmetto that divided the lot from the next door Popeye’s. Skeet tried to see if his old pals might have had a hankering for some popcorn chicken, but from his current angle he couldn’t quite make out the fast food chain’s customers.

  Sensing the teenager’s eyes upon him, Skeeter straightened and did his best not to look suspicious. The last thing he needed was some dumb clerk calling the cops, dragging him into more hot water than that in which he was already boiling.

  Grabbing a bottle of soda from the reachin cooler beside him, Skeet ambled up to the counter and offered the young girl his best trust me smile.

  “That’ll be a dollar and six cents,” she said warily, clearly not swayed by the smile. Quite possibly because sweat was trickling down his face and it was hovering just under fifty degrees outside.

  “Here you go, darlin’. Keep the change.” Skeeter handed over a couple of crumpled dollar bills. He thought of his car, parked to the side of the building near the outdoor ice machine, and thanked the good Lord that Brady and Wilson wouldn’t recognize it. He’d done a slightly illegal upgrade of his vehicle recently, leaving his car in long term parking at the airport in Columbia while switching his plates to the Explorer he’d temporarily… borrowed.

  He’d been real, real careful to obey the posted speed limits and all other moving vehicle regulations in his travels from city to city.

  But now he needed to get to his car, and walking through the front door of this neon-bright convenience store just didn’t seem like a good plan.

  “You got a rear exit on this place?”

  “Down that hallway. To the right. You need to use the john back there or something? Cause they’re located outside in the back.”

  “That’s right.” He grabbed the excuse and ran with it. “Do I need a key or anything?”

  “Do I look like I care about who’s using the men’s room?”

  He didn’t even bother to come up with an answer. “Thanks,” he mumbled instead, easing toward the rear hallway that the little smart-mouth had indicated.

  Marching quickly past some stacked-up boxes of new stock and peeling posters regarding minimum wage and various OSHA regulations, Skeeter pushed the metal door, pulling the collar of his corduroy jacket around his neck against the chilly kiss of night air. He glanced around furtively, holding the door open in case he needed to retreat. Failing to see any visible threat in the dimly lit square of broken blacktop, he let it close behind him on a squeaky hiss. The faint scent of cigarette smoke clung to the air, probably from the sullen store clerk’s non-regulation smoke break, and mixed with the odor of grease permeating the Popeye’s and the barely discernible smell of history.

  Charleston was a nice city, and he hated to leave it behind.

  Maybe he should head north, get lost in a big city like Boston or even New York, though he wasn’t sure he could stand the cold.

  Shrugging it off as something to think about later, Skeeter headed toward the Explorer.

  When the skin beneath the collar of his jacket began to prickle, his feet automatically slowed and then stuck to the pavement as if they’d been glued.

  Breathing in shallow pants, he darted a nerve-wracked look toward the nearby dumpsters, where he could have sworn he’d sensed a movement. And peering at the ugly brown containers, debated between advance and retreat.

  Could he make it to his vehicle in time?

  Did the back door open from the outside, anyway?

  Deciding these questions were too much for his short-circuited brain, Skeet ordered his feet to move forward, just as a loud clang sounded from the nearest dumpster, followed by caterwauling and a nasty hiss.

  A big old tabby scrambled past with some kind of spoil clutched between its teeth, followed shortly by another tom.

  He’d been frozen in place by the imminent threat from a pair of cats.

  “Good God, Cooper. Get a grip.” With a laugh that was only a little bit maniacal, Skeet gripped his drink and set off toward the car.

  “Edward,” said the man who stepped from the shadows. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  This time, Skeet did wet his pants, if only just a little. Throwing the full bottle of soda in the general direction of Brady’s dark head, he turned in a quick one-eighty, running smack into Wilson’s chest. Like a limp noodle thrown at a wall, he stuck there for a moment, before sliding into a cowering heap.

  Wilson hauled him up by his corduroy jacket.

  “Boys,” he squeaked, pathetically. “How we doin’?” Wilson’s breath smelled like Big Red and onions. He looked a little like Lurch Addams hopped up on steroids, with less outward charm and personality.

  “We’ll be doing a hell of a lot better, my friend, when you give us back the property you stole.”

  Trying to appear calm and reasonable despite the fact that his oxygen intake was severely restricted, Skeet managed a nod, and refrained from pointing out the fact that the property in question was already stolen. “I can get that for you,” he croaked at Brady. “No problem.”

  Wilson let go of the death-grip but kept a hand on Skeeter’s collar.

  Brady laughed, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Where�
��s the necklace, Skeeter?”

  Tongue darting at his cracked lips, Skeet realized he had no saliva to wet them. Maybe if he stalled around just long enough, somebody would come to use the restroom. He hadn’t seen a gun or anything yet, which improved his chances considerably. If just one witness showed up, the boys would surely back off, and Skeet could hightail it to his car.

  But Brady didn’t seem inclined to be patient. After a nod from his brother, which was obviously a signal of some sort, Wilson produced a shiny switchblade with his free hand.

  “We can do this easy or we can do this hard,” Brady said equably, and Skeeter shuddered. “Give us what we want, now, and Wilson kills you quickly. Make me have to repeat myself and he does it slow.”

  The very ease with which he laid out the options made gorge rise in Skeet’s throat. “That’s it?” he managed, half-jokingly. “Those are my choices?”

  Brady smiled, but the joke was on Skeet.

  “It…it’s n-not here.” Eyes fixed on the knife, he considered the best lie. “It’s in a safe deposit box in Columbia. The kind you can’t open unless I’m there with identification.”

  The knife plunged into his side.

  Through the ungodly, burning pain – the very shock of what had just happened – Skeeter tried to scream, but Wilson’s hand crushed against his windpipe. A blurred version of Brady stepped close enough to feel his heat.

  “Don’t lie to me, Edward. You’re too much of a fool not to have kept it with you. Now tell me where exactly in this city you’ve been hiding or Wilson will aim the knife a little lower and you’ll part company with your balls.”

  Just then, another loud ruckus kicked up near the Dumpster, and Wilson loosened his grip on Skeeter’s throat while Brady jumped backward. Skeet took advantage of the momentary distraction to bring his knee up into Brady’s own scrotum. He fell back further and Skeet shot forward, the knife leaving a trail of fire as he went. Knowing he’d never make it as far as the Explorer, he hurled himself through the nearest door. It was one of the restrooms, and he leaned against the door and locked it.