Gillian laughed. “Look, that’s just a family legend, and what I said on the show is all I know about it. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Oh, you’ll help me, honey.”
Honey? She might be a state employee with a responsibility to be polite to the public, but she didn’t have to listen to sexist cowboy stalkers. “I assure you, I can’t help. Good night, sir, and please don’t call again.”
It had to be the damned Campbell curse. As long as she could remember, her grandparents and parents—and now Gillian herself—had blamed old Duncan Campbell and his thieving ways for anything that went amiss, from a hangnail to a creepy phone call.
The phone buzzed again before she reached her car, again from “Private Caller.” “Forget it,” she muttered, unlocking the door of her seven-year-old Jeep and tossing her bag on the passenger seat. Another buzz told her the jerk had left a message. Private Caller needed to get a life.
She stared at the phone a moment, knowing she should just erase the message, but curiosity trumped common sense. She jabbed at the screen and turned up the volume. “As I was trying to explain before you cut me off, Ms. Campbell, I represent someone with a keen interest in acquiring the ruby cross you talked about in your little TV interview.”
The voice paused so long Gillian had her finger poised over the “Erase” button when he spoke again. “That car accident your friend Ms. Ortiz had? I hope it got your attention. I’ll call back at ten p.m., and honey, this time I suggest you answer.”
Silence weighed heavily as adrenaline raced through Gillian’s system. She used her elbow to lock the driver’s side door, then leaned across the seats to lock the others. Was he here somewhere, watching?
Her fingers trembled as she retrieved the list of recent calls on the phone, and she stared stupidly at “Private Caller.” Surely it was a sick prank. Maybe the guy worked at the hospital. Maybe he’d watched that silly television interview and recognized her when she came in to visit Viv. Maybe he was watching her now, from a window or from the deep shadows the hospital’s single outdoor light didn’t reach.
The afternoon’s storm had moved out quickly, as storms in Florida usually did, but a dense layer of clouds remained to blot out the moon and stars. The parking lot of the small hospital was nearly deserted, and the drive from Williston back to Gillian’s trailer halfway to the coast was over dark, two-lane roads through dense forest. If experience proved true, there would be no other traffic.
You’re being an idiot. All the same, she double-checked the Jeep’s door locks before shoving the key into the ignition and turning it. She’d grab a snack from the convenience store down the street, drive home, and watch the Home Shopping Network or QVC in Viv’s honor. She’d not let a crackpot phone call ruin her day. If he called again, she’d contact the county sheriff’s office.
At the Stop-N-Go near the high school, she parked in front of the entrance, unable to shake the willies. She shouldn’t let a call like that creep her out, but she couldn’t quiet the nagging voice that told her to get a hotel room at the Sleep Inn down the street. Spend the night here where there were people around and drive the twenty miles home in the daylight, when people would have their RVs on the roads, heading for a long weekend at the beach.
Two other cars sat in the Stop-N-Go lot. One had a foursome of teenagers hanging around outside it, laughing and drinking beer and flirting. The other was empty and probably belonged to the store clerk. Taking a deep breath, Gillian got out of the car and waved at the kids as she walked into the store and looked around for the ATM.
“Over in the back corner.” The clerk squinted through orange-framed cat-eye glasses almost the same color as the thinning hair that floated in tufts around her head. “It’s been tore up, but we finally got ’er fixed today.”
“Thanks.” Gillian eventually spotted the machine, half-hidden by a display of Pop-Tarts, and swiped her debit card through the machine’s reader.
Terrific. Transaction Declined; Please Contact Financial Institution.
“Damn you and your curse, Duncan Campbell. Give me just one freaking break.” She tried again, with the same results.
Obviously, the ATM wasn’t fixed after all. She walked down the aisle of junk food and finally settled on a bag of tortilla chips, taking it to the counter along with a jar of her favorite chunky salsa. She’d eat it in Viv’s honor while TV shopping for the biggest, most garish ring she could find. Viv would love it.
She handed her debit card to the clerk. “Sorry, the machine’s still not working.”
“It’s those dang kids. Prob’ly tore it up already.” The woman rang up the chips and salsa, then stared at the register screen, shaking her head. “Sorry, but your card’s been declined. You wanna pay cash or put the stuff back? Don’t feel bad about it; happens all the time.”
The store clerk continued to pop gum while she talked, a skill Gillian figured she’d been honing for years. At least she didn’t look judgmentally at the customer with the rumpled T-shirt and jeans, not to mention the droopy ponytail, whose bank had declined her five-dollar purchase of junk food.
The woman might not be judgmental, but the exchange didn’t stop Gillian’s face from heating with embarrassment. She’d gotten paid yesterday and had used the card to buy gas this morning, so what was up with her bank? She fished her wallet out of her bag and said a prayer of thanks when she found four one-dollar bills and some quarters jammed into the zippered coin compartment.
On the bright side, at least she knew not to stop at the Sleep Inn. If she stayed in Williston tonight, the only “sleeping in” she’d be doing would be in her vehicle, which settled that internal debate. She’d be driving home.
Back in the cocoon of the Jeep, she locked the doors and stared at the phone. It was almost ten o’clock, and she had to decide whether or not to answer the crackpot’s call—and she was pretty sure he would call. If nothing else, he sounded like a persistent crackpot.
When the ringtone sounded, right on time, she took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders before answering. “All right, who are you? What is it you want?” No point in pretending she didn’t know it was him.
“Who I work for doesn’t matter, lady. What matters is that the individual who employs me is serious and has a lot of reach.”
Reach?
“Meaning what? He runs innocent women off the road because he wants some ancient relic that probably doesn’t exist?”
“Oh, it exists, or you better hope it does.” The man paused, and Gillian thought she heard the sound of a radio or television in the background, something with a canned laugh track. It only made the conversation more surreal. “Kinda humiliating to have your debit card turned down, wasn’t it?”
The thread of fear that had stretched taut through Gillian all evening finally snapped, and she fought the urge to crawl under the floorboard and hide. Who the hell were these people? Where were they hiding? Watching.
Her spine tingled as if a line of ants were marching down it. “What do you want from me?”
She needed to get to the Williston PD. Find out how to trace private numbers. Surely there had to be a way the police could do it.
“We want the Templars’ cross. I thought I made that clear,” the man said. “You have thirty days to find it and deliver it, and then you can have your life back. We might even give you a little something for your trouble.”
A laugh escaped her before Gillian could stop it. Tex, as she’d come to think of him, was clearly insane, which didn’t make him any less dangerous. “Thirty days. Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m deathly serious, Ms. Campbell, and you’d do well to remember it.”
Gillian’s temper finally overrode her fear and, probably, her common sense. “Look, Tex. Here’s a reality pill for you to swallow. First, that whole story about my ancestor and the Templars’ cross? It’s a family tall tale I remember hear
ing as a kid. There’s no proof it’s true. It’s probably been exaggerated and embellished so many times over the generations that any bit of truth in it has been lost.
“Second, even if it were true, Duncan Campbell was lost in a freaking shipwreck in the sixteenth century.
“Third, even if I knew where the ship went down, how the hell would I go about finding something that’s been on the bottom of the ocean for four hundred years?”
Her outburst was met with a long silence. Good. She’d made her point.
“That’s why you have thirty days,” the man finally said. “So I suggest you take a leave of absence from those alligators of yours and get busy.”
Yeah, she’d get busy all right, with the police department and the phone company. “Here’s what I suggest, both for you and whoever you work for: go fuck yourselves. And you can quote me on that.”
“That’s what you want me to tell that sweet little Holly Bryant?”
Gillian froze, and a layer of gauze seemed to pad the space between her and the world around her. The laughter of the teenagers in the parking lot grew tinny and muffled. Colors faded and dulled. Her own voice came out reedy and thin. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me. Surely after what happened five years ago, you don’t want to be responsible for the death of another little kid, do you? Your niece is what, three years old now? Sweet little thing, too. One of my associates saw her down in Lauderdale today—sent me a photo, in fact, from the Rainbow Road Preschool.”
“You wouldn’t.” No one could be fanatical enough to hurt a child, especially over something this stupid. She wanted to scream, to rant, to cry out at the heavens, but her mouth had grown so dry she could barely swallow. Only one strained syllable came out. “Please.”
“Good. Finally, I think we understand each other. I’ll call in the morning with instructions.” Tex’s voice became obscenely cheerful. “This phone can’t be traced, so don’t bother. Talk to the police, and you’ll find our retribution fast and ugly.
“And if you talk to that little niece of yours, you tell her the pink dress she wore to day care today—the one with the kittens on the front? That was real, real cute.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I owe a great big “thank-you” to agent Marlene Stringer, who gives new meaning to the phrase “works tirelessly.” Thanks to JoVon Sotak and the awesome team at Montlake Romance for the faith and the hard work—you guys are the best! Special thanks to alpha reader Dianne, who dispenses good advice in a gentle way (even though she still doesn’t read paranormals); Debbie, who is always asking, “Got anything new for me to read?”; and my friends in the Auburn Writers Circle—Julia, Larry, Mike, Pete, Robin, and Shawn—who are not only fine writers but also can always make me laugh.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Studio 16, 2013
Susannah Sandlin is a native of Winfield, Alabama, and has worked as a writer and editor in educational publishing in Alabama, Illinois, Texas, California, and Louisiana. She currently lives in Auburn, Alabama, with two rescue dogs named after professional wrestlers (it was a phase). She has a no-longer-secret passion for Cajun and French-Canadian music and reality TV, and is on the hunt for a long-haul ice road trucker who also saves nuisance gators. Susannah is also the author of the award-winning Penton Legacy paranormal romance series: Redemption, Absolution, and Omega; the spinoff paranormal romance, Storm Force; and The Collectors, a romantic suspense series beginning with Lovey, Dark, and Deep. As Suzanne Johnson, she writes the Sentinels of New Orleans urban fantasy series.
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