Allegiance (The Penton Vampire Legacy) (30 page)

More from Susannah Sandlin

Read on for a sample chapter of
Lovely, Dark, and Deep
, the first book in a new romantic suspense series by Susannah Sandlin.

  
CHAPTER 1
 

G
illian tripped on the threshold of the ICU doorway, attracting a small flurry of alarmed nurses. By the time she assured them she was a habitual klutz and not a terrorist or the crazed lunatic family member of a patient, she’d eaten up a considerable chunk of the paltry half hour set aside in the evening for visitors.

Not that Viv knew she was here. Gillian tugged the heavy wooden chair closer to the bed, using her thumb to stuff a tuft of padding back into the ripped mint-green vinyl seat. For the first few seconds, she tried to comprehend the beeping machines and wires and IVs holding her best friend together.

Not just her friend. Vivian Ortiz was her neighbor and mother figure, dispenser of wisdom and light beer and home remedies to get rid of fire ants. She was also the only other woman Gillian knew who was crazy enough to live in a single-wide trailer at the edge of a wildlife reserve in hurricane country.

They’d been separated at birth, only in different generations, Viv always said.

Gillian took her friend’s hand, which looked naked and frail minus its normal assortment of oversized rings, most purchased from one of those TV shopping channels Viv was addicted to. Tears pressed heavily against the backs of Gillian’s eyes. Vivian was warm and full of life, not hot and dry like this husk of skin.

She whispered the question the sheriff’s deputy couldn’t answer: “What the hell happened?”

Viv couldn’t answer, either. She could only lie there, her eyes closed, dark lashes resting on her cheeks, her warm olive skin pale against the sterile white sheets under fluorescent lighting. An automobile accident, the deputy had told Gillian after finding her phone number in Viv’s purse and tracking her down. Viv had plowed into a tree not a mile from her trailer, scattering groceries across Highway 24 near the old Rosewood Baptist Church. A one-car accident, the officer said, but a blinding rain had been coming down about the time it happened.

Vivian was the slowest, most cautious driver Gillian had ever met. They laughed about it, about how Viv said if God meant people to go fast, he wouldn’t have invented middle-aged women and old men. About how, especially if one of Florida’s afternoon storms was in full force, Vivian’s car could be outrun by a slow-moving gator.

A bell sounded from somewhere near the two monitors sitting on the desk outside the glassed-off cubicles, announcing the end of the day’s last visitation period.

A nurse in green scrubs waved at Gillian and pointed toward the door, ready to spend her evening hovering over the monitors, watching to see if Viv or the person in the other cubicle, so old and wrinkled Gillian couldn’t even determine a gender, might need transferring from the county’s little hospital here in Williston to Ocala or even Gainesville. Waiting to see which patient’s condition descended from stable to critical, or rose from serious to stable. These categories didn’t mean much when held up beside a pale face, closed eyes, shallow breathing, and hot, dry hands.

Gillian stopped in the hallway and dug in her pocket for quarters to plug in the soda machine, giving a startled jump at the buzz of her phone vibrating in her jeans pocket. She didn’t recognize the area code, and the screen read “Private Caller.” Since she was the only licensed nuisance-gator trapper in the county, “on call” was a constant state unless she found another trapper to cover for her. Alligators couldn’t care less that Labor Day weekend was imminent or that Viv was hurt.

She sat in one of the three plastic chairs in the waiting area and scrambled in her shoulder bag for a pen and pad in case she needed to write down an address, then hit the “Talk” button. “Campbell.”

“Is this the Gillian Campbell who was on the
Noonday Chat
show a few days ago?” The man spoke with a deep baritone that had a Southern twang—not a twang from the Deep South or from Louisiana, but maybe Texas or Oklahoma.
Jeez-Louise
, she hoped he wasn’t some whacked-out stalker.

“Yes, it is. Can I help you?” His answer to that question would determine whether she ended the call or kept listening.

“I want to talk to you about that ruby cross, the one your ancestor lost.”

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.”