Lovely, Dark, and Deep (The Collectors)

by Susannah Sandlin

  The phone buzzed again before she reached her vehicle, again from “Private Caller.” “Forget it,” she muttered, unlocking the door of her five-year-old silver pickup 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 it, 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 10:00 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 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 truck’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 finally spotted the machine, half-hidden by a display of Pop-Tarts, and swiped her debit card through its 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 paused over the debit card and decided not to use it, just in case the problem was with the card and not the debit machine. Instead, she pulled out a Visa and handed it to the clerk. “I think your ATM might be torn up again.”

  “It’s those dang kids. Can’t keep nothing working around here.” 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’d been spared the humiliation of being turned down for a room at the Sleep Inn because of a declined card. 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 truck, she locked the doors, reached under the seat, and pulled out the gun she took on gator calls. She didn’t use it to shoot alligators; she carried the gun in case a poacher or backwoods yahoo decided to hassle her.

  She laid it on her thigh within easy reach, and looked at the dashboard clock. It was almost 10:00, 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. He doesn’t like to be told no.”

  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 embarrassing to have your cards turned down, wasn’t it?”

  The thread of fear that had stretched taut through Gillian since the first phone call finally snapped, and she fought the urge to crawl under the floorboard and hide. Who the hell were these people? Where were they hiding?

  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 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, not to mention her common sense. She would not be bullied. “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 hearing 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.

&nb
sp; “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 Holly, that sweet little niece of yours?”

  Gillian froze, and a layer of gauze fell into the space between her and the world outside. The laughter of the teenagers in the parking lot grew tinny and muffled. Colors faded and dulled. Her own voice came out reedy and two pitches too high. “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? Sweet little thing, too. One of my associates saw her down in Fort Lauderdale today; sent me a photo, in fact, from the Rainbow Road Preschool. She looks a lot like you.”

  “You wouldn’t touch her.” 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.”

  “We won’t—as long as you cooperate. 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.”

  CHAPTER 2

  He wasn’t sure what woke him, but the first thing Shane Burke saw when he cracked open his eyelids was the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, tipped over and resting on its side. He could’ve sworn he finished it off last night but there was at least an inch of rich amber liquid still resting inside.

  Good. Now he didn’t have to wonder what he’d have for breakfast.

  The second thing he saw was a great pair of legs. Well, technically, a great pair of ankles above a pair of leather sandals, and then the legs.

  Obviously, he was starting his Saturday morning with hallucinations.

  Only one good solution for that. He dangled an arm off the side of his bed and almost had his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle when one of the leather sandals kicked his buddy Jack Daniel’s under the bed, clipping his hand in the process.

  “Ow.” Hallucinations didn’t take his booze and kick him in the knuckles.

  Ignoring the throbbing in his hand and the stabs of hangover agony behind his eyeballs, Shane rolled onto his back and squinted at the rest of his nonhallucination.

  Shoulder-length hair that fell in a sheen of dark chestnut brown, fair skin, fierce brown eyes, red lips compressed in a tight line, black skirt and white blouse, big briefcase-style purse. Had he picked her up at Harley’s last night? If so, he had to cut back on the sauce.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I forgot your name.” Pity, ’cause she was a hot little number, way classier than the regulars at Harley’s. It’s not like he got laid so often that he could afford to forget it when he did.

  “We haven’t met.” She propped her hands on her hips and muttered something that sounded like, “And you’re supposed to help me?”

  Help her with what? Wait, maybe she was a charter. Had he chartered The Evangeline out to a tour group or fishing party today? Surely he’d remember if there was money coming in.

  Color him officially confused. He struggled to a seated position and gave her another look. “What am I supposed to help you with?”

  She crossed her arms and raked a ball-shriveling gaze the length of his body. “I came here to offer you a job, but I don’t think you’re up to it.”

  He tugged the sheet up in self-defense. “I’m not at my best. Ever consider making an appointment? Not dropping in at the crack of dawn?” He had no idea what time it was but it couldn’t be that late.

  “It’s past noon. And I didn’t figure, given your financial situation, that you’d be so picky about what time of day someone offered you money.” She shook her head. “Never mind. This was a mistake.”

  She banged her head on the low doorway out of the master cabin, which served her right, the sanctimonious shrew.

  Shane eased himself to a standing position and waited to see if last night’s bourbon was going to make a reappearance or if he might topple over. Neither happened. Today would be a good day.

  By the time he’d shuffled into the postage-stamp-sized bathroom, taken a leak, and brushed his teeth, he’d remembered the reason for last night’s bender. Not that he needed a reason, but last night he’d had one. First Bank and Savings, said a guy named Ralph (who bore an uncanny resemblance to a bullfrog), had grown tired of waiting for Mr. Burke to get current on his payments on The Evangeline. First Bank and Savings, so sorry, would need back payments in full within thirty days or the boat would be foreclosed on and put up for sale.

  First Bank and Savings, so sorry, could go screw themselves.

  Shane splashed water on his face, studied the dark-blond stubble on his chin, and decided not to shave. The bristle looked good with his bloodshot green eyes. Plus, he needed to get used to looking like a beach bum. If the bank took The Evangeline—which wasn’t just his boat but was also his home and his meager livelihood—he’d be doing any future shaving on a park bench or in the community bathroom of a shelter.

  Shit. How was he going to put his hands on almost a hundred grand in a month?

  He jerked open the bathroom door and almost fell over the brunette. “I thought you left.” He edged around her. “You’re taller than I thought.”

  “I reconsidered.” The edge of her mouth quirked. “You’re wearing more chocolate than I thought.”

  They both looked down at his boxers, black and covered with images of red foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses. “They were a gift,” he said. A total lie; he’d found them on eBay. “Think you could wait for me on deck?”

  “Good idea.” The woman’s cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He doubted whatever job she had to offer would pay enough to satisfy the bullfrog at First Bank and Savings, but on the off chance that she was an heiress in need of a washed-up trawler captain, he’d dust off his manners and put on pants.

  He watched her climb the steps and disappear through the hatch. Nice ass, but kinda wobbly on those sandals, which had silly narrow heels. Either she wasn’t used to wearing them or the sight of his man-candy had upset her sense of balance. Stranger things had happened. Probably.

  Shane pulled on jeans and a white Way Key Marina t-shirt, waved a comb in the vicinity of his hair, and decided to make it a shoes-optional day. At the end of the passageway, he climbed the short stairway and exited onto the deck.

  The woman stood near the stern, looking oddly comfortable despite being overdressed for a weekend on the water. Around The Evangeline, the smallest of Cedar Key’s three marinas was busy. Tourists bustled on and off the boats as they returned from a morning of fishing and diving or embarked on afternoon cruises around Seahorse Key or to one of the beaches.

  Yesterday’s storm had left the sky blue and bright and cloudless. Shane closed his eyes to enjoy the warmth of sunlight against his eyelids, then took a deep breath of salt-tanged air to clear his head. Gulls cawed as they trolled the area for food, and the water lapped gently against the sides of the boats.

  Damn it, he couldn’t lose this, especially when he could blame only himself, his bad attitude, and his inability to forget the past. He might not deserve the peace he’d found here, but he didn’t want to throw it aw
ay like he’d tossed aside everything else in his life. Running away, trying to emulate dear old dad, had grown tiresome.

  “There’s nothing like it, is there?” The woman’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts. She’d walked to within a few feet of him but still looked out at the water off the stern. “I always feel like I’ve stepped into a time warp when I come here. I know it’s been rebuilt a few times after hurricanes blew in, but they always build it back the same, and I love that. I doubt Cedar Key looked very different fifty years ago.”

  Shane smiled. “I totally agree.” He held out his hand and, when she took it, said, “Shane Burke. But I guess you knew that since you came looking for me. Sorry about…” He jerked his head in the vicinity of the door.

  “Gillian Campbell.” She glanced up at the windows of the pilothouse. “Can we go up there and talk? I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”

  He hated to break the news to her, but everyone at the marina had places to go and people to talk to. No one gave a crap about his business except his first mate, Jagger, who had to have his hangover behind the tour-booking counter at the marina by 8 a.m.

  But Shane could play cloak-and-dagger if she wanted. “Sure, after you.”

  He deliberately didn’t look at her ass as he followed her up the steps to the pilothouse, which he thought showed a great deal of professional restraint just in case he did go to work for her. “There’s a little office area to the left, and we can talk there. Or we can sit in the captain’s chairs if you want to enjoy the view.”

  The Evangeline pilothouse was high and made for comfort; ironically, he’d bought the forty-seven-foot trawler after she’d been foreclosed-on down in Tampa. Before that, she’d been foreclosed-on in Louisiana, which explained the name. She deserved better than she’d gotten in terms of owners.

  “It’s a nice ship.” Gillian looked around at all the honey-stained birch and sat at one of the two wooden chairs beside a small table laden with charts and maps. He swept them into a sloppy pile, gathered an armload, and dumped them on the floor. Then he took the chair opposite her.