Illusions of Death (4 page)

Karlyn froze. Her father was a man of few words. And he’d said he was proud of her.

“Is this your idea of a deathbed confession that’ll make you look good to God and get you into heaven?”

Broderick Campbell snorted. “Never one . . . mince words.”

She shrugged. “I guess since I’ve never received a compliment from you, it’s a little hard to buy it now.”

“I . . . read . . . it all.”

Even slurred, she understood the words perfectly.

“You’ve read all my published works? All the rubbish?”

A pained look crossed his face. “Jealous,” he croaked.

They sat in silence a few minutes, her hand still atop his, his words turning in her mind.

Finally, he spoke again. “I like . . . Matt. He’s tough . . . but . . . good. Your plots . . . good. Make readers . . . think.”

His breathing seemed more labored to her. His words became harder to understand.

“Not good father. Never . . . wanted. You . . . stand on own. Make success. You . . . good.”

Karlyn squeezed his hand. Words of love might have been what other daughters wanted, but for the amazing Broderick Campbell to praise her writing meant more to her than any other declaration.

“I’m glad you like my work, Father.”

His eyelids fluttered a few times. “Better . . . me. Take care . . . Martha.”

The monitor screeched wildly.

Chapter 7

Logan awoke to the smells of bacon frying in the diner below. His stomach growled in response. He glanced at the clock and smiled. He’d made it past six-thirty today. That was a good sign. Too many nights over the last few years had been long and sleepless. Cases he worked kept him up all hours of the night, second-guessing who the perp was, what he might be up to, and how to stop him.

Then endless nights came calling when no cases simmered on the front burner. Those nights wore him out. They always involved images of the twins. Or replaying the bitter arguments with Felicity in the months after the funeral.

Logan threw the covers back and hit the shower. He intended to enjoy this off-duty Saturday. Taking his motorcycle out and roaming the countryside topped his agenda.

As he dressed, he wondered how Broderick Campbell had fared. Maybe he would zip by the hospital. He chuckled at his mom trying to rope Mrs. Campbell into book club. Maybe she didn’t join because the group never read any books. They paid a retired schoolteacher to give book talks once a month on the latest bestsellers so they wouldn’t have to read. Instead, after their guest speaker did her thing, the women shared a potluck dinner and gossiped like fishwives about the thickening plots surrounding the Springs—rumors about possibly affairs, cheating businessmen, and disrespectful teens.

His mom and Nelda spilled the beans regarding everything they’d heard at book club, whether real or imagined. And women thought men were bad with their poker nights.

Logan debated on toasting some English muffins and firing up the coffeemaker but decided it would be quicker to eat downstairs. Some mornings he liked privacy and chose to make his own breakfast. Today he was ready to eat and escape on his bike.

He lifted a leather bomber jacket from the coat rack and slung it over his shoulder as he made his way downstairs. The place only had a handful of customers. He climbed onto a barstool, and Nelda poured him a cup of coffee.

“Eggs? Pancakes?”

“I’ll take French toast and bacon. Tall OJ with it.”

“You got it.” She turned the order in to Leon, the morning fry cook. Leon worked the A.M. shift because he only knew how to cook breakfast foods. He could whip up omelets and hash browns and the finest eggs over-easy around, but diner staples such as fried chicken and meatloaf baffled him.

Logan waved at Leon and sweetened his coffee. Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. Chief Risedale stood behind him.

“Morning, Chief.”

Risedale grabbed a stool. “We gotta talk.” His tone was quiet but urgent. The policeman turned to Nelda. “Two sunny side ups, sausage, biscuits and gravy, please. And coffee.”

Risedale made small talk till both men had their meals in front of them.

“Okay, Logan. I’m officially out of the race. If I want to stay married to Louise, I’m not running.” He glared at Logan’s grin. “And no, I’m not pussy-whupped. I tend to agree with my wife in order to keep the peace. You’ll need to declare by the Wednesday after next at noon. Get a petition with a minimum of five hundred registered voter names on it. Once someone signs one, he can’t sign for another candidate in the same race.”

Logan nodded. “If I decide, I can get the names.”

Risedale mopped up a bite of biscuit drenched in gravy. “Seth Berger picked up a form yesterday. With today being Saturday, he’ll be out in full force. Probably hitting up Little League parents at the park and women doing their shopping at Ralph’s.”

Logan waved a hand. “It’s a few hundred names, Chief. The Springs has over forty thousand here.”

“That’s not the point. Seth’ll get his name out there first. People think about the race, and they’ll think Seth Berger.” Risedale paused. “I don’t want my town to belong to Seth Berger.”

Logan frowned, interested that the chief had feelings similar to his regarding the detective. “What do you have against Berger? Besides the fact he looks like a skinny weasel.”

Risedale shrugged. “Can’t say. Man does his job, but he seems sneaky to me. I’ve never trusted him.” He clapped Logan on the back. “Now you, I trust. Why, I don’t know.”

He grinned. “Maybe it was those
For Sale
signs we put in Miss Galaway’s yard back in middle school after she gave me a C in math? Or possibly you catching me drinking beer with the Baptist preacher’s daughter when I was sixteen? Or could it have been—”

“—the Nekkid Jaybird Race you organized your senior year in high school?” Risedale interrupted. “Seems like you should be the last person in charge of my town, Logan Warner, but you finally grew up. Made something of yourself. You’re good people. Folks respect you. And they’ll vote for you.”

“But I’ll have to put forth some effort.”

Risedale stood. “You got that right.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket and handed them to Logan.

“Here’s what you get your signatures on, the back pages. The front one is typical name, address, occupation. Get it in before the deadline.”

“Chief, I still haven’t decided if I want to run.”

Risedale eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking about it days are over. Shit or get off the pot.” He placed a ten on the counter and walked away without another word.

Logan shook his head. Did he want the bureaucratic problems that came with a job like this one?

No. But he sure didn’t want Berger in charge of anything. He had the same sense the chief did of Seth Berger. Something was a little bit off, a little bit untrustworthy.

Logan put his tip on the counter and pulled on the leather jacket. He craved a long ride. He’d let his mind float and see how he felt when he returned home.

Karlyn put her foot down.

“Mother, you’re going home. Now. Here are the keys to my rental.”

“But Karlyn, what if—”

“You’re exhausted. You’ve spent forty-eight hours at this hospital. I don’t think you’ve gotten more than two hours of sleep total. Go home. Get a hot bath. Take a long nap and then come back here for dinner.”

From a window, she pointed out the candy-red BMW convertible parked in the third row and promised to notify her mother if any changes occurred before she pressed the elevator button and practically shoved her mother into it.

Back in the waiting room, she noticed she could return to her father’s room in another fifteen minutes. She stretched her legs out. Her joints ached from sitting so much the last few days—on the plane, in the car, and now at the hospital.

Broderick had died yesterday afternoon. The crash cart team arrived within half a minute and shooed her out of the room as they worked on him. They got his heart started again and attached a breathing apparatus to him, but the doctor told them that things didn’t look good. He refused to give them a timeframe, though. She hoped sending her mother home was the right thing to do under the circumstances, but she didn’t want her to collapse from exhaustion.

She rubbed her eyes, gritty from her own lack of sleep. And when was she supposed to work on the screenplay? The deadline loomed over her. Tackling a new form of writing was exhilarating, but she didn’t know if she had the feel for something this complicated in so short a time.

If she stayed in Walton Springs beyond a few days, she would call Chris Stevenson. He was an experienced scriptwriter whom the studio had offered to help her if she ran into any roadblocks with the first draft. She’d spoken to him twice on the phone since she’d begun her draft. He’d been helpful, getting her back on track with a few key suggestions. Ironically, he worked from his home in Atlanta. Maybe he could drive up for a few days if she got further behind schedule.

“Miss Campbell?”

Karlyn looked up to see a man in his mid-thirties standing a few feet away. Tall with thick, dark hair and wary green eyes that probably saw more than they should. Instinctively, she pegged him as a cop. A very hot cop. So hot that she was ready to renege on her promise of avoiding men for the next decade.
That
kind of hot.

“Yes?” She rose, but she still had to look up a good distance to meet his eyes.

He offered her his hand. “Logan Warner. I’m a detective from Walton Springs. My partner and I came across your dad a couple of days ago.”

“You’re the ones who called the ambulance? Thanks.”

Logan looked down at the petite, slender blond. Her tone didn’t sound thankful. It was more on the weary side. He guessed she’d been worn to a frazzle spending the last few days at the hospital. But even a tired Karlyn Campbell took his breath away.

Without meaning to, he blurted out, “Your book jackets don’t do you justice.” He wanted to kick himself, acting like a star-struck fan—and sounding like he was hitting on her. Both were way out of character for him.

She ignored his comment. “If you came by to check, my father is in poor condition. He suffered another stroke yesterday. He hasn’t regained consciousness.”

“Were you with him when it happened?”

Her emerald green eyes drilled into him. Logan shuffled self-consciously under her scrutiny.

“I mean, he asked for you. I hope you got to speak with him.”

“I did.” Her gaze softened. “He said he liked my writing.”

Logan chuckled. “Your dad and about a bazillion other fans.”

A strange look crossed her face. He didn’t know how to interpret it. He read people well, from defenses in college to perps in interrogation rooms, but Karlyn Campbell proved to be an enigma.

He filled the silence. “I enjoy your books. For a civilian, you have police procedure down pat. Your dialogue rings true. Even from a male point of view. I guess you try it out on your husband,” but as his words tumbled out, he noticed her finger empty of a wedding band.

He could swear her bio said she lived in New York City with her artist husband. He had an eye for detail, but apparently, that status had changed since he devoured the last Matt Collins book.

She rubbed her ring finger absently and then caught herself doing it. She quickly dropped her hand.

“I do my own research and writing, Detective. No help from anyone. Especially not a spouse or my father.”

Jeez, she was prickly. But that only intrigued him. He couldn’t say what it was, but for the first time in years, a woman held his attention.

She glanced at her watch. “It’s time to visit my father.” As she turned to go, Logan saw the indecision cross her face.

She turned back, her tone softening. “Since it’s intensive care, we can only visit for the first five minutes of the hour.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you for coming. I’ll tell Mother you stopped by. She bragged on how nice you were to her.”

And then Karlyn Campbell walked away. Logan ran a hand through his hair and watched perfection in motion as she moved down the corridor.

What the hell had happened here?

Chapter 8

Karlyn awoke with that yucky taste. The one that said she’d drunk too much bad coffee and not brushed her teeth in more hours than she cared to remember. She turned and saw her mother curled into a small ball on the rock-hard couch of the hospital waiting room.

All she wanted to do was leave. That hospital smell hung heavily in the air and clung to her skin. She wanted a long, hot shower and a real bed and a piping hot cinnamon dolce latte with as heavy a whip as she could get.

She began pacing the corridor, the subtle beep of machines permeating the quiet. She wondered how much longer Broderick would hold on.

It didn’t cause her guilt to think so. Her time of aiming to please him ended too many years ago. He remained a stranger to her. She stayed for her mother, though she had no true bond with the woman who gave birth to her. Her mother always chose her husband before her child, so flagrantly that Karlyn hadn’t known how odd that was until she left home.

Death hovered around the corner. She wondered what kind of funeral Broderick had mapped out. He paid meticulous attention to details. Naturally, he would have planned his service, especially after the first stroke.

Karlyn nodded to the night nurse at the station as she passed and returned to the waiting room. Her mother still slept. No others were present. Four families had come and gone since she’d arrived. Two left joyfully for rooms on other floors. The other two departed in tears, off to make funeral arrangements.

It was time again for the hourly visit. She decided not to interrupt her mother’s rest and entered her father’s room.

Machines dominated the small space. A breathing tube helped him along after the last setback. Karlyn shivered at the Darth Vaderesque noise filling the room. She sat next to the bed. Didn’t take his hand. Couldn’t. She wasn’t the little girl aching for Daddy’s approval anymore.

Besides, he gave it to her when they last spoke.

She thought about his precise handwriting that filled pages of legal tablets, with additions captured in the margins and huge passages deleted with a black marker. That’s what Graydon Snow, his long-time editor, received—a manuscript next to impossible to read—but anything from the sacred mind of Broderick Campbell was like manna from heaven in the book world. Somehow Snow crafted it into a readable form, and a novel appeared, gracing the top of the bestseller list before it even shipped.

As an unpublished author, her experience differed wildly. From formatting to grammar to engaging characters and an enticing plot, she’d aimed for perfection with that first manuscript. She realized fortune smiled upon her when her work got pulled from the slush pile.

A small part of her wished she’d chosen a pen name. When her connection to Broderick came out, she downplayed it, repeating in numerous interviews that she wanted to be judged on her own merit. Fortunately, readers wanted exciting plots, fearless characters, and surprise endings. Karlyn learned how to deliver all three with a bang, no matter what genre.

Karlyn looked at her father, the elder sage of the literary world. Sitting here did nothing for either of them. She would insist her mother take the next visit.

Suddenly, the machine screeched, piercing the quiet.

Logan helped Loretta Cankins from the car. One hand clutched his wrist in a death grip, her eyes wide and frightened.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Cankins. We’re at ER. The doctors will check you over. We’ll take a few pictures of your injuries.”

“Pictures?”

“Yes, ma’am. To document what happened. We’ll file the complaint. A warrant will be issued for Mr. Cankins’ arrest.”

Her bruised and bloody lips trembled. “He won’t hurt me no more?”

“No, ma’am.” Logan led the assault victim into ER while Brad parked the car.

He spotted a wheelchair and helped lower her into it. She grimaced, holding her ribs. When they’d arrived, Vernon Cankins was kicking the hell out of his wife on the front lawn.

The police were familiar with Vernon’s drinking and quick fists. Uniforms went regularly to the Cankins’ house, but Loretta never would press charges. Her injuries usually occurred below the neck—out of sight and easier to hide.

Tonight had been different. Vernon started by using her face as a punching bag. Logan doubted if they’d be able to save her left eye. She also had missing teeth. One arm hung awkwardly, probably broken. Part of him wished the law would allow Loretta to repay Vernon with the same injuries. That would be justice.

As he pushed her to admissions, she said quietly, “I was leaving him. That’s why he snapped. Said I wouldn’t leave the house alive.” She attempted a grin. “I did leave that house alive. I made it to the front yard.”

“You’ll make it the rest of the way, ma’am,” he assured her.

They reached the check-in desk. The clerk had Loretta whisked away. Logan pulled a nurse aside to let her know it was a domestic violence case and what they would need. She assured him the patient would be handled with kid gloves and treated like a princess.

Brad joined him. “Got out the APB on Vernon. I told them to start with his favorite watering hole. I’m sorry he slipped past me. Trying to give chase in Gucci loafers is not a great idea.”

He shifted the camera in his hand. “How long till we see her?”

“It might be a while.”

Brad shuddered. “Did you see her eye? What kind of guy would do that to someone he loves?”

Logan shrugged. He’d never understood violence in general and domestic violence, in particular. Not in Atlanta and especially not here in the Springs. Growing up, Walton Springs seemed to be an idyllic community. Now that he worked for law enforcement, he witnessed the dark underbelly present that could be found in every city.

His thoughts turned to Karlyn Campbell. She’d been in the back of his mind since they’d met. Maybe he’d run up and see how her father was doing.

“I’m going to head over to ICU for a few minutes. Get the photos. I doubt we’ll be able to get a statement now. I have a feeling Loretta’s going to need some fast work and plenty of strong meds.”

“Mr. Campbell?”

He nodded. “Yeah. As long as we’re here, I thought I might check. I won’t be too long.”

Brad gave him a wave and grabbed a seat. Logan hit the elevator bank.

When the doors opened, his gut told him he saw too much activity for this time of night. He hurried down the hall and spied Karlyn and Martha Campbell huddled together.

He stood a moment and decided to leave. It looked as if Broderick Campbell was in crisis. He didn’t need to invade the family’s privacy.

Then his eyes met Karlyn’s. They shone like large emeralds. Drawn to them, his feet automatically stepped toward her.

Staff in scrubs began filing out of the room. Martha Campbell edged closer to the door, but he and Karlyn remained locked eye to eye. Logan sensed a doctor coming out, taking Martha’s elbow and leading her back to Karlyn.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Campbell. His heart gave out.”

The older woman wrapped her arms around her daughter and cried softly. Karlyn remained dry-eyed, staring up at Logan.

The doctor touched Karlyn’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Campbell. You’ll need to see the desk nurse regarding making arrangements.”

The physician left. Martha pulled away from her daughter and entered the room. Logan watched as she went to her husband and fell across the bed, dissolving into tears. He looked back at Karlyn.

Without hesitation, she walked to him. Logan folded her into his arms.