ERICA SPINDLER
IN SILENCE
"The
crudest lies are often told in silence." -Robert Louis Stevenson
ISBN
1-55166-699-5
IN SILENCE
Copyright ©
2003 by Erica Spindler.
All rights
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All
characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author
and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They
are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the
author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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First
Printing: June 2003 10 987654321
PROLOGUE
The one
called the Gavel waited patiently. The woman would come soon, he knew. He had
been watching her. Learning her schedule, her habits. Those of her neighbors as
well.
Tonight she
would learn the price of moral corruption.
He moved
his gaze over the woman's darkened bedroom. Garments strewn across the matted
carpeting. Dresser top littered with an assortment of cosmetic bottles and
jars, empty Diet Coke and Miller Lite cans, gum and candy wrappers. Cigarette
butts spilled from an overflowing ashtray.
A pig as
well as a whore.
Twin
feelings of resignation and disgust flowed over him. Had he expected anything
different from a woman like her? An alley cat who bedded a new man nearly every
night?
He was
neither prude nor saint. Nor was he naive. These days few waited for marriage
to consummate their relationship. He could live with that; he understood
physical urges.
But
excesses such as hers would not be tolerated in Cypress Springs. The Seven had
voted. It had been unanimous. As their leader, it was his responsibility to
make her understand.
The Gavel
glanced at the bedside clock. He had been waiting nearly an hour. It wouldn't
be long now. Tonight she had gone to CJ's, a bar on the west side of town, one
frequented by the hard-partying crowd. She had left with a man named DuBroc. As
was her MO, they had gone to his place. To the Gavel's knowledge, this was a
first offense for DuBroc. He would be watched as well. And if necessary,
warned.
From the
front of the apartment came the sound of the door lock turning over. The door
opening, then clicking shut. A shudder moved over him. Of distaste for the
inevitable. He wasn't a predator, as some might label him. Predators sought the
small and weak, either to sustain themselves or for twisted self-gratification.
Nor was he
a bloodthirsty monster or sadist.
He was an
honorable man. God-fearing, law-abiding. A patriot.
But as were
the other members of The Seven, he was a man driven to desperate measures. To
protect and defend all he held dear.
Women like
this one soiled the community, they contributed to the moral decay running
rampant in the world.
They were
not alone, of course. Those who drank to excess, those who lied, cheated,
stole; those who broke not only the laws of man but those of God as well.
The Seven
had formed to combat such corruptions. For the Gavel and his six generals, it
wasn't about punishing the sinful but about maintaining a way of life. A way of
life Cypress Springs had enjoyed for over a hundred years. A community where
people could still walk the streets at night, where neighbor helped neighbor,
where family values were more than a phrase tossed about by political
candidates.
Honesty.
Integrity. The Golden Rule. All were alive and well in Cypress Springs. The
Seven had dedicated themselves to ensuring it stayed that way.
The Gavel
likened individual immorality to the flesh-eating bacteria that had been in the
news so much a few years back. A fisherman had contracted necrotizing fasciitis
through a small cut on his hand. Once introduced to the body, it ate its
covering until only a putrid, grotesque patchwork remained. So, too, was the
effect of individual immorality on a community. His job was to make certain
that didn't happen.
The Gavel
listened intently. The woman hummed under her breath as she made her way toward
the back of the apartment and the bedroom where he waited. The self-satisfied
sound sickened him.
He eased to
his feet, moved toward the door. She stepped through. He grabbed her from
behind, dragged her to his chest and covered her mouth with one gloved hand to
stifle her screams. She smelled of cheap perfume, cigarettes. Sex.
"Elaine
St. Claire," he said against her ear, voice muffled by the ski mask he
wore. "You have been judged and found guilty. Of contributing to the moral
decay of this community. Of attempting to cause the ruination of a way of life
that has existed for over a century. You must pay the price."
He forced
her to the bed. She struggled against him, her attempts pitiable. A mouse
battling a mountain lion.
He knew
what she thought-that he meant to rape her. He would sooner castrate himself
than to join with a woman such as her. Besides, what kind of punishment would
that be? What kind of warning?
No, he had
something much more memorable in mind for her.
He stopped
a foot from the bed. With the hand covering her mouth, he forced her gaze down.
To the mattress. And the gift he had made just for her.
He had
fashioned the instrument out of a baseball bat, one of the miniature,
commemorative ones fans bought in stadium gift shops. He had covered the bat
with flattened tin cans-choosing Diet Coke, her soft drink of choice-peeling
back V-shaped pieces of the metal to form a kind of sharp, scaly skin. The
trickiest part had been the double-edged knife blade he had imbedded in the
bat's rounded tip.
He was
aware of the exact moment she saw it. She stilled. Terror rippled over her-a
new fear, one born from the horror of the unimaginable.
"For
you, Elaine," he whispered against her ear. "Since you love to fuck
so much, your punishment will be to give you what you love."
She
recoiled and pressed herself against him. Her response pleased him and he
smiled, the black ski mask stretching across his mouth with the movement.
He could
almost pity her. Almost but not quite. She had brought this fate upon herself.
"I
designed it to open you from cervix to throat," he continued, then lowered
his voice. "From the inside, Elaine. It will be an excruciating way to
die. Organs torn to shreds from within. Massive bleeding will lead to shock.
Then coma. And finally, death. Of course, by that point you will pray for death
to take you."
She made a
sound, high and terrified. Trapped.
"Do
you think it would be possible to be fucked to death, Elaine? Is that how you'd
like to die?"
She fought
as he inched her closer. "Imagine what it will feel like inside you,
Elaine. To feel your insides being ripped to shreds, the pain, the
helplessness. Knowing you're going to die, wishing for death to come
swiftly."
He pressed
his mouth closer to her ear. "But it won't. Perhaps, mercifully, you'll
lose consciousness. Perhaps not. I could keep you alert, there are ways, you
know. You'll beg for mercy, pray for a miracle. No miracle will come. No hero
rushing in to save the day. No one to hear your screams."
She
trembled so violently he had to hold her erect. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"This
will be your only warning," he continued. "Leave Cypress Springs
immediately. Quietly. Tell no one. Not your friends, your employer or landlord.
If you speak to anyone, you'll be killed. The police cannot help you, do not
contact them. If you do, you'll be killed. If you stay, you'll be killed. Your
death will be horrible, I promise you that."
He released
her and she crumpled into a heap on the floor. He stared down at her shaking
form. "There are many of us and we are always watching. Do you understand,
Elaine St. Claire?"
She didn't
answer and he bent, grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her face up toward
his. "Do you understand?"
"Y-yes,"
she whispered. "Anythi…I'll do…anything."
A small
smile twisted his lips. His generals would be pleased.
He released
her. "Smart girl, Elaine. Don't forget this warning. You're now the master
of your own fate."
The Gavel
retrieved the weapon and walked away. As he let himself out, the sound of her
sobs echoed through the apartment.
CHAPTER 1
Avery
Chauvin drew her rented SUV to a stop in front of Rauche's Dry Goods store and
stepped out. A humid breeze stirred against her damp neck and ruffled her short
dark hair as she surveyed
Her absence
hadn't changed Cypress Springs at all, she thought. How could that be? It was
as if the twelve years between now and when she had headed off to
If they had
been, her mother would be alive, the massive, unexpected stroke she had
suffered eleven years in the future. And her father-
Pain rushed
over her. Her head filled with her father's voice, slightly distorted by the
answering machine.
"Avery,
sweetheart… It's Dad. I was hoping…I need to talk to you. I was hoping-"
Pause. "There's something… I'll…try later. Goodbye, pumpkin."
If only she
had taken that call. If only she had stopped, just for the time it would have
taken to speak with him. Her story could have waited. The congressman who had
finally decided to talk could have waited. A couple minutes. A couple minutes
that might have changed everything.
Her
thoughts raced forward, to the next morning, the call from Buddy Stevens.
Family friend. Her dad's lifelong best friend. Cypress Springs' chief of
police.
"Avery,
it's Buddy. I've got some…some bad news, baby girl. Your dad, he's-"
Dead. Her
dad was dead. Between the time her father had called her and the next morning,
he had killed himself. Gone into his garage, doused himself with diesel fuel,
then lit a match.
How could
you do it, Dad? Why did you do it? You didn 't even say-
The short
scream of a police siren interrupted her thoughts. Avery turned. A West
Feliciana Parish sheriff's cruiser rolled up behind her Blazer. An officer
stepped out and started toward her.
She
recognized the man by his long, lanky frame, the way he moved and held himself.
Matt Stevens, childhood friend, high-school sweetheart, the guy she'd left
behind to pursue her dream of journalism. She'd seen Matt only a handful of
times since then, most recently at her mother's funeral nearly a year ago.
Buddy must have told him she was coming.
Avery held
up a hand in greeting. Still handsome, she thought, hatching him approach.
Still the best catch in the parish. Or maybe that title no longer applied; he
could be attached now.
He reached
her, stopped but didn't smile. "It's good to see you, Avery." She saw
herself reflected in his mirrored sunglasses, smaller than any grown woman
ought to be, her elfin looks accentuated by her pixie haircut and dark eyes,
which were too big for her face.
"It's
good to see you, too, Matt."
"Sorry
about your dad. I feel real bad about how it all happened. Real bad."
"Thanks,
I…I appreciate you and Buddy taking care of Dad's-" Her throat
constricted; she pushed on, determined not to fall apart. "Dad's
remains," she finished.
"It
was the least we could do." Matt looked away, then back, expression
somber. "Were you able to reach your cousins in
"Yes,"
she managed, feeling lost. They were all the family she had left-a couple of
distant cousins and their families. Everyone else was gone now.
"I
loved him, too, Avery. I knew since your mom's death he'd been…struggling, but
I still can't believe he did it. I feel like I should have seen how bad off he
was. That I should have known."
The tears
came then, swamping her. She 'd been his daughter. She was the guilty party.
The one who should have known.
He reached
a hand out. "It's okay to cry, Avery."
"No…I've
already-" She cleared her throat, fighting for composure. "I need to
arrange a…service. Do the Gallaghers still own-"
"Yes.
Danny's taken over for his father. He's expecting your call. Pop told him you
were getting in sometime today."
She
motioned to the cruiser. "You're out of your jurisdiction."
The
sheriff's department handled all the unincorporated areas of the parish. The
Cypress Springs Police Department policed the city itself.
One corner
of his mouth lifted. "Guilty as charged. I was hanging around, hoping to
catch you before you went by the house."
"I was
heading there now. I just stopped to…because-" She bit the words back;
she'd had no real reason for stopping, had simply responded to a whim.
He seemed
to understand. "I'll go with you."
"That's
really sweet, Matt. But unnecessary."
"I
disagree." When she tried to protest more, he cut her off. "It's bad,
Avery. I don't think you should see it alone the first time. I'm following
you," he finished, voice gruff. "Whether you want me to or not."
Avery held
his gaze a moment, then nodded and wordlessly turned and climbed into the
rented Blazer. She started up the vehicle and eased back onto
Her father
had chosen the hour of his death well-the middle of the night when his
neighbors were less likely to see or smell the fire. He'd used diesel fuel,
most probably the arson investigators determined, because unlike gasoline,
which burned off vapors, diesel ignited on contact.
A neighbor
out for an early-morning jog had discovered the still smoldering garage. After
trying to rouse her father, who he'd assumed to be in bed, asleep, he had
called the fire department. The state arson investigator had been brought in.
They in turn had called the coroner, who'd notified the Cypress Springs Police
Department. In the end, her dad had been identified by his dental records.
Neither the
autopsy nor CSPD investigation had turned up any indication of foul play. Nor
had any known motives for murder materialized: Dr. Phillip Chauvin had been
universally liked and respected. The police had officially ruled his death a
suicide.
No note. No
goodbye.
How could
you do it, Dad? Why?
Avery
reached her parents' house and turned into the driveway. The lawn of the 1920s
era Acadian needed mowing; the beds weed-ing; bushes trimming. Although early,
the azaleas had begun to bloom. Soon the beds around the house would be a riot
of pinks, ranging from icy pale to deep rose.
Her dad had
loved his yard. Had spent weekends puttering and Planting, primping. It all
looked forlorn now, she thought. Over-grown and ignored.
Avery
frowned. How long had it been since her father had tended his yard? she
wondered. Longer than the two days he had been gone. That was obvious.
Further
evidence of the emotional depths to which he had sunk. How could she have
missed how depressed he had grown? Why hadn't she sensed something was wrong
during their frequent phone conversations?
Matt pulled
in behind her. She took a deep breath and climbed out of her vehicle.
He met her,
expression grim. "You're certain you're ready for this?"
"Do I
have a choice?"
They both
knew she didn't and they started up the curving drive-way, toward the detached
garage. A separate structure, the garage nestled behind the main house. A
covered walkway connected the two buildings.
As they
neared the structure the smell of the fire grew stronger- not just of wood
smoke, but of what she imagined was charred flesh and bone. As they turned the
corner of the driveway she saw that a large, irregularly shaped black mark
marred the doorway.
"The
heat from the fire," Matt explained. "It did more damage inside.
Actually, it's a wonder the building didn't come down."
A
half-dozen years ago, while working for the Tribune, Avery had been assigned to
cover a rash of fires that had plagued the
Avery and
Matt reached the garage. She steeled herself for what would come next. She
understood how gruesome death by fire was. Matt led her to the side door.
Opened it. They stepped into the building. The smell crashed over her. As did
the stark reality of her father's last minutes. She imagined his screams as the
flames en-gulfed him. As his skin began to melt. Avery brought a hand to her
mouth, her gaze going to the large char mark on the concrete floor-the spot
where her father had burned alive.
His suicide
had been an act of not only despair but self-hatred as well.
She began
to tremble. Her head grew light, her knees weak. Turning, she ran outside, to
the azalea bushes with their burgeon-
ing
blossoms. She doubled over, struggling not to throw up. Not to fall apart.
Matt came
up behind her. He laid a hand on her back.
Avery
squeezed her eyes shut. "How could he do it, Matt?" She looked over
her shoulder at him, vision blurred by tears. "It's bad enough that he
took his own life, but to do it like that? The pain…it would have been
excruciating."
"I don't
know what to say," he murmured, tone gentle. "I don't have any
answers for you. I wish I did."
She
straightened, mustering anger. Denial. "My father loved life. He valued
it. He was a doctor, for God's sake. He'd devoted his life to preserving
it."
At Mart's
silence, she lashed out. "He was proud of himself and the choices he'd
made. Proud of how he had lived. The man who did that hated himself. That
wasn't my dad." She said it again, tone taking on a desperate edge.
"It wasn't, Matt."
"Avery,
you haven't been-" He bit the words off and shifted his gaze, expression
uncomfortable.
"What,
Matt? I haven't been what?"
"Around
a lot lately." He must have read the effect of his words in her expression
and he caught her hands and held them tightly. "Your dad hadn't been
himself for a while. He'd withdrawn, from everybody. Stayed in his house for
days. When he went out he didn't speak. Would cross to the other side of the
street to avoid conversation."
How could
she not have known? "When?" she asked, hurting. "When did this
start?"
"I
suppose about the time he gave up his practice."
Just after
her mother's death.
"Why
didn't somebody call me? Why didn't-" She bit the words back and pressed
her trembling lips together.
He squeezed
her fingers. "It wasn't an overnight thing. At first he just seemed
preoccupied. Or like he needed time to grieve. On his own. It wasn't until
recently that people began to talk."
Avery
turned her gaze to her father's overgrown garden. No wonder, she thought.
"I'm
sorry, Avery. We all are."
She swung
away from her old friend, working to hold on to her anger. Fighting tears.
She lost
the battle.
"Aw,
Avery. Geez." Matt went to her, drew her into his arms, against his chest.
She leaned into him, burying her face in his shoulder, crying like a baby.
He held her
awkwardly. Stiffly. Every so often he patted her shoulder and murmured
something comforting, though through her sobs she couldn't make out what.
The
intensity of her tears lessened, then stopped. She drew away from him,
embarrassed. "Sorry about that. It's…I thought I could handle it."
"Cut
yourself some slack, Avery. Frankly, if you could handle it, I'd be a little
worried about you."
Tears
flooded her eyes once more and she brought her hand to her nose. "I need a
tissue. Excuse me."
She headed
toward her car, aware of him following. There, she rummaged in her purse,
coming up with a rumpled Kleenex. She blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes, then
faced him once more. "How could I not have known how bad off he was? Am I
that self-involved?"
"None
of us knew," he said gently. "And we saw him every day."
"But I
was his daughter. I should have been able to tell, should have heard it in his
voice. In what he said. Or didn't say."
"It's
not your fault, Avery."
"No?"
She realized her hands were shaking and slipped them into her pockets.
"But I can't help wondering, if I had stayed in Cypress Springs, would he
be alive today? If I'd given up my career and stayed after Mom's death, would
he have staved off the depression that caused him to do…this? If I had simply
picked up the pho-"
She
swallowed the words, unable to speak them aloud. She met his gaze. "It
hurts so much."
"Don't
do this to yourself. You can't go back."
"I
can't, can I?" She winced at the bitterness in her voice. "I loved my
dad more than anyone in the world, yet I only came home a handful of times in
all the years since college. Even after Mom died so suddenly and so horribly,
leaving so much unresolved between us. That should have been a wake-up call,
but it wasn't."
He didn't
respond and she continued. "I've got to live with that, don't I?"
"No,"
he corrected. "You have to learn from it. It's where you go from here that
counts now. Not where you've been."
A group of
teenagers barreled by in a pickup truck, their raucous laughter interrupting
the charged moment. The pickup was followed by another group of teenagers,
these in a bright-yellow convertible, top down.
Avery
glanced at her watch. Three-thirty. The high school let out the same time as it
had all those years ago.
Funny how
some things could change so dramatically and others not at all.
"I
should get back to work. You going to be okay?"
She nodded.
"Thanks for baby-sitting me."
"No
thanks necessary." He started for the car, then stopped and looked back at
her. "I almost forgot, Mom and Dad are expecting you for dinner
tonight."
"Tonight?
But I just got in."
"Exactly.
No way are Mom and Dad going to let you spend your first night home
alone."
"But-"
"You're
not in the big city anymore, Avery. Here, people take care of each other. Besides,
you're family." Home. Family. At that moment nothing sounded better than
that. "I'll be there. They still live at the ranch?" she asked, using
the nickname they had given the Stevenses' sprawling ranch-style home.
Of course.
Status quo is something you can count on in Cypress Springs." He crossed
to his vehicle, opened the door and looked back at her. "Is six too
early?" "It' ll be perfect."
Great."
He climbed into the cruiser, started it and began back-ing up. Halfway down the
driveway he stopped and lowered his window. "Hunter's back home," he
called. "I thought you might want to know."
Avery stood
rooted to the spot even after Matt's cruiser disappeared from sight. Hunter?
she thought, disbelieving. Matt's fraternal twin brother and the third member
of their triumvirate. Back in Cypress Springs? Last she'd heard, he'd been a
partner at a prestigious
Avery
turned away from the road and toward her childhood home. Something had happened
the summer she'd been fifteen, Hunter and Matt sixteen. A rift had grown
between the brothers. Hunter had become increasingly aloof, angry. He and Matt
had fought often and several times violently. The Stevenses' house, which had
always been a haven of warmth, laughter and love, had become a battleground. As
if the animosity between the brothers had spilled over into all the family
relationships…
At first
Avery had been certain the bad feelings between the brothers would pass. They
hadn't. Hunter had left for college and never returned-not even for holidays.
Now he,
like she, had come home to Cypress Springs. Odd, she thought. A weird
coincidence. Perhaps tonight she would discover what had brought him back.
CHAPTER 2
At six
sharp, Avery pulled up in front of the Stevenses' house. Buddy Stevens, sitting
on the front porch smoking a cigar, caught sight of her and lumbered to his
feet. "There's my girl!" he bellowed. "Home safe and
sound!"
She hurried
up the walk and was enfolded in his arms. A mountain of a man with a barrel
chest and booming voice, he had been Cypress Springs's chief of police for as
long as she could remember. Although a by-the-books lawman who had as much give
as a concrete block when it came to his town and crime, the Buddy Stevens she
knew was just a big ol' teddy bear. A hard-ass with a soft, squishy center and
a heart of gold.
He hugged
her tightly, then held her at arm's length. He searched her gaze, his own
filled with regret. "I'm sorry, baby girl. Damn sorry."
A lump
formed in her throat. She cleared it with difficulty. "I know, Buddy. I'm
sorry, too." He hugged her again. "You're too thin. And you look
tired."
She drew
away, filled with affection for the man who had been nearly as important to her
growing up as her own father. "Haven't you heard? A woman can't be too
thin."
"Big-city
crapola." He put out the stogie and led her inside, arm firmly around her
shoulder. "Lilah!" he called. "Cherry! Look who the cat's
dragged in."
Cherry,
Matt and Hunter's younger sister, appeared at the kitchen door. The
awkward-looking twelve-year-old girl had grown into an uncommonly beautiful
woman. Tall, with dark hair and eyes like her brothers, she had inherited her
mother's elegant features and pretty skin.
When she
saw Avery she burst into a huge smile. "You made it. We've been worried sick."
She crossed to Avery and hugged her. "That's no kind of a trip for a woman
to make alone."
Such an
unenlightened comment coming from a woman in her twenties took Avery aback. But
as Matt had said earlier, she wasn't in the city anymore.
She hugged
her back. "It wasn't so bad. Cab to Dullas, nonstop flight to
"Big,
tough career girl," Buddy murmured, sounding anything but pleased. "I
hope you had a cell phone."
"Of
course. Fully charged at all times." She grinned up at him. "And,
you'll be happy to know, pepper spray in my purse."
"Pepper
spray? Whatever for?" This came from Lilah Stevens.
"Self-protection,
Mama," Cherry supplied, glancing over her shoulder at the older woman.
Lilah,
still as trim and attractive as Avery remembered, crossed from the kitchen and
caught Avery's hands. "Self-protection? Well, you won't be needing that
here." She searched Avery's gaze. "Avery, sweetheart. Welcome home.
How are you?"
Avery squeezed
the other woman's hands, tears pricking her eyes. "I've been better,
thanks."
"I'm
so sorry, sweetheart. Sorrier than I can express."
"I
know. And that means a lot."
From the
other room came the sound of a timer going off. Lilah released Avery's hands.
"That's the pie."
The smells
emanating from the kitchen were heavenly. Lilah Stevens had been the best cook
in the parish and had consistently won baking prizes at the parish fair.
Growing up, Avery had angled for a dinner invitation at every opportunity.
"What kind of pie?" she asked.
"Strawberry.
I know peach is your favorite but it's impossible to find a decent peach this
time of year. And the first
"Silly
woman," Buddy interrupted. "The poor child is exhausted. Stop your
yapping about produce and let the girl sit down."
"Yapping?"
She wagged a finger at him. "If you want pie, Mr. Stevens, you'll have to
get yourself down to the Azalea Cafe."
He
immediately looked contrite. "Sorry, sugar-sweet, you know I was just
teasing."
"Now
I'm sugar-sweet, am I?" She rolled her eyes and turned back to Avery.
"You see what I've put up with all these years?"
Avery
laughed. She used to wish her parents could be more like Lilah and Buddy,
openly affectionate and teasing. In all the years she had known the couple, all
the time she had spent around their home, she had never heard them raise their
voices at one another. And when they'd teased each other, like just now, their
love and respect had always shown through.
In truth,
Avery had often wished her mother could be more like Lilah. Good-natured,
outgoing. A traditional woman comfortable in her own skin. One who had enjoyed
her children, making a home for them and her husband.
It had
seemed to Avery that her mother had enjoyed neither, though she had never said
so aloud. Avery had sensed her mother's frustration, her dissatisfaction with
her place in the world.
No, Avery
thought, that wasn't quite right. She had been frustrated by her only child's
tomboyish ways and defiant streak. She had been disappointed in her daughter's
likes and dislikes, the choices she made.
In her
mother's eyes, Avery hadn't measured up. Lilah Stevens had never made Avery
feel she lacked anything. To the contrary, Lilah had made her feel not only
worthy but special as well.
"I do
see," Avery agreed, playing along. "It's outrageous."
"That
it is." Lilah waved them toward the living room. "Matt should be here
any moment. All I have left to do is whip the potatoes and heat the French
bread. Then we can eat."
"Can I
help?" Avery asked.
As she had
known it would be, the woman's answer was a definitive no. Buddy and Cherry led
her to the living room. Avery sank onto the overstuffed couch, acknowledging
exhaustion. She wished she could lean her head back, close her eyes and sleep
for a week.
"You've
barely changed," Buddy said softly, tone wistful. "Same pretty,
bright-eyed girl you were the day you left Cypress Springs." She'd been so
damn young back then. So ridiculously naive. She had yearned for something
bigger than Cypress Springs, something better. Had sensed something important
waited for her outside this small town. She supposed she had found it: a
prestigious job; writing awards and professional respect; an enviable salary.
What was it
all worth now? If those twelve years hadn't been, if all her choices still lay
before her, what would she do differently? Everything. Anything to have him
with her. She met Buddy's eyes. "You'd be surprised how much I've
changed." She lightened her words with a smile. "What about you?
Besides being as devastatingly handsome as ever, still the most feared and
respected lawman in the parish?"
"I
don't know about that," he murmured. "Seems to me, these days that
honor belongs to Matt."
"West
Feliciana Parish's sheriff is retiring next year," Cherry chimed in.
"Mart's planning to run for the job." There was no mistaking the
pride in her voice. "Those in the know expect him to win the election by a
landslide."
Buddy
nodded, looking as pleased as punch. "My son, the parish's top cop.
Imagine that."
"A
regular crime-fighting family dynasty," Avery murmured. "Not for
long." Buddy settled into his easy chair. "Retirement's right around
the corner. Probably should have retired already. If I'd had a grandchild to
spoil, I-"
"Dad,"
Cherry warned, "don't go there."
"Three
children," he groused, "all disappointments. Friends of mine have a
half-dozen of the little critters already. I don't think that's right." He
looked at Avery. "Do you?"
Avery held
up her hands, laughing. "Oh, no, I'm not getting involved in this
one."
Cherry
mouthed a "Thank you," Buddy pouted and Avery changed the subject.
"I can't imagine you not being the chief of police. Cypress Springs won't
be the same."
"Comes
a time one generation needs to make room for the next. Much as I hate the
thought, my time has come and gone."
With a
derisive snort, Cherry started toward the kitchen. "I'm having a glass of
wine. Want one, Avery?"
"Love
one."
"Red
or white?"
"Whatever
you're having." Avery let out a long breath and leaned her head against
the sofa back, tension easing from her. She closed her eyes. Images played on
the backs of her eyelids, ones from her past: her, Matt and Hunter playing
while their parents barbecued in the backyard. Buddy and Lilah snapping pictures
as she and Matt headed off to the prom. The two families caroling at
Christmastime.
Sweet
memories. Comforting ones.
"Good
to be back, isn't it?" Buddy murmured as if reading her thoughts.
She opened
her eyes and looked at him. "Despite everything, yes." She glanced
away a moment, then back. "I wish I'd come home sooner. After Mom… I
should have stayed. If I had-"
The
unfinished thought hung heavily between them anyway. If she had, maybe her dad
would he alive today.
Cherry
returned with the wine. She crossed to Avery; handed her a glass of the pale
gold liquid. "What are your plans?"
"First
order of business is a service for Dad. I called Danny Gallagher this
afternoon. We're meeting tomorrow after lunch."
"How
long are you staying?" Cherry sat on the other end of the couch, curling
her legs under her.
"I
took a leave of absence from the Post, because I just don't know," she
answered honestly. "I haven't a clue how long it will take to go through
Dad's things, get the house ready to sell."
"Sorry
I'm late."
At Matt's
voice, Avery looked up. He stood in the doorway to the living room, head cocked
as he gazed at her, expression amused. He'd exchanged his uniform for blue
jeans and a soft chambray shirt. He held a bouquet of fresh flowers.
"Brought
Mom some posies," he said. "She in the kitchen?"
"You
know Mom." Cherry crossed to him and kissed his cheek. "Dad's already
complained about the dearth of grandchildren around here. Remind me to be late
next time."
Matt met
Avery's eyes and grinned. "Glad I missed it. Though I'll no doubt catch
the rerun later."
Buddy
scowled at his two children. "No grandbabies and no respect." He
looked toward the kitchen. "Lilah," he bellowed, "where did we
go wrong with these kids?"
Lilah poked
her head out of the kitchen. "For heaven's sake, Buddy, leave the children
alone." She turned her attention to her son. "Hello, Matt. Are those
for the table?"
"Yes,
ma'am." He ambled across to her, kissed her cheek and handed her the
flowers. "Something smells awfully good."
"Come,
help me with the roast." She turned to her daughter. "Cherry, could
you put these in a vase for me?"
Avery
watched the exchange. She could have been a part of this family. Officially a
part. Everyone had expected her and Matt to marry.
Buddy
interrupted her thoughts. "Have you considered staying?" he asked.
"This is your home, Avery. You belong here."
She dragged
her gaze back to his, uncertain how to answer. Yes, she had come home to take
care of specific family business, but less specifically, she had come for answers.
For peace of mind- not only about her father's death, but about her own life.
Truth was,
she had been drifting for a while now, neither happy nor unhappy. Vaguely
dissatisfied but uncertain why.
"Do I,
Buddy? Always felt like the one marching to a different drummer."
"Your
daddy thought so."
Tears
swamped her. "I miss him so much."
"I
know, baby girl." A momentary, awkward silence fell between them. Buddy
broke it first. "He never got over your mother's death. The way she died.
He loved her completely."
She'd been
behind the wheel when she suffered a stroke, on her way to meet her cousin
who'd flown into
A sound
from the doorway drew her gaze. Lilah stood there, expression stricken. Matt
and Cherry stood behind her. "It was so…awful. She called me the night
before she left. She hadn't been feeling well, she said. She had run her
symptoms by Phillip, had wondered if she shouldn't cancel her trip. He had
urged her to go. Nothing was wrong with her that a week away wouldn't cure. I
don't think he ever forgave himself for that."
"He
thought he should have known," Buddy murmured. "Thought that if he
hadn't been paying closer attention to his patients' health than to his own
wife's, he could have saved her."
Avery
clasped her shaky hands together. "I didn't know. I…he mentioned feeling
responsible, but I-"
She had
chosen to pacify him. To assure him none of it was his fault.
Then go on
her merry way.
Matt moved
around his mother and came to stand behind her chair. He laid a comforting hand
on her shoulder. "It's not your fault, Avery," he said softly.
"It's not."
She reached
up and curled her fingers around his, grateful for the support. "Matt said
Dad had been acting strangely. That he had withdrawn from everyone and
everything. But still I…how could he have done what he did?"
"When
I heard how he did it," Cherry said quietly, "I wasn't surprised. I
think you can love someone so much you do something… unbelievable because of
it. Something tragic."
An
uncomfortable silence settled over the group. Avery tried to speak but found
she couldn't for the knot of tears in her throat.
Buddy,
bless him, took over. He turned to Lilah. "Dinner ready, sugar-sweet?"
"It
is." Lilah all but jumped at the opportunity to turn their attention to
the mundane. "And getting cold."
"Let's
get to it, then," Buddy directed.
They made
their way to the dining room and sat. Buddy said the blessing, then the
procession of bowls and platters began, passed-as they always had been at the
Stevenses' supper table from right to left.
Avery went
through the motions. She ate, commented on the food, joined in story swapping.
But her heart wasn't in it. Nor was anyone else's, that was obvious to her. As
was how hard they were trying to make it like it used to be. How hard they were
wanting to comfort with normalcy.
But how
could anything be normal ever again? In years gone by, her parents had sat with
her at this table. She, Matt and Hunter would have been clustered together,
whispering or joking.
She missed
Hunter, Avery realized. She felt the lack of his presence keenly.
Hunter had
been the most intellectual of the group. Not the most intelligent, because both
he and Matt had sailed through school, neither having to crack a book to
maintain an A average, both scoring near-perfect marks on their SATs.
But Hunter
had possessed a sharp, sarcastic wit. He'd been in-capable of the silliness the
rest of them had sometimes wallowed in. He had often been the voice of wry
reason in whatever storm was brewing.
She hadn't
been surprised to hear he had become a successful lawyer. Between his keen mind
and razor-sharp tongue, he'd no doubt consistently decimated the opposition.
She brought
him up as Lilah served the pie. "Matt tells me that Hunter's moved back to
Cypress Springs. I'd hoped he would be here tonight."
Silence
fell around the table. Avery shifted her gaze from one face to the next.
"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"
Buddy
cleared his throat. "Of course not, baby girl. It's just that Hunter's had
some troubles lately. Lost his partnership in the
"I
don't know why he bothered," Matt added. "For all the time he spends
with his family."
Cherry
frowned. "I wish he hadn't come home. He only did it to hurt us."
"Now,
Cherry," Buddy murmured, "you don't know that."
"The
hell I don't. If he was any kind of brother, any kind of son, he would be here
for us. Instead, he-"
Lilah
launched to her feet. Avery saw she was near tears. "I'll get the
coffee."
"I'll
help." Cherry tossed her napkin on the table and got to her feet,
expression disgusted. She looked at Avery. "Tell you the truth, all Hunter's
ever done is break our hearts."
CHAPTER 3
Talk of
Hunter drained the joy from the gathering, and the remainder of the evening
passed at a snail's pace. Lilah's smile looked artificial; Cherry's mood
darkened with each passing moment and Buddy's jubilance bordered on manic.
Finally,
pie consumed, coffee cups drained, Avery said her thanks and made her excuses.
Cherry and Lilah said their good-byes in the dining room; Buddy accompanied her
and Matt to the door.
Buddy
hugged her. "You broke all our hearts when you left. But no one's more
than mine. I'd had mine set on you being my daughter."
Avery
returned his embrace. "I love you, too, Buddy."
Matt walked
her to her car. "Pretty night," she murmured, lifting her face to the
night sky. "So many stars. I'd forgotten how many."
"I
enjoyed tonight, Avery. It was like old times."
Avery met
his eyes; her pulse fluttered.
"I've
missed you," he said. "I'm glad you're back."
She
swallowed hard, acknowledging that she'd missed him, too. Or more accurately,
that she'd missed standing with him this way, in his folks' driveway, under a
star-sprinkled sky. Had missed the familiarity of it. The sense of belonging.
Matt put
words to her thoughts. "Why'd you leave, Avery? My dad was right, you
know. You belong here. You're one of us."
"Why
didn't you go with me?" she countered. "I asked. Begged, if I
remember correctly."
Matt lifted
a hand as if to touch her, then dropped it. "You always wanted something
else, something more than Cypress Springs could offer. Something more than I
could offer. I never understood it. But I had to accept it."
She shifted
her gaze slightly, uncomfortable with the truth. That he could speak it so
plainly. She changed the direction of their conversation. "Your dad and
Cherry said you're the front-runner in next year's election for parish sheriff.
I'm not surprised. You always said you were destined for great things."
"But
our definitions of great things always differed, didn't they, Avery?"
"That's
not fair, Matt."
"Fair
or not, it's true." He paused. "You broke my heart."
She held
his gaze. "You broke mine, too."
"Then
we're even, aren't we? A broken heart apiece."
She winced
at the bitter edge in his voice. "Matt, it…wasn't you. It was me. I never
felt-"
She had
been about to say how she had never felt she belonged in Cypress Springs. That
once she'd become a teenager, she had always felt slightly out of step,
different in subtle but monumental ways from the other girls she knew.
Those
feelings seemed silly now. The thoughts of a self-absorbed young girl.
"What
about now, Avery?" he asked. "What do you want now? What do you
need?"
Discomfited
by the intensity of his gaze, she looked away. "I don't know. I don't want
to return to where I was, I'm certain of that. And I don't mean the
geographical location." Sounds like you have some thinking to do."
A giant
understatement. She turned to the Blazer, unlocked the door, then faced him
once more. "I should go. I'm asleep on my feet and tomorrow's going to be
difficult."
"You
could stay here, you know. Mom and Dad have plenty of room. They'd love to have
you."
A part of
her longed to jump at the offer. The idea of sleeping in her parents' house
now, after her father…she didn't think she would sleep a wink.
But taking
the easy way would be taking the coward's way. She had to face her father's
suicide. She began tonight, by sleeping in her childhood home.
He reached
around her and opened her car door. "Still fiercely independent, I see.
Still stubborn as a mule."
She slid
behind the wheel, started the vehicle, then looked back up at him "Some
would consider those qualities an asset."
"Sure
they would. In mules." He bent his face to hers. "If you need
anything, call me."
"I
will. Thanks." He slammed the door. She backed the Blazer down the steep
driveway, then headed out of the subdivision, pointing the vehicle toward the
old downtown neighborhood where she had grown up.
Avery shook
her head, remembering how she had begged her parents to follow the Stevenses to
Spring Water, the then new subdivision where Matt and his family had bought a
house. She had been enamored with the sprawling ranch homes and neighborhood
club facilities: pool, tennis court and clubhouse for parties.
What had
then looked so new and cool to her, she saw now as cheaply built, cookie-cutter
homes on small plots of ground that had been cleared to make room for as many
houses per acre as possible.
Luckily,
her parents had refused to move from their location within walking distance of
the square, downtown and her father's office. Solidly built in the 1920s, their
house boasted high ceilings, cypress millwork and the kind of charm available
only at a premium today. The neighborhood, too, was vintage-a wide, tree-lined
boulevard lit by gas lamps, each home set back on large, shady lots. Unlike many
cities whose downtown neighborhoods had fallen victim to the urban decay caused
by crime and white flight, Cypress Springs's inner-city neighborhood remained
as well maintained and safe as when originally built.
Despite the
fact that most of
Besides
being a good place to raise a family, Cypress Springs had no claim to fame. A
small Southern town that relied on agriculture, mostly cattle and light
industry, it was too far from the beaten path to ever grow into more.
The city
fathers liked it that way, Avery knew. She had grown up listening to her dad,
Buddy and their friends talk about keeping industry and all her ills out. About
keeping Cypress Springs clean. She remembered the furor caused when Charlie
Weiner had sold his farm to the Old Dixie Foods corporation and then the
company's decision to build a canning factory on the site.
Avery made
her way down the deserted streets. Although not even ten o'clock, the town had
already rolled up its sidewalks for the night. She shook her head. Nothing
could be more different from the places she had called home for the past twelve
years- places where a traffic jam could occur almost anytime during a
twenty-four-hour period; where walking alone at night was to take your life in
your hands; places where people lived on top of each other but never
acknowledged the other's existence.
As
beautiful and green a city as
Once upon a
time she had thought this place ugly. No, that wasn't quite fair, she admitted.
Shabby and painfully small town.
why hadn't
she seen it then as she did now?
Avery
turned onto her street, then a moment later into her parents' driveway. She
parked at the edge of the walk and climbed out, locking the vehicle out of
habit not necessity. Her thoughts drifted to the events of the evening,
particularly to those final moments with Matt.
What did
she want now? she wondered. Where did she belong? The porch swing creaked. A
figure separated from the silhouette of the overgrown sweet olive at the end of
the porch. Her steps faltered.
"Hello,
Avery."
Hunter, she
realized, bringing a hand to her chest. She let out a shaky breath. "I've
lived in the city too long. You scared the hell out of me."
"I
have that effect on people."
Although
she smiled, she could see why that might be true. Half his face lay in shadow,
the other half in the light from the porch fixture. His features looked hard in
the weak light, his face craggy, the lines around his mouth and eyes deeply
etched. A few days' accumulation of beard darkened his jaw.
She would
have crossed the street to avoid him in D.C.
How could
the two brothers have grown so physically dissimilar? she wondered. Growing up,
though fraternal not identical twins, the resemblance between them had been
uncanny. She would never have thought they could be other than near mirror
images of one another.
"I'd
heard you were back," he said. "Obviously."
"News
travels fast around here."
"This
is a small town. They've got to have something to talk about."
He had
changed in a way that had less to do with the passage of years than with the
accumulated events of those years. The school of hard knocks, she thought. The
great equalizer.
"And
I'm one of their own," she said.
"It's
true, then? You're back to stay?"
"I
didn't say that."
"That's
the buzz. I thought it was wrong." He shrugged. "But you never
know."
"Meaning
what?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
"Am I
making you uncomfortable?"
"No,
of course not." Annoyed with herself, she dropped her arms. "I had
dinner with your parents tonight."
"And
Matt. Heard that, too."
"I
thought you might have been there."
"So
they told you I was living in Cypress Springs?"
"Matt
did."
"And
did he tell you why?"
"Only
that you'd had some troubles."
"Nice
euphemism." He swept his gaze over the facade of her parents' house.
"Sorry about your dad. He was a great man."
"I
think so, too." She jiggled her car keys, suddenly on edge, anxious to be
inside.
"Aren't
you going to ask me?"
"What?"
"If I
talked to him before he died."
The
question off-balanced her. "What do you mean?"
"It
seemed a pretty straightforward question to me."
"Okay.
Did you?"
"Yes.
He was worriedabout you."
"About
me?" She frowned. "Why?"
"Because
your mother died before the two of you worked out your issues."
Issues, she
thought. Is that how one summed up a lifetime of hurt feelings, a lifetime of
longing for her mother's unconditional love and approval and being disappointed
time and again? Her head filled with a litany of advice her mother had offered
her over the years.
'Avery,
little girls don't climb trees and build forts or play cowboys and Indians with
boys. They wear bows and dresses with ruffles, not blue-jean cutoffs and
T-shirts. Good girls make ladylike choices. They don't run off to the city to
become newspapermen. I hey don't throw away a good man to chase a dream."
"He
thought you might be sad about that," Hunter continued. She was. He hated
that she died without your making peace."
"He
said that?" she managed to get out, voice tight.
He nodded
and she looked away, memory flooding with the words she had flung at her mother
just before she had left for college.
"Drop
the loving concern, Mother! You 've never approved of me or my choices. I've
never been the daughter you wanted. Why don't you just admit it? "
Her mother
hadn't admitted it and Avery had headed off to college with the accusation
between them. They had never spoken of it again, though it had been a wedge
between them forever more.
"He
figured that's why you hardly ever came home." Hunter shrugged.
"Interesting, you couldn't come to terms with your mother's life, he her
death."
She jumped
on the last. "What does that mean, he couldn't come to terms with her
death?"
"I
would think it's obvious, Avery. It's called grieving."
He was
toying with her, she realized. It pissed her off. "And when did all these
conversations take place?"
Hunter
paused. "We had many conversations, he and I."
The past
two days, her shock and grief, the grueling hours of travel, the onslaught of
so much that was both foreign and familiar, came crashing down on her. "I
don't have the energy to deal with your shit, even if I wanted to. If you
decide you want to be a decent human being, look me up."
One corner
of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "I didn't answer your question
before, the one about my opinion of the local buzz. Personally, I figured you'd
pop your old man in a box and go. Fast as you could."
She took a
step back, stung. Shocked that he would say that to her. That he would be so
cruel. After the closeness they had shared. She pushed past him, unlocked her
front door and stepped inside. She caught a glimpse of his face, of the stark
pain that etched his features as she slammed the door.
Hunter
Stevens was a man pursued by demons.
To hell
with his, she thought, twisting the dead-bolt lock. She had her own to deal
with.
CHAPTER 4
Hunter
gazed at the row of unopened bottles: beer, wine, whisky, vodka. All sins from
his past. Each a nail in the coffin of his life. He kept them around to prove
that he could. Such a strategy went counter to traditional AA teaching, but he
was a masochistic son of a bitch.
Hunter
thought of Avery and anger rose up in him in a white-hot, suffocating wave.
Once upon a time they'd been the best of friends: him, Matt and Avery. Before
everything had begun spin-ning crazily out of control. Before his life had
turned to shit.
He pictured
her sitting next to Matt at his family's dinner table. All of them laughing,
swapping memories. Reveling in the good old days.
What part
had he played in those memories? Had they shared stories that hadn't included
him? Or had they simply plucked him out as if he had never existed?
Shut out
again. Always the one on the outside, looking in. The one who didn't belong.
"Wnat's
wrong with you, Hunter? What went wrong with you? "
Good
question, he thought, gazing at the bottles, squeezing his fists against the
urge that swelled inside him. The urge to open a bottle and get stinking,
fall-down drunk.
He'd been
down that path; he knew the only place it would lead him was straight to hell.
A hell of his own making. One populated by children screaming in terror. One in
which he was helpless to stop the inevitable. Helpless to do more than look on
in horror and self-loathing. In despair.
Hunter
swung away from the bottles. He sucked in a deep breath and moved deliberately
away from the kitchen and toward the makeshift desk he had set up in the corner
of his small living room. On the desk sat a computer, monitor glowing in the
dimly lit room, fan humming softly. Beside it the pages of a novel. His novel.
A story about a lawyer's spiral to the depths.
If only he
knew the story's end. Some days, he thought his protagonist would manage to
claw his way up from those depths. Other days, hopelessness held him so tightly
in its grip he couldn't breathe let alone imagine a happy ending.
He pulled
out the chair and sat, intent on channeling his energy and anger into his
novel. Instead, he found his thoughts turning to Avery once more.
What caused
a man to douse himself with a flammable substance and strike a match?
He knew. He
understood.
He had been
there, too.
The
blinking cursor drew his attention. He focused on the words he had written:
Jack fought
the forces that threatened to devour him. To his right lay the laws of man, to
his left the greatness of God. One wrong step and he would be lost.
Lost. And
found. He had come home to set things right. To start over. He had already
begun.
And now,
here was Avery.
All
together again, he thought. He, Matt and Avery. The same as when his life had
begun to implode. How would this affect his plans? The timetable of events he
had carefully constructed?
It
wouldn't, he decided. Things would be set right. His life would be set right.
No matter how much it hurt.
CHAPTER 5
Avery
bolted upright in bed, heart pounding, her father's name a scream on her lips.
She darted her gaze to the bedroom door, for a split second a kid again,
expecting her parents to charge through, all concerned hugs and comforting
arms.
They
didn't, of course, and she sagged back against the headboard. She hadn't slept
well, no surprise there. She'd tossed and turned, each creak and moan of the
old house unfamiliar and jarring. She had been up a half dozen times. Checking
the doors. Peering out the windows. Pacing the floor.
In truth,
she suspected it hadn't been the noises that had kept her awake. It had been
the quiet. The reason for the quiet.
Finally,
she'd taken the couple of Tylenol PM caplets she'd dug out of her travel bag.
Sleep had come.
But not
rest. For sleep had brought nightmares. In them, she had been enfolded in a
womb, warm and contented. Protected. Sud-denly, she had been torn from her safe
haven and thrust into a bright, white place. The light had burned. She had been
naked. And cold.
In the next
instant flames had engulfed her. And she had awakened, calling out her father's
name. Not too tough figuring that one out.
Avery
glanced at the bedside clock. Just after 9:00 a.m., she noted. Throwing back
the blanket, she climbed out of bed. The temperature had dropped during the
night and the house was cold. Shivering, she crossed to her suitcase, rummaged
through it for a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. She slipped them on, not
bothering to take off her sleep shirt.
That done,
she headed to the kitchen, making a quick side trip out front for the
newspaper. It wasn't until she was staring at the naked driveway that two
things occurred to her: the first was that Cypress Springs's only newspaper,
the Gazette, was a biweekly, published each Wednesday and Saturday, and second,
that Sal Mandina, the Gazette's owner and editor-in-chief had surely halted her
father's subscription. There would be no uncollected papers piling up on a
Cypress Springs stoop.
No
newspaper? The very idea made her twitch. With a shake of her head, she stepped
inside, relocked the door and headed to the kitchen. She would pick up the New
Orleans Times-Picayune or The Advocate from
That trip
might come sooner than planned, Avery realized moments later, standing at the
refrigerator. Yesterday she hadn't thought to check the kitchen for provisions.
She wished she had. No bread, milk or eggs. No coffee. Not good.
Avery
dragged her fingers through her short hair. After the huge meal she'd consumed
the night before, she could probably forgo breakfast. Maybe. But she couldn't
face this morning without coffee.
A walk
downtown, it seemed, would be the first order of the day.
After
changing, brushing her teeth and washing her face, she found her Reeboks,
slipped them on then headed out the front door.
And ran
smack into Cherry. The other woman smiled brightly. "Morning, Avery. And
here I was afraid I was going to wake you."
"No
such luck." Avery eyed the picnic basket tucked against Cherry's side.
"I was just heading to the grocery for a newspaper and some coffee. You
wouldn't happen to have either of those, would you?"
"A
thermos of French roast. No newspaper, though. Sorry."
"You're
a lifesaver. Come on in."
Cherry
stepped inside. "I remembered that your dad didn't drink coffee. Figured
you'd need it this morning, strong."
Her mother
had been a coffee drinker. But not her dad. Cherry had remembered that. But she
hadn't. What was wrong with her?
"Figured,
too, that you hadn't had time to get to the market." She held up the
basket. "Mom's homemade biscuits and peach jam."
Just the
thought had Avery's mouth watering. "Do you have any idea how long it's
been since I had a real biscuit?"
"Since
your last visit, I suspect," Cherry answered, following Avery. They
reached the kitchen and she set the basket on the counter. "Yankees flat
can't make a decent biscuit. There, I've said it."
Avery
laughed. She supposed the other woman was right. Learning how to make things
like the perfect baking powder biscuit was a rite of passage for Southern
girls.
And like
many of those womanly rites of passage, she had failed miserably at it.
Cherry had
come prepared: from the basket she took two blue-and-white-checked place mats,
matching napkins, flatware, a miniature vase and carefully wrapped yellow rose.
She filled the vase with water and dropped in the flower. "There,"
she said. "A Proper breakfast table."
Avery
poured the coffees and the two women took a seat at the table. Curling her
fingers around the warm mug, Avery made a sound of appreciation as she sipped
the hot liquid.
"Bad
night?" Cherry asked sympathetically, bringing her own cup to her lips.
The worst.
Couldn't sleep. Then when I did, had nightmares." "That' s to be
expected, I imagine. Considering."
Considering.
Avery looked away. She cleared her throat. "This was so sweet of
you."
"My
pleasure." Cherry smoothed the napkin in her lap. "I meant what I
said last night, I've missed you. We all have." She met Avery's eyes.
"You're one of us, you know. Always will be."
"Are
you trying to tell me something, Cherry?" Avery asked, smiling.
"Like, you can take the girl out of the small town, but you can't take the
small town out of the girl?"
"Something
like that." She returned Avery's smile; leaned toward her. "But you
know what? There's nothing wrong with that, in my humble, country opinion. So
there."
Avery
laughed and helped herself to one of the biscuits. She broke off a piece. It
was moist, dense and still warm. She spread on jam, popped it in her mouth and
made a sound of pure contentment. Too many meals like this and the one last
night, and she wouldn't be able to snap her blue jeans.
She broke
off another piece. "So, what's going on with you, Cherry? Didn't you
graduate from
"Harvard
on the bayou to us grads. And it was last year. Got a degree in nutrition. Not
much call for nutritionists in Cypress Springs," she finished with a
shrug. "I guess I didn't think that through."
"You
might try
"I
help Peg out down at the Azalea Cafe. And I sit on the boards of a couple
charities. Teach Sunday school. Make Mom's life easier whenever I can."
"Has she been ill?"
She
hesitated, then smiled. "Not at all. It's just…she's getting older. I
don't like to see her working herself to a frazzle."
Avery took
another sip of her coffee. "You live at home?"
"Mmm."
She set down her cup. "It seemed silly not to. They have so much
room." She paused a moment. "Mama and I talked about opening our own
catering business. Not party or special-events catering, but one of those
caterers who specialize in nutritious meals for busy families. We were going to
call it Gourmet-To-Go or Gourmet Express."
"I've
read a number of articles about those caterers. Apparently, it's the new big
thing. I think you two would be great at that."
Cherry
smiled, expression pleased. "You really think so?"
"With
the way you both cook? Are you kidding? I'd be your first customer."
Her smile
faltered. "We couldn't seem to pull it together. Besides, I'm not like
you, Avery. I don't want some big, fancy career. I want to be a wife and
mother. It's all I ever wanted."
Avery wished
she could be as certain of what she wanted. Of what would make her happy. Once
upon a time she had been. Once upon a time, it seemed, she had known
everything.
Avery
leaned toward the other woman. "So, who is he? There must be a guy in the
picture. Someone special."
The
pleasure faded from Cherry's face. "There was. He- Do you remember Karl
Wright?"
Avery
nodded. "I remember him well. He and Matt were good friends."
"Best
friends," Cherry corrected. "After Matt and Hunter…fell out. Anyway,
we had something specia…at least I thought we did. It didn't work out."
Avery
reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry."
"He
just up and…left. Went to
She let out
a sharp breath and stood. She crossed to the window and for a long moment
simply stared out at the bright morning. Finally she glanced back at Avery.
"I was pushing. Too hard, obviously. He called Matt and said goodbye. But
not me."
"I'm
really sorry, Cherry."
She
continued as if Avery hadn't spoken. "Matt urged him to call me. Talk it
out. Compromise, but…" Her voice trailed helplessly
"But
he didn't."
"No.
He'd talked about moving to
Her voice
trailed off again. Avery stood and crossed to her. She laid a hand on her
shoulder. "Someone else will come along, Cherry. The right one."
Cherry
covered her hand. She met Avery's eyes, hers filled with tears. "In this
town? Do you know how few eligible bachelors there are here? How few guys my
age? They all leave. I wish I wanted a career, like you. Because I could do
that on my own. But what I want more than anything takes two. It's just not
fai-"
Her voice
cracked. She swallowed hard; cleared her throat. "I sound the bitter old
spinster I am."
Avery
smiled at that. "You're twenty-four, Cherry. Hardly a spinster."
"But
that's not the way I… It hurts, Avery."
"I
know." Avery thought of what Cherry had said the night before, about
loving someone to the point of tragedy. In light of this conversation, her
comment concerned Avery. She told her so.
Cherry
wiped her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything crazy.
Besides," she added, visibly brightening, "maybe Karl will come back?
You did."
Avery
didn't have the heart to correct her. To tell her she wasn't certain what her
future held. "Have you spoken with him since he left?"
Fresh tears
flooded Cherry's eyes. Avery wished she could take the question back. "His
dad's gotten a few letters. He's over in
"And
Matt?"
"They
spoke once. And fought. Matt chewed him out pretty good. For the way he treated
me. He hasn't heard from him since."
Avery could
bet he had chewed him out. Matt had always returned Cherry's hero worship with
a kind of fierce protectiveness.
"He's
missed you, you know."
Avery met
Cherry's gaze, surprised. "Excuse me?"
"Matt.
He never stopped hoping you'd come back to him."
Avery shook
her head, startled by the rush of emotion she felt at Cherry's words. "A
lot of time's passed, Cherry. What we had was wonderful, but we were very
young. I'm sure there have been other women since-"
"No.
He's never loved anyone but you. No one ever measured up."
Avery
didn't know what to say. She told Cherry so.
The younger
woman's expression altered slightly. "It's still there between you two. I
saw it last night. So did Mom and Dad."
When she
didn't reply, Cherry narrowed her eyes. "What are you so afraid of,
Avery?"
She started
to argue that she wasn't, then bit the words back. "A lot of time's
passed. Who knows if Matt and I even have anything in common anymore."
"You
do." Cherry caught her hand. "Some things never change. And some
people are meant to be together."
"If
that's so," Avery said, forcing lightness into her tone, "we'll
know."
Instead of
releasing her hand, Cherry tightened her grip. "I can't allow you to hurt
him again. Do you understand?"
Uncomfortable,
Avery tugged on her hand. "I have no plans of hurting your brother,
believe me."
"I'm
sure you mean that, but if you're not serious, just stay away, Avery.
Just…stay…away."
"Let
go of my hand, Cherry. You're hurting me."
She
released Avery's hand, looking embarrassed. "Sorry. I get a little intense
when it comes to my brothers."
Without
waiting for Avery to respond, she made a show of glancing at her watch,
exclaiming over the time and how she would be late for a meeting at the Women's
Guild. She quickly packed up the picnic basket, insisting on leaving the
thermos of coffee and remaining biscuits for Avery.
"Just
bring the thermos by the house," she said, hurrying toward the door.
It wasn't
until Cherry had backed her Mustang down the drive-way and disappeared from
sight that Avery realized how unsettled she was by the way their conversation
had turned from friendly to adversarial. How unnerved by the woman's
threatening tone and the way she had seemed to transform, becoming someone
Avery hadn't recognized.
Avery shut
the door, working to shake off the uncomfortable sensations. Cherry had always
looked up to Matt. Even as a squirt, she had been fiercely protective of him.
Plus, still smarting from her own broken heart made her hypersensitive to the
idea of her brother's being broken.
No, Avery
realized. Cherry had referred to her brothers, plural. She got a little intense
when it came to her brothers.
Odd, Avery
thought. Especially in light of the things she had said about Hunter the night
before. If Cherry felt as strongly about Hunter as she did about Matt, perhaps
she'd had more interaction with Hunter than she'd claimed. And perhaps her
anger was more show than reality.
But why
hide the truth? Why make her feelings out to be different than they were?
Avery shook
her head. Always looking for the story, she thought. Always looking for the
angle, the hidden motive, the elusive piece of the puzzle, the one that broke
the story wide open.
Geez,
Avery. Give it a rest. Stop worrying about other people's issues and get busy
on your own.
She
certainly had enough of them, she acknowledged, shifting her gaze to the
stairs. After all, if she got herself wrapped up in others' lives and problems,
she didn't have to face her own. If she was busy analyzing other people's
lives, she wouldn't have time to analyze her own.
She
wouldn't have to face her father's suicide. Or her part in it. Avery glanced up
the stairway to the second floor. She visualized climbing it. Reaching the top.
Turning right. Walking to the end of the hall. Her parents' bedroom door was
closed. She had noticed that the night before. Growing up, it had always been
open. It being shut felt wrong, final. Do it, Avery. Face it.
Squaring
her shoulders, she started toward the stairs, climbed them slowly, resolutely.
She propelled herself forward with sheer determination.
She reached
her parents' bedroom door and stopped. Taking a deep breath, she reached out,
grasped the knob and twisted. The door eased open. The bed, she saw, was
unmade. The top of her mother's dressing table was bare. Avery remembered it
adorned with an assortment of bottles, jars and tubes, with her mother's
hairbrush and comb, with a small velveteen box where she had kept her favorite
pieces of jewelry.
It looked
so naked. So empty.
She moved
her gaze. Her father had removed all traces of his wife. With them had gone the
feeling of warmth, of being a family-
Avery
pressed her lips together, realizing how it must have hurt, removing her
things. Facing this empty room night after night. She'd asked him if he needed
help. She had offered to come and help him clean out her mother's things. Looking
back, she wondered if he had sensed how halfhearted that offer had been. If he
had sensed how much she hadn't wanted to come home.
"I've
got it taken care of, sweetheart. Don't you worry about a thing."
So, she
hadn't. That hurt. It made her feel small and selfish. She should have been
here. Avery shifted her gaze to the double dresser. Would her mother's side be
empty? Had he been able to do what she was attempting to do now?
She hung
back a moment more, then forced herself through the doorway, into the bedroom.
There she stopped, took a deep breath. The room smelled like him, she thought.
Like the spicy aftershave he had always favored. She remembered being a little
girl, snuggled on his lap, and pressing her face into his sweater. And being
inundated with that smell-and the knowledge that she was loved.
The womb
from her nightmare. Warm, content and protected.
Sometimes,
while snuggled there, he had rubbed his stubbly cheek against hers. She would
squeal and squirm-then beg for more when he stopped.
Whisker
kisses, Daddy. More whisker kisses.
She shook
her head, working to dispel the memory. To clear her mind. Remembering would
make this more difficult than it already was. She crossed to the closet, opened
it. Few garments hung there. Two suits, three sports coats. A half-dozen dress
shirts.
Knit golf
shirts. A tie and belt rack graced the back of the door; a shoe rack the floor.
She stood on tiptoe to take inventory of the shelf above. Two hats-summer and
winter. A cardboard storage box, taped shut.
Her mom's
clothes were gone.
Avery
removed the box, set it on the floor, then turned and crossed to the dresser.
On the dresser top sat her dad's coin tray. On it rested his wedding ring. And
her mother's. Side by side.
The
implications of that swept over her in a breath-stealing wave. He had wanted
them to be together. He had placed his band beside hers before he-
Blinded by
tears, Avery swung away from the image of those two gold bands. She scooped up
the cardboard box and hurried from the room. She made the stairs, ran down
them. She reached the foyer, dropped the box and darted to the front door. She
yanked it open and stepped out into the fresh air.
Avery
breathed deeply through her nose, using the pull of oxygen to steady herself.
She had known this wouldn't be easy.
But she
hadn't realized it would be so hard. Or hurt so much.
The toot of
a horn interrupted her thoughts. She glanced toward the road. Mary Dupre, she
saw. Another longtime neighbor. The woman waved, pulled her car over and
climbed out. She hurried up the driveway, short gray curls bouncing.
She reached
Avery and hugged her. "I'm so sorry, sweetie."
Avery
hugged her back. "Thank you, Mary."
"I
wish I'd gone to Buddy or Pastor Dastugue, but I…didn't. And then it was too
late."
"Go to
Buddy or Pastor about what?"
"How
odd your daddy was acting. Not leaving the house, letting his yard go. I tried
to pay a visit, bring him some of my chicken and andouille gumbo, but he
wouldn't come to the door. I knew he was home, too. I thought maybe he was
sleeping, but I glanced back on my way down the driveway and saw him peeking
out the window."
Avery
swallowed hard at the bizarre image. It didn't fit the father she had known.
"I don't know what to say, Mary. I had no… idea. We spoke often, but he
didn't…he never said…anything."
"Poor
baby." The woman hugged her again. "I'm bringing some food by
later."
"There's
no need-"
"There
is," she said firmly. "You'll need to eat and I'll not have you
worrying about preparing anything."
Avery
acquiesced, grateful. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness."
"I see
I'm not the first."
"Pardon?"
The woman
pointed. Avery glanced in that direction. A basket sat on the stoop by the
door.
Avery
retrieved it. It contained homemade raisin bread and a note of condolence. She
read the brief, warmly worded note, tears stinging her eyes.
"Laura
Jenkins, I'll bet," Mary Dupre said, referring to the woman who lived next
door. "She makes the best raisin bread in the parish."
Avery
nodded and returned the note to its envelope.
"You're
planning a service?"
"I'm
meeting with Danny Gallagher this afternoon."
"He
does good work. You need help with anything, anything at all, you call
me."
Avery
promised she would, knowing that the woman meant it. Finding comfort in her
generosity. And the kindness she seemed to encounter at every turn.
She watched
the woman scurry down the driveway, a bright bird in her purple and orange
warm-up suit, waved goodbye, then collected Laura Jenkins's basket and carried
it to the kitchen.
The last
thing she needed was more food, but she sliced off a Piece of the bread anyway,
set it on a napkin and placed it on the kitchen table. While she reheated the
last of the coffee, she retrieved the cardboard box from the foyer.
She had
figured the box would contain photos, cards or other family mementos. Instead,
she found it filled with newspaper clippings.
Curious,
Avery began sifting through them. They all concerned the same event, one that
had occurred the summer of 1988, her fifteenth summer.
She vaguely
remembered the story: a Cypress Springs woman named Sallie Waguespack had been
stabbed to death in her apartment. The perpetrators had turned out to be a
couple of local teenagers, high on drugs. The crime had caused a citizen uproar
and sent the town on a crusade to clean up its act.
Avery drew
her eyebrows together, confused. Why had her father collected these? she
wondered. She picked up one of the clippings and gazed at the grainy, yellowed
image of Sallie Waguespack. She'd been a pretty woman. And young. Only
twenty-two when she died.
So, why had
her father collected the clippings, keeping them all these years? Had he been
friends with the woman? She didn't recall having ever met her or heard her
name, before the murder anyway. Perhaps he had been her physician?
Perhaps,
she thought, the articles themselves would provide the answer.
Avery dug
all the clippings out of the box, arranging them by date, oldest to most
recent. They spanned, she saw, four months- June through September 1988.
Bread and
coffee forgotten, she began to read. As she did, fuzzy memories became sharp.
On June 18, 1988, Sallie Waguespack, a twenty-two-year-old waitress, had been
brutally murdered in her apartment. Stabbed to death by a couple of doped-up
teenagers.
The Pruitt
brothers, she remembered. They had been older, but she had seen them around the
high school, before they'd dropped out to work at the canning factory.
They'd been
killed that same night in a shoot-out with the police.
How could
she have forgotten? It had been the talk of the school for months after. She
remembered being shocked, horrified. Then…saddened. The Pruitt brothers had
come from the wrong side of the tracks-actually the wrong side of what the
locals called The Creek. Truth was, The Creek was nothing more than a
two-mile-long drainage ditch that had been created to keep low areas along the
stretch from flooding but ultimately had served as the dividing line between
the good side of town and the bad.
They'd been
wild boys. They'd gone with fast girls. They'd drunk beer and smoked pot. She'd
stayed as far away from them as possible.
Even so,
the tragedy of it all hadn't been lost on her, a sheltered fifteen-year-old.
All involved had been so young. How had the boys' lives gone so terribly askew?
How could such a thing happen in the safe haven of Cypress Springs?
Which was
the question the rest of the citizenry had wondered as well, Avery realized as
she shuffled through the articles. They fell into two categories: ones
detailing the actual crime and investigation, and the lion's share, editorials
written by the outraged citizens of Cypress Springs. They'd demanded change.
Accountability. A return to the traditional values that had made
Then, it
seemed, things had quieted down. The articles became less heated, then stopped.
Or, Avery wondered, had her father simply stopped collecting them?
Avery sat
back. She reached for the cup of coffee and sipped. Cold and bitter. She
grimaced and set the cup down. Nothing in the articles answered the question
why her father had collected them.
She had
lived through these times. Yes, her parents had discussed the crime. Everyone
had. But not to excess. She had never sensed her father being unduly interested
in it.
But he had
been. Obviously.
She glanced
at her watch, saw that it was nearly noon already. Perhaps Buddy would know the
why, she thought. If she hurried, she should have plenty of time to stop by the
CSPD before her two o'clock appointment with Danny Gallagher.
CHAPTER 6
Cypress
Springs police headquarters hadn't changed in the years she had been gone.
Located in an old storefront downtown, a block off
Avery
entered the building. The whirling ceiling fans kicked up fifty years of dust.
The sun streaming through the front window illuminated the millions of
particles. The officer on desk duty looked up. He was so young, he still
sported a severe case of adolescent acne.
She stopped
at the desk and smiled. "Is Buddy in?"
"Sure
is. You here to see him?"
"Nope,
just wanted to see if he was here."
The kid's
face went slack for a moment, then he laughed. "You're teasing me,
right?"
"Yes.
Sorry."
"That's
okay. Are you Avery Chauvin?"
She nodded.
"Do I know you?"
"You
used to baby-sit me. I'm Sammy Martin.
She thought
a moment, then smiled. As a kid, he had been an absolute terror. Interesting
that he had decided to go into law enforcement. "I never would have known
it was you, Sammy. Last time I saw you, you were what? Eight or nine?"
"Eight."
His smile slipped. "Sorry about your dad. None of us could believe
it."
"Thanks."
She cleared her throat, furious with herself for the tears that sprang to her
eyes. "You said Buddy was in?"
"Oh,
yeah. I'll tell him you're here." He turned. "Buddy! Got a
visitor!"
Buddy
shouted he'd be out in a "jiffy" and Avery grinned. "Fancy
intercom system, Sammy."
He laughed.
"Isn't it, though. But we make do."
His phone
rang and she wandered away from the desk. She crossed to the community bulletin
board, located to the right of the front door. Another one just like it was
located in the library, the post office and the Piggly Wiggly. Cypress
Springs's communications center, she thought. That hadn't changed, either.
She scanned
the items tacked to the board, a conglomeration of community information
flyers, Most Wanted and Missing posters and For-Sale-by-Owner ads.
"Baby
girl," Buddy boomed. She turned. He came around Sammy's desk, striding
toward her, boots thundering against the scuffed wooden floors.
"I was
afraid you'd be at lunch."
"Just
got back." He hugged her. "This is a nice surprise."
She
returned the hug. "Do you have a minute to talk?"
"Sure."
He searched her expression. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine.
I wanted to ask you about something I found in my dad's closet."
"I'll
try. Come on." He led her to his office. Cluttered shelves, battered
furniture and walls covered with honorary plaques and awards spoke of a
lifetime of service to the community.
Avery sat
in one of the two chairs facing his desk. She dug out the couple of clipped
articles she had stuffed into her purse and handed them to him. "I found a
box of clippings like these in Dad's bedroom closet. I hoped you'd be able to
tell me why he'd kept them."
He scanned
the two clippings, eyebrows drawing together. He met her eyes. "Are you
certain your dad collected them and not your mom?"
She
hesitated, then shook her head. "Not one hundred percent. But Dad had
removed everything else of Mom's from the closet, so why keep these?"
"Gotcha."
He handed the two back. "To answer your question, I don't know why he
saved them. Even considering the nature of the case, it seems an odd thing for
him to do."
"That's
what I thought. So, he wasn't involved with the investigation in any way?"
"Nope."
"Was
he Sallie's physician?"
"Could
have been, though I don't know for sure. I'd guess yes, just because for a
number of years he was Cypress Springs's only general practitioner. And even
after Bobby Townesend opened his practice, then Leon White, your daddy remained
the town's primary doctor. People around here are loyal and they certainly
don't like change."
She pursed
her lips. "Do you remember this event?"
"Like
it was yesterday." He paused, passed a hand over his forehead. "In my
entire career, I've only investigated a handful of murders. Sallie Waguespack's
was the first. And the worst."
He
hesitated a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "But the trouble started
before her murder. From the moment we learned that Old Dixie Foods was
considering opening a factory just south of here. The community divided over
the issue. Some called it progress. A chance to financially prosper. A chance
for businesses that had always fought just to survive to finally have the
opportunity to grow, maybe even turn a profit.
"Others
predicted doom. They predicted the ruination of a way of life that had stood
for a century. A way of life disappearing all over the South. They cited other
Southern communities that had been changed for the worse by the influx of big
business."
He laid his
hands flat on the desk. She noticed their enormous size. "The topic became
a hot button. Friendships were strained. Working relationships, too. Some
families were divided on the issue.
"I
admit I was one of those blinded by the idea of progress, financial growth. I
didn't buy the downside."
"Which
was?"
"The
influx of five hundred minimum-wage workers, many of them unmarried males. The
housing and commercial support system that would have to be created to
accommodate them. How they would alter the social and moral structure of the
community."
"I'm
not certain I understand what you mean."
"This
is a community devoted to God and family. We're a bit of an anachronism in this
modern world. Family comes first. Sunday is for worship. We live by the Lord's
commandments and the Golden Rule. Put a couple hundred single guys on the
street on a Friday night, money in their pockets and what do you think is going
to happen?"
She had a
pretty good idea-and none of it had to do with the Golden Rule. "And my
father?" she asked. "Where did he stand on the issue?"
Buddy met
her eyes. His brow furrowed. "I don't remember for sure. I'm thinking he
saw the downside all along. He was a smart man. Smarter than me, that's for
certain."
After a
moment, he continued. "In the end, of course, the town had little
recourse. The factory was built. Money began pouring into Cypress Springs. The
town grew. And people's worst predictions came true."
He stood
and turned toward the window behind his desk. He gazed out, though Avery knew
there was little to see-just a dead-end alley and the shadow of the courthouse.
"I
love this town," he said without looking at her. "Grew up here,
raised my family here. I'll die here, I suspect. Those four months in 1988 were
the only time I considered leaving."
He turned
and met her eyes. "The crime rate began to climb. We' re talking the
serious stuff, the kind of crimes we'd never seen in Cypress Springs. Rape.
Armed robbery. Prostitution, for God's sake."
He released
a weary-sounding breath. "It didn't happen overnight, of course. It
sneaked up on us. An isolated crime here, another there. I called them flukes.
Pretty soon, I couldn't call them that anymore. Same with some of the other
changes occurring in the community. Teenage pregnancies began to rise. As did
the divorce rate. Suddenly, we were having the kind of trouble at the high
school they had at big-city schools-alcohol, drugs, fighting."
She vaguely
recalled fights, and somebody getting caught smoking pot in the bathroom of the
high school. She had been insulated from it all, she realized. In her warm,
protected womb.
"It
must have been difficult for you," she said.
"Folks
were scared. And angry. Real angry. The town was turning into a place they
didn't like. Naturally they turned their anger on me."
"They
felt you weren't doing enough."
It wasn't a
question but he nodded anyway. "I was in over my head, no doubt about it.
Didn't have the manpower or the experience to deal with the increased crime
rate. Hell, our specialty had been traffic violations, the occasional barroom
brawl and sticky-fingered kids shoplifting bubble gum from the five-and-dime.
Then Sallie Waguespack was killed."
He returned
to his chair and sank heavily onto it. "This town went ballistic. The
murder was grisly. She was young, pretty and had her whole life ahead of her.
Her killers were high on drugs. There's just nothing easy about that
scenario." "Why'd they kill her, Buddy?"
"We
don't know. We suspect the motive was robbery but-" "But," she
prodded.
"Like
I said, she was young and pretty. And wild. They ran in the same crowd,
frequented the same kinds of places. The Pruitt boys knew her. Could have been
that one-or both-of them were romantically involved with her. Maybe they
fought. Maybe she tried to break it off. Won't know any of that for sure, but
what I do know is, the evidence against them was rock solid."
He fell
silent. She thought a moment, going over the things he had told her, trying to
find where her father fit in. If he fit in. "What happened then,
Buddy?"
He blinked.
"We closed the case."
"Not
that, I mean with the community. The crime rate."
"Things
quieted down, they always do. Some good came of Sal-lie's death. People stopped
taking the community, their quality of life, for granted. They realized that
safety and a community spirit were worth working for. People started watching
out for each other. Caring more. Service groups formed to help those in need.
Drug awareness began being taught in the schools. As did sex education.
Counseling was provided for those in need. Instead of condemning people in
crisis, we began to offer help. The citizens voted to increase my budget and I
put more officers on the street. The crime rate began to fall."
"My
first thought upon driving into town was how unchanged Cypress Springs
seemed."
"A lot
of effort has gone into maintaining that." He smiled. "Would you
believe, tourism has become our number one industry? Lots of day-trippers,
people on their way to and from St. Fran-cisville. They come to see our pretty,
old-time town."
She
wondered if that was a hint of cynicism she heard in his voice.
"What
about the canning plant?"
"Burned
a couple years back. Old Dixie was in financial difficulty and didn't rebuild.
Without job opportunities, those without other ties to Cypress Springs moved.
If you're looking for an apartment, there're plenty of vacancies."
Avery
smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Old
Dixie went belly-up last year. The burned-out hulk's for sale. Myself, I can't
see anyone buying it. It's a stinking eyesore on the countryside. And I mean
that literally."
She arched
an eyebrow in question and he laughed without humor. "Just wait. You
haven't been here long enough to know what I'm talking about. When conditions
are just right-the hu-midity's high, the temperature's warm and the wind's
blowing briskly from the south, the sour smell of the plant inundates Cypress
Springs. Folks close their windows and stay inside. Even so, it's damn hard to
ignore."
"Makes
it hard to forget, too, I'll bet." Avery wrinkled her nose. "Does the
town have any recourse?"
"Nope,
company's Chapter 7." He leaned toward her. "Can't squeeze blood out
of a turnip. Waste of time to try."
Avery fell
silent a moment, then looked at Buddy, returning to the original reason for her
visit. "Why did Dad clip and save all these articles, all these years,
Buddy?"
"Don't
know, baby girl. I just don't know."
"Am I
interrupting?" Matt asked from behind her.
Avery
turned. Matt stood in the doorway, looking official in his sheriff's department
uniform. "What're you doing here, son?"
"Do I
need a reason to pop in to see my old man?"
'"Course
not." Buddy glanced at his watch. "But it's past lunch and the middle
of a workday."
Matt
shifted his gaze to hers. "You see why I chose the sheriff's department
over the CSPD? He'd have been all over me, all day." Buddy snorted.
"Right. Nobody needs to sit on top of you and you know it. You practically
breathe that job." He wagged a finger at his son. "Truth be told, I
wouldn't have had you work for me- I'd never have gotten a moment's
peace."
"Slacker."
Matt strode into the room, stopping behind Avery's chair. "You have a
woman call in a missing person last week?" he asked his dad.
Buddy's
expression tensed. "Yeah. What about it?"
"Just
got off the phone with her. She thinks you're not doing anything on the case,
asked the sheriff's department to check it out."
The older
man leaned back in his chair. "I don't know what she expects. I've done
everything I can do."
"Figured
as much. Had to ask anyway."
Avery moved
her gaze between the two men. "Do I need to go?"
"You're
okay." Matt laid a hand on her shoulder. "In fact, you're an
investigative reporter, you give us your take on this. Dad?"
Buddy
nodded and took over. "I got a call last week from a woman who said her
boyfriend contacted her by cell phone from just outside Cypress Springs. He
told her he broke down and was going to call a service station for a tow. She
never heard from him again."
"Where
was he heading?" she asked.
"To
St. Francisville. Coming from a meeting in Clinton."
"Why?"
"Business.
Meeting with a client. He was in advertising."
"Go
on."
"I
spoke with every service station within twenty miles. Nobody got a call. I
asked around town, put up flyers, haven't gotten a nibble. I told her
that."
Matt moved
around her chair and perched on the edge of the desk, facing her. "So,
what do you think? She's screaming foul play."
"So
where's the body?" Avery asked. "Where's the car?"
"And
not any car. A Mercedes. Tough to lose one of those around here." Matt
pursed his lips. "But why would this woman lie?"
"We
see a lot of that in journalism. Everybody wants their fifteen minutes of fame.
To feel important. Or in this woman's case, maybe to rationalize why her
boyfriend hasn't called."
She glanced
at her watch and saw that it was nearly time for her meeting at Gallagher's.
She stood. "I've got to go. Danny Gallagher is expecting me in at
two." She looked at Buddy. "Thanks for taking all this time to talk
to me, I appreciate it."
"If
something comes to mind, I'll let you know." He came around the desk and
kissed her cheek. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I
always am."
"Good
girl."
Matt
touched her arm. "I'll walk you out."
They exited
the station and stepped into the bright midday sun. Avery dug her sunglasses
out of her handbag. She slipped them on and looked up to find him gazing at
her.
"What
were you and Dad talking about?"
"A box
of newspaper clippings I found in Dad's closet. They were all concerning the
same event, the Sallie Waguespack murder."
"That
doesn't surprise me."
"It
doesn't?"
"That's
the story that blew this little burg wide open."
"I
hardly remembered it until I read those clippings today."
"Because
of Dad, I lived it." He grimaced. "The night of the murder, I heard
him with Mom. He was…crying. It's the only time I ever heard him cry."
She
swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I feel like such an ostrich. First
Dad, now learning this. I wonder-" She bit the words back and shook her
head. "I need to go. Danny's expecting-"
"You
wonder what?" he asked, touching her arm. She let out a
constricted-sounding breath. "I'm starting to wonder just what kind of
person I am."
"You
were young. It wasn't your tragedy."
"And
what of now? What about my dad? Was that my tragedy?"
"Avery,
you can't keep beating yourself up about this. You didn't light that match. He
did."
But if she
had been here for him, would he still have done it?
"I've
got to go, Matt. Danny's waiting." She started off. He called her name,
stopping her. She turned.
"Next
Sunday? Spring Fest?"
"With
you?"
He shot her
his cocky smile. The one that had always had her saying yes when she should
have been saying no. "If you think you could take an entire day of my
company?"
She
returned the smile. "I think I could manage it."
"Great.
I'll give you a call about the time."
Pleased,
she watched him head back to his cruiser. In that moment, he looked sixteen.
Full of the machismo of youth, buoyed by a yes from the opposite sex.
"If
you're not serious, just stay away. Just…stay…away."
Her smile
slipped as she remembered Cherry's warning. Avery shook off the ripple of
unease that moved over her. She was being ridiculous. Cherry was a sweet girl
who was worried about her brother. Matt was lucky to have someone who cared so
much about him.
CHAPTER 7
The Gavel
called the meeting to order. All six of his generals were in attendance. Ready
to do battle. To lay down their lives for their beliefs and their community.
Each
believed himself a patriot at war.
He surveyed
the group, proud of them, of his selections. They represented both the old and
new guard of Cypress Springs. Wisdom invigorated by youth. Youth tempered by
the wisdom of experience. A difficult combination to beat.
"Good
evening," he said. "As always, I appreciate the sacrifice each of you
made to be here tonight."
Because of
the nature of the group, because some would not understand their motives-even
those who stood to benefit most from their efforts, indeed, their
sacrifice-they met in secret and under cover of late night. Even their families
didn't know the location or true nature of these meetings.
"I
have bad news," he told the group. "I have reason to believe Elaine
St. Claire has contacted a Cypress Springs citizen."
A murmur
went around the table. One of his generals spoke. "How certain are you of
this?"
"Quite.
I saw the letter myself."
"This
is bad," another said. "If she's brazen enough to contact someone in
Cypress Springs, she very well might contact the authorities."
"I
plan to take care of it."
"How?
Isn't she living in New Orleans?"
"She
can destroy us," another interjected. "To leave Cypress Springs is to
lose the safety of our number."
The Gavel
shook his head, saddened. New Orleans had been the perfect place for her. Sin
city. Anything went.
But, it
seemed, she hadn't been able to help herself. No doubt, the passing months had
dimmed her fear, had lessened the immediacy of the danger. It was human nature,
he acknowledged. He hadn't been surprised.
He was
beginning to doubt the effectiveness of the warning system they had devised.
Warnings rarely worked. Or only proved a short-term deterrent.
"She's
in St. Francisville now," he said.
"Better,"
a general murmured. "We have friends there."
"We
won't need them," the Gavel said. "I've planned a trap. A carefully
executed trap."
"Lure
her back to Cypress Springs," General Blue said. "Once here, she's
ours."
"Exactly."
He gazed from one face to another around the table. "Are we in agreement,
shall I set the trap?"
The
generals didn't hesitate. They had learned nothing good came with lack of
conviction. Weakness opened the door to destruction.
The Gavel
nodded. "Consider it done. Next? Any concerns?"
Blue spoke
again. "A newcomer to Cypress Springs. An outsider. She's asking questions
about The Seven. About our history."
The Gavel
frowned. He'd heard, too. Outsiders always posed serious threats. They didn't
understand what The Seven were fighting for. How seriously they took their
convictions. Invariably, they had to be dealt with quickly and mercilessly.
Outsiders
with knowledge of The Seven posed an even more significant danger.
Damn the
original group, he thought. They'd been weak. They hadn't concealed their
actions well. They hadn't been willing to take whatever measures were required,
no matter the consequences to life or limb.
Too
touchy-feely, the Gavel thought, lips twisting into a sneer. They'd bowed to
internal fighting and the squeamishness of a few members. Bowed to a member who
threatened to go to the American Civil Liberties Union and the Feds. And to any
and all of those prissy-assed whiners who were sending this country to hell in
a handbasket.
It made him
sick to think about it. What about the rights of decent, law-abiding folks to
have a safe, morally clean place to live?
That's
where he and his generals differed from the original group. The Gavel had
chosen his men carefully. Had chosen men as strong-willed as he. Men whose
commitment to the cause mirrored his own in steadfastness and zeal.
He was
willing to die for the cause.
He was
willing to kill for it.
"The
outsider," the Gavel asked, "anyone have a name yet?" No one
did. A general called Wings offered that she had just moved into The
Guesthouse.
The Gavel
nodded. Her name would be easy to secure. One call and they would have it.
"Let's
keep an eye on this one," he advised. "She doesn't make a move we
don't know about. If she becomes more of a risk, we take the next step."
He turned
to Hawk, his most trusted general. The man inclined his head in the barest of a
nod. The Gavel smiled. Hawk understood; he agreed. If necessary, they would
take care of this outsider the way they'd taken care of the last.
Determination
flowing through him, he adjourned the meeting.
CHAPTER 8
The Azalea
Cafe served the best buttermilk pancakes in the whole world. Fat, fluffy and slightly
sweet even without syrup, Avery had never stopped craving them-even after
twelve years away from Cypress Springs. And after a weekend spent preparing her
childhood home for sale, Avery had decided a short stack at the Azalea wasn't
just a treat-it was a necessity.
She stepped
into the cafe. "Morning, Peg," she called to the gray-haired woman
behind the counter. Peg was the third-generation Becnal to run the Azalea. Her
grandmother had opened the diner when her husband had been killed in the Second
World War and she'd needed to support her five kids.
"Avery,
sweetheart." She came around the counter and gave Avery a big hug. She
smelled of syrup and bacon from the griddle. "I'm so sorry about your
daddy. If I can do anything, anything at all, you just let me know."
Avery
hugged her back. "Thanks, Peg. That means a lot to me."
When the
woman released her, Avery saw that her eyes were bright with tears. "Bet
you came in for some of my world-famous pancakes."
Avery
grinned. "Am I that transparent?"
"You ate
your first short stack at two years old. I remember your daddy and mama like to
have died of shock, you ate the whole thing. Every last bite." She
smoothed her apron. "Have yourself a seat anywhere. I'll send Marcie over
with coffee."
The
nine-to-fivers had come and gone, leaving Avery her choice of tables. Avery
slipped into one of the front window booths. She looked out the window, toward
the town square. They had begun setting up for Spring Fest, she saw. City
workers were stringing lights in the trees and on the gazebo. Friday night it
would look like a fairyland.
A smile
tipped the corners of her mouth. Louisianians loved to celebrate and used any
opportunity to do so: the Blessing of the Fleet on Little Caillou Bayou, the
harvest of the strawberries in Pontchatoula, Louisiana's musical heritage in
New Orleans at the Jazz Fest, to name only a few. Spring Fest was Cypress
Springs's offering, a traditional Louisiana weekend festival, complete with
food booths, arts and crafts, music and carnival rides for the kids. People
from all over the state would come and every available room in Cypress Springs
would be booked. She had gone every year she'd lived at home.
"Coffee,
hon?"
Avery
turned. "Yes, thanks."
The girl
filled her cup, then plunked down a pitcher of cream. Avery thanked her, added
cream and sugar to her coffee, then returned her gaze to the window and the
square beyond.
The weekend
had passed in an unsettling mix of despair and gratitude, tears and laughter.
Neighbors and friends had stopped by to check on her, bringing food, baked
goods and flowers. The last time she'd seen most of them had been at her
mother's funeral and then only briefly. The majority had stayed to chat,
reliving times past-sharing their sweet, funny, outrageous and precious memories
of her father. Some, too, shared their regret at not hav-ing acted on his
bizarre behavior before it had been too late. The outpouring of concern and
affection had made her task less painful.
But more,
it had made her feel less alone.
Avery had
forgotten what it was like to live among friends, to be a part of a community.
Not just a name or a P.O. box number, but a real person. Someone who was
important for no other reason than that they shared ownership of a community.
Avery
sipped her coffee, turning her attention to her dad's funeral. Danny Gallagher
had recommended Avery wake her father Wednesday evening, with a funeral to
follow the next morning. He had chosen that day so the Gazette could run an
announcement in both the Saturday and Wednesday editions. The whole town would
want to pay their respects, he felt certain. This would offer them the
opportunity to do so.
Lilah had
insisted on opening her home for mourners after the service on Thursday. Avery
had accepted, relieved.
Two days
and counting.
Would
burying him enable her to say goodbye? she wondered, curving her hands around
the warm mug. Would the funeral give her a sense of closure? Or would she still
feel this great, gaping hole in her life?
The
waitress brought the pancakes and refilled her coffee. Avery thanked her and
not bothering with syrup, dug in, making a sound of pleasure as the confection
made contact with her taste buds.
In an
embarrassingly short period of time, she had plowed through half the stack. She
laid down her fork and sighed, contented.
"Are
they as good as you remember?" Peg called from behind the counter.
"Better,"
she answered, pushing her plate away. "But if I eat any more I'll
burst."
The woman
shook her head. "No wonder you're so scrawny. I'll have Marcie bring your
check."
Avery
thanked her and turned back toward the square. She began to look away, then
stopped as she realized that Hunter and his mother were standing across the
street, partially hidden by an oak tree, deep in conversation.
Not a
conversation, Avery saw. An argument. As she watched, Lilah lifted a hand as if
to slap her son but he knocked her hand away. He was furious; Avery could all
but feel his anger. And Lilah's despair.
She told
herself to look away. That she was intruding. But she found her gaze riveted to
the two. They exchanged more words but as Hunter turned to walk away, Lilah
grabbed at him. He shook her hand off, his expression disgusted.
Lilah was
begging, Avery realized with a sense of shock. But for what? Her son's love?
His attention? In the next moment, Hunter had strode off.
Lilah
stared after him a moment, then seemed to crumble. She sagged against the tree
and dropped her head into her hands.
Alarmed,
Avery scooted out of the booth, hooking her handbag over her shoulder.
"Peg," she called, hurrying toward the door, "could you hold my
check? I'll be back later."
She didn't
wait for the woman's answer but darted through the door and across the street.
"Lilah,"
she said gently when she reached the other woman. "Are you all
right?"
"Go away,
Avery. Please."
"I
can't do that. Not when you're so upset."
"You
can't help me. No one can."
She dropped
her hands, turned her face toward Avery's. Ravaged by tears, stripped of
makeup, she looked a dozen years older than the genteel hostess of the other
night.
Avery held
out a hand. "At least let me help you to your car. Or let me drive you
home."
"I
don't deserve your kindness. I've made so many mistakes in my life. With my
children, my-" She wrung her hands. "God help me! It's all my fault!
Everything's my fault!"
"Is
that what Hunter told you?"
"I've
got to go."
"Is
that what Hunter told you? I saw you arguing."
"Let
me go." She fumbled in her handbag for her car keys. Her hands shook so
badly she couldn't hold on to them and they slipped to the ground.
Avery bent
and snatched them up. "I don't know what he said to you, but it's not
true. Whatever's wrong with Hunter is not your fault. He's responsible for the
mess of his life, not you."
Lilah shook
her head. "You don't know… I've been a terrible mother. I've done
everything wrong. Everything!"
Lilah
attempted to push past; Avery caught her by the shoulders. She forced the woman
to meet her eyes. "That's not true! Think about Matt. And Cherry. Look how
well they're doing, how happy they are."
The older
woman stilled. She met Avery's eyes. "I don't feel well, Avery. Could you
take me home?"
Avery said
she could and led Lilah to her sedan, parked on the other side of the square.
After helping the woman into the front passenger seat, Avery went around to the
driver's side, climbed in and started the vehicle up.
The drive
out to the ranch passed in silence. Lilah, Avery felt certain, possessed
neither the want nor emotional wherewithal to converse. Avery pulled the sedan
into the driveway and cut the engine. She went around the car, helped Lilah
out, up the walk and into the house.
At the
sound of the door opening, Cherry appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked
from her mother to Avery. "What happened?"
"I'm
all right," Lilah answered, an unmistakable edge in her voice. "Just
tired."
Cherry
hurried down the stairs. She took her mother's arm. "Let me help
you."
"Please,
don't fuss."
"Mother-"
"I
don't want to talk about it." She eased her arm from her daughter's grasp.
"I have a headache and…" She turned toward Avery. "You're an
angel for bringing me home. I hope I didn't interfere with your plans."
"Not
at all, Lilah. I hope you feel better."
"I
need to lie down now. Excuse me."
Cherry
watched her mother make her way slowly up the stairs. When she had disappeared
from view, she swung to face Avery, obviously distressed. "What
happened?"
"I
don't know." Avery passed a hand over her face. "I was at the Azalea,
in one of the window booths. I looked out and there was your mother and
Hunter-"
"Hunter!"
"They
were arguing."
Her
expression tightened. "Son of a… Why won't he leave her alone? Why won't
he just go away?"
Avery
didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. Cherry shook with fury. She
strode to the entryway table, yanked up the top right drawer and dug out a pack
of cigarettes and a lighter. Her hands shook as she lit the smoke. She crossed
to the front door, opened it and stood in the doorway, smoking in silence.
After
several drags, she turned back to Avery. "What were they arguing
about?"
"That
I don't know. She wouldn't say."
Cherry blew
out a long stream of smoke. "What did she say?"
"That
she had made a mess of her life. Of her children's lives. That everything was
her fault."
Cherry
squeezed her eyes shut.
"I
told her it wasn't true," Avery continued. "I told her Hunter's
problems were his own."
"But
she didn't believe it."
"Actually,
it seemed to calm her."
"Hallelujah."
Cherry moved out onto the porch, stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray hidden
under a step, then returned to the foyer. "There's a first."
"I
take it this has happened before."
"Oh,
yeah. He hadn't been back in Cypress Springs twenty-four hours before he
started shoveling his shit her way. All of our way, actually. You wouldn't
believe some of the things he said. The things he accused us of."
Cherry
sighed. "It doesn't matter how well Matt and I are doing, all she can
focus on is Hunter and his troubles. And somehow it's all her fault."
What
happened to him, Cherry? Hunter used to be so…kind. And funny."
She lifted
a shoulder. "I don't know. None of us do."
"It
began that summer, didn't it? That summer Sallie Waguespack was killed."
Cherry
looked sharply at her. "Why do you say that?"
"Because
it was that summer he and Matt started fighting. Just after they'd gotten their
driver's licenses." She paused. "It's when Hunter seemed
to…change."
Cherry
didn't comment; Avery filled the silence. "I wouldn't have thought of it
except for all the clippings I found in Dad's closet." She quickly
explained how she had found the box, sorted through it then questioned Buddy
about the contents. "Truthfully, I'd forgotten the incident."
"Why
do you think one had anything to do with the other?"
"Excuse
me?"
"Why
do you think that murder has anything to do with Hunter?"
Avery
blinked, surprised by the other woman's assumption. "I didn't. I was just
placing it in a time frame."
Cherry
rubbed the spot between her eyes with her thumb, in obvious discomfort. "I
was just a kid, I hardly remember it all. But it was…a time of upheaval.
Everybody was upset. All the time, it seemed."
She dropped
her hand and met Avery's eyes. "For whatever reason, Hunter's changed.
He's not one of us anymore. As much as it hurts me to admit, I can't imagine
what it does to Matt. They're twins, for God's sake. Once they were as close as
two people could be."
Cherry
shivered slightly and closed the door. "To his credit, Matt's gone on. So
have Daddy and I. But Mother can't seem to…let go." She paused. "It's
been much worse since Hunter came back to Cypress Springs. Before, we could
forget, you know? Out of sight, out of mind. Even Mom. I think she consoled
herself with his professional success."
Out of
sight, out of mind. Avery understood. In a way, she had done that with her
father. She had told herself he was happy, that he had a nice comfortable life.
Now she had to live with just how wrong she'd been.
"Then
home he came," Cherry continued, "with a shitload of bad attitude and
so many chips on his shoulder it's amazing he can walk upright."
"Why,
Cherry? The other night your dad said Hunter almost lost his license to
practice law. Do you know what happened?"
"Yeah,
I know. He had it all and he blew it. That's what happened. Professional
success. Money, brains. A family who loved him. And he's blown it all to hell.
"You
know what he's doing?" she asked. "The man's gone from practicing
corporate law at one of the top firms in the South to taking the odd divorce
and bankruptcy case in Cypress Springs. I don't get it. He's working and living
down in what used to be Barker's Flower Shop, one block off the square. At the
corner of Walton and Johnson. Remember it?"
Avery
indicated she did.
"You
already know what I really think about why he came back to Cypress
Springs." She didn't wait for Avery to reply. "He's come back to hurt
us. To punish us for some imagined sin or slight against him."
Cherry
glanced toward the stairway thinking, Avery knew, of her mother. "And
what's really sad is, he's succeeding."
CHAPTER 9
Avery left
the ranch a short time later. Cherry told her to go ahead and take her mother's
car-after one of these spells her mother didn't go out for days anyway.
As she
drove through town, Avery couldn't stop thinking about what Cherry had said.
About Hunter coming back to punish them. She'd dismissed Cherry's earlier
claim, but now Avery couldn't put the image of Lilah's devastation out of her
mind.
And the
more she thought about it, the angrier she became. How could Hunter treat his
family that way? All they had ever done was love and support him.
She didn't
care if she had been gone for twelve years, she wasn't going to let him get
away with it. The Stevenses were the closest thing to a family she had left,
and she wasn't about to stand back | and let Hunter hurt them.
She reached
Walton Street, took a left, heading back toward Johnson. She found a parking
spot a couple doors down from what had been Barker's Flower Shop. She angled
into the spot and climbed out.
Barker's
had been Cypress Springs's preferred florist during Avery's high-school years.
Every corsage she'd worn had come from this shop.
And they'd
all been from Matt, she realized. Every last one of them.
She reached
the shop and felt a moment of loss at the empty front window. She used to love
peering through at the buckets of cut flowers.
She tried
the door. And found it locked. A cardboard clock face propped in the window
proclaimed Will Return At-
Problem was
the clock's hour hand was missing.
Cherry had
said that Hunter used the front of the shop as his law office and lived in the
back. If she remembered correctly, the Barkers had done the same. No doubt, the
residence was accessed from the rear.
She went
around back, to the service alley. Sure enough, the rear had been set up as a
residential entrance.
She crossed
to it and found the outer door stood open to allow fresh air in through the
screen. She knocked on the door frame. "Hunter?" she called out.
"It's Avery."
From inside
came a scuffling, followed by a whimper. She frowned and knocked again.
"Hunter? Is that you?"
The
whimpering came again. She leaned closer and peered through the dirty screen.
The room immediately beyond the door was a kitchen. It appeared empty.
From inside
came a thud. Like something hitting the floor.
Something?
Or someone?
Reacting,
she tried the screen door, found it unlocked and pushed it open. She stepped
through. Save for a handful of dishes in the sink, the kitchen was as neat as a
pin.
Heart
pounding, she made her way through the room. "Hunter?" she called
again, softly. "It's Avery. Are you all right?"
This time,
silence answered. No whimper, whine or scuffle.
Not good.
She rushed through the doorway to the next room and stopped short. The biggest,
mangiest dog she had ever seen blocked her way, teeth barred. The beast growled
low in its throat and Avery's stomach dropped to her toes.
She took a
step back.
Whimpering
from behind the dog drew her gaze. On a blanket shoved into the corner lay a
half-dozen squirming pups, so young their eyes weren't open yet.
"It's
okay, girl," Avery said gently, returning her gaze to the mama. "I
won't hurt your pups."
The dog
cocked its head as if deciding if Avery could be trusted, then turned and loped
back to her babies. She flopped onto her side on the floor and the pups began
rooting for a teat. With a heavy sigh, she thumped her tail-which was as thick
as a broom handle-once against the wooden floor.
Avery shook
her head, feeling more than a little ridiculous. What an imagination she had.
Big bad Avery, rushing in to save the day.
She turned
away from the nursing dog to take in the room. Neat but spartan, she thought. A
shabby but comfortable mishmash of furniture and styles. An ancient-looking
couch in a shade that had probably once been a bright gold, but could now only
be described as vomit colored. A beat-up coffee table. And a beautiful, butter-colored
leather easy chair.
Left over
from the good old days, she would bet. The piece he hadn't been able to get rid
of.
She turned.
A makeshift desk and file cabinet had been set up in the corner behind her. A
computer rested atop the desk, screen dark. Beside the PC sat a stack of
printer paper, a couple inches thick.
Curious,
she crossed to the desk. A manuscript, she saw. She tipped her head to read.
Breaking Point. A novel by Hunter Stevens.
Hunter was
writing a novel? Why hadn't Matt or Cherry mentioned it?
Maybe they
didn't-
"Come
right in," Hunter said from behind her. "Make yourself at home."
Avery
whirled around, hand to her throat. "Hunter!"
"You
sound so surprised to see me. Were you expecting someone else?"
"This
isn't how it looks. I didn't mean to-"
"To
what?" he asked. "Break and enter?"
Cheeks
burning, she tilted up her chin. "It wasn't like that. I can
explain."
"Sure
you can." He stalked past her, retrieved the manuscript and placed it in a
file drawer. Avery noticed the way he handled the pages-carefully, with
something akin to reverence.
"I
didn't read anything but the title," she said softly. "And I didn't
break in. The door was open."
He locked
the drawer, pocketed the key then turned and faced her, arms folded across his
chest. "How careless of me."
"I
stopped by. And I heard a sound from inside. A…cry, then a thud. Like
someone…falling. I thought you-"
At his
disbelieving expression, she made a sound of frustration. "It was the dog
and her pups I heard. I thought, you know, that something was wrong."
"Sarah?"
He glanced over at the dog. At the sound of her name, the canine looked up and
slapped her tail against the floor.
"See?"
Avery said. "That's what I heard."
He smiled
then, taking her by surprise. "You're right, that is a scary noise. Did
you think the boogeyman had gotten me? Was big bad Avery going to rush in and
save the day?"
The curving
of his lips changed him into the young man she remembered from all those years
ago and she returned his smile. Why not? It could happen. I carry pepper spray.
Besides, if you recall, I'm not one of those prissy, sissy girls like you dated
in high school. Hunter," she mocked in an exaggerated drawl, "you're
so big and strong. I don't know what I would do without you to protect me."
He laughed.
"True, I would never call you prissy."
"Thank
you for that."
"I'm
sorry," he said. "For the other night. I acted like an ass."
"A
bastard and an ass, actually. Apology accepted anyway."
The dog
stood, shook off a last greedy pup and ambled over to Hunter. She looked
adoringly up at him. He squatted beside her and scratched behind her ears. She
practically swooned with delight. Avery watched the two, thinking Hunter
couldn't be quite as heartless as he acted. "She seems devoted to
you."
"It's
mutual. I found her when she was as down and out on her luck as I was. Figured
we made a good pair."
Silence
fell between them. Avery longed to ask about the circumstances that had brought
him to this place, but didn't want to spoil the moment of camaraderie.
She chose a
safer topic instead, motioning the computer. "Your family didn't mention
that you were writing a novel."
"They
don't know. No one does. Unless like you, they make a habit of breaking and
entering." He straightened. Sarah remained by his feet. "And I'd appreciate
it if you didn't tell them."
"If
that's what you want. But I'm sure if they knew they'd be nothing but
supporti-"
"It is
what I want."
"All
right." She tilted her head. "The book, what's it about?"
"It's
a thriller." He didn't blink. "About a lawyer who goes off the deep
end."
"It's
autobiographical then?"
"What
are you doing here, Avery?"
She decided
that beating around the bush would be a waste of time. "I want to talk to
you about your mother."
"There's
a shock."
She
stiffened at his sarcasm. "I saw the two of you this morning. Arguing. She
was really upset, Hunter. Hysterical, actually." He didn't respond. Not
with surprise or remorse. Not with concern or guilt. His impassive expression
made her blood boil. "You don't have a comment about that?"
"No."
"She
couldn't even drive, Hunter. I had to take her home."
"What
do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?"
"For
starters."
"That's
not happening. Anything else?"
She stared
at him, stunned. That he could be so unfeeling toward his mother. So careless
toward those who loved him.
She told
him so and he laughed. "That's rich. The pot calling the kettle
black."
"What's
that supposed to mean?"
"You
know damn well what it means. Where have you been the last few years,
Avery?"
She saw
what he was doing and backed off, not about to let him divert the conversation.
"We're not talking about me here, Hunter. We're talking about you. About
you blaming everyone but yourself for your problems. Why don't you grow
up?"
"Why
don't you butt out, Ms. Big-City Reporter? Head back to your important job.
Your life isn't here. It never was."
Stung, she
struck back. "You're lucky you have such a great family. A family who
loves you. One willing to stick by you even when you're such a colossal
jackass. Why don't you show a little gratitude?"
"Gratitude?"
He laughed, the sound hard. "Great family? For an investigative reporter
you're pretty damn obtuse."
She shook
her head, disbelieving. "No family is perfect. But at least they've stayed
committed to one another. They've tried to be there for one another, through
thick and thin."
"When
did you become such an expert on my family? You've only been here, what? A
week? Wait!" He brought his fingertips to his forehead. "I've got it!
You're psychic?"
"It's
senseless to even try to have a conversation with you." She started toward
the door. "I'm out of here."
"Of
course you are. That's your MO, isn't it, Avery?"
She froze,
then turned slowly to face him. "Excuse me?"
"Where
have you been the past twelve years?"
"In
case you haven't noticed, Cypress Springs isn't exactly the place to have a
career in journalism."
He took a
step toward her. "You're a fine one to scold me about how I treat my
mother. Look at how you treated yours. How many times did you visit her after
you moved away?"
"I
called. I visited when I could. I couldn't just take off whenever the mood
struck."
"How
long did you stay after her funeral, Avery? Twenty-four hours? Or was it
thirty-six?"
She swung
toward the door; he followed her, grabbing her arm when she reached it.
"And where were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself
on fire?"
A cry
spilled past her lips. She tugged against his hand. He tightened his grip.
"Your dad needed you. And you weren't here."
"What
do you know about my father! About how he felt or what he needed!"
"I
know more than you could imagine." He released her and she stumbled
backward. "I bet you didn't know that your dad and mine weren't even on
speaking terms. That it had gotten so bad between them that if one saw the
other coming on the street, he would cross to the other side to avoid making
eye contact. I bet neither Matt nor Buddy told you that."
"Stop
it, Hunter." She backed toward the door.
"I bet
they didn't tell you that my parents haven't shared a bed in over a decade. Or
that Mom's addicted to painkillers and booze." He laughed bitterly.
"Dad's played the part of the jovial, small-town cop so long, he wouldn't
recognize an authentic thought or feeling if it shouted his name. Matt's trying
his damnedest to follow in the old man's footsteps and is so deeply in denial
it's frightening. And Cherry, poor girl, has sacrificed her life to holding the
dysfunctional lot together.
"Great
family," he finished. "As American as apple pie and Prozac."
She stared
at him, shaking with the force of her anger. "You're right. I wasn't here.
And I hate myself for it. I would do anything, give anything, to change that.
To bring them back. But I can't. I've lost them."
She grasped
the door handle, fighting not to cry. Determined not to let him know he had
won. "I didn't believe what Cherry told me. That you'd come back just to
punish them. I believe it now."
He held out
a hand. "Avery, I-"
"When
did you become so cruel, Hunter?" she asked, cutting him off. "What
happened to make you so hateful and small?"
Without
waiting for an answer, she let herself out and walked away.
CHAPTER 10
Gwen
Lancaster stood at the window of her rented room and peered through the blinds
at the gathering darkness. Lights in the buildings around the square began
popping on. Gwen kept her own lights off; she preferred the dark. Preferred to
watch in anonymity.
Did they
know she was here? she wondered. Did they know who she was? That Tom had been
her brother?
Had they
realized yet that she would stop at nothing to find his killer?
As always,
thoughts of her brother brought a lump to her throat. She swung away from the
window, crossed to the desk and the Cy-press Springs Gazette she had been
reading. It lay open to the upcoming calendar of events. She had marked off
those she planned to attend. First on the list was tonight's wake.
She shifted
her gaze to the paper and the black-and-white image of a kindly-looking older
man. The caption identified him as Dr.Phillip Chauvin. Survived by his only
child, a daughter, Avery Chauvin.
The entire
town would be in attendance tonight. She had heard people talking about it. Had
learned that the man had committed suicide. And that he had been one of Cypress
Springs's most beloved brothers.
Suicide.
Her lips twisted. Cypress Springs, it seemed, was just that kind of town.
Fury rose
up in her. They would most probably be there. The bastards who had taken her
brother from her.
Tom had
been working toward his doctorate in social psychology from Tulane University.
He'd been writing his dissertation on vigilantism in small-town America. A
story he'd uncovered in the course of his research had brought him to Cypress
Springs.
A story
about a group called The Seven. A group that had operated from the late 1980s
to the early 1990s, systematically denying the civil rights of their fellow
citizens in the name of law and order.
After only
a matter of weeks in Cypress Springs, Tom had disappeared without a trace.
Gwen
swallowed hard. That wasn't quite true. His body had disappeared. His car had
been found on the side of a deserted stretch of highway in the next parish. It
had been in running order. There'd been no sign of a struggle or an accident.
The keys had been gone.
Both the
Cypress Springs police and sheriff's department had investigated. They'd combed
her brother's car and the surrounding area for evidence. They'd searched his
rented room, interviewed his fellow boarders, worked to reconstruct the last
days of his life. Neither suspect nor motive had emerged.
They told
her they believed he had been the victim of a random act of violence-that Tom
had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had promised not to
close the case until they uncovered what happened to him.
Gwen had a
different theory about his disappearance. She believed his research into The
Seven had gotten him killed. That he had gotten too close to someone or
something. She had talked to him only days before he disappeared. He'd found so
much more than he'd expected, he had told her. He believed that The Seven was
not a thing of the past, but operating still. He had made an important contact;
they were meeting the following night.
Gwen had
begged him to be careful.
That had
been the last time she'd heard his voice. The last time, she feared, she would
ever hear his voice.
Although
his research notes revealed nothing sinister, she hadn't a doubt his contact
had either set him up or killed him.
Gwen
brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. What if she was wrong? What if she
simply needed someone-or something- she could point to and say they did it,
that her brother was gone because of them. The therapist she had been seeing
thought so. Hers was a common reaction, he'd said. The need to make sense out
of a senseless act of violence. To create order out of chaos.
She dropped
her hands, weary from her own thoughts. Chaos. That's what her life had become
after Tom's disappearance.
She crossed
back to the window. For several days city workers had been stringing lights in
the trees. Tonight, it seemed, was the payoff. The thousands of twinkling
lights snapped on, turning the town square into a fairyland.
It was so
beautiful. Charming. A postcard-perfect community populated by the nicest
people she had ever encountered.
It was a
lie. An illusion. This place was not the idyllic paradise it seemed. People
here were not the paragons they seemed.
And she
would prove it. No matter what it cost her.
CHAPTER 11
Gallagher's
funeral home was housed in a big old Victorian on Prospect Street. The
Gallagher family had been in the funeral game for as long as Avery could
remember. She and Danny had gone to school together, and she remembered a
report he had given in the seventh grade on embalming. The girls had been
horrified, the boys fascinated.
Being the
biggest tomboy in Cypress Springs, she had fallen in line with the boys.
Danny
Gallagher met her at the front door of the funeral home. He'd been a
lady-killer in school and although time had somewhat softened his chin and
middle, he was still incredibly handsome.
He caught
her hands and kissed her cheeks. "Are you all right?"
"As
well as can be expected, I guess."
He looked
past her, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "You drove yourself?"
She had.
Truth was, half a dozen people had offered to drive her tonight, including
Buddy and Matt. She had refused them, even when they had begged her to
reconsider. She had wanted to be alone.
"I'm a
city girl," she murmured. "I'm used to taking care of myself"
He ushered
her inside, clearly disapproving. "If you need anything, let me or one of
the staff know. I'm expecting a big crowd."
Within
twenty minutes he was proved correct-nearly the entire town was turning out to
pay their respects. One after another, old friends, neighbors and acquaintances
hugged her and offered their condolences. Some she recognized right off, others
had to remind her who they were. Again and again, each expressed their shock
and dismay over her father's death.
Nobody
actually said the word. But it hung in the air anyway. It was written on their
faces, in the carefully chosen words and softly modulated tones. It was there
in the things they didn't say.
Suicide.
And with
that word, their unspoken accusation. Their condemnation. She hadn't been there
for him. He had needed her and she had been off taking care of herself.
"Where
were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire?"
Hunter's
taunt from two days before was burned into her brain. She told herself he had
meant to hurt her. That he was angry, hurting, just plain mean. She told
herself he wouldn't win unless she let him.
But she
couldn't tell herself the one thing she longed to: that the things he'd said
weren't true. Because they were.
And in that
lay their power.
Minutes
ticked by at an agonizing pace. The walls began to close in on her. Her head
became light; her knees weak. She felt as if she were suffocating on the smell
of colognes and flowers,
cloying,
too sweet. Each vying for dominance over the other.
She had to
get some air. The patio. She inched in that direction, fighting her mounting
panic. She reached the doors, slipped through them and out into the
unseasonably cool night air. She hurried to the patio's edge; grasped the
railing for support.
"Keep
it together, Avery. You can't fall apart yet." From the other side of the
patio came an embarrassed-sounding cough. She swung in that direction,
realizing she wasn't alone. That she had been talking to herself.
A man she
didn't recognize stood on the other side of the patio, smoking. She scolded
herself for the spear of irritation she felt. It was she who was intruding. Not
he.
He met her
eyes. "Sorry about your dad, Ms. Chauvin. He was a fine man."
"Thank
you," she said, fighting past the emotion that rose in her throat and
crossing to him. "I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
He looked
embarrassed. "We've never met." He extinguished the cigarette and
held out a hand. "John Price. Cypress Springs Volunteer Fire
Department."
She shook
his hand. "Good to met you."
He looked
away, then back, expression pure misery. "I was on call that morning. I
was the first to…see your dad."
He had seen
her father.
He had been
the first.
A
half-dozen questions popped into her head. She uttered the first to her tongue.
"What did you do then?"
He looked
surprised. "Pardon?"
"After
you found him, what happened next?"
"Called
my captain. He called the state fire marshal. They sent the arson investigator
assigned to our region. He's a good guy. Name's Ben Mitchell."
"And
he called the coroner."
"Yup."
He nodded. "Parish coroner. Coroner called Buddy."
"That's
how it works?"
He shuffled
slightly. "Yeah. Our job's elimination and containment of the fire itself,
as well as search and rescue. Once our job's done, we call the state fire
marshal. He determines how the fire started."
"And
calls the coroner?"
"Yes.
If there are victims. He calls the PD. Chain of command."
She felt
herself emotionally disengaging, slipping into the role of journalist. It was
an automatic thing, like breathing. She found it comforting. "And my
father was dead when you got there?"
"No
doubt about that. He-" The man bit back what he was about to say.
"What?"
"He
was dead, Ms. Chauvin. Absolutely."
She shut
her eyes, working to recall what she knew of death by burning. The arson piece
she'd done. Those two little victims; she had seen a picture. Charred cadavers.
Entirely black. Generic fea-
"Avery?
Are you okay?"
At Matt's
voice, she opened her eyes. He stood in the doorway, Cherry hovering just
behind him.
"Fine."
As she said the word, she realized she felt a hundred percent better than when
she'd stepped outside.
"People
are looking for you."
She nodded
and turned back to the fireman. "John, I'd like to talk to you more about
this. Could I give you a call, set up something?"
He shifted
his gaze, obviously uncomfortable. "Sure, but I don't know what I could
tell you that would-"
"Just
for me," she said quickly. "For closure."
"I
guess. You can reach me through the dispatcher."
She thanked
him, turned and crossed to where Matt and Cherry waited.
"Ms.
Chauvin?" She stopped and glanced back at the fireman. "You might
want to call Ben Mitchell, at the state fire marshal's office in Baton Rouge.
He could tell you a lot more than I can."
"Thanks,
John. I'll do that."
"What
was that all about?" Cherry asked.
"Nothing.
I needed some air."
Cherry
frowned slightly and glanced over her shoulder, obviously annoyed with her
answer. "Jill Landry married him. You remember Jill? Met him through her
sister, in Jackson."
"He
seems like a nice guy."
"I
guess."
Avery
stopped and looked at the other woman. "Are you trying to tell me
something, Cherry?"
"No. I
just thought you should know…he's not from around here, Avery."
"He
found Dad," she said sharply. "I was asking him about it. Is that
okay with you?"
"I
didn't mean anything-" She glanced from Avery to her brother, expression
wounded. "I just…I'm worried about you, that's all."
"I'm a
big girl, Cherry. I don't need protecting."
"I see
that." Color flooded her cheeks. "I won't make that mistake again.
Excuse me."
"She
was only trying to be your friend," Matt said softly, tone reproachful.
"She cares about you. We all do."
Avery swore
softly. "I know. I just reacted."
Matt laid a
hand on her arm. "I understand. Just don't-" He paused.
"What?"
"You're
hurting. I'm sympathetic to that. We all are. But don't push us away, Avery. We
love you."
She swallowed
hard, eyes burning. He was right. Alienating the people who cared about her
would do nothing but leave her more alone than she already was.
She caught
his hand, squeezed his fingers. "Thank you," she whispered.
"Your friendship means more to me than I can say."
He curled
his fingers around hers. "I'm here for you, Avery. I've always been here
for you."
The moment
was broken by three older women. Members of her mother's quilting group, she
learned.
Matt
greeted the women, then excused himself. She watched as he made his way through
the crowded room, heading in the direction Cherry had gone. He meant to find
and comfort his sister.
She would
apologize later, Avery promised herself, turning back to the three, accepting
their condolences. The Quilting Bees, as they called themselves, exited,
leaving Avery momentarily alone.
She swept
her gaze over the gathering, stopping on a group of men who stood at the far
end of the room. They spoke to one another quietly, expressions intent. She
recognized several of them; though by face not name. None had spoken to her
tonight. As she watched, one of them nodded toward someone outside their
circle. The others glanced in the direction he indicated.
She turned.
They seemed to be discussing a woman she didn't recognize. Tall, slim and
sandy-haired, she wore a simple black skirt and white, button-front blouse. She
was alone, standing by a tall, potted fern. Something about her expression
looked lost.
Avery
frowned and shifted her gaze back to the men. They were definitely looking at
the woman. One of them laughed. She didn't know why that struck her as wrong,
but it did.
She darted
another glance at the woman. Who was she? A friend of one of the men?
"Avery,
honey, I'm so sorry."
She dragged
her gaze from the group, meeting the eyes of the woman who had been Avery's
first-grade teacher. She accepted the woman's condolences, hug and promised to
call if she needed anything.
Avery
turned back toward the group of men. They had dispersed. The woman they'd been
talking about was gone as well. She checked out the thinning crowd, searching
for her without luck. She wondered if she had imagined the whole thing.
It wouldn't
surprise her, she acknowledged, glancing toward her father's closed casket and
experiencing a moment of pure panic. Nothing would surprise her anymore.
CHAPTER 12
Hunter
stared at his computer screen, the things he'd written swimming before his
eyes. Mocking him. With a sound of disgust he hit the delete button and watched
as the cursor ate one letter after another until nothing was left but the blank
page.
How could
he write when the words filling his head were ones he had flung at Avery? How
could he envision his characters when her image crowded his mind? Her hurt
expression. The accusation in her eyes.
She had looked
at him as if he were some sort of monster.
Dammit!
Hunter pushed away from the desk and stood. At the kitchen door, Sarah whined
to go out. The dog had been antsy and agitated all evening-much as he himself
had been.
He ignored
her and made his way through the apartment and to the office in front. Empty,
dark save for the blinking message light on his answer machine, he recalled the
space as it had been: filled with the scent and color of flowers. Now it
smelled as colorless as it looked. Like blank paper and law books.
He crossed
to the front window and peered out at the dark street. From this vantage point
he could see Gallagher's roof, one block over. They were all at Phillip's wake,
he thought. His mother and father. Cherry. Matt. Most likely the entire town.
That's the
kind of town this was.
He had
figured Avery wouldn't care to see him. And he sure as hell hadn't wanted to
see the Stevens clan. He wasn't certain he would have been able to hold his
tongue.
And the
last thing Avery needed was a confrontation.
He pressed
the heels of his hands to his eyes. Phillip. What a mess. Dammit.
Hunter
dropped his hands, acknowledging grief. Frustration. Truth was, he longed to be
there. Longed to pay his respects to a man he had always admired. One who had
become his friend. And who he now missed.
Some might
have considered their friendship unusual, he supposed. After all, their ages
had been separated by thirty years. But they'd had loneliness in common.
Feelings of alienation. And a tremendous amount of history.
History
that had included Avery.
Yeah,
great. Avery. Some send-off for his friend. Ringing accusations at her. Hitting
her where she was most vulnerable. Where she was already hurting.
She had
called him hateful. And cruel.
Maybe she
was right, he thought. Most probably she was.
What was it
about him? Why was everything always black or white? Why couldn't he swallow
his thoughts? Blur his personal line just a little? And who the hell was he to
think he owned the high moral ground?
Everything
he touched turned to shit.
Hunter
glanced over his shoulder, toward the apartment. He longed for a drink. He
needed one. The need clawed at him. He pictured himself walking to the kitchen,
selecting the immediate poison of choice and drinking until he no longer possessed
the ability to question the course of his life.
Drink to
the point where he felt little but cynical amusement when someone he cared
about called him hateful and cruel.
He
swallowed hard against the urge. Wallowing instead in the pain. His anger and
frustration. His feelings of loss. For they were real. Authentic. As much a
part of life as breathing.
Never
again, he promised himself, fisting his fingers. Never again would he
anesthetize himself to life's highs and lows.
Sarah pawed
at the kitchen door, then woofed softly. Hunter turned in that direction. She
hadn't been out that long ago. Or had she? When he worked, he lost track of
both time and the mundane details of life.
He exited
the office and made his way to the kitchen. The dog whined. "Okay, girl."
He grabbed the leash from the hook, snapped it to her collar and opened the
door. She leaped forward, dragging him through the door and into the alley
before he got a firm grip on the lead.
When he
did, he yanked hard on it. Sarah heeled.
"What's
up with you?" Hunter bent and scratched behind her ears. Instead of
sinking on her haunches and sagging against him in grateful ecstasy, she stayed
at attention, muscles taut. Quivering.
He frowned
and turned his gaze in the direction of hers-the narrow, dark alley. "What
is it, Sarah? What's wrong?"
She
growled, low in her throat. The fur along the ridge of her back stood up.
"Anyone
there?" he called.
Silence
answered. He squinted at the darkness ahead, working to make out details,
differentiate shape from shadow. Wishing for Sarah's acute sense of smell and
hearing. He called out once more. Again, without answer.
Wondering
at the wisdom of what he was about to do, he eased his grip slightly. The dog
charged forward. Or tried to. He held her back, forcing her to proceed slowly,
giving his eyes time to adjust to the dark.
As they
reached the middle point of the alley, she angled right. Her growl deepened.
Hunter drew back on the leash, struggling to hold her. The dog's muscles
bunched and rippled as she fought him, digging in with each step.
Produce
crates, he saw. A stack of them sent askew. From the Piggly Wiggly around
front. And tipped trash barrels, discarded bakery and deli items spewing out
into the alleyway. Sarah began to bark. Not a high, shrill bark of excitement,
but a fierce one. Deep, threatening.
"Sarah,"
he chided, "all this over a little spoiled chow?" He bent and thumped
her side. "Or is the possum or coon that made this mess still hanging
around?"
The sound
of his voice did little to comfort her. As he moved to straighten, something
peeking out from under the pile of crates and boxes caught his eye.
An animal's
tail. No wonder Sarah was going bonkers. The creature that caused this messed
had gotten itself trapped under one of the tipped crates. It could be hurt,
maybe dead.
He glanced
around, looking for something he could use to move the crates. No way was he
about to use his hand. Cornered creatures defended themselves ferociously.
Especially when hurt.
He spotted
a broom propped in the opposite doorway. He retrieved it, then wedged its
handle through the crate's wooden slats and tipped it up. His stomach rose to
his throat. He took a step backward, Sarah's frenzied barking ringing in his
ears.
Not an
animal's tail. Human hair.
The woman
it belonged to stared up at him, face screwed into a death howl.
CHAPTER 13
Hunter
stumbled backward, dragging Sarah with him. Bending, he propped his hands on
his knees and dragged in deep breaths. Steady, Stevens. Don't throw up. Dear
God, don't-
The image
of the woman filled his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in another
lungful of oxygen. A woman…Jesus… What to do? What-
Make
certain she's dead. Call the cops.
Hunter
expelled a long breath and straightened slowly. He turned his gaze toward the
woman. She hadn't moved. She stared fixedly at him, mouth stretched into that
horrible scream.
He hadn't a
doubt she was dead. And that her death had been excruciating. But still, he
should check her pulse. Shouldn't he? Wasn't that what they always did in the movies
and on TV? That or fall completely apart.
Not an
option, Stevens. He shortened his hold on Sarah's lead and inched closer.
Carefully, he moved a couple of the toppled crates, revealing the woman's arm.
Sometime
before she'd died, she'd polished her fingernails a bright, bloody red. Now,
the contrast between the red polish and the fish-belly white of her skin
affected him like a shouted obscenity.
Hunter
moved closer. He circled his fingers around the woman's wrist. She was cold.
Her skin spongy to the touch.
No pulse.
Not even a flutter.
He yanked
his hand back, instinctively wiping it against his blue jeans, and
straightened.
Get the
cops. His dad. Or Matt.
They were
all around the corner. At Phillip's wake.
He
considered his choices and decided he could notify them as quickly on foot as
he could by calling the department. Decision made, he started forward at a run.
As if sensing his urgency, Sarah stayed by his side. They cleared the alley,
making the block to Gallagher's in less than three minutes.
He took the
front steps two at a time, ordered Sarah to stay and burst through Gallagher's
front door. Danny Gallagher stood just inside the door. His eyes widened.
"Hunter, what-"
"Where
are they?"
Danny
pointed. "Number one, but-"
Hunter
darted forward, not waiting for him to finish. He spotted his family the moment
he entered the room. They stood in a tight clutch.
Stevens
clan against the world. Minus one, of course.
He strode
forward; the crowd parted silently for him. Conversations ceased. Expressions registered
surprise. Then excitement. They expected a scene. They wanted one.
He could
liven things up, all right. Just not for the reason they thought.
Hunter saw
the moment his family became aware of his pres-ence. They turned. Their gazes
settled on him. Matt frowned; Buddy's eyebrows shot up even as his stance
altered subtly, becoming defensive. Preparing for battle. His mother looked
particularly pale, her eyes wide, alarmed. Cherry averted her gaze when he
looked at her.
As American
as apple pie and Prozac.
Damn them
all.
"Dad,"
he said, not bothering with a greeting, "we need to talk."
Matt
stepped forward, fists clenched. "You picked a hell of a time for one of
your confrontations. Get out of here before Avery-"
"Back
off," Hunter snapped. "This is an emergency, Dad. We need to speak
privately."
"It'll
have to keep, son. Tonight I'm honoring my best friend."
Hunter
leaned toward him. He lowered his voice. "There's been a murder. Think
that'll keep?"
From behind
him came the sound of a sharply drawn breath. He turned. Avery had come up
behind them, that she'd heard was obvious by her distraught expression.
She shifted
her gaze from him to his dad, then Matt. "What's going on?"
Hunter held
out a hand. "I'm sorry, Avery. I didn't mean to involve you in this."
Matt
stepped between them. "Let's take this outside." Hunter was happy to
oblige. He followed his father and brother out front. Sarah thumped her tail
against the porch when she saw him.
The two men
faced him. Matt spoke first. "This better not be your idea of a
sick-"
"Joke?
I wish it was."
Quickly,
Hunter explained, starting with Sarah pawing at the door and finishing with
checking the woman's pulse.
Buddy and
Matt exchanged glances, then met his eyes once more. Buddy took the lead.
"Are you certain the woman was murdered?"
Hunter
hesitated. He wasn't, he realized. She could have been a street person. Or
someone who worked at one of the businesses on the alley. She could have had a
heart attack, fallen into the crates, causing them to topple.
He pictured
those ruby-colored nails and his relief died. Street people didn't get
manicures. The businesses lining the alley all closed at five; if the woman
worked in one of those businesses, wouldn't a loved one be looking for her by
now? Wouldn't they think to check the alley?
Still, the
woman could have died of natural causes.
"Hunter?"
He blinked,
refocusing on his father. "I just assumed…because she was dead, in the
alley…"
"Show
us where she is."
Hunter did,
leading the men to the spot. As he passed his door he could hear the puppies
crying and stopped to put Sarah in. His dad and brother continued without him.
"Son
of a bitch. Shit."
"Oh,
goddamn."
They'd
found her. Their brief responses expressed volumes.
Hunter made
his way up the alley. He hung back a few feet, keeping his gaze averted as the
other two men carefully shifted the crates to get a better look at the victim.
He listened to their dialogue.
"This
woman did not die of natural causes."
"No
shit."
"Oh
man, she's torn up bad."
That had
come from Matt; he sounded weird, more than shaken. As if someone had a hold on
his vocal cords and was squeezing. Hard.
"Slow
down," his father warned. "We don't know what happened. We have to be
careful not to destroy any evidence."
Hunter
glanced at his brother. He saw him nod at his father's advice. Saw him trying
to pull himself together. Saw the moment he got a grip on himself.
"Look,
she's propped up on the right-" Matt squatted and peered closely at the
corpse. "But no lividity on her left side."
"So
she's been moved."
"Bingo."
It was
human nature, Hunter supposed, that made him look her way. He immediately
regretted it, but couldn't tear his gaze away. The woman's lower half was
naked, her legs spread. It looked as if her panties had been ripped away, her
mini skirt shoved up over her hips, bunching at her waist. Blood…everywhere.
Smeared over her thighs, belly. Bile rose in his throat. He averted his gaze,
struggling to breathe.
Not to
throw up.
"I've
got to call this in," Buddy said, voice thick. "Get a crew here,
ASAP."
"You
need the sheriff's department's help on this one, Dad?" Matt sounded just
as shaky. Hunter realized that for all their years in law enforcement, they had
little experience with this kind of thing.
This kind
of thing? He was already dehumanizing it. Making it palpable.
Call it
what it was. Murder. The violent extinguishing of a human life.
"Hell
yes," his father answered. "We're not equipped…this…It's Sallie
Waguespack all over again."
Buddy and
Matt made their calls. Within twenty minutes a crew consisting of both the
Cypress Springs Police Department and the West Feliciana Parish Sheriff's
Department had assembled at the scene.
Hunter
stood back as a CSPD officer secured the scene with yellow tape. Another stood
at each end of the alley to keep the curious away. The sheriff's department's
crime scene guys had begun to do their thing: they'd set up portable spotlights
to illuminate the alley so they could begin the painstaking job of collecting
evidence. The police photographer was shooting the scene from every imaginable
angle.
Except from
the perspective of the victim, Hunter thought. Her eyes would never see
anything again.
He turned
his back on the scene and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Still he
pictured her, as if her image had been stamped on the inside of his eyelids.
How long would it take to fade? he wondered. Would it ever?
"Need
to ask you a few questions, Hunter."
The request
came from Matt. Hunter dropped his hands and looked over his shoulder at his
brother, realizing then how tired he was. Bone tired. "Figured. What do
you want to know?"
"Tell
us again the sequence of events that led to your finding the | victim. As
exactly as you can recall. Every detail."
The victim.
Hunter angled a glance her way. "She have a name?"
"Yeah,"
Buddy answered. "Elaine St. Claire. Keep it to yourself for a couple hours
until we notify her next of kin."
He wasn't
surprised his father knew her name-he knew everybody in his town. "Who was
she?"
"A
local barfly. Party girl." Buddy glanced over his shoulder at her,
grimaced and looked back. "Last I heard, she'd left town."
She hadn't
gotten far. Poor woman. He sometimes thought of Cypress Springs as a spiderweb.
Once tangled in its threads, there was no escape.
If the town
was the web, who was the spider?
Matt made a
sound of irritation. "Can we get on with it?"
"Sure."
Hunter narrowed his eyes on his brother. "What do you want to know?"
His brother
repeated his question and for the second time Hunter detailed how he had come
upon Elaine St. Claire.
"And
that's it? You're certain?" Buddy asked.
"Yes."
Matt
frowned. "And you heard nothing, no commotion from the alley?"
"No.
Nothing. I was working."
"Working?"
"At my
computer."
"The
dog, did she bark anytime during the evening?"
Hunter
searched his memory. "Not that I noticed."
"A big
dog like her must have a pretty big bark."
"I get
preoccupied when I'm working. Tune out the world."
"What
were you working on?"
Hunter
hesitated. He didn't want his family to know about the novel. So he lied.
"A divorce settlement."
Matt arched
an eyebrow. "You don't seem so certain."
"No,
I'm certain."
"Whose
divorce?"
Hunter
shook his head, disgusted. "That, as I'm sure you know, is confidential.
And has nothing to do with why we're standing here."
Matt turned
toward Buddy. "Could she have been here a while?"
"No
way. The alley is busy during business hours. Employees out for a smoke,
deliveries, kids skateboarding."
"That
means she was dumped here sometime after the close of business today."
Buddy
nodded. "I'll get one of my guys to talk to Jean about the crates, when
they were put out." Jean, Hunter knew, was the owner of the grocery.
"Make certain they were neatly stacked when she locked up."
"What
about the trash barrels?" Matt asked. "Why aren't they depositing this
stuff in the Dumpster?"
"I
know the answer to that," Hunter offered. "If she's short staffed at
the end of the day, she'll leave them in the barrels until morning." The
two men looked at him. Hunter shrugged. "I ran into her one morning while
walking Sarah."
"It
seems this alley is a busy place."
Hunter
frowned at Mart's tone. "Are we finished here? Can I go?"
"How
much traffic does the alley see at night?"
"It's
dead. Pardon the word choice."
"No
traffic at all?" Matt questioned.
"Kids
making out sometimes. Somebody turning in by mistake, realizing it and backing
out. Me and Sarah, out for a walk. That's about it."
"You
hear the kids, the cars, from your apartment?"
"Yeah.
Most of the time."
"But
tonight you didn't see or hear anything?"
Hunter
stiffened at the sarcasm in his brother's voice. At his smirk. "If that's
it, I'd like to go. It's been a rough night."
"Go
on," Buddy said. "When we know more, we might need to speak with you
again."
Hunter
walked away, aware of his father's and brother's speculative gazes on his back.
He longed to look back at them, to read their expressions. His every instinct
shouted for him to do it.
He wouldn't
give them the satisfaction. Wouldn't let them know just how weird this
encounter had made him feel.
They'd
treated him like a stranger.
A stranger
whose sincerity they doubted.
"Hey,
Hunter?"
He stopped,
turned. Met his brother's gaze. "You remember anything else, it'd help.
Give one of us a call."
CHAPTER 14
The morning
of her father's funeral dawned bright and warm. Turnout proved much smaller
than the wake, mostly close family friends and neighbors. But Avery had
expected that.
Lilah stood
on her right, Buddy on her left. Each held her arm in a gesture of comfort and
support. Lilah seemed much stronger than the night before, though she cried
softly throughout the service. Matt stood behind his mother, Cherry beside him.
Directly across from her stood Hunter. Alone. Expression resolute.
Avery's
gaze went to his. She saw no grief there. No pity or sympathy. Only anger. Only
the chip he carried on his shoulder. A shudder moved over her. Without
compassion, what would a man become? What would such a man be capable of?
He would be
capable of anything.
He would be
a monster.
The pastor
who had baptized her spoke warmly of the person her father had been, of the
difference he had made in the commu- nity and to so many individuals' lives.
"He
was a light in a sometimes dark world," the pastor finished. "That
light will surely be missed."
She shifted
her gaze to the casket, acknowledging dizziness. Conscious of rubberiness in
her legs. A feeling of being disconnected from the earth.
"Ashes
to ashes-"
"He
doused himself with diesel fuel and lit a match."
"Dust
to dust-"
"Where
were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire? "
Avery
couldn't breathe. She swayed slightly. Buddy tightened his grip on her arm,
steadying her.
This wasn't
right, she thought, a thread of panic winding through her. Her father couldn't
have taken his own life. He couldn't be gone.
She hadn't
said goodbye. It was her fault.
Avery
stared at the casket. Scenes of grief she had witnessed over the years played
in her head: weeping widows; too-solemn children; despairing family, friends,
neighbors, colleagues, all of humanity.
Death. The
ultimate loss. The universal gut shot.
She fought
the urge to throw herself on the casket. To scream and flail her fists and sob.
She closed her eyes, fighting for calm. He would rest beside her mother, she
told herself. His partner in this life and the next.
Or would
he? Tears choked her. Would his sin separate them for eternity? Who would
absolve him of it?
Who would
absolve her?
"Avery,
honey, it's over."
Over. The
end.
Ashes to
ashes…doused himself in diesel fuel and lit a…where were you, Avery? Where were
you when he…
Dust to
dust.
"Avery?
Sweetheart, it's time."
She looked
blankly at Buddy and nodded. He led her away from the grave. She shifted her
gaze, vision swimming. It landed on the group of men from the wake. All in
black. Standing together. Again.
Seven of
them. They were staring at her. One of them laughed. A sound passed her lips.
She stumbled and Buddy caught her. "Avery, are you all right?"
She looked
up at him, pinpricks of light dancing before her eyes. "Those men, that
group over there. Who are they?"
"Where?"
"Over
th-"
They were
gone.
She shook
her head. "They were just-" She swayed again. A roaring sound filled
her ears. Blood, she realized. Rushing. Plummeting.
"Matt,
quick! Give me a-"
When Avery
came to, she lay on the ground looking up at the cloudless blue sky. A
half-dozen people had gathered around her and were gazing down at her in
concern. "You fainted," someone said softly.
Buddy, she
realized, blinking. She shifted her gaze. Matt. Cherry. Lilah. Pastor Dastugue.
The world came into clear focus. The moments before she fainted filled her
head.
Making a
sound of dismay, she struggled to get up.
Matt laid a
hand gently on her shoulder, holding her down. "Don't rush it. Take a deep
breath, make certain you're steady."
She
complied. A moment later, they allowed her to come carefully to a sitting
position, then ease to her feet. Matt kept his arm around her, even though she
assured him she was fine.
"I'm
so embarrassed," she said. "I feel like an idiot."
"Nonsense."
Lilah brushed leaves and other debris from her black jacket. "When's the
last time you ate?"
She didn't
know; she couldn't remember, couldn't seem to gather her thoughts. She wet her
lips. "I don't know…lunch yesterday, I guess."
"No
wonder you passed out," she said, distressed. "I should have brought
you a meal."
Avery
looked at Matt. "Did you see them?"
"Who?"
"That
group of men. Standing together. There were seven of them."
Matt and
Buddy exchanged glances. "Where?"
She pointed
to the spot where the group had been standing.
"Over
there."
They looked
in that direction, then back at her. "I don't recall seeing a group,"
Matt said. He looked at Cherry and Lilah. "Did either of you?"
The two
women shook their heads no. Matt met her eyes. "Are you certain of what
you saw?"
"Yes,
I…yes. They were at the wake, too."
"Who
were they?"
She rubbed
her head, confused. At the wake, she had thought she recognized several of
them. Now she couldn't recall who they had been.
She was
losing her mind.
"I
don't know. I…" Her words trailed off. She moved her gaze from one face to
another, reading the concern in their expressions.
They
thought she was losing it, too.
Lilah
slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Poor baby, you've been through so
much. Come now, I have finger sandwiches and cookies back at the house. We'll
fix you right up."
Lilah did
fix her up-as best as was possible anyway, considering the circumstances. She
and the rest of the Stevens clan hovered around her, making certain she had
plenty to eat, insisting she stay off her feet, shooing people off when she
began to fade.
When the
last mourner left, Matt drove her home. She laid her head against the rest and
closed her eyes. After a moment, she opened them and looked at him. "Can I
ask you something?"
He glanced
at her, then back at the road. "Shoot."
"You
really didn't see a group of men huddled together? Not at the wake or
funeral?"
"I
really didn't."
"I was
afraid you were going to say that."
He reached
across the seat, caught her hand and squeezed. "Stress and grief play
havoc with the mind."
"I'd
heard that."
He frowned
slightly, looked at her again. "I'm worried about you, Avery."
She laughed
without humor. "Funny you should say that, I'm worried about me,
too."
He squeezed
her fingers again, then returned his hand to the wheel. "It'll get
better."
"Promise?"
"Sure."
They fell
silent. She studied him, his profile, as he drove. Strong nose and chin. Nice
mouth, full without being feminine. Kissable. She remembered that.
Damn
handsome. Better-looking than he'd been all those years ago.
"Matt?"
He cut another glance her way. "What was that about, with Hunter last
night?"
"I
don't think now's the time-"
"People
were whispering about it at your mother's."
He turned
onto her parents' street. "A woman was found murdered last night."
"Hunter
found her?"
"Yes,
in the alley behind his place."
In the
places she had lived since leaving Cypress Springs, murders were commonplace.
But here…
Things like
that weren 't supposed to happen in Cypress Springs.
But neither
were beloved physicians supposed to set themselves on fire.
"How
was she murdered?"
He reached
her parents' house and eased up the driveway. At the top, Matt stopped, cut the
engine. He angled in his seat to face her. "Avery, you don't need to know
this. You have enough to deal with right now."
"How?"
she persisted.
"I
can't tell you. And I won't. I'm sorry."
"Are
you?"
He caught
her hand. "Don't be angry."
"I'm
tired of everyone around here trying to protect me."
"Really?
Beats the alternative, don't you think? I'm sure Elaine St. Claire would think
so. If she were alive."
The
murdered woman. Obviously. Heat stung Avery's cheeks. She sounded like a
petulant child.
She curled
her fingers around his. "I'm sorry, Matt. I'm not myself."
"It's
okay. I understand." He brought their joined hands to his mouth, pressed a
kiss to her knuckles, then released hers. "Are you sure you're going to be
okay here alone?"
"There
you go," she teased, "taking care of me again."
He returned
her smile. "Guilty as charged."
"I'll
be fine." She grabbed the door handle. Popped open the door. "I'm
thinking nap. A long one."
He reached
across the seat and caught her hand once more. She turned and met his eyes. His
were filled with regret. "I really am sorry, Avery."
"I
know, Matt. And that helps. A lot."
She climbed
out of the vehicle, slammed the door and started toward the front walk. When
she reached the door she glanced back. Matt hadn't made a move to leave.
She lifted
her hand and waved. He returned the gesture, started up the vehicle and backed
down the driveway. She watched as he disappeared from sight, then unlocked her
door and stepped inside.
The phone
was ringing. She hurried to answer it. "Hello?"
"Is
this Dr. Phillip Chauvin's daughter?"
The voice
was a woman's. Deep. Coarse-sounding. The voice of a lifelong chain-smoker.
"This
is Avery Chauvin," she answered. "Can I help-"
"To
hell with you," the woman spat. "And to hell with your father. He got
what he deserved. You will, too."
In the next
instant, the line went dead.
CHAPTER 15
For the
next twelve hours, Avery thought of little else but the woman's call. The
things she'd said had played over in her head, a disturbing chant.
He got what
he deserved.
You will,
too.
At first
she had been stunned. Shocked that someone could say such a thing about her
father. Those emotions had given way to anger. She had tried dialing *69 only
to discover her dad hadn't subscribed to the callback service. She had
considered calling Buddy or Matt, then had discarded the thought. What could
they do? Assure her the woman was just a crank? Advise her to get an unlisted
number?
The woman
could be a crank, that was true.
But what if
she wasn't? What if the woman's call represented a legitimate threat?
Avery
paced, thoughts whirling. Her father had been both a Christian and physician.
He'd believed in the sanctity of life. Had devoted his own life to preserving
it.
What if her
first reaction to his suicide had been the correct one? What if he hadn't
killed himself?
Avery
stopping pacing, working to recall word for word that last message he'd left
her.
"I
need to talk to you. I was hoping- There's something… I'll…try later. Goodbye,
pumpkin."
When news
of his suicide had reached her, she'd assumed that call had been a desperate
plea for help. She'd assumed he'd called to give her a chance to talk him out
of it. Or to say goodbye. She'd agonized over not taking that call ever since.
She'd told herself that even if he hadn't spoken directly of suicide, she would
have known. Would have picked up something in his voice. In her if onlys she would
have been able to save his life.
He got what
he deserved.
You will,
too.
Those
words, that threat, changed everything. Perhaps her dad had realized he was in
danger. That he had an enemy. Maybe he had wanted to discuss it with her. Maybe
he'd needed to bounce something by her.
He had done
that a lot.
Avery
acknowledged that what she was contemplating flew in the face of what everyone
else believed to be true. People she trusted and cared about. Matt. Buddy.
Lilah. The entire town.
Avery
breathed deeply, battling her conflicting emotions: loyalty to people she
loved, distrust of her own emotional state, suspicion for a criminal justice
system that made mistakes, that often went with what looked obvious rather than
digging for the truth. But if he hadn't killed himself, that meant he'd been-
Murdered.
The word,
its repercussions, ricocheted through her. A murderer in Cypress Springs? Two,
she realized, thinking of the woman Hunter had found in the alley. Could they
have been killed by the same person?
That hardly
seemed likely, she acknowledged, becoming aware of the fast, heavy beat of her
heart. Just as unlikely, however, was the idea of two murderers in Cypress
Springs.
Avery
returned her thoughts to her father, his death. Who would have wanted to hurt her
father? He'd been loved and respected by everyone.
Not
everyone. He'd had an enemy. The woman's call proved that. Obviously, she
herself had an enemy now as well.
He got what
he deserved.
You will,
too.
She crossed
to the front window, inched aside the drape and peered out at the dark street.
A few cars parked along the curbs, all appeared empty.
From what
she could see. Which frankly, wasn't a hell of a lot.
Avery drew
her eyebrows together. Had the woman called before, when Avery was out? She
could have. Her father had neither caller ID nor an answering machine. Had she
been watching Avery? Following her? Laying in wait? She could be anywhere. As
close as a cell phone.
Don't get
paranoid, Chauvin. This is a story. Get the pieces. Figure it out.
Avery released
the drape, turned and headed for the kitchen. She glanced at the wall clock,
registering the time: 1:27 a.m. She dug a message tablet and pen out of the
drawer by the phone, laid it on the counter, then crossed to her newly
purchased Mr. Coffee cof-feemaker. She filled the glass carafe with water,
measured coffee into the basket, then flipped on the machine.
While the
coffee brewed, she searched her memory for what she knew of the act of murder.
She had never worked the crime beat, but had managed to absorb a bit from
sharing a cubicle with someone who did. He had been the zealous, self-important
sort, had loved to hear the sound of his own voice and for some quirky reason,
had thought crime scene details served as a sort of aphrodisiac for women.
Who would
have thought she would ever be grateful for those four, long months of cubicle
cohabitation?
The
coffeepot burbled its last filtered drop and she filled a mug. She carried it,
the tablet and pen to the big oak dining table and sat down. Obviously, if her
father had been murdered, it hadn't been a random act of violence. That left a
crime of passion or premeditated murder. Zealous Pete, her cubicle mate, had
called love, hate and greed the Holy Trinity of murder. Meaning, most killers
were motivated by one of those three.
She brought
the mug to her mouth and sipped. Her hand shook slightly, whether from
exhaustion or nerves she didn't know. She had a hard time imagining her gentle,
kindhearted father being involved with anyone or anything that would lead to
murder.
She
squeezed her eyes shut. Get outside the box, Avery. Let go of what you think
you know.
Get the
pieces. Then place them in the puzzle.
She opened
her eyes; picked up the pen. Her next step was to find out as much as she could
about her dad's death. Talk to Ben Mitchell. The coroner. Buddy about his
investigation.
And while
she was at it, she would see what she could discover about Elaine St. Claire's
murder to ascertain whether there was a connection between the two.
Later that
morning, Avery paid a visit to Ben Mitchell at the state fire marshal's office
in Baton Rouge. She had discovered that arson investigators were assigned by
region, for the entire parish. Cypress Springs fell into region eight. She had
also learned arson investigators had the authority to arrest those suspected of
arson and to carry firearms.
Ben
Mitchell, a middle-aged man with dark brown hair sprinkled with gray, was that
investigator.
He greeted
her warmly. "Have a seat, Ms. Chauvin."
She took
the one directly across from his, laid her reporter's notebook on her lap and
smiled. "Please, call me Avery."
He inclined
his head. "Your dad was a good man."
"You
knew him?"
"I
think everybody in the parish did, in one capacity or another. He helped my
sister through a tough time." He lowered his voice. "Cervical cancer.
Even after she switched to an oncologist, he stood by her every step of the
way."
He'd been
that kind of a doctor. It had always been about the patients as people, about
their health. Never about money.
"Thank
you," she said. "I think he was a good man, too."
His gaze
dropped to the tablet, then returned to hers. "How can I help you?"
She laced
her fingers. "As I mentioned, I spoke with John Price at my father's wake.
He suggested I contact you. I'm curious about…about my father's death."
"I
don't understand."
She met his
gaze evenly. "May I be completely honest with you?"
"Of
course."
"Thank
you." She took a deep breath, preparing her words, intending to be
anything but completely honest. "I'm having some difficulty dealing with
my father's death. With…understanding it. I thought if you could…share what you
found at the scene…I might be able to…that it would help me."
His
expression softened with sympathy. "What do you want to know."
"What
you saw at the scene. The path your investigation took. Your official
findings."
"Are
you certain you want to hear this?" he asked.
She
tightened her fingers. "Yes."
"Arson
investigators study what caused a fire. Where it started and how long it
burned. We can tell what kind of fuel was used by the fire's path, how hot and
how long it burned."
"And
what did my father's fire tell you?"
"Your
father used diesel fuel, which, unlike gasoline, ignites on contact rather than
on vapors. To do what he did, the diesel fuel was a better choice."
"Any
other fuel do the same thing?"
"Jet
fuel. JP-5 to the trade. Burns hotter, too. Harder to get." He paused as
if to collect his thoughts. Or carefully choose his words. "Are you at all
familiar with death by burning?"
"Refamiliarize
me." He hesitated and she leaned forward. "I'm a journalist. Give me
the facts. I can handle them."
"All
right. First off, the human body doesn't actually burn to ash, the way it would
if cremated. A house fire, for example, burns at about one thousand degrees. To
completely incinerate, a body re- quires heat of around seventeen hundred
degrees. The body main- tains its form. The skin basically melts but doesn't
disintegrate. It's not uncommon for areas of soft tissue to survive the fire.
"There's
a shrinking that occurs," he continued. "For example, a
two-hundred-pound man will weigh one hundred fifty pounds burned. The clothes,
flesh and hair burn. The features, including the lips, remain. All solid black.
Generic. Meaning the person no longer resembles themselves."
Her father
couldn't have done this. Could he?
"How
often do you see suicide committed this way?"
"Almost
never."
"Why
not?" she asked, though she had her own idea why. Through her profession
she had learned the importance of not putting words in other people's mouths.
"Understand,
I' m not a psychologist. I' m an expert on fire. Anything I offer would be my
opinion, one not necessarily based on fact."
"I'd
like to hear it anyway."
"Most
people who choose to take their own life, want to get the job done. They want
to go fast and as painlessly as possible."
"And
burning to death is the antithesis of that."
"In my
opinion."
"Yes."
Avery glanced at her tablet, then back at the man. "Do you believe my
father knew the difference in the way diesel fuel and gasoline burns?"
"Don't
know. Could have been he chose the diesel fuel because he had it on hand."
"He
siphoned the gas from his Mercedes."
"Yes."
"You
ruled out arson? No question in your mind?"
He nodded.
"As I mentioned earlier, following a fire's path tells us its story. With
arson, the source of the fire is typically an outside perimeter. In addition,
we find the gas can, rags, whatever the arsonist used to set the fire. People
are funny, they think we won't find them or something. 'Course, some don't
care."
"But
my dad's case wasn't like that?"
"No.
The fire started with your father and moved out from there. The remnants of the
syphoning hose were found with him."
"Was
there anything unusual about the scene? Anything that gave-you pause?"
He drew his
eyebrows together, as if carefully sifting through his memory. "Found one
of your dad's bedroom slippers on the path between the house and the
garage."
"And
the other one?"
"There
was no sign of it. I suspect he was wearing it."
"Where
on the path?"
He thought
a moment. "A few feet from the kitchen door."
Her dad had
always worn slip-on-style slippers. He'd lost one just outside the door. Why
hadn't he stopped for it? That didn't make sense. She wasn't an expert in human
behavior, but it seemed to her that stopping for it would be an automatic
response.
"You
don't find that odd?" she asked.
"Odd?"
"Have
you ever tried to walk in one shoe, Ben? It feels wrong. A kind of sensory
disruption."
"But I
imagine a man in your father's emotional state would be totally focused on what
he intended to do. Although never in that position myself, I suspect it would
be all consuming."
Avery
wasn't convinced but dropped the subject anyway. "Anything else?"
He shifted
his gaze slightly. "It appeared as if he crawled a couple feet toward the
door. After he was aflame."
He'd
changed his mind. He tried to crawl for help.
It had been
too late.
She
struggled to keep her despair from showing. Failing miserably, she knew.
"I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have said-"
"No."
She held up a hand. It trembled. "I appreciate your candor. It may be hard
for you to understand, but knowing the facts will help me deal with this. I
have to know exactly what happened."
"I do
understand, being that kind of person myself." He glanced at his watch.
"Have you talked to Buddy about his investigation? Or to the coroner about
his findings?"
"Buddy,
though not in great detail. I haven't spoken to the coroner yet. But I plan
to."
He stood
and held out his hand. "Good luck, Avery."
She
followed him up. Took his hand. "Thanks, Ben. I appreciate the time."
She started for the door, then stopped and looked back at him. "Ben, one
last question. Do you have any doubt he committed suicide?"
From his
expression she saw that the question surprised him. He hesitated, as if
choosing his words carefully. "My job is to determine how and where a fire
starts. Cause and circumstance of death fall to the coroner and police."
"Of
course," she said, turning toward the door once more.
"Avery?"
She looked back. "Buddy did a good job on this. I've never seen him
so…shaken. He didn't want it to be true either."
But even
the most conscientious cop made mistakes. It happened, things went unnoticed,
slipped through the cracks.
But she
didn't say those things to him. Instead, she thanked him again, turned and
walked away.
CHAPTER 16
Hunter
hadn't set foot in the Cypress Springs Police Department in thirteen years. It
hadn't changed, he saw. But then, in Cypress Springs nothing seemed to change,
no matter how many years passed.
He had come
today because he had remembered something about the other night that might
prove useful to the St. Claire murder investigation.
And because
since finding the dead woman thirty-six hours ago, he had been unable to think
of much else. He couldn't put the image of the dead woman out of his head.
The front
desk stood empty. Not for long, Hunter surmised by the steaming mug of coffee
and half-eaten doughnut sitting on a napkin on its top. Hunter didn't wait,
instead he strolled past as if he still had every right to do so.
He found
the door to his father's office open, the room empty. Hunter stepped inside. It
smelled like his dad, he realized. And like his childhood.
Hunter
scowled at the thought, at the rush of memories that flooded his mind. Of
playing under the big, old oak desk, of him and Matt staring openmouthed as
their dad chewed out a couple underlings, of his last visit to the office, on
his way to college.
Hunter had
attempted, one last time, to broach his feelings of exclusion and alienation
from his family.
"Dad, just
tell me what I've done. Tell me why you've shut me out. You and Mom, Matt and
Cherry. It's like I'm not one of you anymore. Talk to me, Dad. I'll do whatever
it takes to make it better."
But his
father hadn't had time for him. He had brushed him off, insisting Hunter was
imagining it. That the fault lay with Hunter's perceptions, not reality.
Angry,
hurt, he had left, promising that he would show them all, someday, somehow he
would show them.
Hunter's
gaze landed on the desk. A file folder stamped Photos lay on its top.
From the
murder scene? he wondered, inching toward the desk. He saw immediately that
they were; the file's tab bore the name St. Claire, Elaine.
"Hello,
son."
Son. Hunter
turned, feeling that one, quietly spoken word like a punch to his gut. He met
his father's gaze. "Dad."
His
father's shifted to the desk, then back to his. "What brings you in this
morning?"
"The
St. Claire murder."
The man
nodded and ambled across to his desk. He motioned to the chair directly in
front of it. "Have a seat."
Hunter
would have preferred to stand, but he sat anyway. "Place hasn't changed a
bit."
Buddy
settled into his own chair. It creaked under his weight.
"It's
been a while."
"Thirteen
years."
Hunter
moved his gaze over the room. His Little League championship trophy was gone,
as was the picture that had sat front and, center on his dad's desk, of the two
of them with the prizewinning fish at the Tarpon Rodeo. He scanned the shelves
and walls, taking a quick, mental inventory.
He returned
his gaze to the other man. "You've done some redecorating. Looks like you
removed every trace of my existence."
"You
left us, Hunter."
"Did
I? Maybe I don't see it that way."
"Don't
you ever get tired of the same old story, bro?"
Hunter
twisted in his seat. The way Matt stood in the doorway, as if he owned the
place, raised Hunter's hackles. "You're just in time for our little family
reunion."
"Lucky
me," Matt murmured.
"Hunter
says he's here about the St. Claire investigation."
"That
so?" Matt ambled in, stopping in front of the desk. He folded his arms
across his chest and leaned against its edge.
"I
walked Sarah around five forty-five, we took our usual route. Saw nothing out
of the ordinary."
"And
what's your usual route?"
"Walton
to Main, around the square and back." He paused, then continued. "I
was thinking, she…the victim, couldn't have been there yet. Because Sarah would
have gone nuts. The way she did later."
"Why
didn't you tell us this last night?" Matt asked.
"You
didn't ask. And I didn't think of it until today."
Matt
inclined his head. "Actually, it's fortuitous you dropped by. We had a
couple more questions for you."
"Questions
for me?" He shifted his gaze between the two men. "All right.
Shoot."
"Did
you know the victim?"
"No."
"Never
heard the name Elaine St. Claire before?"
"Before
last night, never."
"Where
were you yesterday, between four in the afternoon and when you came to find us
at Gallagher's?"
"Is
that when she died?"
"Answer
the question, please."
"You're
kidding." He could tell by their expressions that they weren't. "Am I
a suspect?"
"Standard
investigative procedure. You found the body, that automatically makes you a
suspect."
He got to
his feet. "This is bullshit."
"Sit
down, son," Buddy murmured, sending an irritated glance at Matt.
"Answer the question. Where were you yesterday between the hours of four
and eight?"
"I was
working. Alone. Sarah was with me. Seems to me she should make a great alibi.
She's certainly more loyal than most humans. Present company included."
"Other
than taking Sarah for a walk, did you go out at all?"
"No."
"On
the walk, did you speak with anyone?"
Hunter
thought a moment. "No."
"Did
anyone call during that time, someone who could sub-stantiate your being
home."
Again
Hunter replied in the negative. "But that doesn't make me a killer, now,
does it?"
"But
it doesn't rule you out either."
Hunter
longed to wipe the smug expression off his brother's face. "Can I go
now?"
"Not
quite yet." Matt glanced at his father, then back at Hunter. "You
know how she died, Hunter?"
"Obviously
not."
"A
sharp or jagged instrument was repeatedly inserted-jammed really-into her
vaginal canal." Hunter went cold. "Oh, Christ."
"She
bled to death from internal wounds. It was an excruciating, punishing
death."
Buddy
stepped in. "Do you have any idea who might have been capable of such a
crime?"
"A
psychopath."
"You
got a name to go with that personality, bro?"
Hunter
stiffened. "I wish I did."
"Why's
that?" Buddy asked.
Hunter
glanced at his father. "Obviously, so you could catch him before he hurts
anyone else."
"Noble,"
Matt murmured. "What a guy."
Hunter
stood and met his brother's gaze evenly. "You got a problem with me, Matt?
This town too small for the two of us?"
"And
here I thought I was the cowboy in the family."
"You
didn't answer my question."
"I
have a problem with disloyalty. And with cowards." Hunter laughed without
humor, throat tight. "And you see me as both."
"I
do."
At times
like this, he saw his brother so clearly. He'd always had to be right. Have the
last word, have it his way. He had demanded the lion's share of their parents'
attention. Adoration from the girls. He couldn't be simply part of the team,
he'd had to be the star.
Hunter
hadn't required adulation. He had been happy to let his twin have it.
But he had
drawn the line when his brother had wanted him to stop thinking for himself.
Matt had expected his brother to like who and what he did, to think like him.
No, Hunter corrected, not expected. Required it of him. Of anyone who remained
in his circle.
"You're
not engaging me in this, Matt. There's no point in it."
"Like
I said, bro, a disloyal coward."
"Because
I won't fight with you?" Hunter demanded. "Or because I left, went on
with my life? Because I didn't give one hundred percent loyalty to the great
Matt Stevens? Is that it?"
"Boys-"
That one
deeply uttered word shattered Hunter's veneer of control; anger burst through,
white hot, blinding. Memories with it. His father had intoned that warning a
million times growing up, from as early as Hunter could remember.
Only then,
he had been one of them.
"You
hate that I can think for myself, don't you, Matt? I'm not your dutiful little
soldier and that makes you crazy."
"Whatever
you need to tell yourself, bro."
"If
you tried leaving your personal oyster shell, you would have realized you're
not the be all and end all, Sheriff Stevens. But then, maybe that's why you
never did."
Angry color
flooded Matt's face. "You were always jealous of me. You still are.
Because I got the girl."
"Leave
Avery out of this."
"She's
always been a part of it. You couldn't handle that it was me she wanted, not
you."
Hunter met
his eyes. "Wanted you? If that's so, where's she been all these years?
Seems to me she left you behind."
Matt took a
step toward him. Hunter curled his hands into fists, ready to throw the first
punch. Eager.
Buddy
stepped between them before he could. "Thanks for coming in, Hunter. We'll
be in touch."
CHAPTER 17
The West
Feliciana Parish Coroner's office was located in St. Francisville. An elected
official, Dr. Harris served all the parish, one of the smallest in Louisiana.
The coroner examined the circumstances of death, performed toxicology tests,
called time and manner of death and signed the certificate of death.
Avery had
learned all this from the man's wife when she'd called to make an appointment.
She had also learned that Dr. Harris had served for almost twenty-eight years.
His office employed two deputy coroners, both physicians, and handled an
average of eighty deaths a year. If he determined an autopsy was required to
establish cause of death, the body was transported to Earl K. Long Hospital in
Baton Rouge. There, a forensic pathologist would perform an autopsy. Unlike big
parishes in the state, West Feliciana Parish didn't have the funding to employ
its own forensic pathologist. That had surprised Avery.
Dr. Harris
was a charming sprite of a man, with a wreath of thinning gray nair an«a
twinkle in his eye. Not what one expected from a parish coroner.
"Thank
you for seeing me, Dr. Harris. I appreciate it." He smiled and she went
on. "Your wife told me you've been the parish coroner for twenty-eight
years."
"On
and off. Took a hiatus to tend to my own practice, can't do it all, you know.
Or so the wife tells me."
"But
you came back."
"Being
a perfectionist is a devil of a thing to be. Can't let go. Couldn't stand to
see the job not being done right."
He leaned
toward her, eyes twinkling with amusement. "They got a joker in here who
called cause of every death cardiac arrest. Didn't look at medical records or
any other circumstances surrounding the death. Several times the man had a
nurse sign the certificates of death. Couldn't stand it. Agreed to come back.
Twice."
He sat
back, then forward again. "The thing is, ultimately we all have cardiac
arrest, but that's not always what sends us off."
"Do
things like that happen often?" she asked, thinking of her father.
"Cause of death being miscalled because facts slip through the
cracks?"
"Not
when I'm in charge." He searched her gaze, then smiled gently. "How
can I help you, Ms. Chauvin?"
"As I
said on the phone, I'm looking into my father's death."
His
expression puckered with sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank
you." She hesitated, searching for the right direction to proceed. "I
learned from your wife that you handle about eighty deaths a year. And that you
or one of your deputies go to the scene of every one."
"That's
correct."
"She
also told me that neither you nor your deputies perform autopsies, that those
are done in Baton Rouge."
"Yes.
By the forensic pathologist. Dr. Kim Sands."
"And
you requested an autopsy on my father."
"I
request one for every suicide. I have her report here."
"And
she classified my dad's death a suicide?"
He nodded.
"Her findings were consistent with mine."
Avery
folded her hands in her lap to hide that they shook. "What did Dr. Sands
call Dad's official cause of death?"
"Asphyxiation."
"Asphyxiation?"
she repeated, surprised. "I don't understand."
"There's
no reason you should," he said gently. "It's a little known fact that
most victims of fire die of asphyxiation. In your father's case, with his first
breath his airways would have filled with fuel vapors and flames. Death came
quickly."
He crawled
a couple feet toward the door. "Are you saying he died instantly?"
"Death
is never instant. In forensics they speak of death coming in terms of seconds
to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days and so on. In your father's case
we're looking at seconds to minutes."
She
struggled to separate herself from her father's pain and focus on the
medicolegal facts. "Go on."
"The
presence of smoke and soot in the throat and lungs is one of the ways the
pathologist determines the victim actually died in the fire."
"Or if
he was dead before he was set on fire." "Exactly."
"And
Dr. Sands found both in his throat and lungs?" "Yes." He reached
for her father's file, flipped it open and read. "Yes," he repeated.
She cleared
her throat. "What else would the pathologist look for in a case like my
father's?"
"To
confirm cause and manner of death?" She nodded. "Hemorrhages in the
remaining soft tissue. Evidence of drugs or alcohol in the toxicology tests. We
test blood, urine, bile and vitreous fluid. Each serves as a check for the
other."
"And
in my father-"
"We
found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his system. It's a sleep
medication."
She
straightened. "Sleeping pills? Are you certain?"
He looked
surprised by her response. "You didn't know? I spoke with Earl, the
pharmacist at Friendly Drugs in Cypress Springs. Your dad had been taking
sleeping pills for some time."
"Who
prescribed them?"
He thought
a moment, then held up a finger, indicating she should wait. He referred to the
file again. "There it is. Prescribed them for himself."
Avery
didn't know what to say.
"Inability
to sleep is not uncommon in people who are depressed."
She
struggled to find her voice. He hadn 't been sleeping. Another thing she hadn't
known about her father, his state of mind.
What kind
of daughter was she?
"Why
would he do that?" she managed to say finally. "If he planned to kill
himself the way he did, why take sleeping pills before?"
"Pill,"
he corrected. "The level of the drug in his bloodstream was consistent
with having taking a.25-milligram tablet at bedtime. Which, by the way, was the
dose he'd prescribed himself."
"I
still don't understand, then-"
"Why?"
he finished for her. "We can't be certain, of course. Could be he wanted
to take the edge off, dull his senses. Or that he decided to act after he'd
taken it."
It appeared
as if he crawled a couple feet toward the door.
"Ms.
Chauvin?"
She looked
up. He held out a box of tissues. She hadn't realized she was crying. She
plucked a tissue from the box and dried her eyes and cheeks, working to pull
herself together. "Was there anything…suspicious about his death?"
"Suspicious?"
He drew his eyebrows together. "I'm not certain I understand."
"Anything
that suggested his death wasn't a suicide?"
When he
spoke, his tone was patient. "If you discount leaving a death
unclassified, there are only four classifications of death. Natural causes.
Accident. Suicide or homicide. We can eliminate the first two. That leaves
suicide. Or homicide."
"I
realize that."
He frowned
slightly. "What are you getting at, Ms. Chauvin?"
I'm
just-" She crumbled the tissue. "Frankly, I can't believe he did
this. He didn't leave a note. In our conversations, and we spoke often, he gave
no indication of being so depressed that he might take his own life."
Another man
mighthave been offended, might have thought she was questioning his skill or
professionalism; Dr. Harris was sympathetic. She suspected he dealt with
grieving family members a lot.
"The
Cypress Springs police did a thorough investigation. As did I. Dr. Sands is a
top-notch forensic pathologist. Toxicology revealed nothing but the Halcion. I
found nothing about the body to suggest homicide. Neither did Dr. Sands.
Friends and neighbors described him as acting strangely for some time before
his death. Reclusive. Depressed. That behavior seemed consistent with suicide.
I understand, too, that your mother had died recently."
"A
year ago," she murmured, shaken.
He got what
he deserved.
You will,
too.
Avery
pressed her lips together.
He sat
forward. "Is there something you think I should know? Something you're not
saying?"
She met his
eyes.What would he think if she shared her anonymous caller's message? Would he
call it a sick joke-or a serious threat?
She shook
her head. "No. Nothing."
"You're
certain?"
"Absolutely."
She stood and held out her hand. "You've been very helpful, Dr. Harris.
Thank you for your time."
He followed
her to her feet, took her hand. "If you need anything further, just call.
I'm mostly here."
She started
for the door. He called her name, stopping her. She looked back.
"I
hope you'll forgive an old man for meddling, but I've done this job for a lot of
years. Talked with a lot of grieving family members. I understand tow difficult
it is to accept when a loved one takes their own life.The guilt you feel. You
tell yourself you should have seen it coming, that if you had, your loved one
would be alive.
"The
ones who do the best get on with living. They accept that the act wasn't about
them, that it wasn't about anything they did or didn't do." He paused.
"Time, Ms. Chauvin. Give yourself some time. Talk to someone. A counselor.
Clergyman. Then get on with living."
If only it
were that easy. If only it all didn't feel so wrong.
She forced
a small smile. "You're very kind, Dr. Harris."
"Just
so you know, I intend to tell your sister the same thing."
She
stopped. Turned. "Excuse me?"
"Your
sister. She called after you did. She's coming at three." At her
expression, he frowned. "Is something wrong, Ms. Chauvin?
"I
don't have a sister, Dr. Harris."
CHAPTER 18
Avery
waited in the parking lot beside Dr. Harris's office, the SUV's windows lowered
to let in the mild March breeze. She'd positioned the Blazer at the edge of the
lot, alongside a dilapidated Cadillac Seville.
At two
fifty-five, another vehicle pulled into the lot, a woman at the wheel. Avery
slid low in her seat, not wanting the woman to spot her-yet. Not until she
couldn't avoid coming face-to-face with Avery.
The woman
parked her Camry, never even glancing Avery's way. She flipped down her sun
visor, checked her appearance in the lighted mirror, then snapped it shut and
got out of the vehicle.
Only then
did Avery get a clear view of her. A small sound of surprise slid past her
lips.
The woman
from her father's wake. The one the group of men had been staring at.
Avery threw
open her door and jumped out, slamming it behind her. The woman stopped. Turned
toward her. Her face registered shock. Then dismay.
Avery
closed the distance between them. "We need to talk."
"Excuse
me?"
"Don't
be coy. You were at my father's wake. And now you're here. Claiming to be my
sister. I think you'd better tell me why."
She opened
her mouth as if to deny the allegations, then shut it. She motioned to the
picnic table at the rear of the building, set up under a sprawling old oak
tree. "Over there."
They sat.
The woman met her eyes. Tall and slender with short, curly blond hair, Avery
judged her to be about the same age as she was.
"My
name's Gwen Lancaster. I'm sorry if I've upset you. I know this is a difficult
time. I…I lost my brother not long ago."
Avery gazed
at her, unmoved. "Did you know my father?"
"No, I
didn't."
"May I
ask then, why you attended his wake and why you're here today?"
She paused
a moment before answering. "I'm new to Cypress Springs. Pretty town."
"Yeah,
it is." Avery narrowed her eyes. "Friendly, too."
Her lips
twisted slightly. "Doesn't look so friendly from where I'm sitting."
"Do
you blame me?"
She
laughed, the sound short. Tight. "Actually, I don't." She glanced
away, then back at Avery. "I've come to Cypress Springs to do some
research. I'm working on my Ph.D. in social psychology. From Tulane University."
"Good
for you," she said flatly. "So, what does that have to do with my
father's death?"
"If I
tell you, will you promise to keep an open mind?"
Avery
leaned toward her. "I'm not promising you anything. I don't think I should
have to."
Gwen held
her gaze, then nodded. "At least allow me to begin at the beginning."
"Fair
enough."
The woman
folded her hands and laid them on the table's top, over a set of initials
someone had carved in the wood. "I'm writing a thesis titled "Crime,
Punishment and the Rise of Vigilantism in Small-Town America."
She paused.
Avery wondered if she used the time to collect her thoughts-or to manufacture
her answer. Avery had earned her right to suspicion, earned it through years of
interviewing people with agendas that ran counter to the truth, people who
manipulated and manufactured. People, she had learned, lied for a variety of
reasons. Because it was easier than telling the truth. Or to shield themselves
from punishment or incrimination. They lied to protect their reputations. Or as
a way to keep from revealing who they really were.
"In my
undergraduate studies, I became fascinated with the psychology of groups and
group dynamics. What motivates a seemingly average, law-abiding citizen to take
on the role of crusader? To take the law into their own hands or act outside
the law?"
She lowered
her eyes a moment, then returned them to Avery's, her blue gaze unblinking.
"Vigilantes are strong believers in law and order. They're usually
patriots and highly moral. It's a form of extremism, of course. And like all
extremists, they turn their beliefs inside out and upside down."
Avery
acknowledged being intrigued despite herself. "Like Timothy McVeigh, the
Oklahoma City bomber."
"Exactly.
He fit the profile to a T, although he acted alone. Remember, the thing that
makes these people so dangerous is that they absolutely believe in their cause
and are willing to die for it. Their beliefs aren't a way to justify their
acts, in their minds those acts are justified by their beliefs."
Avery nodded,
understanding. "So, you'd lump all extremists in this same category?
Religious groups like Afghanistan's Taliban, political extremists like
Al-Qaeda?"
"And
white supremacists, survivalists or any other group that pushes its ideology to
the extreme. No country, religion or race is immune. History is riddled with
the bodies of those killed in the name of a cause."
"Why
are you here?"
"A
bartender told me a story about this picture-perfect Louisiana town.The town
began to suffer an increase in crime. Instead of combating it through
traditional law enforcement, they took the law into their own hands. They
organized a group that policed the behavior of its citizens. They nipped in the
bud behavior they con-sidered aberrant. The crime rate fell, further justifying
their actions in their own minds. I did some digging and found information that
seemed to corroborate the story."
She was
talking about Cypress Springs. Avery stared at her, waiting for the punch line.
When it didn't come, she laughed. "A vigilante group? In Cypress Springs?
You can't be serious."
"These
types of groups are more likely to arise in communities like Cypress Springs.
Insular communities, resistant to change, reluctant to welcome outsiders."
"This
is ridiculous."
Avery made
a move to stand; the woman reached out, caught her hand. "Hear me out. The
group formed in the late 1980s as a reaction to the rapid increase in crime.
They disbanded sometime later, beset by internal fighting and threats of
exposure from within their own ranks."
The 1980s?
During the time before and after Sallie Waguespack's murder.
The hair on
the back of her neck stood up. If it weren't for the fact that she had just
relived that time through her father's clippings and Buddy's recollections, she
would have totally discounted the woman's assertions. She had learned during
her years in investigative journalism that when one element of a story rang
true, often others would, too.
But
vigilantism? Could the people of Cypress Springs have been so concerned,
desperate really, that they'd taken the law into their own hands? Could her
father have been that desperate? Or Buddy? Their friends and fellow community
leaders? She couldn't imag-ine them in the role of Big Brother.
"The
core group was small, but they had an intricate network of others who monitored
the activities of the citizens and reported to the group."
Avery
frowned. "Spies? You're saying Cypress Springs citizens spied on each
other?"
"Yes.
The citizens were watched. Their mail read. What they ate, drank, read and watched
was monitored. Where they went. If they worshiped. If need be, they were
warned."
"Warned?
You mean threatened?"
She nodded.
"If the warnings went unheeded, the group took action. Businesses were
boycotted. Individuals shunned. Property vandalized. To varying degrees,
everyone was in on it."
"Everyone?"
Avery made a sound of disbelief. "I have a hard time believing that."
"In
groups such as these, responsibility for acts are disbursed throughout the
group. What that means is, no one person carries the burden of responsibility
for an act against another. It's the group's responsibility. By lessening the
burden, the act becomes much easier to carry out. In addition, the individual's
sense of responsibility shifts from the self to the group and its ideology."
Avery shook
her head again. "I grew up here, I've never heard of any of this."
"It's
not as outlandish as it sounds. It began as little more than a Neighborhood
Watch-type program. A way to help combat crime. As unchecked good intentions
sometimes do," the woman continued, "theirs spun out of control.
Anyone who's actions fell outside what was considered right, moral or
neighborly was singled out and warned. Before it was all over, they'd broken
the civil rights of their fellow citizens in the name of righteousness, law and
order."
"And
nobody went to jail?"
"Nobody
talked. The community closed ranks. Not untypical for this type of group."
Gwen leaned toward Avery. Lowered her voice. "They called themselves The
Seven."
At her
father's wake, the group of men. Watching Gwen.
Seven of
them.
A
coincidence, she told herself, struggling to keep her thoughts from showing. To
deny them. "And what exactly does all this have to do with my father? And
you posing as my nonexistent sister?"
Gwen
Lancaster didn't blink. "I'm trying to locate sources to verify the
information I've gotten so far. Your dad fits the profile"
"My
father's dead, Ms. Lancaster."
"Fit
the profile," she corrected, flushing. "White. Male. Lifelong Cypress
Springs resident. A respected community leader during that time."
Her meaning
sank in and Avery stiffened. "You're saying you believe my father might
have been a part of this Seven?"
"Yes."
Avery
stood. She realized she was shaking. "He wasn't," she said flatly.
"He would never have been a part of something like that. Never!"
"Wait,
please!" She followed Avery to her feet. "Hear me out. There's-"
"I've
heard enough." Avery snatched her purse off the picnic bench.
"There's a difference between thinking you're honorable and being
honorable. And you know that, Ms. Lancaster. My father was a highly principled,
moral man. A man others looked up to. A man who dedicated his life to helping
others. To doing right, not to self-righteousness. It's an insult to his
memory, to all he was, to suggest he would be party to this extremist
garbage."
"You
don't understand. If you would just-"
"I do
understand, Ms. Lancaster. And I've listened quite enough." Avery backed
away. "Stay away from me. If I find out you're prying into my father's
life or death again, I'll go to the police. If I hear you're spreading these
lies, I'll go to a lawyer."
Without
waiting for the woman's reply, Avery turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 19
Avery sat
at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of her, hands curled around a mug of
freshly brewed coffee. Early-morning sun streamed through the window. The
screen glowed softly; the text blurred before her eyes.
She set the
mug on the table and rubbed her eyes. Her head ached. She'd slept little. She'd
left St. Francisville and driven blindly home, thoughts whirling. She'd been
angry. Furious. That Gwen Lancaster could accuse her father of such despicable
acts toward his fellow citizens. That she could suggest the people of Cypress
Springs capable of spying on one another, punishing them for behavior that fell
outside what a few had decided was acceptable.
Cypress
Springs was a nice place to live. People cared about one another. They helped
one another.
Gwen
Lancaster, she had decided was either a liar or an academic hack. She had dealt
with journalists like that. They started with a story someone told them,
something juicy, outrageous or shocking. Like the one the bartender told Gwen
Lancaster about a picture-perfect small town that turns to vigilantism to
combat crime.
Great hook.
A real grabber. They proceeded on the premise that it was true and began
collecting the "facts" to prove it. Tabloid journalism cloaked in the
guise of authentic journalism. Or in Gwen Lancaster's case, academia.
The group
of seven men at the wake. Watching Gwen Lancaster. The one laughing.
Avery shook
her head. A coincidence. A group of men, friends, standing together. Admiring
an attractive woman. One making a sexual comment, then laughing. It happened
all the time.
She turned
her attention to the computer screen. She had realized she knew little more
about vigilantism and extremism than what Gwen had told her and had spent the
night researching both via the Internet.
She'd done
searches on vigilantism. Crowd mentality and social psychology. Fanaticism. She
had read about the Ku Klux Klan. Nazism. Experiments in group behavior.
Extremist
groups had been much in the news since the Septem- ber 11, 2001, attacks on the
United States by the al-Qaeda terrorist organization. Her search had led her
there and to pieces written in the aftermath of Timothy McVeigh's bombing of
the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. And others concerning
the 1993 FBI shootout with the Branch Davidians in Waco, Texas.
What she'd
found disturbed her. Any idea or belief, it seemed, could be taken to an
extreme. The amount of blood spilled for God and country staggered. A chief
motivator, she'd learned, was fear of change. The intense desire to keep the
world, the order of things, the way it was.
Folks were
scared. And angry. Real angry. The town was turning into a place they didn 't
like.
People
stopped taking their community, their quality of life for granted. They
realized that safety and a community spirit were worth working for. People
started watching out for each other.
Avery stood
and crossed to the sink. She flipped on the cold water, bent and splashed her
face. How frightened had the people of Cypress Springs been? Enough to take the
law into their own hands?
Could this
be why her father had clipped and kept all those articles?
Avery
ripped off a paper towel, dried her face, then tossed the towel into the trash.
As much as she wanted to discount everything Gwen Lancaster had told her, she
couldn't. Because of that damn box.
Gwen
Lancaster knew something about her father that she wasn't telling. Why else
would she have wanted to talk to the coroner about Phillip's death? Avery
couldn't imagine he would have been able to shed any light on The Seven or her
father's involvement in the group.
The coroner
could answer questions about her father's death, not life.
That was
it, Avery realized. Gwen Lancaster doubted the official explanation of Dr.
Phillip Chauvin's death.
And Avery
was going to find out why. First, she needed to locate the woman.
She crossed
to the phone and dialed the ranch. Buddy knew everybody in this town, even
outsiders. He answered.
"Hi,
Buddy, it's Avery. Good morning."
"Baby
girl. Good morning to you, too." Pleasure radiated from his voice.
"How are you? We've been so worried, but wanted to give you some
space."
"I'm
hanging in there, Buddy. Thanks for your concern. How's Lilah?"
"She's
good. Come by for dinner. Anytime."
"I
will. Got a question. You know everyone around here, right?"
"Pretty
much. Figure it's my job."
"I'm
trying to find a woman named Gwen Lancaster. She's only been here a couple of
weeks, tops."
"Pretty
blonde? Writing some sort of paper?"
"That's
her."
"You
might check The Guesthouse. Why're you looking for her?"
Avery
hesitated. She didn't want to lie. But she didn't want to let on what she was
thinking. Not yet. She settled on a partial truth. "She was asking some
questions about Dad, I want to find out why."
"That's
odd. What kind of questions?"
"I
thought it odd, too."
If he
noticed her evasiveness, he didn't let on. "Good luck then. Let me know if
you need anything else."
Avery
thanked him and after promising to stop out for dinner in the next night or
two, hung up. She started upstairs to dress. As far as she was concerned, there
was no time like the present to call on Gwen Lancaster, ungodly hour or not.
A mere
twenty minutes later, Avery crossed The Guesthouse's wide, shady front porch.
The Landry family had owned The Guesthouse for as long as she could remember.
They had converted the huge old Victorian, located right across from the square,
into a guesthouse in the 1960s when they neither needed nor could afford to
maintain the structure as a single-family residence.
The family
occupied two-thirds of the first floor; the upstairs had been converted into
four units consisting of a bedroom/sitting room combination, a kitchenette and
bath. The remaining third of the main floor housed the same as the rooms above,
with the addition of a small, separate parlor.
She stepped
inside. The small registration area occupied the far end of the foyer. The
young woman behind the desk looked up and smiled. The next-generation Landry,
Avery thought. She was a mirror image of both Laurie, one of Avery's friends,
and her older brother, Daniel.
"Hi,"
Avery said, crossing to the desk. "I bet you're Danny's daughter."
"I
am." The teenager popped her gum. "How did you know?"
"I
grew up here. Was a friend of your aunt Laurie's. You look just like your
dad."
The girl
pouted. "Everybody says that."
"I' m
looking for Gwen Lancaster. I think she's staying here."
"She
is. She's in 2C."
"Thanks."
Avery said goodbye, then climbed the stairs. Room 2C was located on the left
side of the hall, at the end. She reached the door and knocked, hoping it was
still early enough to catch her in.
It was.
Gwen opened the door, still bleary-eyed with sleep. She had awakened her, Avery
realized without apology.
She laid a
hand on the door, just in case the other woman tried to slam it on her.
"Why are you so interested in my father's death? I want to know the truth.
The whole truth."
The woman
gazed unblinkingly at her a moment, then opened the door wider and stepped
aside. "Come on in."
Avery did.
Gwen shut the door behind her, then yawned. "Coffee?"
"No,
thanks. I'm full up."
"Sorry,
but I need a cup." She motioned toward the small seating area. "I'll
be back in a jif."
True to her
word, in less than five minutes Gwen sat across from her, cup clutched in her
hands. Avery didn't even give her time to sip. "What you told me yesterday
was bullshit. Talking to the coroner about my father's death would tell you
nothing about his supposed role in The Seven. Obviously, you're interested in
his death. Why?"
Gwen met
her gaze. "Okay, the straight shit. I wonder if your dad's death was a
suicide."
An
involuntary sound slipped past Avery's lips. She brought a hand to her mouth
and stood, turning her back to the other woman, struggling to compose herself.
"I'm
sorry," Gwen murmured.
Avery shook
her head but didn't turn. "Why?" she asked. "What makes you
think-"
"For
such a small town, Cypress Springs suffers a disproportionate number of
suicides."
Avery
turned. Met the woman's eyes. "Excuse me?"
"The
population of Cypress Springs is around nine hundred. Correct?" Avery
agreed it was. "In the last eight months, six of her citizens have taken
their own lives. A rather large number, particularly for a community that
purports to be such a great place to live. To give you an idea how huge that
is, the annual total for Louisiana is 1.2 per thousand, per year. To stay
within the state average, Cypress Springs should have about 1.2 suicides
annually."
"Your
figure can't be right."
"But
it is. In addition," the woman continued, "there've been a number of
strange disappearances."
"Disappearances?"
Avery repeated.
"People
picking up and moving in the night. No word to anyone. Not to family or
friends." She took a sip of coffee. "The accidental death rate is
also high. Hunting accidents. Car wrecks. Drownings. Most of them in the last
year."
"And
before that?"
"Much
lower. All categories."
Avery
struggled to assimilate the information. To place it in the framework of what
she believed to be true. "I'll have to check this out myself."
"Be my
guest."
She fell
silent a moment. Craziness. What she was thinking was insanity. "Why would
someone want to kill my father?"
"I don't
know. I'm thinking he knew too much."
"About
The Seven?"
"Yes."
"Then
what about you?"
Gwen seemed
startled by the question. "What do you mean?"
"It
seems to me that you might know too much about this group. If it actually
exists, that is."
"It
exists," Gwen said, following her to her feet. Avery saw that she shook.
"And they're getting bolder. Not even trying to cover up their work with
an accident."
"What
are you talking about?"
"The
murder. Elaine St. Claire. I believe The Seven is responsible."
CHAPTER 20
Avery left
The Guesthouse. She angled across the square, making her way through the
already thick throng of Spring Fest attendees. Though the festival ran from
Friday evening through Sunday, Saturday's crowds were always the thickest. The
smell of deep-fried crawfish pies and spicy shrimp etouffe floated on the
morning air. Vendors preparing for the day laughed and called to one another.
Avery paid
them little attention, instead reviewing the things she knew to be true. Her
father was dead of an apparent suicide. An anonymous caller had threatened her,
claiming her father had gotten what he deserved. That she would, too. A woman
named Elaine St. Claire had been found murdered in the alley behind Walton
Street. None of the official agencies that had investigated her father's death
had found anything to suggest it had been other than a suicide.
And she was
no longer alone in her belief that her father had been murdered. Gwen Lancaster
believed it, too.
Great. A
conspiracy-theorist nutcase fell in line with her.
Reassuring.
She would
start with the facts, the place every good journalist began. Those facts would
lead to others, which would either confirm or allay her suspicions. Hunter and
the Elaine St. Claire murder seemed a good first step.
Avery
stepped off the square onto Main Street, heading toward Johnson Avenue. It
would be fruitless to approach Matt or Buddy; they were lawmen, they'd tell her
nothing more than what was reported in the most recent issue of the Gazette.
But Hunter
had been there. He'd discovered the body. Had been privy to Matt's and Buddy's
reactions, he'd no doubt overheard some of their conversation at the scene.
She
acknowledged excitement. A quickening of the blood that told her she was onto
something, a high she experienced whenever she hit on the real thing-a
powerhouse story with the ability to affect real change.
What change
would this story precipitate if true?
Avery
reached Johnson and turned down it. Moments later, she reached Hunter's law
office. Peering through the window she saw the room was empty, so she went
around to the alley entrance.
Hunter
appeared at the door before she could knock. Sarah stood at his side. From
inside she heard the whimpering of puppies.
He pushed
open the screen door. She saw he was dressed in a T-shirt and running shorts.
"I was
hoping we could talk," she said.
"About?"
he asked, not looking at her. He clipped the lead onto Sarah's collar.
"About…stuff."
He met her
eyes. "Stuff? Big-city journalists always use such technical words?"
"Smart-ass."
"Sarah
and I are going for a run."
"I'll
join you."
He skimmed
his gaze over her. Unlike him, she had dressed for comfort-not exercise. She
had, however, worn her athletic shoes. "Sorry. But this is our time."
"Our
time? You and the dog's?"
"That's
right. Haven't you heard the one about dog being man's best friend?"
"If
you want an apology," she said, frustrated, "you've got it."
"For
what?"
"Our
argument."
One corner
of his mouth lifted. "Seems to me that was a two-way street." He
looked down at Sarah. "What do you think, girl? Can she keep up with
us?"
As if she
understood her master's question, the dog looked up at her. Avery returned the
dog's baleful stare. "Come on, Sarah, give me a little credit. We girls
have to stick together."
She seemed
to nod, then swung her gaze to Hunter. He laughed. "No fair, you pulled
the girl-solidarity thing on me."
Avery
laughed. "Why not? It worked, didn't it?"
He stepped
through the door, turned and locked it, then began to stretch.
"Where
are we going?"
"Tiller's
farm."
Tiller's
farm was a forty-acre spread just east of Cypress Springs. Now used to raise
mostly feeder cattle, the land had been in the Tiller family forever and old
Sam Tiller refused to sell even an acre. Cypress Springs had built up around
him. In retrospect, Tiller's refusal to budge had been one of the factors that
had helped keep Cypress Springs small and pastoral.
Three
miles. There. And back.
Not good.
Hunter
glanced over at her. His lips lifted in amusement. "Want to back out
now?"
"Not
at all," she lied. "Just worried about that shotgun of his." Sam
Tiller had not been happy when he'd discovered the shady, spring-fed pond on
his property had become an oasis for Cypress Springs teenagers.
Buddy had
dragged him in on a number of occasions for firing at the kids. Never mind that
it'd only been buckshot and that the kids had been trespassing-shooting at
teenagers was against the law.
"No
worries, doll. I handled a legal problem for him, he gave Sarah and I carte
blanche to visit anytime. Could even skinny-dip if we wanted."
She ignored
the reference to a mercilessly hot August night when they had done just that.
Hunter had promised not to look. She had believed him.
Then caught
him staring.
"Ready?"
As she
would ever be. "You bet."
They set
off, the three of them, the pace relaxed. Warming up. Avery managed to keep up
easily at first. Soon, however, she had to press to keep up, even though Hunter
paced himself to accommodate her shorter legs.
After
three-quarters of a mile, Avery was sweating. Out of breath. Her blue jeans and
cotton blouse clung uncomfortably to her damp skin, twisting slightly,
restricting her movement.
She'd give
her kingdom for a pair of shorts and a sports bra, she decided, yanking her
shirt from the waistband of her jeans as she ran. She unbuttoned the cuffs and
rolled up the sleeves.
He glanced
back. "You okay?"
"Fine,"
she managed to say, furious at herself. For her own pig-headedness. And for
allowing herself to get so out of shape. In the past few months she had gone
from a daily run to managing to fit one in once a week. Between that and the
difference in their strides, she was hurting.
By the
halfway point, however, her endorphins kicked in and the discomfort eased.
Hunter drew ahead; she didn't try to keep up. Instead, she luxuriated in the
pure pleasure of being outdoors, lungs, heart and muscles working in tandem.
"Meet
me at the pond," he called over his shoulder.
She
indicated she would, then watched as he pulled away.
When she
arrived, Hunter was waiting for her, Sarah panting at his side. The way Avery
figured it, she'd been about six minutes behind him.
He passed
her a water bottle. "I'd forgotten that about you."
"What?"
She accepted the bottle and took a long swallow.
"How
determined you are."
She took
another swallow, then handed the bottle back. "You mean pigheaded."
"Sometimes."
His mouth twitched. "Personally, I believe determination is an admirable
trait."
Sarah stood
and wandered down to the pond. Avery watched longingly as she waded in for a
drink. The water looked delicious.
"Go
ahead," he said. "Take a dip. It's spring fed."
"In
your dreams, Stevens."
"I
didn't say skinny-dip. You, Ms. Chauvin, have a dirty mind."
"Actually,
I don't think I'm the one with the dirty mind." She stood and crossed to
the water's edge. Kneeling, she splashed water on her face, soaking her shirt
in the process.
She glanced
down at the now-transparent fabric. So much for modesty. Hell with it, she
decided, unbuttoning the clinging fabric.
"Don't
look," she ordered, glancing at him over her shoulder.
He rested
back on an elbow. "Depends on what I'm going to miss."
"Hunter,"
she warned, narrowing her eyes at his cheesy smile.
"All
right. No peeking, scout's honor."
She waited
until he had dutifully turned his head, then peeled off her blouse.
"Very
pretty."
She whirled
around, wet blouse to her chest. "You looked."
"Of
course I did." He laughed. "Can't stop a bird dog from hunting."
"Or a
snake from striking."
He laid
back, hands folded behind his head and gazed up at the blue sky. "Your
honor's safe, doll. Most bathing suits reveal more than that bra, pretty as it
is."
He had a
point. She soaked her blouse in the chilly water, then draped the dripping
fabric across her shoulders. The water sluiced over her shoulders and breasts,
leaving trails of goose bumps in their wake.
She made
her way back to where he rested. To his credit, he didn't look at her.
"What
did you want to talk to me about?"
She
hesitated, reluctant to ruin the warm, relaxed mood with talk of murder, then
asked anyway. "Wondered if you could tell me anything about the St. Claire
murder."
He didn't
act surprised by her question. "What do you want to know?"
"The
Gazette didn't say how she died."
"It's
pretty grim."
"I
think I can take it."
He tilted
his face toward hers. "A sharp object was repeatedly inserted into her
vaginal canal. Tore her insides to shreds. She bled to death."
Avery
hugged herself, suddenly cold. "Who was she?"
"Dad
knew her. Party girl. Heavy drinker. Spent a little time in jail."
Anyone
whose actions fell outside what was considered right, moral or neighborly was
singled out.
A woman
like Elaine St. Claire fit that description. But she was also the kind who put
herself in dangerous situations.
"They
have any suspects?"
"Just
me."
"Funny."
"I'm
not laughing." He lay back again, draping an arm across his eyes.
"Dad and Matt, in their infinite wisdom, are looking no further than the
first to the scene."
"I
find that difficult to believe."
He
shrugged. "Could just be me, still chafing under Matt's interrogation. Wondered
where I'd been that day between the hours of four in the afternoon and eight
that night."
"And
where were you?"
"Working
on the novel. Nobody but Sarah for an alibi."
She didn't
know what to say so she said nothing.
"Why
so interested?" he asked.
Good
question. How did she answer it? She decided on blunt-ness. "You have any
doubt my dad killed himself?"
He sat up
at that one. Looked at her. "Where did that come from?"
Ignoring
the question, she tipped her face to the sky, then returned her gaze to his.
"You'd become friends. Spent some time with him. Do you have any doubt he
took his own life?"
For a long
moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his tone was heavy with regret.
"No, Avery. I'm sorry."
A knot of
tears clogged her throat. She pressed on. "Why?" He looked at her.
"Talking about this isn't going to change anyth-"
"Why,
Hunter? Tell me."
"All
right." He sat up. "I hadn't been back in Cypress Springs a week when
your dad looked me up. I appreciated it. A lot. He didn't ask too many
questions, didn't make me explain why or justify my actions. He did it for me,
but I think, for himself, too. He needed somebody to talk to.
"Anyway,
it worked for both of us and we started meeting every Friday morning for
coffee. Then, one Friday, he didn't show. So I went by the house, found him
still in his pajamas. All the blinds drawn. He insisted he had simply
overslept, but he was acting… strange. Different."
"Different?
What do you mean?"
"Jumpy,
I guess. He didn't look me in the eye. After that, our meetings became
sporadic. Our conversations…less comfortable. He began talking a lot about the
old days. When your mom was alive and you were home. Never about the future,
rarely about the here and now."
Hunter let
out a long breath. "It should have rung a warning bell, but it didn't. I'm
sorry," he said again.
She shook
her head, as much in denial of his words as of the tears burning her eyes.
"He lost a bedroom slipper that night, on his way out to the garage. The
arson investigator told me that."
He didn't
comment and her cheeks heated. "I think that's significant, Hunter.
Walking in one shoe isn't natural. The path between the house and garage would
have been cold, the stepping stones rough. He would have stopped and slid it
back on."
"Avery,"
he said gently, "I hate that he did this, too. I know it hurts. I
know-"
"No,
you don't know. You can't know what I feel." Tears choked her; she fought
them. "On fire, he crawled toward the door. He didn't want to do it,
Hunter. He didn't."
"Avery,
hon-" He made a move to take her into his arms and she jumped to her feet.
"No," she said, more to herself than him. "No, I will not cry.
No more."
She hugged
herself, staring at the shimmering surface of the pond. In the tree behind her
a couple of squirrels played tag. Sarah growled, low in her throat.
"Who
would want your dad dead, Avery?" Hunter asked quietly. "Everyone
loved him."
She
couldn't take her gaze from the diamond-faceted surface of the water. "Not
everyone. I got a call, this woman…she said Dad had gotten what he deserved.
That I would, too."
"Who,
Avery? What woman?"
"Don't
know." Cocking her head, she moved toward the water. The surface was
broken by a large, odd shadow. "She wouldn't identify herself and I didn't
recognize her voice."
"Has
she called again?"
"No."
Avery reached the pond's edge, stopped and frowned.
"Most
probably a crank," he said. "Someone with an ax to grind. Or someone
in desperate need of attention. Even Cypress Springs is home to mentally
unstable people."
"What's
that?" She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was staring with unabashed
admiration at her butt. Her cheeks wanned even as she motioned him to come.
"Look."
He stood
and ambled over, Sarah at his heels. She pointed. "A shape just beneath
the water. See? Its edges are silvery."
He bent
closer, then looked at her. "I think it's a car."
"A
car?" She turned back to the pond. Made a sound of surprise as the shape
that had caught her eye suddenly became clear to her. "I think you're
right."
"One
way to find out." He stripped down to his jogging shorts, then waded in.
She watched as he took a deep breath, then dived under.
A moment
later, he surfaced. "It is. And a fine car at that. A Mercedes
coupe." She frowned, something plucking at her memory.
"I'm
going to take another look."
Hunter went
under again. Sarah began to bark. This time when he reappeared he swam back,
then climbed out. "I think we better call Dad."
CHAPTER 21
Neither
Avery nor Hunter had a cell phone. They decided the quickest route to a phone
would be through the woods and across a pasture to Sam Tiller's place. The man
caught sight of Hunter and broke into a broad smile, his weathered face
creasing up like a Shar-Pei's hide.
He pushed
open the screen door, smile faltering when he saw the condition they were in.
"A bit early in the year to be swimming. Water'd be real cold." He
shifted his gaze to her. "You're the doc's girl."
"Yes,
sir. Good to see you."
"Damn
shame about the doc. He was a good man." He turned to Hunter. "What's
this all about?"
"We
need to use a phone, Sam. To call Buddy." Hunter ex-Plained about jogging
to the pond, Avery seeing the shadowy form °f something under the water, then
realizing it was an automobile.
The man
scratched his head. "A car, you say? A Mercedes?
Damned if I
can figure how it got there. Come on in, phone's this way."
They
followed him inside. Sam's wife had died back when they were in high school and
as far as Avery knew, the couple hadn't had children. The old farmhouse's
interior begged for a little TLC. Fabrics were frayed, curtains dingy and any
feminine touches had long since gone the way of the dinosaurs.
It reminded
her of how her dad's house had begun to look.
Hunter
dialed. Avery could tell by Hunter's side of the conversation that his father
was surprised to be hearing from his son.
"You
want me to call or- Fine. We'll meet you there."
Hunter hung
up the phone. He turned to her and Sam. "Dad's calling Matt. The farm's
outside the city limits and falls under the sheriff department's
jurisdiction."
"Seeing
it's in my pond," Sam said, "I think I'd better get a look at this
thing. I'll drive us."
They all
three crowded onto the bench seat of his battered old pickup truck; Sarah rode
in back. The sky had begun to turn dark, fat black clouds forming to the south.
Within
minutes they reached the turn for the pond. Hunter hopped out and unhooked the
chain barricade; Sam eased the truck through. Avery wasn't surprised to see
they had beaten both Buddy and Matt there.
Sam stopped
the pickup; they climbed out. The farmer crossed to the water, squinted down at
the cloudy surface. After a moment, he looked at Hunter. "Damned if it
isn't a car. I'll be."
Just then,
Matt pulled up, followed by Buddy. The younger Stevens climbed out, waited for
his father, then crossed to the trio.
"What's
the deal?" Matt asked.
Sam stepped
forward. "A car," he said. "In my pond. Damned if I know where
it came from."
Matt
shifted his gaze briefly to her, then turned to Hunter. "You seem to be in
the thick of everything these days."
"What
can I say? Trouble finds me."
"How
about you give me the sequence of events."
Hunter did.
Matt shifted his gaze to hers. "You want to add anything to that?"
Dark clouds
drifted over the sun; she shivered and shook her head. "I can't think of
anything."
"How
you goin' to get it out of there?" Sam asked.
"Call
Bubba, get one of his wreckers over here, haul it out," Matt answered.
"You're
certain it was a Mercedes?" Buddy asked. "One hundred percent.
Silver. A CLK 350." The two lawmen exchanged glances. "But you say it
was empty?"
"It
appeared so," Hunter confirmed. "But you're not certain?"
"No."
"If we
need anything else, we'll be in touch." Matt looked at her. Something in
his gaze had her folding her arms across her chest. "Storm's moving
in," he said softly. "I suggest you take cover."
CHAPTER 22
At the same
moment the storm hit, Avery remembered what had eluded her before: the guy
whose Mercedes had supposedly broken down outside of Cypress Springs, the one
whose girlfriend had claimed he'd gone missing. She'd cried foul play, but without
any evidence of a homicide, Buddy and Matt could only assume the story a
fabrication or that the guy had wanted to disappear.
They had
their evidence now. Though a submerged vehicle did not a murder make.
That's why
Matt had asked twice about the vehicle being empty. He was looking for a body
to go with the car.
"Here
you are," Sam said, interrupting her thoughts. His pickup rattled as it
crept up her driveway, then creaked to a stop.
She turned
to him. "Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it."
He peered
out at the rain. A boom of thunder shook the truck. "I don't mind waitin'
a minute, till it eases up out there."
"I
appreciate that, Sam. But I'm already wet. A little more water's not going to
hurt me." She grabbed the door handle. "Thanks again for the-"
"It's
not true," he said, cutting her off. "What they all say about
him."
She
stopped, looked back at him. "Pardon?"
"Hunter's
a good man. Rock solid. Your father liked him."
Her mouth
dropped. He motioned to the door. "Go on now. Before it gets any
worse."
She did as
she was told, hopping out into the downpour. Instantly soaked, she hurried to
the front porch. There, she watched the old truck rumble off.
What who
said about Hunter? His family? Others in the community?
Your father
liked him.
She sank
onto the porch swing and stared out at the rain. Her lips lifted with a curious
kind of pleasure. The old farmer's comment shouldn't matter to her, but it did.
It warmed her. She had always considered her father an excellent judge of
character. Had turned to him for advice about people often, during both her
adolescence and adulthood.
She liked
Hunter, too, despite their recent clashes. She always had. As a young person,
she had admired his intelligence and wit. His fine, dry sense of humor. She
thought back, recalling the times he had helped her with math, the subject that
had given her never-ending fits. She recalled how he'd had the ability to make
her smile, even when she had not been in the mood to. She remembered the time,
after a particularly upsetting disagreement with her mother, when he had held
her and talked her through it. Quietly supporting her while getting her to see
her mother's point of view as well.
Where had
Matt been that day? she wondered. Busy? Or had she sought Hunter out because she'd
known that he would be the one able to calm her?
And now, as
an adult, she sensed a deep, abiding honesty in him-about himself and his
shortcomings and about others. That made him difficult for some to take, she
supposed. It made him confrontational.
Cypress
Springs didn't embrace diversity. Round peg, round hole. PLUs-People Like Us.
That made them feel safe. Secure.
She had
always been the square peg. She hadn't realized it until now, but Hunter had
been, too.
Lightning
flashed, thunder shook the sky and the rain came down in blinding sheets. Avery
turned her thoughts to Matt and Buddy at Tiller's Pond, arranging to have the
vehicle hauled out. Standing in the rain, drenched and chilled. And she
wondered if Hunter had made it home before the rain had come. He had eschewed
Sam's offer of a ride in favor of completing his run.
She
recalled Matt's comment to Hunter about being in the thick of everything of
late. He'd been making reference to Hunter's having found Elaine St. Claire,
now this car. His tone had been adversarial. Confrontational. To Hunter's
credit, he hadn't taken the bait.
Matt had
hardly looked at her, she realized. Neither had Buddy. Matt hadn't directed but
one of the questions her way. His only comment to her had been about the
approaching storm.
She glanced
down at herself. The wet, white cotton was nearly transparent, her
lilac-colored bra clearly visible. Her cheeks warmed. Great, Chauvin. Very
classy.
She stood,
took one last look at the rain and headed inside to change. The phone was
ringing; she grabbed it.
She knew a
split second before the woman spoke that it was her-the one who had called
before. The heavy moment of silence when she picked up the phone tipped her
off. She didn't give the woman a chance to speak. "Who are you? What do
you want?"
"Damn
you to hell," the woman said, laughing thickly, the sound mean. "Your
father's already there."
"My
father was a good man. He-"
"Was a
liar and murderer. He got what he deserved."
"How
dare you," Avery snapped, so angry she shook. "My father was a saint.
He-"
The woman
began to laugh, a witch's cackle. Pure evil.
With a cry,
Avery slammed down the receiver. Without missing a beat, she picked it back up
and punched in the Stevenses home phone. Cherry answered.
"Cherry,"
she said, "is Buddy there?"
"Avery?
Are you all right?"
"Yes…I-"
She sucked in a deep, calming breath, the woman's awful laugh, her words, still
ringing in her ears. "Is he there?"
"No.
He and Matt are out at Tiller's Pond. Do you need me to beep him?"
"No,
it's not urgent. It's just…could you have him ring me when he gets in? It's
important."
Cherry
called Matt instead, Avery realized several hours later. He stood at her door,
expression concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Cherry
told you I called."
"She
said you were upset."
Avery made
a sound of embarrassment. In the hours that had passed, she'd put the incident
into perspective. "I overreacted about something." She pushed open
the door. "Come in."
He stepped
inside. He'd changed out of his uniform and wore a pair of old, soft blue jeans
and a white golf shirt. His arms and neck looked tan against the startling
white.
He met her
eyes. "What's up?"
"Did
my father have any enemies?"
The
question surprised him, she saw. "Enemies? Not that I know of. Why?"
"I've
gotten a couple of unsettling anonymous calls. I got one this afternoon and
it…I got upset. I called Buddy."
"The
calls, were they from a woman or a man?"
"A
woman."
"The
nature of the calls?"
"Ugly."
She folded her arms across her chest, then dropped them to her sides again.
"The first time she called, she said that Dad had…gotten what he deserved.
And that I would, too. This time she called him a-" she had to force the
words out"-a murderer. And a liar."
"And
you have no idea who the woman is?"
"No.
None."
"You
try *69?"
"Tried
it. Dad didn't subscribe."
"You
might want to add it or caller ID. Just in case she calls again."
Avery
nodded. "I will."
He searched
her expression. "She's just a crank, Avery. You know that, right?"
When she hesitated, he shook his head. "We're talking about the doc here.
Nobody had a higher moral character than your dad. I believe that. Black and
white, no moral gray area." "I know. But-" She clasped her hands
in front of her. "I keep coming back to what she said, that he got what he
deserved. Like maybe, he didn't kill himself. Like maybe somebody helped him
out."
For a long
moment, he said nothing. "You mean, somebody killed him?"
She met his
gaze evenly. "Yes."
"Who
would hurt your dad?" he asked.
"Someone
who thought him a liar and murderer."
He caught
her hands, rubbed them between his. She hadn't realized until that moment how
cold they had been. "The CSPD did a thorough job. Dr. Harris is a
crackerjack coroner who doesn't let anything slip by him. I reviewed everything
as well, Avery." He gentled his tone. "I didn't want to believe it
either."
Avery
couldn't bring herself to look at him. He squeezed her fingers. "This
caller is a mentally disturbed person. Or someone with an ax to grind, maybe
with Buddy. Maybe someone trying to cause trouble through you. Why don't you
take a look at Dad's report. It'll put your mind at rest."
"You
don't think Buddy would mind?"
"No
way." He smiled. "When it comes to you, Avery, Dad'll do
anything."
She changed
the subject. "How'd it go at the pond?"
He slid his
hands into his front pockets. "Figured you might want an update."
"Car
belonged to that guy who went missing, didn't it? The one you and Buddy were
talking about the other day? The one reported missing by his girlfriend."
"Yup,
sure did. His name was Luke McDougal."
"Was?
He's dead?"
"Don't
know. The vehicle's been hauled out. It's empty. Cell phone's in the car.
Evidence team has it." He glanced at his watch. "The property's being
searched, the pond dredged."
Avery
shivered and rubbed her arms. "When will that be done?"
"The
rain's slowed us down. Not until tomorrow, I suspect." He met her eyes,
expression grim. "I need to ask you something, Avery. What were you and
Hunter doing at Tiller's Pond?"
"I
went to see him. He was going for a run. I joined him." She lifted a
shoulder. "Ended up there."
He looked
away, dragging a hand through his hair, swearing softly.
"What
is it, Matt?"
He returned
his gaze to hers. "I'm wondering why you went to see him in the first
place."
"He
and I were friends, I guess I still think of him that way. Does it
matter?"
She saw by
his expression that it did matter to him. It mattered a lot. She let out a
pent-up breath. "I wanted to find out more about the St. Claire murder.
Since he had been at the scene, I figured he could tell me what I needed to
know."
"You
could have come to me. I would have answered your questions."
"Matt,"
she chided, "I'm a journalist. I'm experienced enough to know what the
police will, or will not, share."
He tipped
his face toward the ceiling, the picture of frustration. "Help me out
here, Avery. I feel like a jerk."
She smiled.
"You're jealous?"
"Don't
laugh." He glowered good-naturedly at her. "Hell, yes, I'm jealous. I
know the kind of things that went on at Tiller's Pond."
Flattered,
she closed the distance between them, stopping inches from him. She tilted her
face to his, shamelessly flirting. "Yeah, but all those things happened
with you."
Something
flickered in his eyes, some strong emotion. One that stirred her blood.
"Dammit, your shirt was wet."
"I was
hot. The water was cool."
He cupped
her cheeks in his palms, grip just short of painful. "Be careful, okay?
Hunter's not…he's not the boy you knew."
It's not
true what they say about him. Hunter's a good man.
"I'm a
big girl, not a teenager, Matt." He didn't smile. Hers wavered. "Is
there something you're not telling me?"
He bent,
pressed his mouth to hers in a quick, hard kiss. "I'll pick you up for
Spring Fest tomorrow at three."
Without
another word, he left. She watched as he crossed to his cruiser, climbed in and
backed down the driveway. She brought a hand to her mouth, to the imprint of
his lips against hers. Their date, she realized. Spring Fest, she had forgotten
all about it.
A date with
Matt Stevens. After all these years. She eased the door shut, locked it, but
didn't move from the foyer. What was she getting herself into? What did he want
from her?
More than
friendship, more than a stroll down memory lane. That was obvious. But what of
her feelings? What did she want?
She enjoyed
his company, reliving the past. When with him she became the girl she had been
back then.
She thought
of Hunter, his image slipping into her head, filling it. There was something
between her and Hunter as well, she realized. Something strong. Something that
caused her to think of him when she shouldn't.
But what?
Concerned friendship? Attraction? Sexual awareness?
Or
suspicion?
What had
Matt meant when he'd said she didn't know Hunter as well as she thought? When
he had warned her to be careful?
Moody and
aggravating as Hunter could be, she hadn't felt threatened around him. Even
when they had clashed. The only thing that had seemed in any imminent danger
had been her reputation.
So why his
real, nearly palpable concern?
CHAPTER 23
Spring Fest
was much as Avery remembered it. The atmosphere of celebration, the sound of
children laughing mingling with the smells of good Louisiana food and the
warmth of the sun on the back of her neck.
She and
Matt did it all: rode the Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl; sampled foods from all
the vendors, so much that she longed to un-snap the top button of her shorts;
wandered through the arts and crafts booths; and from the blanket they'd spread
under the canopy of the square's biggest oak tree, listened to the various
bands scheduled throughout the day.
The day
should have been perfect, Avery told herself. She should be relaxed, totally
content. Hard to be either, however, when news of Luke McDougal's car being
found in Tiller's Pond and the St. Claire murder was on everyone's lips. Hard
to feel carefree when she couldn't shake her suspicions about her father's
death. When she couldn't discount what Gwen Lancaster had told her about The
Seven and the disproportionate number of suicides in Cypress Springs. Or that
she believed her dad had been killed because he had known too much about The
Seven.
Avery found
herself trying to read people's expressions, trying to see beyond what they
were saying to what they weren't. Every glance from one person to another
became a signal of some sort. She found herself listening to the conversations
around her, hoping to recognize the voice of her anonymous caller.
She hated
feeling this way, suspicious and on edge. Distrustful to the point of paranoia.
"Thirsty?"
Avery
turned and found Mart's gaze on her. They sat on the blanket; the sun had set
and the final band of the day had just finished their first song. "What
did you have in mind?"
"Beer?"
"Why
not?"
He frowned
slightly. "Are you all right?"
"Fine.
A little tired."
He opened
his mouth as if to say something further, then seemed to change his mind and
stood. "Don't disappear on me."
"I
won't." As he walked away, her smile faded. Luke McDou-gal had
disappeared. According to Gwen Lancaster, so had a number of Cypress Springs
citizens, picking up and moving in the night. No word to anyone.
"Where'd
that no-good kid of mine go?"
Avery
looked up at Buddy and smiled. Dressed in his uniform, complete with service
weapon and nightstick, there was no doubt he was on duty. "Beer run."
"A
cold one sure would hit the spot right now."
She made a
sound of sympathy. "No rest for the wicked, I see."
"Love
Spring Fest. And hate it. With so many visitors in town and so much drinking
going on, there's always some sort of commotion." He looked in the
direction Matt had gone.
Avery
patted the blanket. "Have a seat."
"I'd
rather dance. Care to cut a rug with an old man like me?"
She smiled
affectionately and stood. "I'd love to."
He led her
toward the makeshift dance floor, in front of the bandstand. He held out his
arms. She took his hand and they began to move in time to the music, a Cajun
two-step. "I've been waiting for a chance to get you alone. Matt's not
left your side all day."
"Matt's
grown into a good man," she said. "You must be proud."
He shifted
his gaze, a sadness crossing his features. Sensing he was thinking of his other
son, she murmured, "Hunter's going to be okay. He will, I'm certain of
it."
He met her
eyes once more, the expression in his gentle. "Thank you, Avery. That
means the world to me."
The music's
pace shifted, Buddy adjusted smoothly. For such a big man, he was light on his
feet, graceful. She told him so.
"Lilah
made it clear when we were dating, if I wanted to win her hand, I had to know
how to dance. So I learned. It wasn't easy, let me tell you." He chuckled.
"Two left feet is my natural inclination."
She smiled
at the story. "Where is Lilah tonight? I haven't seen her or Cherry."
"Lilah's
home. Under the weather. Cherry elected to stay with her."
"I'm
sorry to hear she's not feeling well."
"She
suffers horribly this time of year with her allergies."
"Is
there anything I can do?"
"Pay
her a visit." He smiled, the picture of fatherly affection. "I'm so
pleased you're home, Avery."
She kissed
his cheek. "I am, too, Buddy. I didn't realize how much I missed this
place. The people."
"It's
a good place. Good people."
Anyone
whose actions fell outside what was considered right, moral or neighborly was
singled out.
Her smile
faded. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Buddy,
can I ask you something?"
"Sure,
baby girl."
"You
ever heard of a group called The Seven?"
His steps
faltered; he drew his eyebrows together. "When you asked about her, I was
afraid this might happen."
"Who?"
"That
Gwen Lancaster."
"You
know her?"
"Of
her," he corrected, expression tight. "She's been going around
Cypress Springs spreading lies. Starting rumors."
"So
the group never existed?"
"They
existed, all right. Just not the way she's portraying them. To hear her talk,
they were a bunch of hatemongers and murderers."
He let out
a heavy-sounding breath. "They called themselves Seven Citizens Who Care.
The group organized in an attempt to stem the tide of social ills that had
beset our town. Their feeling was, stop crime before it happened. They began a
drug and alcohol awareness program in the schools. They organized a chapter of
Planned Parenthood. They arranged counseling for families in crisis. They began
a campaign to get families back to church."
Avery
remembered suddenly being required to take sex education in the tenth grade,
remembered the addition of films about the dangers of alcohol and drugs in
health class-subjects that had never been broached in school before.
"They
weren't high-profile. They weren't in it for acclaim or notoriety. They were
simply citizens willing to take a stand for this community. Lilah belonged. So
did Pastor Dastugue."
"I
feel like an idiot. I didn't know."
"I
wish they had been more public. Then people like Gwen Lancaster couldn't spread
their lies."
"What's
going on here, Dad? You trying to steal my girl?"
Buddy's
expression cleared. "I think your mother would have something to say about
that, son."
A commotion
by the bandstand interrupted their banter. Buddy glanced in that direction,
then swore softly. "Excuse me, kids. Duty calls."
They
watched him go. The band struck up another tune. "Dance with me?"
Matt held
out his arms; Avery stepped into them. Her talk with Buddy had changed
everything, she realized. She felt as if a thousand-pound weight had been
lifted from her shoulders. How could she have trusted a stranger over people
she knew and loved?
"You
and Dad have a nice talk?" he asked.
"Really
nice."
"He
loves you a lot, you know. As much as me or Cherry."
But not
Hunter. Never Hunter.
"You're
thinking of my brother, aren't you?"
How did he
so easily read her mind? Did he know her so well, still, after all these years?
"Yes,"
she said.
"He
did this to himself, Avery. He removed himself from our lives."
"But
why? I guess I just…don't understand. We were all so close."
"I
wish to God I knew what went wrong. You can't imagine-" He looked away,
then back, expression in his eyes anguished. "I've never been closer to
anybody than I was my brother. He's my other half, Avery. When we were kids…I
couldn't have imagined this. That we wouldn't be best friends anymore. That we
wouldn't even speak to one another, for God's sake."
"Have
you tried to reconcile?"
He laughed,
the sound tight. "Are you kidding? We all have. Tried and been rebuffed.
Time and again."
"Hunter
said something about Dad and Buddy's relationship. That they didn't even speak
anymore. That it had become so bad between them, Dad would cross the street to
avoid their coming face-to-face. Is that true?"
"Son
of a bitch," he muttered, expression tightening. "That prick."
"So,
it's not true?"
"Only
partially. In the last months before his suicide. I believe he avoided Dad
because he knew Dad would realize how bad off he was and stop him."
"Oh,"
she murmured, feeling small and gullible. "Did he say anything else about
us?"
Nothing she
was about to repeat. She shook her head. "He seems so serious now. As if
he's facing-"
"I
don't want to talk about my brother, Avery. Not tonight." Matt drew her
closer against him. "Did today bring back memories?"
She tilted
her face up to his. "Good ones."
"Remember
the Spring Fest we sneaked off to make out? We were all of thirteen."
"Your
dad caught on. Followed us. Made you apologize to me."
"Lectured
me about how to treat a lady."
She
laughed. "Little did he know, it was the lady's idea."
And three
years later, sneaking off to Tiller's Pond had also been her idea. And there,
under the star-sprinkled sky they had consummated their passion for one
another.
"We
were so bad," she said.
"We
were in love." His gaze held hers. Her mouth went dry. "I couldn't
get enough of you, Avery. Of touching you. Of being with you."
The blood
rushed to her head. He dropped a hand to the small of her back, began moving
his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles.
She melted
against him. Memories swamped her. Of past moments like this. Of hot, urgent
hands and mouths. Of the dizzying rush of their newfound sexuality.
He brought
his mouth to her ear. "Seeing you with Hunter yesterday like that, it made
me crazy. I couldn't look at you. I was afraid of what I might do. To you. To
him."
What would
it be like to make love with Matt? Avery wondered. Without the potency of young
love, without the heady rush of their burgeoning sexuality? They weren't kids
anymore but consenting adults. They'd had other lovers, they had hurt and been
hurt. They wouldn't have to hurry, wouldn't need to worry about getting home
before curfew or being caught. She knew how to please a man; he to please a
woman.
With Matt
she could have what she had lost. She could be the girl who was otherwise gone
forever.
Cherry's
warning to stay away from her brother unless she was serious ran through her
mind, as did the assertion that Matt had never loved anyone but her.
Until she
knew what she wanted, they couldn't go there. Much as she longed to.
"What
are you thinking?" he asked.
"About
the past. The way it was between us."
"I'm
glad." He dropped his face close to hers. "Because it was good. And
it could be good again. Very good."
"I
wish I could be as certain. So much has changed, Matt. We've cha-"
He brought
a finger to her lips. "I'm a patient man. I've waited this long, I can
wait a little longer."
CHAPTER 24
Gwen stared
at the front page of the Gazette's Wednesday edition, her morning cup of coffee
cooling on the bedstand. Not the headline story about Peggy Trumble's winning
entry in the annual Spring Fest bake-off, but the one at the bottom, tucked
into a corner, almost an afterthought: Car Hauled Out of Tiller's Pond.
She skimmed
the piece for the third time. The story-hardly more than a blurb-went on to
report how Avery Chauvin and Hunter Stevens had discovered a car abandoned in
Tiller's Pond. The vehicle had been hauled out and found to be empty.
It was the
last line of the piece that shook her to the core.
The owner
of the vehicle, New Orleanian Luke McDougal, who had been heading from nearby
Clinton to St. Francisville, had been reported missing by his girlfriend three
weeks before. Anyone with information should call the West Feliciana Parish
Sheriff's Department.
No body.
Just like her brother.
Gwen's legs
shook so badly she had to sit. She sank onto the edge of the bed and brought a
hand to her mouth. A suicide. A murder. And two disappearances. The Seven were
responsible for all three, she hadn't a doubt. Dr. Phillip Chauvin had been
killed because he'd known too much about The Seven. Elaine St. Claire had been
killed because of her lifestyle. Her brother had gotten too close to the group.
What about
Luke McDougal? She shifted her gaze to the Gazette. According to the article,
he had been passing through town. So what was his connection to the group? Was
there a connection?
There had
to be. McDougal's disappearance was too similar to her brother's. Car found,
seemingly abandoned. No sign of its owner or of foul play.
Avery
Chauvin had been at the scene. So had Hunter Stevens. Gwen drew her eyebrows
together, curious. She had seen the man's name in connection with another news
piece recently. She searched her memory a moment.
He had
found Elaine St. Claire's body.
That was
odd, even for a community as small as Cypress Springs. It seemed to her that
the coincidental and unexplainable were piling up. As were the bodies-even if
no one but she saw it.
She could
be next.
Avery
Chauvin had told her the same thing, though at the time it hadn't frightened
her. Now she wondered if the woman meant the words as a warning. Or a threat.
Gwen fought
the urge to flee. Fought to come to grips with the overwhelming sensation of
being trapped. She had trusted Avery, even though she had known nothing about
her. She had automatically assumed she could because Avery had only recently
returned to Cypress Springs. And because of her father's suicide.
That hadn't
been smart. Avery Chauvin could be sympathetic to The Seven. Their cause. Her
father very well may have taken his own life, she had no physical evidence proving
otherwise, just a gut feeling.
Gwen
recalled Avery's surprise and denial to her assertions about The Seven. Her
obvious, nearly palpable relief when Gwen had suggested her father's death
might have been other than suicide. As if relieved to have an ally.
Avery could
be in cahoots with The Seven, but she thought not.
Gwen stood
and crossed to the window, lifted one of the blind's slats and peered out at
the brilliant morning. People moved about- on their way to school, work, on
errands. City workers were still cleaning up from the weekend festival,
removing lights, combing the square for the last remnants of trash.
Though no
one as much as glanced her way, she felt as if she was being watched. Her
comings and goings recorded. Who she spoke with noted.
Action
against her was being planned.
Shuddering,
she stepped away from the window. She brought the heels of her hands to her
eyes. She had been too vocal about The Seven. Had asked too many questions of
too many people. She hadn't used caution.
In her zeal
to uncover her brother's fate, she had put herself in harm's way. Just as her
brother, in his zeal to prove his thesis, had. Would she, like Tom, simply
disappear? Who would come looking for her if she did? Or would her end come via
suicide? She could see the headline now: Sister, Despondent Over Disappearance
of Brother, Takes Own Life.
Who would
doubt she'd done it? Not her mother, who had slid so deeply into depression
herself that she could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Not the shrink she
had seen, who had prescribed antidepressants, then lectured her for not taking
them.
Don't get
paranoid. Just be careful.
She needed
an ally. She needed someone she could trust. Someone who belonged here, in this
community. Someone the citizens of Cypress Springs trusted. Who could poke
around and ask questions. Someone skilled at ferreting out facts. A person who
had a compelling, personal reason for wanting to help her.
Only one
such person came to mind.
Avery
Chauvin.
CHAPTER 25
Gwen
quickly showered and dressed. She towel-dried her hair, grateful for her
no-fuss cap of curls, slapped on a touch of makeup, grabbed her handbag and
darted out. Avery, she'd noted, had taken to jogging early then stopping for
breakfast at the Azalea Cafe.
It was a
bit late, but if she was lucky she would catch Avery as she was leaving the
cafe.
She was
better than lucky, Gwen saw, spotting Avery through the cafe's picture
window-it looked as if the other woman had just gotten her pancakes. She was
deep in an animated conversation with Peg, the Azalea's owner.
Gwen
stepped into the restaurant. At the jingle of the door open-ing, both the
cafe's owner and Avery looked her way. Avery's smile faded.
Gwen pasted
on a friendly smile and crossed to the booth. "Morning, Avery."
"Morning."
She returned her attention to the other woman in an obvious rebuff.
They'd
ended their last conversation if not on a friendly note, then one of growing
respect. Avery had begun to believe in The Seven.
What had
changed since then?
"Sit
anywhere, hon," Peg interjected. "I'll be right with you."
Gwen
hesitated, then nodded, choosing the table across the aisle from Avery. When
the woman finished, she turned and took Gwen's order.
She asked
for an English muffin and coffee, then watched Peg make her way back to the
counter. When she reached it, she glanced back at Gwen, frown marring her
forehead. Finding Gwen watching her, she smiled cheerfully and headed for the
kitchen.
When the
woman disappeared through the swinging doors, Gwen turned to Avery. "I was
hoping I'd find you here."
Avery dug
into her pancakes, not glancing her way.
"I
really need to talk to you. It's important."
Avery
looked at her then. "I don't want to talk to you. Please leave me
alone."
"Did
you have the chance to check out the facts I gave you when we spoke last?"
"I
didn't realize you gave me any facts. I seem to remember unsubstantiated
opinion and half-truths."
"If
you would check-"
"I
don't care to discuss this.'
"Did
they get to you? Is that what's happened? Did they threaten you with-"
Avery cut
her off. "I don't know if you're delusional or just mean-spirited, but
I've had enough."
"I'm
neither, I promise you that. As a journalist-"
"I'm a
good journalist. I test premise against facts. I don't twist the facts to make
them sensational. I don't bend them to fit my own personal needs."
"If
you would just listen."
"I
listened too much already." Avery leaned toward her. "What you told
me about The Seven were untruths. Yes, The Seven existed, but not as you
described them. Yes, they were a group of civic-minded residents. But not a
secret tribunal that spied and passed judgment on their fellow' citizens. They
called themselves Seven Citizens Who Care. They started a drug and alcohol
awareness program in the schools and tried to get families back to church. My
pastor was a member, for heaven's sake. So was Lilah Stevens. I suggest you
check your facts, Ms. Lancaster."
"That's
not true! Who told you this? Who-"
"It
doesn't matter." Avery tossed her napkin on the table and slid out of the
booth, pancakes hardly touched. "Put it on my tab, Peg," she called.
"I need some fresh air."
Gwen
stifled a sound of distress, jumped up and started after her, nearly colliding
with Peg. The woman jumped back. The coffee she carried sloshed over the cup's
side. With a cry of pain, she dropped the cup; it hit the floor and shattered.
Gwen
apologized, but didn't stop. She made it out of the restaurant and onto the
street moments after Avery.
"Wait!"
she shouted. "I haven't told you everything."
Avery
stopped and turned slowly. She met Gwen's gaze, the expression in hers
resigned. "Don't you get it? I don't want to hear anything else you have
to say. I love this town and the people who live here."
"Even
if they killed your father? Would you love them then?"
For the
space of a heartbeat, the other woman didn't move, didn't seem to breathe. Then
she shook her head. "I see now how desperate you are. To stoop that low.
Be so…cruel. I feel sorry for you, Gwen Lancaster."
"I can
ask that question," Gwen went on, knowing her time was limited, that the
other woman would bolt any moment, "because they killed my brother."
"Nice
try, but-"
"It
was the same as with Luke McDougal. His car was found. No sign of violence. He
was just…gone."
Gwen became
aware of the volume of her voice, of the number of people around. Of who might
be watching…and listening. She closed the distance between them.
"Tom
Lancaster," she continued softly. "The Gazette ran a piece about his
disappearance. It was about the size of the one they ran about McDougal's.
Wednesday, February 6, this year. I have my own copy but you'd probably think I
found some way to manufacture it."
Gwen
glanced at the cafe's front window and found Peg there, peering out at them.
She shifted her gaze. A CSPD patrolman seemed to be paying more attention to
them than to the driver he was ticketing; she glanced toward the square. The
old man on the bench across the street was openly watching them over the top of
his newspaper.
She lowered
her voice even more. "That's how I know about The Seven, from Tom. The
thesis was his. He was here researching. He got too close."
"I
think you're unstable," Avery said, voice shaking. "I think you
should get some help."
"Check
it out. Come see me when you believe."
CHAPTER 26
Just past
dawn the next morning, Avery lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Fatigue pulled
at her. A headache from lack of sleep pounded at the base of her skull. Gwen
Lancaster's baldly stated question had played over and over in her head, making
rest impossible.
"Even
if they killed your father? Would you love them then?"
Avery
rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball. She wished she had never met
the woman. She wished she could find a way to find and hold on to the peace of
mind she had felt the other night after speaking with Buddy.
Why
couldn't she simply believe in Buddy and Matt and the other people she loved
and trusted? Why couldn't she put her faith in the various agencies that had
investigated her father's death and determined it to be a suicide?
"I can
ask that question, because they killed my brother."
"Dammit!"
Avery sat up. She balled her hands into fists. Des-perate people resorted to
desperate measures to get their way. Gwen Lancaster was desperate, that had
been obvious. So why should she believe her? Why not write her off as either a
nut or a liar?
That very
desperation. It rang true. Gwen Lancaster believed what she was saying. She was
frightened.
Avery
flopped onto her back, staring up at the ceiling once more. Gwen could be
suffering from a psychotic disorder. Schizophrenics believed the voices they
heard in their heads; their visions, the people who populated them, were as
real to them as Matt and Buddy were to her. Paranoid schizophrenics believed
that others plotted against them. Some functioned for years without detection.
But that
didn't explain her anonymous caller. It didn't explain Luke McDougal's
disappearance or Elaine St. Claire's murder.
And it
certainly didn't assuage her feeling that her father could take his own life.
She threw
back the covers and climbed out of bed. She crossed to the window and nudged
aside the curtain. Cypress Springs had not yet awakened. She saw not a single
light shining.
Headlights
cut across the road, slicing through the dim light, bouncing off the trees and
morning mist. A police cruiser, she saw. It slowed as it reached her property
line, inching past at a snail's pace. Instinctively, she eased away from the
window, out of sight. Silly. Without a light inside, they wouldn't be able to
see her. Besides, the cruiser was no doubt Buddy's doing. Playing daddy.
Watching out for her.
She rubbed
her face, acknowledging exhaustion. She was being silly. Losing sleep over
this. Letting it tear her apart. She should be able to go on faith. Should be
able to, but couldn't. She wasn't built that way. As an investigative reporter,
she tested premise against facts, day in and day out.
If she
wanted to regain her peace of mind, she would have to disprove Gwen Lancaster's
claims.
Avery
turned away from the window and began to pace, mind working, the skills she
used on her job kicking in. If this were a story she was considering, what
would she do?
Begin with
a premise. One she thought had merit, that would not only make a good story but
also make a difference. Remedy a problem.
Like the
story she had done about the flaws in the foster care system. She had exposed
the problems. By doing so, she'd helped future children caught in the system.
Hopefully. That had been her aim; it was the aim of all good investigative
reporting.
She
stopped. So what was her premise? A group of small town citizens, frightened
over the growing moral decay of their community, take the job of law and order
into their own hands. Their actions begin benignly enough but unchecked, become
extremist. Anyone who's actions fall outside what is considered right, moral or
neighborly is singled out. They break the civil rights of their fellow citizens
in the name of righteousness, law and order. Before it's all over, they resort
to murder, the cure becoming worse than the illness, the judges more corrupt
than the judged.
It was the
kind of premise she loved to sink her teeth into. One that would make a
startling, eye-opening story. It spoke to her on many levels. She loved her
country and believed in the principles on which it had been founded. The
freedoms that had made it great. Yet, she also bemoaned the loss of personal
safety, the ever-decaying American value system, the inability of law
enforcement and the courts to adequately deal with crime.
But this
wasn't some anonymous story she was following up, Avery reminded herself. Her
role wasn't that of uninvolved, cool-headed journalist. This was her hometown.
The people involved her friends and neighbors. People she called family. One of
the dead was her father.
She was
emotionally involved, all right. Up to her eyeballs.
Premise
against facts, she thought, determination flowing through her. She wouldn't let
her emotions keep her from being objective. She would stay on her guard,
wouldn't be blinded by personal involvement.
And same as
always, she would uncover the truth.
CHAPTER 27
Avery
decided her first stop of the morning would be at the office of the Cypress
Springs Gazette, located in a renovated storefront a block and a half off the
square. Founded in June 1963, just months before the assassination of President
John F. Kennedy, a picture of the former president still hung in the front
waiting area.
She stepped
through the door and a bell tinkled, announcing her presence. The front counter
stood empty.
A tall,
sandy-haired man appeared in the doorway to the newsroom. Behind his Harry
Potter spectacles, his eyes widened. "Avery Chauvin? I was wondering if
you were going to stop by for a visit."
"Rickey?
Rickey Plaquamine? It's so good to see you."
He came
around the counter and they hugged. She and Rickey had been in the same grade
and had gone to school together all their lives. They had worked together on
the high-school newspaper, had both pursued journalism and attended Louisiana
State University in Baton Rouge. He, however, had opted to return to Cypress
Springs after graduation, to report for the local paper.
"You
haven't changed a bit," she said.
He patted
his stomach. "Not if you ignore the thirty pounds I've gained. Ten with
each one of Jeanette's pregnancies."
"Three?
Last I heard-"
"We
just had our third. Another boy."
"Three
boys." She laughed. "Jeanette's got her hands full."
"You
don't know the half of it." His smile faded. "Damn sorry about your
dad. Sorry we didn't make the service. The new one's got colic and the entire
household's been turned upside down."
"It's
okay." She shifted her gaze toward the newsroom. "Where's Sal?"
He looked
surprised. "You didn't know? Sal passed away about six months ago."
"Passed
away," she repeated, crestfallen. Sal had been a big supporter of hers and
had encouraged her to go into journalism. With each advancement of her career,
he'd written her a note of congratulations. In each, his pride in her
accomplishments had come shining through. "I didn't know."
His mouth
thinned. "Hunting accident."
Avery
froze. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. "Hunting accident?"
"Opening
day of deer season. Shot dead. In fact, the bullet took half Sal's head
off."
Her stomach
turned. "My God. Who was the shooter?"
"Don't
know, never found the guy."
"Sounds
like it could have been a homicide."
"That's
not the way Buddy called it. Besides, who'd want Sal dead?"
Her father.
Sal Mandina. Two men who had been pillars of the community, men the entire town
had looked up to. Both dead in the past six months. Neither from natural
causes.
Rickey
cleared his throat. She shifted her attention to the task at hand. "I was
doing a little research and wondered if I could take a look at the archived
issues of the Gazette."
"Sure.
What're you looking for?"
"The
Waguespack murder."
"No
kidding? How come?"
She debated
a moment about her answer then decided on incomplete honesty, as she called
partial truth. "Dad saved a bunch of clippings- I'd forgotten the entire
incident and wanted to fill in the blanks." She smiled brightly. "You
mind?"
"Not
at all- Come on." He led her back into the newsroom. From there they
headed up to the second floor. "Biggest local news story we ever carried.
I'm not surprised your dad kept clippings."
"Really?
Why?"
"Because
of the furor the murder caused in the community. Nobody escaped
unchanged."
"That's
what Buddy said."
"You
talked to Buddy about it?"
Was that
relief she heard in his voice? Or was she imagining it? "Sure. After all,
he and Dad were best friends."
He unlocked
the storage-room door, opened it and switched on the light. She stepped inside.
It smelled of old newspapers. The room was lined with shelves stacked with
bound volumes of the Gazette. At the center of the room sat a long folding
table, two chairs on either side. Her throat began to tickle, no doubt from the
dust.
"Call
me if you need me. I'm working on Saturday's edition. The spring Peewee soccer
league is kicking into high gear. Pardon the pun." He pointed toward the
far wall. "The 1980s are over there. They're arranged by date."
Avery
thanked him, and when she was certain she was alone, she crossed to issues from
the past eight months. She carried a stack to the table and sat. From her purse
she took a steno pad and pen and laid them on the table.
She opened
the volume for Wednesday, February 6 of this year. And found the story just
where Gwen had said she would.
Young Man
Missing
Tom
Lancaster, visiting grad student from Tulane University, went missing Sunday
night. Sheriff's department fears foul play. Deputy Sheriff Matt Stevens
suspects Lancaster a victim of a random act of violence. The investigation
continues.
Avery
sucked in a shaky breath. One truth did not fact make, she reminded herself.
The best lies-or most insidious delusions-contained elements of truth. That
element of believability sucked people in, made them open their wallets or
ignore warning signs indicating something was amiss.
She found a
number of stories about Sal's death. Since he'd been the Gazette's
editor-in-chief, the biweekly had followed it closely. As Rickey had told her,
he had been shot on the opening day of deer season. The guilty party had never
been found, though every citizen who'd applied for a hunting license had been
questioned. Buddy had determined Sal had been shot from a distance with a Browning.270-caliber
A-bolt rifle. Both it and the Nosier Ballistic Tip bullet were local hunters'
favorites. Closed-casket services had been held at Gallagher's.
Rickey had
been wrong about one thing: Buddy had classified the death as a homicide.
For the next
two hours she picked her way through the archived issues. What she found shook
her to the core. Gwen Lancaster hadn't been fabricating. Avery picked up her
notepad, scanning her notes. She had listed every death not attributed to
natural causes. Kevin Gallagher had died this year, she saw. Danny Gallagher's
dad. A car wreck on Highway 421, just outside of town. His Lexus had careened
off the road and smashed into a tree. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and
had gone through the windshield.
Deputy
Chief of Police Pat Greene had drowned. A woman named Dolly Farmer had hung
herself. There'd been a couple more car wrecks, young people involved-both in
the same area Sal had died. The city, she saw, had commissioned the state to
reduce the speed limit along that stretch of highway.
She
frowned. Another hanging-this one deemed accidental. The kid, it seemed, had
been into autoeroticism. Another young person had OD'd. Pete Trimble had fallen
off his tractor and been run over.
Avery laid
the notepad on the table and brought a trembling hand to her mouth. Eight
months, all this death. Ten of them. Thirteen if she tossed in Luke McDougal,
Tom Lancaster and Elaine St. Claire.
She
struggled for impartiality. Even so, Gwen had not presented the facts
accurately: she had claimed there'd been six suicides- deluding her father's-in
the past eight months. She saw two.
"You
okay up here?"
Avery took
a second to compose herself and glanced over her shoulder at Rickey. She forced
a smile. "Great." She hopped to her feet. "Just finished
now."
She tucked
the notebook into her purse, then grabbed up the volume she had been studying.
She carried it to the section that housed the 1980s, hoping he wouldn't notice
she was shelving it incorrectly.
She wasn't
that lucky.
"That
doesn't go there." He crossed the room. "Wrong color code."
He slid the
volume out, checked the date, frowning. "Though you wanted to look at
stuff from 1988."
"Caught
me." She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. "I did, I
just-" She looked away then back, working to capture just the right note
of sincerity. "It's so maudlin, really. But Dad's…his death…I-"
He glanced
down at the volume as the date registered. "Geez, Avery, I'm sorry."
"It's
okay." She manufactured a trembling smile. "Want to walk me
out?"
He did just
that, stopping at the front door. "Avery, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Rumor
on the street is you're staying. Is that so?"
She opened
her mouth to deny the rumor, then shut it as she realized she didn't know for
certain what she was doing. "I haven't decided yet," she admitted.
"But don't tell my editor."
He smiled
at that. "If you stay, I'd love to have you on the Gazette staff. A big
step down, I know. But at the Post you've got to put up with the city."
"You're
right about that." She smiled, pleased by the offer. "If I stay,
there's no one I'd rather work with."
"Stop
by and see Jeanette. Meet the kids. She'd love it."
"I
would, too." She crossed to the door. There she glanced back.
"Rickey? You ever hear of a group called The Seven?"
His
expression altered subtly. He drew his eyebrows together, as if thinking.
"What kind of group? Religious? Civic?"
"Civic."
"Nope.
Sorry."
"It's
okay. It's something Buddy mentioned. Have a great day."
She stepped
out onto the sidewalk. Squinting against the sun, she dug her sunglasses out of
her purse, then glanced back at the Gazette's front window.
Rickey was
on the phone, she saw. In what appeared to be a heated discussion. He looked
upset.
Rickey
glanced up then. His gaze met hers. The hair on the back of her neck prickling,
she lifted a hand in goodbye, turned and walked quickly away.
CHAPTER 28
Avery went
home to regroup and decide on her next step. She sat at her kitchen table, much
as she had for the past hour, untouched tuna sandwich on a plate beside her.
She stared at her notebook, at the names of the dead.
Such
damning evidence. Didn't anyone in Cypress Springs find this rash of deaths
odd? Hadn't anyone expressed concern to Buddy or Matt? Was the whole town in on
this conspiracy?
Slow down, Chauvin.
Assess the facts. Be objective.
Avery
pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the window. She peered out at
the lush backyard, a profusion of greens accented by splashes of red and pink.
What did she actually have? Gwen Lancaster, a woman who claimed that a
vigilante-style group was operating in Cypress Springs. A number of accidental
deaths, suspicious because of their number. Two missing persons. A murder. A
suicide. And a box of newspaper clippings about a fifteen-year-old murder.
Accidents
took lives. People went missing. Murders happened, as tragic a fact as that
was. Yes, the suicide rate was slightly higher than the state average, but
statistics were based on averages not absolutes. It might be two years before
another Cypress Springs resident took his own life.
And the
clippings? she wondered. A clue to state of mind or nothing more than saved
memorabilia?
If the
clippings were evidence to a state of mind, wouldn't her dad have saved
something else as well? She thought yes. But where would he have stored them?
She had emptied his bedroom closet and dresser drawers, the kitchen cabinets
and pantry and the front hall closet. But she hadn't even set foot in his study
or the attic.
Now, she
decided, was the time.
Two and a
half hours later, Avery found herself back in the kitchen, no closer to an
answer than before. She crossed to the sink to wash her hands, frustrated. She
had gone through her father's desk and bookshelves, his stored files in the
attic. She had done a spot check of every box in the attic. And found nothing
suspicious or out of the ordinary.
She dried
her hands. What next? In Washington, she'd had colleagues to brainstorm with,
editors to turn to for opinions and insights, sources she trusted. Here she had
nothing but her own gut instinct to guide her.
She let it
guide her now. She picked up the phone and dialed her editor at the Post.
"Brandon, it's Avery."
"Is it
really you?" He laughed. "And here I thought you might be hiding from
me."
He
appreciated bluntness. He always preferred his writers get to the point-both in
their work and their pitches. The high-stress business of getting a newspaper
on the stands afforded no time for meandering or coy word games.
"I'm
onto a story," she said.
"Glad
to hear your brain's still working. Though I'm a bit surprised, considering.
Tell me about it."
"Small
town turns to policing its citizens Big Brother-style as a way to stop the ills
of the modern world from encroaching on their way of life. It began when a
group of citizens, alarmed by the dramatic increase in crime, formed an
organization to counter the tide. At first it was little more than a
Neighborhood Watch-type program. A way to help combat crime."
"Then
they ran amok," he offered.
"Yes.
According to my source, the core group was small, but they had an intricate
network of others who reported to the group. Citizens were followed. Their mail
read. What they ate, drank and watched was monitored. Where they went. If they
worshiped. If the group determined it necessary, they were warned that their
behavior would not be tolerated."
"Goodbye
civil rights," Brandon muttered.
"That's
not the half of it. If their warnings went unheeded, the group took action.
Businesses were boycotted. Individuals shunned. Property vandalized. To varying
degrees, everyone was in on it."
He was
silent a moment. "You talking about your hometown?"
"Yup."
"You
have proof?"
"Nope."
She pulled in a deep breath. "There's more. They may even have begun
resorting to murder."
"Go
on."
"The
deaths are masked as suicides or accidents. A drowning during a fishing trip, a
farmer falling under his tractor, a hanging, a-"
"-doctor
setting himself on fire."
"Yes,"
she said evenly. "Things like that."
"Avery,
you're not up to this. You're not thinking clearly right now."
"I can
handle it. I haven't lost my objectivity."
"Bullshit
and you know it."
She did,
but she wasn't about to admit that. "I just want to find out the
truth."
"And
what is the truth, Avery?"
"I'm
not certain. The story could be a work of fiction. My source is-"
"Less
than credible? Unreliable? His motivations questionable?"
"Yes."
"They
always are, Avery. You know that. And you know what to do."
Follow
leads. Find another source. Prove information accurate.
"Not
as easy as it sounds," she said. "This is a small community. They've
closed ranks. Others, I suspect, are frightened."
"I
think you should come back to Washington."
"I
can't do that. Not yet. I have to pursue this."
"Why's
that, Avery?"
Because of
her dad. " It'd make a good story," she hedged. "And if it's
true, somebody's getting away with murder."
"It
would make a good piece, but that has nothing to do with why you want to go
after it. We both know that."
In her
editor's vernacular, admitting the story had potential equaled a green light.
"It's the stuff Pulitzers are made from," she teased.
"If
what you're telling me is true, it's the stuff that fills morgues. I want you
back at your desk, Avery. Not laid out on a slab."
"You
worry too much. Got any suggestions?"
"Look
closely at the facts. Double-check your own motivations. Then go to people you
trust." He paused. "But be careful, Avery. I wasn't kidding when I
said I wanted you back alive."
CHAPTER 29
Avery took
her editor's advice to go to people she trusted. She decided to start with
Lilah, who she had been meaning to pay a visit to anyway.
She parked
her rental in the Stevenses' driveway and climbed out. Their garage door was
open; Avery saw that both Lilah's and Cherry's cars were parked inside.
Avery made
her way up the walk, across the porch to the door. She rang the bell. Cherry
answered.
"Hey,"
Avery said.
The other
woman didn't smile. "Hey."
"I
stopped by to see how Lilah was feeling."
Cherry
didn't move from the doorway. "She's better, thanks."
Avery had
been meaning to call Cherry and apologize for the way she'd snapped at her at
her father's wake, but hadn't. Until that moment, Avery hadn't realized just
how badly she had hurt the other woman. Or how angry she was. Her reaction
seemed extreme to Avery, but some people were more sensitive than others.
"Cherry,
can we talk a moment?"
"If
you want."
"I'm
sorry about the other night. At the wake. I was upset. I shouldn't have snapped
at you. I've been kicking myself for it ever since."
Cherry's
expression softened. In fact, for the space of a heartbeat, Avery thought the
other woman might cry. Then her lips curved into a smile. "Apology
accepted," she said, then pushed open the screen door.
Avery
stepped inside and turned to the younger woman who motioned toward the back of
the house. "Mother's on the sunporch. She'll be delighted to see
you."
She was.
"Avery!" the older woman exclaimed, setting aside her novel.
"What a pleasure."
Lilah sat
on the white wicker couch, back to the yard and its profusion of color. Sun
spilled through the window, bathing her in soft, white light-painting her the
picture of Southern femininity.
Avery
crossed, bent and kissed the woman's cheek, then sat in the wicker queen's
chair across from her. "I've been worried about you."
She waved
aside her concern. "Blasted allergies. This time of year is such a trial.
The headaches are the worst."
"Well,
you look wonderful."
"Thank
you, dear." Lilah shifted her gaze to her daughter. "Cherry, could
you bring Avery an iced tea?"
Avery
started to her feet. "I can get it."
"Nonsense,"
Lilah interrupted. "Cherry's here. Would you mind, sweetheart? And some of
those little ginger cookies from the church bake sale."
"No
problem," Cherry muttered. "Got to earn my keep, after all."
Avery
glanced at the girl. Her features looked pinched. Avery cleared her throat.
"Really, Lilah, I can get my own dri-"
Cherry cut
her off. "Don't worry about it, Avery. I'm used to this."
After
Cherry left the room, Lilah made a sound of frustration. "Some days that
girl is so testy. Just miserable to live with."
"We
all have bad days," Avery said gently.
"I
suppose so." Lilah looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. When she
lifted her eyes, Avery saw that they sparkled with tears. "It's
been…difficult for Cherry. She shouldn't be taking care of us. She should have
a family of her own. Children to care for."
"She
will, Lilah. She's young yet."
The woman
continued as if Avery hadn't spoken. "After Karl left, she changed. She's
not happy. None of my children-"
Lilah had
been about to say that none of her children were happy, Avery realized. Hunter
she understood. And to a degree, Cherry. But what of Matt?
Avery
reached across the coffee table and caught Lilah's hand. She squeezed.
"Happiness is like the ocean, Lilah. Sometimes swelling, sometimes
retreating. Constantly shifting." She smiled. "Sudden swells are what
make it all so much fun."
Lilah
returned the pressure on her fingers. "You're such a dear child, Avery.
Thank you."
"Here
you go," Cherry said, entering the room with a tray laden with two glasses
of tea, sugar bowl and plate of cookies. Each glass sported a circle of lemon
and sprig of mint.
She set the
tray on the coffee table. The cookies, Avery saw, were arranged in an artful
fan, atop a heart-shaped doily. "How lovely," Avery exclaimed.
"Cherry, you have such a gift."
She flushed
with pleasure. "It was nothing."
"To
you, maybe. I could no sooner put this tray together than run a marathon in
world record time."
"You're
too sweet."
"Just
honest. Join us?"
"I'd
love to but there are some things I wanted to do this afternoon. And if I don't
get to them, it'll be dinnertime and too late." Cherry turned to her
mother. "If you don't need anything else, I'll get busy?"
Lilah waved
her off, and for the next few minutes Avery and the older woman chatted about
nothing more weighty than the weather. When the conversation lulled, Avery
brought up the subject most on her mind. "Buddy told me that back in the
eighties you were part of a civic action group called Seven Citizens Who
Care."
She drew
her eyebrows together. "Why in the world did he do that?"
"We
were talking about Cypress Springs. How it's such a great place to live."
Avery reached for a cookie, laid it on her napkin without tasting. "Said
you enacted real change in the community."
"Those
were difficult times." She smoothed the napkin over her lap. "But
that's ancient history."
Avery
ignored her obvious bid to change the subject. "He said Pastor Dastugue
was part of the group. Who else was a member of The Seven?"
"What
did you say?"
"The
Seven, who else-"
"We
didn't call ourselves that," she corrected sharply. "We were the
CWC."
She had
struck a nerve, no doubt about it. Ignoring the prickle of guilt, she pressed
on. "I'm sorry, Lilah. I didn't mean to upset you."
"You
didn't." She smoothed the napkin. Once. Then again. "Of course you
didn't."
"Was
there another group called The Seven?"
"No.
Why would you think that?"
"Your
response…it seemed like The Seven might be something you didn't want to be
associated with."
She went to
work on the napkin. "Silly, Avery. Of course not."
"I
stopped by the Gazette this morning," Avery said. "Rickey Plaquamine
offered me a job."
"Outstanding."
Lilah leaned forward, expression eager. "And? Did you takejt?"
"Told
him I'd think about it."
She
pretended to pout, though Avery could see she was delighted she hadn't outright
declined the offer.
"We'd
all be thrilled if you decided to make Cypress Springs your home, Avery. But no
one more than Matt." She brought her tea to her lips, sipped then patted
her mouth with her napkin. "Buddy told me you and Matt seemed to be
enjoying yourselves at Spring Fest."
Avery
thought of the other night, of dancing with Matt under the stars. Of how
comfortable she had felt, how relaxed. Although she hadn't seen him since, he
had called every day to check on her.
She smiled.
"We did. Very much."
Avery
offered nothing further, though she could tell the woman was eager for details.
And assurances, Avery supposed. About her and Matt's future. Ones that she was
unable to make.
"Rickey
looked great. He said he and Jeanette just had their third."
"A
handsome boy. Fat. All their babies have been fat." Lilah leaned toward
Avery, twinkle in her eyes. "It's all the ice cream Jeanette eats during
her last trimester. Belle from the Dairy Barn told me Jeanette came every day,
sometimes twice a day, for a double-swirl hot-fudge sundae."
A smile
tugged at very's mouth. Poor Jeanette. Small-town living-life in a fishbowl.
Avery
refocused their conversation. "Until today, I hadn't known Sal was gone. I
was so shocked. Dad knew how I felt about Sal, I'm surprised he didn't tell
me."
Lilah
opened her mouth, then shut it. "This year," she began, struggling to
speak, "it's been difficult. Our friends…so many of them…passed
away."
Avery stood
and crossed to the woman. She bent and hugged her. She felt frail, too thin.
"I'm sorry, Lilah. I wish I could do something to help."
"You
already have, sweetheart. By being here."
They
chatted a couple moments more, then Lilah indicated she needed to rest. They
stood. Avery noticed the woman wasn't quite steady on her feet. It alarmed her
to see her this way. Just over two weeks ago, she had seemed the picture of
health.
They
reached the foyer. Lilah kissed Avery's cheek. "Stop by again soon."
"I
will. Feel better, Lilah."
Avery watched
as the woman made her way up the stairs, noticing how tightly she gripped the
handrail, how she seemed to lean on it for support. She found it hard to
believe that seasonal allergies would cause this dramatic change in the woman,
though she had no real frame of reference for that belief since she had been
one of the lucky ones who had been spared them.
Hunter had
claimed his mother was addicted to painkillers and booze. Substance abuse took
a terrible toll on health and emotional stability. Could that be what she was
seeing?
Cherry
appeared in the study doorway, to Avery's left. "Mother's going up to
nap?" she asked.
"Mmm."
Frowning, Avery shifted her gaze to Cherry. "Is she all right?"
"She's
fine. The allergy medicine takes it out of her."
"You're
certain? She's not having any other problems, is she?"
"Of
course not. Why do you ask?"
"I'm
concerned. She was so strong just two weeks ago."
"Her
bouts are like this." Cherry shrugged. "Mom just doesn't bounce back
like she used to."
Avery
lowered her gaze. Cherry held a gun, some sort of revolver. She returned her
gaze to the other woman's. "Not to be too nosy, but why the-"
"Gun?
I'm heading out to the practice range."
"The
practice range?" Avery repeated, surprised. Girls in rural Louisiana grew
up around hunting and guns, though they were less likely to know how to use one
than to bake a peach pie from scratch. "You shoot?"
"Are
you kidding? With Matt and Dad as role models? How about you?"
"I'm a
bunny-hugging pacifist."
"You
want to come along anyway?"
"Why
not?"
Avery
followed Cherry into her father's study. His gun closet stood open. It held no
less than a dozen guns and rifles. Cherry helped herself to a box of bullets,
closed and locked the closet. She slipped the key into her pocket, fitted her
revolver in its case and snapped it shut.
"Ready?"
She nodded
and they headed out, Avery following in her own car. The gun ranges was
actually a cleared field ten miles outside of town, not far from the road to
the canning factory. On the edge of the field sat a dilapidated chicken coop
and three bales of straw,. each set a dozen feet apart, standing on end. The
land looked what it was: abandoned and overgrown.
They
climbed out of their cars. "This was part of the Weiners' farm, wasn't
it?" Avery asked.
"Yup.
Sold the whole thing to Old Dixie Foods. Moved up to Jackson."
Avery
wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?"
"The
canning factory. Wind's just right for it today." Cherry opened the gun
case, took out the gun and began to load it. "Give it a minute, you get accustomed
to the smell."
Avery had a
hard time believing that. "What kind of gun is it?"
"Ruger.357
Magnum with a six-inch barrel."
"The
Dirty Harry gun, right? From the films?"
"Close.
Detective Harry Callahan carried the.44 Magnum." She laughed. "Even I
don't need that much firepower."
Avery
watched as Cherry slid six bullets into the chamber, then snapped it shut.
"What do you shoot at?" she asked.
"Whatever.
The chicken coop, tin cans, bottles. Dad has a hand-operated skeet thrower,
sometimes we shoot skeet. For that we use a hunting rifle or shotgun."
To that end
she popped open her trunk and took out a cardboard box filled with tin cans.
While Avery watched, she crossed the field and set the cans on top of the straw
bales and along the chicken coop's window ledges and roof.
She jogged
back. She checked her gun, aimed and fired, repeating the process six times.
The cans flew. She missed the last and swore.
She glanced
at Avery. "I heard what you asked Mom about. That old group, the
CWC."
"Do
you remember it?"
"Sure.
I remember everything about that time."
Avery
frowned. "It's so weird, because I don't."
Cherry
reloaded the revolver's chamber. "That's not so weird. My family's the
reason I remember so clearly."
"It
was a rough time, your dad said."
"Rough
would be an understatement."
She fell
silent a moment, as if lost in her own thoughts. In memories of that time.
"Can I
ask you a question?"
"Shoot."
Cherry grinned. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself."
"Did
you know Elaine St. Claire?"
"Who?"
"The
woman who was murdered."
Cherry
sighted her mark. She pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the gun. She
repeated the process five more times, then looked at Avery. "Only by
reputation."
"What
do you mean?"
Cherry
cocked an eyebrow. "Come on, Avery. By reputation. She'd seen more
mattresses than the guy down at the Sealy Bedding Barn."
Avery made
a sound of shock. "The woman's dead, Cherry. It seems so callous to talk
about her that way."
"I'm
being honest. Should I lie just because she's dead? That would make me a
hypocrite."
"Ever
hear the saying 'Live and let live'?"
"That's
big-city crapola, propagated by those intent on maintaining status quo and
contentment of the masses. You have to live with the bottom-feeders."
"And
you don't?"
She looked
at Avery, expression perplexed. "No, we don't. This is Cypress Springs not
New Orleans."
"You're
saying Elaine St. Claire got what she deserved? That you're glad she's
dead?"
"Of
course not." She flipped open the.357's chamber, reloaded, then snapped it
shut. "Nobody deserves that. But am I sorry she's not spreading her legs
for every dick in town, no I'm not."
Avery
gasped; Cherry's smile turned sly. "I've shocked you."
"I
didn't think Matt's little sister could talk that way."
"There's
a lot you don't know about me, Avery."
"Sounds
ominous."
She
laughed. "Not at all. You've been gone a long time, that's all."
Without waiting for a response, she sighted her tin prey and fired. One shot
after another, ripping off six. Hitting her target each time.
Avery
watched her, both surprised and awed by her ability. Un-nerved by it as well.
Particularly in light of their conversation. She shifted her gaze to Cherry's
arms, noticing how cut they were. The way her biceps bulged as she gripped the
gun, how she hardly recoiled when it discharged.
She'd never
noticed what good shape the other woman was in. How strong she was. How
strongly built. Avery supposed that was because compared to her, everybody
looked big.
Truth was,
she'd always thought of Cherry as a girlie-girl, like Lilah. And like her own
mother had been. Avery had been the tomboy. The one who hadn't quite fit the
mold of Southern womanhood. And now here was Cherry, all buff and macho,
blasting the crap out of tin cans.
Cherry
reloaded, turned and offered the gun to Avery, grip out. "Want to give it
a try?"
Avery
hesitated. She disliked guns. Was one of those folks who thought the world
would be a better place if every weapon on the planet was collected and
destroyed and people were forced to sit across a table from one another and
work out their differences. Maybe over a latte or caffe mocha.
Cherry's
smug grin had her reaching for the gun. "Okay," she said grimly,
"walk me through this."
"It
helps to plant your feet. Like this." Cherry demonstrated. "Wrap both
hands around the grip. That's right," she said as Avery followed her
directions.
"I
feel like an idiot," Avery said. "Like an Arnold Schwarzenegger
wannabe."
"I
felt that way at first. You'll grow to like it."
When pigs
fly. "What now?"
"Point
and shoot. But be careful, it's got some kick."
Avery aimed
at the can that looked closest to her and pulled the trigger. The force of the
explosion sent her stumbling backward. She peeked at the target. "Did I
hit it?"
"Nope.
You might try keeping your eyes open next time."
"Shit."
"Try
again."
Avery did.
And missed cleanly. After her sixth attempt, she handed the gun back. "My
career as a shooter is officially over."
"You
might change your mind. If you stay in Cypress Springs."
"Don't
hold your breath." She watched Cherry handle the weapon with a sort of
reverence completely foreign to Avery. "What's the allure? I don't get
it."
Cherry
thought a moment. "It makes me feel powerful. In control."
"That's
an odd answer."
"Really?
Isn't that what weapons are all about? Power and control. Winning."
"And
here I always thought they were about killing."
"There
are always going to be bad guys, Avery. People determined to take away what you
hold dear. People without morals or conscience. Guns, the ability-and
willingness-to use them are a necessary deterrent."
Avery had
argued this one before and knew she couldn't win. And a part of her knew Cherry
spoke the truth. The current truth. But she was idealist enough to believe
there was another way. "The only way to fight violence is with violence, that's
what you're saying? React to force with greater force until we've blown the
entire planet to hell?"
"The
one with the biggest boom wins."
Moments
later, Avery drove off. She glanced in her rearview mirror. The sun was setting
behind her, the sky a palette of bloody reds and oranges. Cherry stood where
she had left her, standing beside her car, staring after Avery.
Her outing
with the younger woman had left her feeling uncomfortable, as if she had been
party to something unclean. As if she had witnessed something ugly and had done
nothing to stop it.
The things
Gwen Lancaster had told her about The Seven played through her head.
Anyone
whose actions fell outside what was considered right, noral or neighborly was
singled out and warned. Before it was all over, they'd broken the civil rights
of their fellow citizens in the name of righteousness, law and order.
Could the
woman she had just spent the past hour with be party to that?
Absolutely.
Avery didn't have a doubt about it. What she was less certain of, however, was
how to reconcile the Cherry Stevens she had been witness to today with the one
who had brought her breakfast her first morning in Cypress Springs. The one who
had been caring, sweet-natured and sensitive.
Today,
nothing about Cherry had rung true to her, from the things she had said about
Elaine St. Claire to the subtly sly tone she had assumed with Avery.
But why
would she have affected such an attitude with her? It didn't make sense. Why
either alienate her or, if part of The Seven, be so open about her beliefs?
Surely those involved hadn't maintained their anonymity with such transparency.
Avery drew
to a stop at the crossroads, stunned with the course of her own thoughts. She
was thinking as if The Seven was a given. As if they had and did exist, as if
anyone could be a part of their numbers.
An ill
feeling settling in the pit of her stomach, she dug through her purse, found
the card with Gwen's phone number on it. She punched the number into her cell
phone; on the third ring the woman's recorder answered.
"It's
Avery Chauvin," she said. "You've got my attention now. Call
me." She left the number for both her cell and parents' home phone, then
hung up.
Through the
open window came the sound of a gun discharging. Avery jerked at the sound. She
closed the window against it and the sour-smelling breeze.
CHAPTER 30
The Gavel
entered the war room. It had been difficult to get away this Friday evening-he
was late. His generals were all in place, assembled around the table. Two held
the rapt attention of the others as they complained about the Gavel's
leadership and the way he had handled Elaine St. Claire.
One by one
they became aware of his presence. Nervous silence fell over them. Guilty
silence.
He crossed
to his place at the table's head, working to control his anger. He shifted his
gaze from one of his detractors to the other. Their discomfort became palpable.
"You have a problem, Blue? Hawk?"
Blue faced
him boldly. "The situation with the outsider is worsening. We must take
action."
"Agreed."
He turned his gaze to the other. "Hawk?"
"The
handling of St. Claire was a mistake."
Shock
rippled through the group. Hawk was the Gavel's biggest supporter. His ally
from the beginning. His friend.
Fury took
the Gavel's breath. A sense of betrayal. He kept a grip on his emotions.
"What should we have done, Hawk? Allowed her to continue to sully the
character of this town? To tear at its moral fiber thread by thread? Or allowed
her to go to the authorities? Have you forgotten our pledge to one another and this
community?"
The other
man squirmed under his gaze. "Of course not. But if we'd…taken care of her
as we have the others, no one would be the wiser. To have so openly disposed of
her-"
"Has
sent a message to others like her. We will not be discovered, I promise you
that."
Hawk opened
his mouth as if to argue, then shut it and sat back, obviously dissatisfied.
The Gavel narrowed his eyes. He would speak with him privately; if he
determined Hawk a risk, he would be removed from the high council.
"What
of the reporter?" Blue asked.
"Avery
Chauvin? What of her?"
"She's
been talking to the other one. The outsider."
"And
asking questions," another supplied. "A lot of questions."
He
hesitated, surprised. "She's one of us."
"Was
one of us," Blue corrected. "She's been away too long to be trusted.
She's become a part of the liberal media."
"That's
right," Hawk supplied. "She doesn't understand what we cherish. What
we're fighting to save. If she did, she would never have left."
A murmur of
agreement-and concern-went around the table. Voices rose.
The Gavel
struggled to control his mounting rage. Although he didn't let on, he had begun
to have doubts about Avery Chauvin's loyalty as well. He, too, had become aware
of her snooping. Nosing around things she didn't-and couldn't-understand.
But he was
the leader of this group and he would not be questioned. He had earned that
right. If he determined Avery Chauvin represented minimal risk, he expected his
generals to fall in line.
He held up
a hand. His generals turned their gazes to his. "Must I remind you we are
only as strong as our belief in our cause? As our willingness to do whatever is
necessary to further that cause?
Or that
dissension among our number will be our undoing? Just as it was the undoing of
our fellows who came before?"
He paused a
moment to let his words sink in. "We are the elite, gentlemen. The best,
the most committed. We will not allow-I will not allow-anyone to derail us.
Even one of our own sisters."
The
generals nodded. The Gavel continued. "Leave everything to me," he
said. "Including the reporter."
CHAPTER 31
Avery had
expected Gwen to return her message Thursday evening, within hours of her
leaving it. Instead, the next day came and went without word from her, and
Avery began to worry. She tried her again. And left another message.
Just as she
decided to pay a visit to The Guesthouse, her doorbell rang. Certain it was
Gwen, she hurried to answer it. Instead of the other woman on her doorstep, she
found Buddy.
He smiled
as she opened the door. She worked to hide her dismay even as she scolded
herself for it. "Hello, Buddy. What a nice surprise."
"Hello,
baby girl." He held up a napkin-covered basket. "Lilah asked me to
run these by."
She took
the basket, guilt swamping her. "What are they?"
"Lilah's
award-winning blueberry muffins."
Even as he
answered, their identifying smell reached her nose. Her mouth began to water.
"How is she?"
"Better.
Back in the kitchen." He mopped the back of his neck with his
handkerchief. "Hot out there today. They say it's going to break
records."
"Come
on in, Buddy. I'll get you a cold drink."
"I'm
not going to lie, some ice water would be great."
He stepped
inside; she motioned for him to follow her. The air conditioner kicked on. He
looked around as they made their way to the kitchen, obviously taking in the
disarray, the half-emptied shelves, the stacks of boxes. "Looks like
you're making some headway," he said.
"Some."
She reached into the freezer for ice, then dropped a couple cubes into a glass.
She filled it with water and handed it to him. "I'm not spending as much
time on it as I should be. The Realtor is champing at the bit. She has a client
looking for a house like this one."
He took a
long swallow of water. "It's a great house. Great location. I hate to see-"
He bit the
words back, then shifted the glass from one hand to the other, the nervous
gesture unlike him. "Have you given any thought to keeping it? To staying
in Cypress Springs? I'm growing accustomed to having you around. We all
are."
She met his
eyes, touched by the naked yearning she saw in them. Torn. How could she on the
one hand feel such affection for these people and this community, and on the
other suspect them of being party to something as despicable as murder? What
was wrong with her?
"I've been
thinking about it a lot," she said. "I haven't made a decision
yet."
"Anything
I can do to sway you?"
"Just
being you sways me, Buddy." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
He flushed
with pleasure. "Lilah told me you stopped by."
"I
did." Avery poured herself a glass of water. "We had a nice
visit."
"And
you spent some time with Cherry as well."
She felt
her smile slip. He saw it and frowned.
"What's
wrong?"
"Nothing.
She's turned into a damn good shot. I was awed."
"She
has at that. Personally, I think she would have made a good lawman."
That
surprised her. "You encouraged her?"
"I
did." He sighed. "But you know how it is down here, sexual
stereotypes run deep. Women are supposed to get married and have babies. And if
they work, they choose a womanly profession."
Like
catering. Not law enforcement. Or journalism. Her own mother had done her
damnedest to convince her of that very thing.
"I do
know, Buddy."
His
expression softened. "You look tired."
She averted
her gaze. "I'm not sleeping well." That at least was true. It was why
she wasn't sleeping that ate at her.
"That's
to be expected. Give yourself some time, it'll get better."
Silence
fell between them, broken only by the click of the ice against the glass as
Buddy took another swallow of his water. "Rickey told me you stopped by
the Gazette."
She looked
at him. He lowered his eyes to his hat, then returned them to her. In his she
saw sympathy. "Did you get the answers you were searching for?"
Rickey had
called Buddy, she realized. He knew what she had been looking at. That she had
asked about The Seven.
He probably
knew she had spoken with Ben Mitchell and Dr. Harris as well. Small towns kept
no secrets.
Except if
what she suspected was true, this town had kept a secret. A big one.
"Talk
to me, Avery," he urged. "What's going on with you? I can't help if I
don't know what's wrong."
She thought
of what her editor had said, that she should go to the people she trusted.
She trusted
Buddy. He would never hurt her, she believed that with every fiber of her
being.
"Buddy,
can I…ask you something?"
"You
can ask me anything, baby girl. Anytime."
"I
spoke with Ben Mitchell, the arson investigator from the fire marshal's office.
Something he said has been bothering me."
"Go
on."
She took a
deep breath. "He found one of Dad's slippers on the path between the house
and the garage. He speculated he was wearing the other one and that it burned
in the fire. Do you recall that to be true?"
Buddy drew
his eyebrows together in thought. "I do. If you want the specifics, we can
check my report."
"That's
not-" She thought a moment, searching for the right words. "Does
anything about that seem wrong to you?" At his blank expression, she made
a sound of frustration. "Obviously not."
"I
don't understand." He searched her gaze. "What are you
thinking?"
"I
don't know. I-"
That was a
lie. She did know.
Say it,
Avery. Get it out there.
"I
don't think Dad killed himself."
The words,
the ramifications of them, landed heavily between them. For a long moment Buddy
said nothing. When he met her eyes, the expression in his was troubled.
"Because of this slipper thing?"
"Yes,
and…and because I knew my dad. He couldn't have done it."
"Avery-"
She heard
the pity in his voice and steeled herself against it. "You knew him, too,
Buddy. He loved life. He valued it. He couldn't have done this, not in a
million years."
"You
realize," he said carefully, "if you believe this, you're saying he
was murdered?"
Heat
flooded her cheeks. Standing with him, looking into his eyes, she felt like a
fool. She couldn't find her voice, so she nodded.
"Do
you doubt I did a thorough investigation?"
"No.
But you could have missed something. Dr. Harris could have missed
something."
"I
could make my report available to you, if that would help."
Gratitude
washed over her. "It really would. Thank you, Buddy."
He was
silent a moment, then as if coming to a decision, sighed deeply. "Why are
you doing this, baby girl?"
"Pardon?"
"Your
dad's dead. He killed himself. Nothing's going to bring him back."
"I
know, I just-"
"We
love you. You belong here, with us. You are one of us. Don't you feel it? Don't
you feel like you belong?"
Tears
swamped her. The people of Cypress Springs were her friends. They had been
nothing but kind to her, welcoming her back unconditionally. The Stevenses were
her second family. Now, her only family.
Being back
had been good. For the first time in a long time she had felt as if she
belonged. She didn't want to lose that.
She told
him so, then swallowed hard. "If only I could accept…if only I didn't feel
so-" She bit the last back, uncertain how she felt-or rather, which she
felt most. Confused? Conflicted? Guilty?
She felt as
if the last might eat her alive.
Buddy set
his glass on the counter and crossed to her, laid his hands on her shoulders.
She lifted her eyes to his, vision swimming. "You are not responsible for
your father's death. It's not your fault."
"Then
why…how could he have done it?"
He
tightened his fingers. "Avery," he said gently, "you may never
know exactly what happened. Because he's gone and we can't be party to his
thoughts. You have to accept it and go on."
"I
don't know if I can," she answered helplessly. "I want to. Lord
knows-"
"Give
yourself some time. Be good to yourself. Stay away from people like Gwen
Lancaster. She doesn't have your best interests at heart. She's unstable."
Avery
thought of the other woman. Of her accusations. Her desperation. Their very
public discussion outside the Azalea Cafe.
"Matt's
worried about you, too," Buddy continued. "He's working around the
clock on the McDougal disappearance. McDougal wasn't the first. A couple months
back, another man disappeared."
"Tom
Lancaster."
"Yes."
He dropped his hands, stepped away from her. "The cases are too similar
for them not to be related. And the St. Claire murder coming so close on their
heels…it seems a stretch to connect that as well, but we're looking at every
possibility. After all, these sorts of things don't happen in Cypress
Springs."
"But
other sorts of things do."
He frowned.
"Excuse me?"
"Haven't
you noticed the high number of unexpected deaths around here in the past eight
months? The accidents and suicides?"
His frown
deepened. "Every town has its share of accidental deaths. Every town
has-"
"What
about Pete Trimble's death? He was a farmer all his life. How could he fall
under his tractor?"
"We
found a nearly empty fifth of Jack Daniel's in the tractor's cab. His blood
alcohol level was sky high."
"What
about Dolly Farmer? The Gazette reported she hung herself? From what I read,
she seemed to have everything to live for."
"Her
husband had run off with his young secretary. The Gazette didn't print
that."
"What
about Sal?"
"Somebody
who had no business with a rifle shot him. In their inexperience, they mistook
him for a deer. When they discovered their mistake, they ran off."
"So
many deaths, Buddy," she said, hearing the edge of hysteria in her own
voice. "How can there be so many…deaths?"
"That's
life, baby girl," he said gently. "People die."
"But
so many? So close, so tragically?"
He caught
her hands, squeezed her fingers. "If not for your father, would any of
this seem out of the ordinary to you? If not for the imaginings of a woman in
the throes of grief, would any of those deaths have seemed suspicious?"
Was that
woman Gwen Lancaster? Or her?
Dear God,
how far gone was she?
Her eyes
welled with tears. She fought them from spilling. One slipped past her guard
and rolled down her cheek.
Buddy eased
her against his chest and wrapped his big, bearlike arms around her. "Gwen
Lancaster is in a lot of pain. Her brother disappeared and is more than likely
dead. I feel for her, I do. Lord knows how much losing my best friend hurt, I
can only imagine how she must feel."
He drew
slightly away, looked into her eyes. "People in pain do things, believe in
things…that just aren't true. As a way to lessen the pain. To justify their own
actions or ease their own guilt. Trust the people you love. The people who love
you. Not some woman you don't even know."
He brushed
a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "This is a small town, Avery. People
around here get their backs up easily. Stop playing the big-city investigative
reporter or they'll forget you're one of them and start treating you like an
outsider. You wouldn't like that, would you?"
Avery
swallowed hard, confused. His words, gently spoken though they had been,
smacked of a threat. A warning to cease and desist. "I don't understand.
Are you saying-"
"A bit
of friendly advice, baby girl. That's all. A reminder what small-town folks are
like." He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then stepped away from her.
"You're family, Avery, and I just want you to be happy."
CHAPTER 32
Avery stood
at her front door for a long time after Buddy left. She felt numb,
disconnected. She gazed out at nothing, the things Buddy had said playing over
in her head.
Would
anything Gwen said to her have made her suspicious if she hadn't be in the
throes of grief? Sal's death would have been a terrible tragedy, one of those
freak occurrences that made one ask, "Why?" Dolly Farmer another
victim of the breakdown of the family, Pete Trimble a drunk-driving statistic.
What did
she believe? She rubbed her throbbing temples. How could she be so easily
swayed? One moment believing the people °f Cypress Springs were involved in a
conspiracy of discrimination and murder, the next sucked in by an emotionally
unstable woman with a questionable agenda. She had always been so firm in her
beliefs, so self-confident. She had been able to access the facts, make a
decision and move on.
Avery
dropped her hands. Is this how a breakdown began? One small confusion at a
time? A bout of tears, mounting indecision, a feeling of drowning that passed
only to return without a moment's notice?
Becoming
aware that the air-conditioning was being wasted, she closed the door, turned
and wandered back to the kitchen. Her gaze landed on Buddy's nearly empty water
glass.
What did
she want to believe?
In the
people she loved and trusted. In those who loved her.
And that
her father hadn't taken his own life.
Therein lay
the source of her conflict.
The phone
rang. She turned toward it but made no move to pick it up. The caller let it
ring nine times before hanging up. A moment later it rang again. Someone needed
her. To speak to her.
Her father
had needed to speak to her.
She hadn't
taken his call.
She leaped
for the phone, snatching the receiver off the base. "Hello?"
"Avery?
It's Gwen."
Not now.
Not her. She fought the urge to slam down the phone.
"I
just got your message," the woman continued. "I drove to New Orleans
to see my mother." She paused. "Avery? Are you there?"
"Yes,
I'm here."
"I'd
like to get together as soon as possible. When can you-"
"I'm
sorry, Gwen, I can't talk about this just now."
"Are
you all right?"
If she
could call falling apart at the seams all right. "Yes, fine. I just…this
isn't a good time."
"Are
you alone?"
Avery heard
the concern in the other woman's voice. She could imagine what she was
thinking. "Yes."
"You
sound strange."
"I
think I made a mistake."
"A
mistake? I don't understand."
"I
can't do this. I feel for you, Gwen, I do. I understand loss, I'm swimming in
it myself. But I can't be party to your far-fetched notions. Not anymore."
"Far-fetched?
But-"
"Yes,
I'm sorry."
"I'm
all alone, Avery. I need your help." The other woman's voice rose.
"Please help me find my brother's killer."
Avery
squeezed her eyes shut. Against the desperation in the other woman's voice. The
pain.
Trust the
people you love. The people who love you.
"I
wish I could, Gwen. My heart breaks for you, but-"
"Please.
I don't have anyone else."
She felt
herself wavering; she steeled herself against sympathy. "I really can't
talk right now. I'm sorry."
Avery hung
up. She realized she was shaking and drew in a deep breath. She had done the
right thing. Pain shaped reality-her pain, Gwen's. The woman had focused her
energy on this conspiracy theory as a way to lessen her pain. To turn her
attention away from grief.
Avery had
been drawn in for the same reason.
The phone
rang again. Gwen. To plead her case. As much as she preferred to avoid the
woman, she needed to face this. This was part of getting her act together.
She
answered without greeting. "Look, Gwen, I don't know how to make it more
plain-"
"How
does it feel to be the daughter of a liar and murderer?"
The breath
hissed past Avery's lips, she took an involuntary step backward. "Who is
this?" she demanded, voice quaking.
"I'm
someone who knows the truth," the woman said, then laughed, the sound
unpleasant. "And there aren't many of us left. We're dropping like
flies."
"You're
the liar," Avery shot back. Outrage took her breath, fury on its heels.
"My father was an honorable man. The most honest man I've ever known. Not
a coward who's too afraid to show her face."
"I'm
no coward. You're the-"
"You
are. Hiding behind lies. Hiding behind the phone, making accusations against a
man who can't defend himself."
"What
about my boys!" she cried. "They couldn't defend themselves! Nobody
cared about them!"
"I
don't know who your boys are, so I can't comment-"
"Were,"
she hissed. "They're dead. Both my boys…dead. And your father's one of the
ones to blame!"
Avery
struggled not to take the defensive. To remain unemotional, challenge the woman
in a way that would draw her out, get her to reveal her identity. "If you
had any proof my dad was a mur- derer, you wouldn't be hiding behind this phone
call. Maybe if I knew your sons' names I'd be more likely to think you were
more than a pathetic crank."
"Donny
and Dylan Pruitt," she spat. "They didn't kill Sallie Waguespack.
They didn't even know her."
The Waguespack
murder.
Dear God,
the box of clippings.
Avery's
hands began to shake. She tightened her grip on the receiver. "What did my
father have to do with this?"
"Your
daddy helped cover up for the real killer." The woman cackled. "So
much for the most honest man you've ever known."
"It's
not true," Avery said. "You're a liar."
"Why
do you think my boys never stood trial?" she demanded. '"Cause they
didn't do it. They was framed. None of it would have stood up to judge and
jury. And all of them, those hypocrite do-gooders, would have gone to
jail!"
"If
you had any proof, you'd show it to me."
"I
have proof, all right. Plenty of proof."
"Sure
you do."
At the
sarcasm, the woman became enraged. "To hell with you and your dead daddy.
You're like the rest of 'em. Lying hypocrites. I tell you what I got and you'll
bring the authorities down on me like white on rice."
Avery tried
a different tack. "Why do you think I left Cypress Springs? I'm not one of
them. I never was." She let that sink in. "If what you're telling me
is true, I'll make it right."
"What's
in it for you?"
"I
clear my father's name."
The woman
said nothing. Avery pressed on. "You want justice for your boys?"
"In
this town? Ain't no justice for a Pruitt in this town. Hell, ain't no real
justice to be had in Cypress Springs."
"Show
me what you've got," Avery urged. "You've got proof, I'll make it
right. I promise you that."
She was
quiet a moment. "Not over the phone," she said finally-"Meet me.
Tonight." She quickly gave an address, then hung up.
CHAPTER 33
Magnolia
Acres trailer park was located on the southern boundary of Cypress Springs,
just outside the incorporated area. Avery turned into the park, noting that the
safety light at its entrance was burned out.
Or had been
shot out by kids with BB guns, she thought, seeing that all the park's safety
lights were dark.
She made
her way slowly down the street, straining to make out the numbers. Even the
dark couldn't soften the forlorn, abandoned look of the area. The only thing
the neighborhood had going for it, Avery thought, was the large lot given each
residence. But even those had a quality of runaway disrepair about them. The
weeds were winning.
She found
number 12 and parked in front. Avery climbed out. Music came from several
directions: rap, rock and country. From an adjacent trailer came the sound of a
couple fighting. A child crying.
Avery
slammed the car door and started toward the trailer, scan-ning the area as she
did, noting details. Dead flowers in the single window box. A pitiable attempt at
a garden: a few shrubs that badly need trimming, weeds, a rock border, half
overgrown. Three steps led up to the front door. A concrete frog sat on the top
step.
She neared
the door, saw that it stood slightly ajar. Light spilled from inside. As did
the smell of fried food.
She climbed
the steps, knocked on the door and it swung open. "Mrs. Pruitt," she
called. "It's Avery Chauvin."
No answer.
She knocked and called out again, this time more loudly.
Again, only
silence answered.
She stepped
inside. The place was in a shambles. Furniture overturned, newspapers and
take-out boxes strewn about, lamp on its side on the floor, light flickering.
Her gaze landed on a dark smear across the back wall.
Avery
frowned and started toward it. A radio in the other room played the classic
"Strangers in the Night." Avery laughed nervously at how weirdly
appropriate that was.
She reached
the back wall. She squinted at the stain, touched it. It was wet. She turned
her hand over. And red.
With a
growing sense of horror, Avery turned slowly to her left. Through the doorway
to the kitchen she saw a woman stretched out on the floor, back to Avery.
"Mrs.
Pruitt?"
Swallowing
hard, she crept forward. She reached the woman. Squatted beside her. Stretched
out a hand. Touched her shoulder.
The woman
rolled onto her back. The woman's eyes were open but it was her mouth that drew
Avery's gaze-blood-soaked, grotesquely stretched.
With a cry,
Avery scrambled backward. She slipped on the wet floor, lost her balance,
landing on her behind. Blood, she realized, gazing down at herself. She had
slipped in it, splattering herself, smearing it across the floor.
A sound
drew her gaze. The woman blinked. Her mouth moved.
She was
alive, Avery realized. She was trying to speak.
Avery
righted herself and crept closer. Heart thundering, she knelt beside her, bent
her head toward the woman's. A small sound escaped her-little more than a
gurgle of air.
"What?"
Avery asked, searching her gaze. "What are you trying to tell me?"
Her mouth
moved again. She inched her hand to Avery's, fingers clawing.
From the
front room came the sound of footsteps. Avery froze. She swung her gaze to the
doorway, heart thundering.
The person
who had done this could still be in the house.
The sound
came again. Terrified, she jumped to her feet. She looked wildly around her. No
back door. Small window above the sink.
No way out.
Her gaze
landed on the phone. She lunged for it.
"Police!"
Avery
whirled around and found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Her cry of
relief stuck on her tongue.
"Get
your hands up," the sheriff's deputy said, voice steely. She obeyed the
order. Keeping his weapon trained on her, he bent and checked the woman's
pulse.
"She's
alive," Avery said, fighting hysteria. "She was trying to tell me
something. When I heard you, I thought you were the one…the one who did
this."
He unhooked
his radio, called the incident in and requested an ambulance, never taking his
gaze or aim off her.
"Turn
around. Hands on the wall."
She did as
he ordered, the scream of sirens in the distance. Her bloody hands would leave
marks on the wall, she thought, a cry rising in her throat.
The officer
came up behind her. "Feet apart."
"You
have the wrong idea. I found her this way." When she twisted to plead her
case to his face, she found herself shoved flat against the wall, his hand
between her shoulder blades. Gun to her head.
"Back
off, Jones! Now!"
At the
sound of Matt's voice, the deputy reacted instantly, dropping his hands,
stepping back.
"Matt!"
Avery cried. She ran to him, and he folded her in his arms.
"Sweetheart,
are you all right?"
Avery clung
to him, shaking. She managed a nod, eyes welling with tears. "The woman…is
she…I thought…I heard a noise and-" She buried her face in his shoulder.
"I thought whoever had done this, that he was still here."
He
tightened his arms around her. "Deputy Jones?"
"Received
a call from a neighbor. They heard a commotion. What sounded like a gunshot.
When I arrived, I found the door open and interior ransacked. I called for
assistance and made my way in here. I found the suspect kneeling over the
victim."
"I
found her this way!" Avery looked up at Matt. "The door was open…I
called her name. She didn't answer, so I made my way in. I-"
The
paramedics arrived then, interrupting her, shouting orders, pushing her and
Matt toward the door. Behind them waited several more deputies, ready to
process the scene the moment the paramedics gave the okay.
Holding her
close to his side, Matt led her from the kitchen through the living room and
outside. As they made their way out, her toe caught on the frog and it toppled
into the garden. They descended the steps and crossed to two rickety lawn
chairs set up around a kid's inflatable wading pool. Yellow crime scene tape
had already been stretched around the perimeter of the trailer; a deputy stood
sentinel, watching the group of neighbors who had come out to gawk.
"Sit,"
Matt said. "I have to go now. I need you to wait here. We're going to need
to question you." He searched her expression. "Will you be all right?"
She nodded.
"I'll be okay."
He squeezed
her hands, then turned toward the deputy. "Make sure nobody bothers her.
If she has any problems, come get me."
Avery
watched him go, an intense sense of loss settling over her. She bit her bottom
lip to keep from calling him back and sank onto the chair, the woven seat
sagging dangerously.
"You
all right?"
She glanced
at the deputy, a baby-faced young man who hardly looked old enough to be out
past ten, let alone to carry a weapon. She nodded. "The woman…is she Trudy
Pruitt?"
The kid
looked surprised by her question. And rightly so, she supposed, considering the
circumstances. He answered anyway. "Uh-huh. Waitresses over at the Hard
Eight."
The pool
hall.
Avery
hugged herself, the woman's image filling her head. Her vacant stare. Her slack
mouth. The feel of her fingers clawing at Avery's.
She
squeezed her eyes shut tightly, attempting to block out the images. They played
on anyway. The woman's bloody mouth moving, the tiny puff of breath against her
cheek. Blood, everywhere.
The
paramedics came out. Avery opened her eyes at the sound. One looked her way.
Their eyes met. In his she saw regret. Apology.
Her breath
caught. She shifted her gaze. No stretcher.
They passed
her. Climbed into the ambulance. Slammed the doors shut, the sound heavy.
Final.
"Avery?"
She turned.
Matt stood in the trailer doorway. She got to her feet; he started toward her.
"She
didn't make it," she said when he reached her.
"No."
He caught
her hands. "What are you doing here, Avery?"
She blinked,
confused. "Pardon?"
"Tonight,
what brought you here?"
"The
woman, Trudy Pruitt. She said she had proof…about my father. And Sallie
Waguespack."
His
forehead creased. "Avery, sweetheart, you're not making any sense. Start
at the beginning."
She drew in
a deep breath, working to collect her jumbled thoughts. To fight past twin
feelings of panic and confusion. "I need to sit."
He nodded
and she did. He swung the second chair to face hers, then sat. He took out a
small notepad. "Ready?"
She nodded.
"The day of Dad's funeral I got an anonymous call. From a woman. She said
that Dad had…gotten what he deserved. That I would, too. Then she hung
up."
His
expression tightened. "The caller you told me about the day McDougal's car
was discovered in Tiller's pond?" She nodded "Go on."
"She
called again just this afternoon. She said Dad had helped cover up a crime, a
murder."
"Sallie
Waguespack's."
"Yes.
She called him a liar. And a murderer."
"And
that woman was Trudy Pruitt."
"She
said she had proof. She was…going to show it to me tonight."
"Did
she tell you that her sons-"
"She
said they didn't do it. That they were framed."
He passed a
hand over his face. "Dammit, Avery…I wish you'd called me. Trudy Pruitt
has been proclaiming her sons' innocence for fifteen years, to anyone and
everyone who'd listen. Twice she hired investigators to review the evidence,
neither investigator found anything to suggest killers other than Donny and
Dylan.
"Trudy
Pruitt was an alcoholic and drug abuser. Before and after her sons' deaths. She's
spent her life between jail and rehab, a bitter and desperately unhappy
woman."
Avery
clasped her hands together. "Why my dad, Matt? Why me? Why did she
choose…us?"
"Why
does someone like Trudy Pruitt do anything? My guess is, your dad's wake and
funeral stirred up memories. The overwhelming love and community support for
you fed her bitterness. Unfortunately, we'll never know for sure what her
motivations were, not now."
Because she
was dead.
Murdered.
The full
impact of that hit her with the force of a wrecking ball. Elaine St. Claire.
Luke McDougal. Tom Lancaster. Now Trudy Pruitt.
"Who
did this, Matt?"
"I
don't know," he said grimly. "Not yet. I need your help, Avery."
"How?
What can I do?"
"I
need you to tell me exactly what happened tonight. What you saw and heard.
Every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you."
"All
right." She paused a moment, collecting her thoughts, then began with
arriving at the trailer park right around 10:00 p.m. "I noticed how dark
the park was, that all the safety lights were out."
He made a
note. "Did you pass another car on your way in?"
She shook
her head. "I found Mrs. Pruitt's trailer and climbed out. I could hear
music coming from a number of directions."
"Where?"
"I
don't know. I assumed other trailers. I heard the couple next door fighting, a
child crying."
"Next
door? You're certain?"
Avery
glanced in the direction of the nearest trailer. A man, woman and child stood
in the doorway, staring her way. "Fairly certain."
Again he
made a notation on the pad. "What about inside Trudy Pruitt's?"
"I
found the door partially open. I knocked and called out. When she didn't
answer, I poked my head inside. Called out again." She closed her eyes,
remembering. "The living room was a mess. At first I…I thought she was a
slob. I didn't…until I saw the blood…on the back wall, I didn't realize
anything was wrong." She pulled in a shaky breath. "And then I saw
her. Lying there."
"Did
you touch anything?"
She thought
a moment. "The blood on the wall. That's when I realized what it
was."
"Go
on."
"I
went to her, reached out and touched her shoulder. She rolled onto her
back."
"She
was on her side?"
"Yes.
She tried to speak to me."
He
straightened slightly. "What did she say?"
Avery's
eyes welled with tears. "She never…I couldn't make anything out. I heard a
noise…and got frightened. I thought maybe the killer was still in the house and
now-" She struggled past the emotion welling up in her. "Her
hand…she-"
Avery
glanced down at her hands. Blood stained the tops of the fingers of her right
hand. "Touched mine. Like she needed my at tention. Like she needed to
tell me something important."
"It
might have been nothing more than the need for human contact," he said
gently. "She was dying, Avery."
"Now
we'll never know."
"Other
than Deputy Jones, did you hear anything?"
"The
radio playing."
"And
that's it?"
She
couldn't tear her gaze from her bloodstained fingers. "Yes."
"If
you think of anything else, call me. No matter how insignificant you might
believe it is." He closed the notepad. "Promise?"
"I
will."
"Avery?"
She looked up. "Call me if you need anything else. Even just to talk. I'm
here for you."
She
swallowed hard. "Thank you, Matt."
"I'll
have one of my deputies follow you home. Are you up to driving?"
She said
she was and Matt called one of his deputies over, gave him directions, then
accompanied her to her vehicle.
"I was
by your house earlier. Dropped something off."
"For
me?"
"In
light of this, I wish to hell I…" He swore. "My timing stinks."
He opened her car door. "I'll call you tomorrow."
She found
what Matt had referred to on her front porch. Flowers. A beautiful spring
bouquet. The card read:
Thinking of
you and me. Dancing under the stars. Matt.
A
hysterical-sounding laugh slipped past her lips. She laughed until she cried.
CHAPTER 34
Avery slept
little that night. Every time she'd closed her eyes, she'd seen Trudy Pruitt
lying in a pool of red, eyes wide and pleading, blood-soaked mouth working.
Finally, Avery had given up and climbed out of bed. After brewing a pot of
coffee, she'd dragged out the box of newspaper clippings and had begun poring
over them, looking for anything that didn't fit, anything that might suggest a
cover-up.
Nothing in
the news stories jumped out at her.
What had
Trudy Pruitt been trying to tell her? What proof of her father's involvement in
the Sallie Waguespack murder did she have? Had she been the bitter, unstable
drunk Matt purported her to be? One who had simply chosen Avery as a vehicle
for venting her unhappiness?
Avery
shifted her gaze to the box of clippings. Dammit. If not for these she might be
able to believe that. Why, Dad? Why did you save these?
Only one
person could answer that question.
Buddy.
Twenty-five
minutes later Avery found herself at the ranch. She rang the bell, praying she
had caught him before he left for church. If she remembered correctly, the
Stevenses had most often chosen to attend the late service. They had today as
well, she saw as Lilah opened the door.
"Avery,"
the woman exclaimed, "I heard about what happened. Are you all
right?"
She nodded.
"Just shaken. Is Buddy here?"
"And
Matt. We're having breakfast."
"I'm
sorry, I should have called-"
"Nonsense."
She caught her hands and drew her inside. The house smelled of bacon and
biscuits. "Come on in. I'll set you a place."
Before
Avery could tell her not to bother, she was calling out for Cherry to do just
that.
The men
stood when she entered the kitchen. Matt took one look at her and came around
the table. He caught her hands. "Are you okay?"
She forced
a weak smile. "Hanging in there. Barely."
He led her
to the chair next to his. Cherry set a plate, napkin and utensils on the
blue-and-white-checked place mat in front of her. "Coffee?"
"Thanks."
The younger
woman filled a mug and handed it to her. "Matt told us about last night.
How horrible for you."
Lilah
passed her the tray of biscuits. "I can't imagine. I'm quite sure I would
have fainted."
Avery took
a biscuit, though the thought of eating made her queasy. She swallowed hard,
shifting her gaze to Matt. "How's the investigation coming?"
"We
canvassed the trailer park for witnesses. The kid next door says she saw a car
pull up with its lights off. Then her folks began fighting."
"So
she never saw who got out," Avery said, disappointed.
"Or
when it drove off. The crime scene techs have done their thing, but it's too
soon for the evidence report. As soon as I'm done here, I've got to get
back."
"If
you need any assistance from our department, son, we're ready."
"Thanks,
Dad. I appreciate that."
Cherry
spread strawberry jam on her biscuit. "What were you doing at that awful
woman's house, Avery? Why were you there?"
The table
went silent. All eyes turned to her. Uncomfortable, Avery opened her mouth then
shut it as Matt squeezed her knee under the table.
"I've
asked Avery not to talk about that just now," he said quietly. "As
difficult as that request is, she's agreed."
Avery
silently thanked him.
Cherry
pouted. She lifted her right shoulder in a disinterested shrug. "I didn't
mean anything by it, I just couldn't imagine, that's all."
Aware of
the minutes ticking past, Avery looked at Buddy. "I need your help with
something, Buddy. Could we talk privately?"
His
forehead creased with concern. "Sure, baby girl. I was done here. Let's go
to my office."
She turned
to Matt, finding the moment awkward. Feeling Cherry's and Lilah's curiosity.
"If you'd like to join us-"
"You
guys go on. I'll check in on my way out."
She sent
him a grateful glance, for the second time that morning touched by his
understanding. By the way he seemed to know what she needed without her having
to ask. He made her feel safe. Cared for.
She stood
and followed Buddy to his office. He closed the door behind them and motioned
to the love seat. She sat and looked up at him. "Matt told you why I was
at Trudy Pruitt's last night? He told you about the calls?"
"Yes."
His frown deepened. "Why didn't you tell me this was going on?"
"What
could you have done? Someone was making crank calls to me. I figured you would
tell me to ignore them or change to an unlisted number."
"When
you found out who the anonymous caller was, you should have contacted me
immediately." He leaned toward her, ex-pression grave. "Avery, if you
had shown up fifteen minutes earlier, you might be lying beside Trudy Pruitt in
the morgue."
A chill
washed over her. She shuddered. She had never considered that fact.
"Trudy
Pruitt ran with a rough crowd. Always did. Don't know yet who killed her, but
I'll bet money it was one of them."
Matt tapped
on the office door, then poked his head in. "I'm leaving."
Buddy waved
him inside. "Come in, son."
Matt did,
shutting the door behind him and sat down.
"She
said her boys didn't kill Sallie Waguespack," Avery continued. "Said
my dad was involved in a cover-up. She said she had proof."
"And
you believed her?" Buddy said.
"Frankly,
I didn't want to, but I…don't you think it's weird that the same night she was
going to show me proof her sons were innocent of Sallie Waguespack's murder,
she was killed?"
Matt's
mouth thinned. "Trudy Pruitt was involved with some dangerous characters.
That involvement got her killed."
"But-"
Matt stood.
"Look, Avery, there are things you don't know. Things we've uncovered that
I can't share with you. I wish I could. I hate to see you tearing yourself up
over this, but I can't. I'm sorry."
He bent and
brushed his lips against hers. "I've got to go."
Avery
stared after him, surprised. Disoriented by the intimacy of the move.
Disoriented, she admitted, but not displeased.
Buddy broke
the silence, tone soft. "If Trudy Pruitt had this supposed proof, why did
she wait until now, until you, to bring it forward?"
Avery
turned back to him. She didn't have an answer for that. "She never…came to
you with-"
"Of
course she did. And the district attorney. And the sheriff's department. And
anyone else who would listen. She had nothing, not one scrap of evidence, to
support her claim of her sons' innocence."
"I
have a favor to ask, Buddy. For my own peace of mind, may I look at your files
of the Waguespack murder investigation?"
"Avery-"
"She
called Dad a liar, Buddy. And a murderer. Why would she do that?"
"Your
daddy was the most honest, upright man I've ever known. I was proud to call him
my friend."
"Then
you must understand. I feel like I have to uphold his honor. Prove him
innocent."
Buddy leaned
forward. "Innocent to who, Avery?"
Not liking
the answer, she curled her hands into fists. "Why did he keep that box of
newspaper clippings, Buddy? Why did he kill himself?"
Buddy
sighed heavily and stood. He crossed to her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
"If it'll help you, baby girl, of course you can look at the files. Just
let me tell Lilah to go on to the service without me."
CHAPTER 35
Three hours
later, Avery thanked Buddy for his help. "I'm sorry I messed up your
Sunday," she said.
"You
couldn't, baby girl." He kissed her cheek. "Do you feel better
now?"
She didn't.
She lied.
The
information in the file should have reassured her. Everything appeared to be in
order. At 10:30 p.m. on the night of June 18th, 1988, Pat Greene, one of
Buddy's deputies, called in, requesting assistance. Making rounds, he had seen
a couple of young men fleeing Sallie Waguespack's home. He'd investigated and
found the woman murdered.
From the
deputy's description of them, Buddy had suspected the Pruitt boys. Donny and
Dylan, who had been in trouble since they were old enough to steal their first
candy bar, had been brought in on suspicion of dealing just the week before.
The evidence hadn't supported charges, but it had only been a matter of time.
When Buddy
and Pat had found the two young men, Donny and Dylan were high. When
confronted, the boys had initiated a shoot-out and were killed. After the fact,
the murder weapon was found in the drainage ditch behind their trailer, Donny's
prints on it.
The CSPD
had launched a full investigation, discovering that Donny and Dylan had been
frequenting the bar where Sallie was a cocktail waitress. Drugs had been found
in Sallie's house and the Pruitt boys' apartment.
It had been
determined that the boys had been dealing; Sallie Waguespack had been buying. A
drug deal gone bad, they'd figured. The woman had owed them money or threatened
them with the cops. One witness had claimed the three had been sleeping
together, further complicating the scenario. Jealousy may have been a motive.
Certainly, from the way she had been killed-hacked at with a kitchen knife-it
had been a crime of passion.
Avery
stopped at Buddy's office door and looked back at him. "Did you ever doubt
Donny and Dylan Pruitt's guilt?" she asked. "Even for a moment?"
"Never."
He ran a hand over his face, looking every one of his sixty-six years.
"The murder weapon was found behind their trailer, Donny's prints on it.
Sallie Waguespack's blood was found on the bottom of Dylan's shoe. Drugs were
involved. We had Pat Greene, who placed them at the scene. Physical and
circumstantial evidence. Can't get a much cleaner case than that."
He was
right about that. She knew enough about police work to understand the process,
from arrest to prosecution.
She started
through the door, then stopped and turned back once more. "I didn't see an
autopsy report."
His face
puckered with confusion. "It should be there."
"It
wasn't."
He shuffled
through the folder, then returned his gaze to hers. "It's misfiled. I'll
look around, give you a call when I locate it."
"Thanks,
Buddy." She forced a smile. "Enjoy the rest of your day off."
Avery left
the CSPD and minutes later found herself at Hunter's door. Without pausing to
question her own motivation, she rapped on the frame.
Sarah began
to bark, the puppies to yip. Hunter appeared at the door. He looked tired.
Disheveled. Irritated at having been disturbed.
"You
were working," she said. "I'm sorry."
"What
do you want, Avery?"
She
hesitated, put off by his surliness. "May I come in?"
He pushed
opened the screen, moved aside. She stepped into the kitchen-and was
immediately surrounded by squirming puppies. Sarah stood by her master's side,
eyes pinned on Avery.
"They're
getting big," Avery murmured. She squatted and the puppies charged her,
licking her hands, butting each other out of the way. "They're so
cute."
"If
there's a point to your visit I'd appreciate your getting to it."
Her cheeks
heated. She straightened. Met his eyes. "Did you hear what happened?"
"You
mean Trudy Pruitt's murder?"
"Yes.
And that I was there."
"I
heard." His mouth thinned. "Even those of us who reside outside the
chosen circle are part of the gossip chain."
"Never
mind. You're such an asshole." She swung around to go. "I'm sorry I
came here."
He caught
her arm. "Why did you, Avery? Why do you keep coming around?"
"Let
go of me."
He
tightened his grip. "You came for something. What do you want from
me?"
She didn't
know, dammit. She tilted up her chin, furious. At herself. At him. "I
don't want anything from you, Hunter. Maybe I'm here because unlike everyone
else, I'm not willing to give up on you. Maybe I still see something in you
that everyone else has forgotten."
"Bullshit."
"Believe
what you want." She yanked her arm free, took a step toward the door.
He blocked
her path. "I'd pegged you for being more honest than this, Avery. You want
something from me. Spit it out."
"Stop
it, Hunter. Let me go."
He moved
closer, crowding her. "Why not run to Matt? Isn't he your boyfriend?"
He put a
nasty emphasis on the last. She wanted to slap him. "Shut up."
He took
another step forward; she back. She met the wall. "What would you give to
have your father back, Avery?"
His
question took her by surprise. Disarmed, she met his eyes. "Anything. I'd
give anything."
"What
do you want, Avery?" he asked again. He cupped her face in his palms.
"Do you want me to tell you he loved you? Do you want me to tell you it's
not your fault? Absolve you of guilt? Is that why you're-"
"Yes!"
she cried. "I want to wake up to discover this has all been a nightmare. I
want to have taken my father's call that last day…I want to stop hating…myself
for…I want-"
The words
stuck in her throat; she brought her hands to his chest. Curled her trembling
fingers into his soft T-shirt. "I want what I can't have. I want my father
back."
For long
seconds, he gazed at her, expression dark with some strong emotion. Finally, he
swore and dragged in a shaky breath. "He loved you, Avery. More than
anything. Every time we were together, he talked about you. How proud he was of
you. Proud that you'd had the guts to follow your dreams. That you'd done so
well. He took pride in your courage. Your strength of will."
A cry
slipped past her lips. One of relief. Of an immeasurably sweet release from
pain. Tears flooded her eyes.
"His suicide,
it wasn't about you, Avery," he went on. "He was at peace with where
you were in your life."
He dropped
his hands, stepped back. "Go on. Get out of here. You got what you wanted.
I can't give you anything else."
She
hesitated, reached a hand out. Laid it on his forearm. "Hunter?" He
met her eyes. "Thank you."
He didn't
reply. She dragged her hand down to his, laced their fingers. Slowly,
deliberately, she brought his hand to her mouth, opened it and pressed a kiss
to his palm.
He
trembled. Ever so slightly. Revealing himself. What he wanted.
He wanted
her.
And in that
moment, she realized she wanted him as well. Without thoughts of consequences
or tomorrows, she drew him closer, against her. She tilted her face up to his.
She saw the
desire in his dark gaze. And the vulnerability. The combination took her
breath.
She brought
his hand to her chest, just above the swell of her left breast.
"Avery,
I don't-"
"Yes,
you do." She leaned closer. "And I do, too."
She kissed
him then. Deeply. Without hesitation. She wanted him, he wanted her. Simple.
He kissed
her back. In a way that left no question who would lead. Not breaking their
kiss, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his
neck. He carried her to his bed, laid her on it. For a moment, he stood above
her. Holding her gaze.
Her lips
tipped into a small, contented smile. She reached up, caught his hands and drew
him down to her.
That moment
proved the calm before the storm. Passion exploded between them. They tugged at
one another's clothes, zippers and buttons, clinging panties. Greedy. Impatient
to feel the other's naked body against their own.
They made
love, she on top of him. She orgasmed with a cry she worried might be heard at
the Piggly Wiggly next door.
She
collapsed against his chest. Beneath her cheek his heart thundered. She had
always wondered, all those years ago, what kissing Hunter would be like. What
being with him would be like.
Now she
knew. And she wondered why she had waited so long to find out.
"I
hated that."
She lifted
her head and met his eyes. "Me, too."
His eyes
crinkled at the corners with amusement. "I could tell."
She rubbed
her forehead against his bristly chin. "You have anything to eat in this
place?"
"A
loaded question."
"Funny.
Got any homemade chocolate cake?"
"Sure.
Baked it this morning."
She
grinned, feeling young, randy and totally irresponsible. "How about a
PBJ?"
"Got
something even better."
He rolled
them both out of bed. He gave her one of his T-shirts to wear. The soft white
fabric swallowed her. She glanced at its front. "Party hard on Bourbon
Street?"
"From
the old days."
She
followed him to the kitchen, Sarah at their heels, the puppies on hers. Avery
leaned against the counter while he made them both PBM-peanut butter and
marshmallow cream-sandwiches, then poured two big glasses of cold milk.
Whole milk,
she saw. Talk about irresponsible.
They sat at
the tiny dinette and dug in. "My God, this is good," she said, mouth
full. She washed it down with a long swallow of the creamy milk.
"Awesome,
isn't it? Worth shouting about."
He wasn't
talking about the milk. Or the sandwiches. She flushed and shifted her gaze. He
laughed softly, stood and went to make himself another sandwich.
"Want
another?" he asked.
"Not
if I want to be able to snap my pants tomorrow. But thanks."
He fixed
his and sat back down. "Earlier, you said something about wishing you had
taken a call from your dad. What did you mean?"
She laid
the last of her sandwich carefully on the plate. "That last day, before
Dad…died, he called. I was on my way out. Meeting a source, one who'd finally
agreed to talk to me."
Her voice
thickened; she cleared it. "I heard Dad's voice on the recorder and I…I
thought, I'd call him later. My source couldn't wait, but my father…he'd always
be there."
Hunter
reached across the table and touched her hand. "I'm sorry, Avery."
"If
only I could go back, take that call."
"But
you can't."
Silence
fell between them. Hunter broke it. "Why were you at Trudy Pruitt's last
night?"
"Remember
the caller I told you about? The woman who said Dad got what he deserved?"
He nodded. "She called again. A couple of times. She said Dad was a liar.
And a murderer."
"Your
dad? Avery, you can't honestly belie-"
She stopped
him. "That woman was Trudy Pruitt. Donny and Dylan Pruitt's mother."
"They're
the ones who killed that woman."
"Sallie
Waguespack." Sarah whined and laid her head on Avery's lap. Avery
scratched her behind the ears. "She claimed they didn't do it. That they
were framed."
"Of
course she did. She was their mother."
"She
said Dad was part of the cover-up. That she had proof."
"And?"
"She
was killed before she could give it to me."
"And
you think she was murdered because of that proof?"
"It's
crossed my mind. It's an awfully big coincidence, she lives all these years,
contacts me and gets herself killed."
He was
silent a moment. "And you believe whoever was involved with your dad in
this frame-up killed him then Trudy Pruitt?"
She leaned
forward. "You ever heard of a group called The Seven?"
He frowned.
"My mother was part of a civic organization called The Seven something or
other."
"How
about a woman named Gwen Lancaster? Ever heard of her?" He shook his head.
"Her brother, Tom Lancaster?"
His
expression altered subtly. "That name's familiar but I can't place from
where."
"He
disappeared in February this year. Similar situation to Mc-Dougal. A Cypress
Springs outsider. No sign of violence, but the police suspected foul play. The
Gazette ran the story on the sixth."
"That's
right." He paused as if remembering. "The big difference between the
two, of course, was the car. Lancaster's was left out in the open. McDougal's
had been hidden. Which to me suggests the two are unrelated."
"Unrelated?
Two young men disappear from the same small community, barely eight weeks apart
and you don't think those disappearances are related?"
"Modus
operandi, Avery. Criminals tend to repeat their crimes, how they carry out
those crimes. If a murderer leaves a body out in the open the first time,
they'll do it the second, then the third. Basic investigative technique."
She shook
her head. "Trudy Pruitt, Elaine St. Claire, Tom Lancaster, Luke McDougal.
If I accept your definition, we're dealing with four different killers."
"McDougal
may very well have chosen to go missing. People do it all the time. Coming on
the heels of Lancaster is a coincidence. Or clever planning from a man intent
on disappearing."
"For
heaven's sake." She made a sound of frustration. "Three killers then.
In a town that has had only a couple of murders in a decade?"
He pushed
his plate away. Sat back. "Okay, you're obviously up to your elbows in
this. You tell me."
She began
at the beginning, with Gwen Lancaster. She told him about how they'd met, the
things she had told Avery about a group called The Seven. And about her brother
Tom, who had disappeared while researching the group.
"At
first I didn't believe her. The idea of a vigilante-style group operating in
Cypress Springs seemed ludicrous. According to Gwen, the original group
disbanded after only a few years, but are operating again. Willing to murder to
achieve their goals."
"You'll
forgive me if I chuckle under my breath."
"I
felt the same way." She leaned toward him. "She dared me to check out
her facts. I did, Hunter. What I found stunned me. In the past eight months
there have been ten unexpected deaths. Not counting Elaine St. Claire, Trudy
Pruitt or McDougal and Lancaster. Cypress Springs is a community of about nine
hundred, Hunter. That's a lot of deaths."
"Accidents
happen."
"Not
like that they don't." She paused, then drew a deep breath. "Gwen
claims The Seven are responsible for her brother's death. He got too close and
they killed him."
"And
she hooked you by claiming they're responsible for your father's death as
well."
She held
his gaze despite the pity she read in his. "Yes."
"Avery,
the woman was trying to pass herself off as your father's daughter. Doesn't
that tell you something?"
"I
know. I thought the same thing at first but-"
"But
you want to believe it."
"No."
She shook her head. "That's not it."
"Have
you talked to Dad about this?"
"I
talked to him about The Seven. He says no such group exists-now or ever."
"But
you don't believe him?"
Just
considering the question felt like a betrayal. "It's not that, I just…I'm
thinking he's out of the loop."
"Dad?
Out of the loop in this town?"
"Listen
to me, Hunter. The day I drove into Cypress Springs, the first thing I thought
was that the town hadn't changed. Like it hadn't been touched by time."
She paused, then went on. "Since then, what's struck me is how homogeneous
this town is. Look in the phone book. How many names do you recognize? It's all
the same families as when we were kids."
"What
are you getting at, Avery?"
"What
does it take to keep time from marching on, Hunter? What does one have to do?"
For a long
moment he said nothing. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. When
he finally spoke, his tone was measured.
"Avery,
listen to me. I want you to think about what I'm about to ask you. What would
you get out of this? If it's true."
"I
don't understand."
"If
your dad was killed by this…Seven, what would you get out of it?"
She began
to tell him she would get nothing out of it, then swallowed the words.
If he hadn
't taken his own life, she would be absolved from guilt.
Avery
fisted her fingers, furious at the thought. At the longing that accompanied it.
She pushed both away. "You think I want Dad to have been murdered? You
think I want Cypress Springs to be home to some murdering, extremist
group?"
His
expression said it all and she shook her head. "I don't, okay? How awful,
how-"
She bit
those words back, searching for others, though whether to convince him or
herself she didn't know.
"I was
always on the outside, Hunter. I never fit in here, never felt like I really
belonged. Now I do. Now Cypress Springs feels like home."
He stood.
Crossed to her. Cupped her face in his hands. "Grief twists reality."
"I
know, but-"
"Don't
do this to yourself, Avery."
"I
have to know. For sure. I wish I could trust…I know I should, but I
can't."
"Then
get your proof. Of innocence or guilt. If that's what you need, get it."
CHAPTER 36
Gwen
glanced at her dashboard clock. The amber numbers read 10:45. A knot of fear
settled in her belly. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her palms
slippery on the vinyl.
The woman
had warned her to come alone. She had promised information about The Seven,
past and present.
Information
about Tom.
Gwen
acknowledged that she was scared shitless. She pressed her lips together. They
trembled. Tom had disappeared on just such an errand, on just such a promise.
Like hers, his meeting time had been a late hour, his destination a deserted
spot off an unnamed country road.
If not for
Tom, she wouldn 't go. She would simply keep driving, not stopping until she
reached the lights of New Orleans.
She had
grown to hate Cypress Springs. The quaint buildings and town square, the people
whose welcoming smiles hid judgment and suspicion. The sour smell that
inundated the community when the wind shifted from the south. The way people went
about their business, pretending it didn't exist.
Gwen
realized she was holding her breath and released it. She drew another, deeply,
working to calm herself. She was alone. No allies. No one to share her fears
with. Avery Chauvin had been her last hope for that.
That hope
had been abruptly squashed.
Another
dead. Trudy Pruitt.
They had
cut out her tongue.
Gwen had
heard that this morning, while breakfasting at the Azalea Cafe. She had been
devastated.
The woman
had been killed only a matter of hours after having met with Gwen. After having
confirmed the past and present existence of The Seven. After confirming all of
Gwen's suspicions: that a group of citizens met in secret and passed judgment
on others, that they delivered one warning, that if it wasn't heeded, they took
action, that they had never really disbanded-simply gone deeper underground.
That in the past months they had become more active. And it seemed, more
dangerous.
Guilt, a
sense of responsibility, speared through her. If she hadn't come to Cypress
Springs, if she hadn't tracked Trudy Pruitt down, would the woman be alive
today?
Go, Gwen.
Run. As fast as you can.
She flexed
her fingers on the steering wheel. Other than putting her own life and the
lives of others in jeopardy, what was she accomplishing? She couldn't help her
brother now. Anyone who might have been willing to talk would be too frightened
to do so after Trudy Pruitt.
But if she
ran, she would never know what happened to Tom.
And she
didn't think she could go on with her life until she did.
So, here
she was. Gwen focused her attention on the upcoming meeting. The woman's call
had come late this afternoon. She had refused to identify herself. Her voice
had been unsteady, thick-sounding. As if she had been crying.
Or was
trying to disguise her identity.
She had
claimed to have information about The Seven and Gwen's brother. Gwen had tried
unsuccessfully to get more out of her.
Quite
possibly, tonight's rendezvous would prove a setup.
Or an
ambush.
Gwen
squared her shoulders. She wouldn't go without a fight. She glanced at her
windbreaker, lying on the seat beside her. Nestled in the right pocket was
a.38-caliber Smith Wesson revolver. Hammerless, with a two-inch barrel, the
salesman had called it the ladies' gun of choice. He had assured her it would
be plenty effective against an attacker, particularly, she knew, if she had
surprise on her side.
She had
taken other precautions as well, sent e-mails to the sheriff's department, her
family lawyer and her mother. She had updated each with what she had uncovered
so far, where she was going tonight and why. She found it hard to believe that
both a brother and sister disappearing from the same small community would fly.
Even if she
was killed, she had turned up the heat.
Their
rendezvous point, Highway 421 and No Name Road loomed before her. The woman had
instructed her to turn onto No Name Road and drive a quarter mile to an
unmarked dirt road. She would recognize it by the rusted-out hulk of a tractor
at the corner. There, she was to take a right and drive another quarter mile to
an abandoned hunting cabin.
Gwen turned
onto No Name Road. Her headlights sliced across the roadway. Heavily wooded on
either side, the light bounced off and through the branches of the cypress,
pine and oak trees.
Some small
creature darted in front of her vehicle. Gwen slammed on the brakes. Her tires
screamed; her safety harness yanked tight, preventing her from hitting the
steering wheel. The creature, a raccoon, she saw, made the side of the road and
scurried into the brush.
Legs
shaking, she eased the car forward, the dark seeming to swallow her. She
strained to see beyond the scope of the headlights. The woman had warned her
not to be late. It was nearly eleven now.
The drive
came into view. She turned onto it, gravel crunching under her tires.
The cabin
lay ahead, illuminated by her headlights. An Acadian, with a high, sloping roof
and covered front porch. It looked a part of the landscape, as if it had been
here forever. Rustic. Made of some durable wood, most probably cypress.
She drew
her vehicle to a stop, searching the area for other signs of life. She found
none. Not a light, vehicle or movement. She lowered her window a crack, shut
off her engine and listened. The call of the insects and an owl, chirping
frogs. Some creature running through the brush.
Nothing
that spoke to the presence of another human.
Show time.
Gwen took a
deep breath. Her heart beat hard against the wall of her chest. She struggled
for a semblance of calm. She had to keep her head. Her wits about her. How
could she hope to outsmart a killer if she couldn't think? If she couldn't
accurately aim the gun because her hands shook?
She
retrieved her jacket, put it on. She slipped her hand into the right pocket to
reassure herself the gun was there. The metal was smooth and cool against her
fingertips.
She opened
the car door, choosing to leave the keys in the car's ignition. She wanted them
there in case she needed to make a quick escape.
Gwen
stepped out. The wind stirred the mostly naked branches of the oak and gum
trees. The sound affected her like the scrape of fingernails on a blackboard.
She rubbed
her arms, the goose bumps that raced up them. "Hello," she called. An
owl returned the greeting. She waited. The minutes ticked past. She shifted her
gaze to the cabin.
Her caller
could be there. Waiting.
She could
be dead. Another Trudy Pruitt.
Gwen didn't
know why that thought had filtered into her brain, but it had. And now, planted
there, she couldn't shake it.
Minutes
passed. Eleven o'clock became eleven-fifteen. Eleven-thirty.
Midnight.
Do it.
Check out the cabin.
Or go. And
never know.
She turned
to the building. She stared at it, knees rubbery with fear. She couldn't not
check. What if the woman was there and hurt; she would need help.
Gwen put
her hand in her pocket, closed her fingers around the gun's grip and started
forward, acknowledging terror. The Lord's Prayer ran through her head, the
familiar words comforting.
Our Father
who art in heaven
Hallowed be
thy name
She reached
the porch steps. She saw then that they were in disrepair. She grabbed the
handrail, tested it, found it sturdy and began to pick her way up the steps.
She reached
the porch. Took a step. The wood groaned beneath her weight. She quickly
crossed. Made the door. Hand trembling, she reached out, grasped the knob and
twisted.
Thy kingdom
come, Thy will be done
On earth as
it is in-
The door
swung open. Taking a deep breath, she peered inside. Called out, voice barely a
whisper. She waited, listening. Letting her eyes adjust to the absolute dark.
As they
did, several large forms took shape. Furniture, she realized, taking a
tentative step inside. A couple broken-down chairs. A shipping crate serving as
a coffee table. Things left behind by previous residents, she decided.
She picked
her way inside, blindly, calling herself a dozen different kinds of idiot. What
was she trying to prove? Nobody was here. She had been sent on a wild-goose
chase. Somebody's idea of a joke. A sick joke.
She turned.
A baglike white shape in the doorway up ahead caught her eye. She made her way
cautiously toward it. Not a bag, she saw, a white sheet, drawn up and knotted
to form a kind of pouch.
She gazed
at the package with a sense of inevitability. Of predestination. Whoever had
contacted her had predicted her every step. Keeping the rendezvous. Waiting.
Coming into the cabin. Finding this package.
And opening
it.
She
squatted and with trembling fingers untied the knot, peeled away the sheet.
Revealing a
cat. Or rather, what had been a cat. A tabby. It had been slit open and gutted.
Gwen brought a hand to her mouth; stomach lurching to her throat. The
creature's sandy-colored fur was matted with blood, the sheet soaked.
She reached
out. And found the blood was tacky.
This had
been done recently. Just before she had been scheduled to meet her informant.
The Seven
gave one warning. If it wasn't heeded, they took action.
She had
gotten her warning.
Something
stirred behind her. Someone. Gwen sprang backward, whirled around. The cabin
door stood open; nothing-or no one-blocked her path. Panicked, she ran forward.
Through the main room and onto the porch. Her foot went through a rotten board.
She cried out in pain, stumbled and landed on her knees.
Clawing her
way to her feet, she darted toward her car. She reached it, yanked open the
door and scrambled inside. Sobbing with relief, she started the vehicle, threw
it into Reverse and hit the gas. When she reached the main road, she dared a
glance back, terrified at what she would see.
The
deserted country road seemed to mock her.
CHAPTER 37
Avery
parked her car around the corner from The Guesthouse. She cut her lights, then
the engine as she glanced quickly around. The square appeared deserted, its
surrounding businesses dark. Cypress Springs retired early and slept soundly.
Just as she
had planned for.
She meant
to collect Gwen and head to Trudy Pruitt's trailer to have a look around. If
Gwen refused, which was entirely possible, considering how Avery had treated
her, she would go alone.
Avery had
decided on this course of action after leaving Hunter. He had told her to get
her proof and that's just what she meant to do. She had planned carefully. Had
assembled everything she and Gwen would need: latex gloves, penlights, plastic
Ziploc bags. And finally, her courage.
Now, to
convince Gwen they were on the same team. She had tried the cell phone number
the woman had given her. She had repeatedly gotten a reply stating the cell
number she had called was no longer in service. Contacting the other woman by
land line required having The Guesthouse management ring her room or calling
the pay phone in the hall. She hadn't wanted to do either.
Nor had she
wanted to be seen paying her a visit. Which left a chance encounter or stealth.
During the
drive there, she had kept careful watch in her rearview mirror. She had not
wanted to be followed. She had not wanted the wrong set of eyes to see her
arriving at Gwen's.
The wrong
set of eyes? Cloak-and-dagger driving maneuvers? Secret meeting?
She was
losing her mind. Spiraling into a kind of paranoid schizophrenia, one in which
she suspected her home of being watched, her phone of being bugged. One in
which every smiling and familiar face hid a secret agenda.
A nervous
laugh flew to her lips. She wanted the truth. No, she needed it. And she would
do whatever was necessary to get it.
She thought
of Hunter. Of the afternoon spent with him, in his bed. The experience felt
surreal to her. As if she had dreamed it.
What had
she done? Consummated some ancient passion she hadn't even consciously
acknowledged? How could she be with Hunter when Matt was the one she had always
wanted? What had she been thinking?
Obviously,
she hadn't been thinking. She had acted on emotion. And physical urges.
She closed
her eyes, thinking of the past, her relationship with Hunter. With Matt. All
those years ago, had she chosen Matt because Hunter took her out of her safety
zone? Because he had always pushed her, both emotionally and intellectually?
She had
always been comfortable with the outgoing Matt. She had known where she stood
all the time. Had never felt out of control. Weren't control and comfort good
things? What did she really want?
Avery shook
her head, refocusing on this moment. On what she had set out to do. Thoughts of
Hunter, Matt and her future would have to wait.
She slipped
out of the Blazer. Dressed entirely in black, she hoped to meld with the
shadows. She eased the door shut and quickly made her way to the corner,
hanging close to the inside edge of the sidewalk, near the shrubs and trees.
Until they
had drifted apart their junior year of high school, Laurie Landry had been one
of her best friends. Laurie had taught Avery that her parents kept a spare
house key tucked inside the covered electrical outlet to the right of the front
door. She and Laurie had used it many times over the years to slip in and out
at all times of the night.
If it
wasn't there, she wasn't certain what she would do.
She needn't
have worried. The Landrys kept the key in the same place they had twelve years
ago. A testament to how slowly some things changed in Cypress Springs. How safe
a place to live it was.
Unless, of
course, you were targeted by The Seven for behavior modification.
Permanent
behavior modification.
Avery
retrieved the key, opened the door and stepped into The Guesthouse's main hall.
Turning, she relocked the door, slipped the key into her pocket and started up
the stairs. The desk closed at 8:00 p.m.; each guest was given a key to come
and go as they pleased.
Neither the
Landry family nor a guest would give a second thought to the sound of someone
moving about.
Avery
quietly climbed the stairs. She reached the top landing and turned left. Gwen
occupied the unit at the far end of the hall. Avery reached it and stopped, a
dizzying sense of deja vu settling over her.
Gwen's door
stood ajar.
Not again.
Please God, not again.
With the
tips of her fingers, Avery nudged the door the rest of the way open. She called
Gwen's name, her voice a thick whisper.
Gwen didn't
reply.
But she
hadn't expected her to. She expected the worst.
Avery
reached into her pocket and retrieved her penlight. She switched it on and
stepped fully into the room, the slim beam of light illuminating the way. The
place had been ransacked. Drawers and armoire emptied. Dresser mirror shattered.
Lamps toppled.
She moved
through the room, sweeping the light back and forth in a jittery arc. No bloody
prints. No body. Swallowing hard, she crossed to the made bed. Bending, she
lifted the bed skirt, pointed the light and peered underneath.
Nothing.
Not even a dust bunny.
She dropped
the skirt and straightened. Turned toward the armoire. Its doors hung open,
contents emptied onto the floor in front. Avery pivoted toward the bathroom's
closed door, then glanced back at the hallway. She shouldn't be handling this
alone. She should call Buddy, the CSPD. Get them over here. Let them search for
Gwen.
She
couldn't do that. How would she explain being here? Latex gloves and penlight
in her pocket? Last night at Trudy Pruitt's and tonight at Gwen Lancaster's-
Get the
hell out. Call the cops from the car. Or better yet, from a pay phone on the
other side of town.
Instead,
Avery took a step toward the bathroom. Then another. As she neared it, she
heard what sounded like water running.
She grasped
the knob, twisted it and pushed. The door eased open. She inched closer, shone
her light inside.
The room
was small-ared shower curtain circling it. The floor clear.
The sound
she'd heard was the toilet running. She crossed to it, jiggled the handle. It
stopped filling.
So far so
good.
She
returned her gaze to the tub. To that flowered curtain. She had to look. Just
in case.
She sidled
toward it. As if a less direct approach might influence what she found. She
stopped within arm's reach of the curtain. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Her mouth went dry, her pits and palms were wet.
Do it,
Chauvin.
She forced
herself to lift her arm, grab a handful of the vinyl and yank it away.
"Don't
move a muscle or I'll blow your fucking head off!"
Avery
froze. Gwen, she realized. She was alive!
"Hands
up!" Gwen snapped. "Then turn around. Slowly."
Avery did.
Gwen stood in the doorway, face white as a sheet. She held a gun, had it
trained on her.
"It's
me, Gwen. Avery."
"I
have eyes."
"This
isn't how it looks. Your door was open…I found the place like this."
"Sure
you did."
"It's
true. I needed to reach you…your cell number wasn't working and I couldn't call
here because I didn't want anyone to know we were in contact."
The gun
wavered. Gwen narrowed her eyes. "You needed to reach me? I seem to
remember you telling me you wanted nothing to do with me."
"That
was before Trudy Pruitt."
Her already
ashen face paled more. "What do you know about Trudy-"
"I was
there last night. She called me, set up a meeting. When I got there her door was
open, her trailer ransacked. I found her in the kitchen…on the floor. When I
saw your door…your place, I…I thought they'd gotten you, too."
For a long
moment Gwen simply stared at her. As if evaluating her words, deciding if she
was being truthful. Then with the tiniest nod, she lowered the gun.
"Thank
you." Avery let out a shaky breath. "That's twice in two days I've
found myself staring down the barrel of a gun."
From the
hallway came what sounded like someone climbing the stairs. They both swung in
that direction. Gwen darted toward her door and shut it. She locked the dead
bolt, then looked at Avery. She held a finger to her lips and pointed at the
bathroom.
Avery
indicated she understood. A moment later Gwen closed them in it, crossed to the
tub and started the shower. White noise, Avery realized. To muffle their words,
in case someone was listening.
That done,
Gwen crossed to the toilet, lowered the lid and sank onto it. She dropped her
head to her hands.
After
several moments Gwen lifted her head and looked at Avery. "I thought I was
dead."
Her voice
shook. So, Avery saw, did her hands. She clasped them together.
"A
woman called," Gwen continued. "She said she had information about
The Seven and about Tom. We were supposed to meet tonight."
"She
didn't show."
"No.
She was a decoy."
"A
decoy? You mean to lure you away from here?"
"To
deliver my warning."
"I
don't understand."
"I
interviewed Trudy Pruitt yesterday. She told me The Seven exist. Past and
present. She said they killed Elaine St. Claire. That they always deliver a
warning before taking action. A terrible threat."
"Elaine
St. Claire was warned?"
"Yes.
She and Trudy were friends. They both served drinks down at Hard Eight. One day
Elaine just up and disappeared."
"She
took the warning seriously and left Cypress Springs?"
"Yes.
A couple months later, Trudy got a letter from the woman. Apparently a
representative of the group had paid St. Claire a late-night visit. He had made
this weapon…a phallus with sharp spines and a knife blade imbedded in its tip.
"The
man told her she had been judged and found guilty-of moral corruption. Because
she slept around. A lot, apparently. He told her he would give her what she
loved-that he would fuck her to death."
Avery
pressed her lips together to hold back a sound of horror. She recalled what
Hunter had told her about Elaine St. Claire's death. The two stories jibed.
Gwen stood.
Avery sensed she was too jumpy to remain seated. "They warned me tonight.
A cat…they gutted it, left it for me. At the meeting place. They meant to
frighten me."
"And
they succeeded."
"Hell,
yes. I'm terrified."
"You've
got to get out of Cypress Springs. Now. Tonight. I'll keep in touch, let you
know what I find out."
"What
makes you think you're immune?"
"I
don't understand."
"You're
not one of them anymore, Avery. If they discover you're onto them, they'll kill
you."
"I'll
make sure they don't find out."
Gwen
laughed, the sound hard, humorless. "It's too late for that. They've seen
us talking. You've asked questions around town. They see everything, Avery.
Everything."
"I'm
not leaving until I know the truth about my dad's death."
Gwen looked
at her. Avery understood. Gwen wouldn't leave until she knew what had happened
to her brother.
"We're
in this together then," Avery said.
"Guess
so."
Avery
rubbed her arms, chilled. "In the interview, did Trudy Pruitt say anything
about me or my father? Did she say anything about Sallie Waguespack?"
Gwen shook
her head. "She talked exclusively about The Seven. I've got it all in my…
Oh, no."
"What?"
"My
notes!"
Gwen leaped
toward the door, yanked it open and raced into the bedroom.
Avery
followed. Watched as she tore through the debris littering the floor, looked
under the bed and in the armoire, expression frantic.
"Gone.
Everything is gone. My notes. Interview tapes." She sank to her knees.
"They get away with murder."
"No,
they don't. We won't let them." Avery crossed to the woman. "I
believe you. God help me, but I do. Together, we can beat them."
Gwen shook
her head. "We can't beat them. No one can."
"That's
what they want us to believe. That's how they've gotten away with this for so
long." She held out a hand to help the other woman up. "Tell me
exactly what happened tonight, everything you've learned so far. I'll do the
same. Together, we'll figure this out. We'll go to the state police or the FBI.
We can do it, Gwen. Together."
"Together,"
Gwen repeated, taking Avery's hand, getting to her feet, returning with her to
the bathroom. There, Gwen explained the events of the day, from the woman's call
to finding the gutted cat and running for what she assumed was her life.
Avery
thought a moment. "And you have no idea who the woman was?"
"None."
"Did
she call on the pay phone in the hall?" Gwen shook her head. "So she
had to go through the front desk. Did you ask-"
"Yes.
They said they didn't know who it was. Said they assumed it was a friend of
mine from out of town."
"But
you don't believe that?"
"I
don't believe anything anymore." She laced her fingers. "What about
you?"
Avery began
with the first anonymous call. "She said Dad got what he deserved. That I
would, too. Before that call I was struggling with the idea of Dad killing
himself. After it-"
"You
didn't buy it at all."
"Yes.
She called a couple more times. She accused Dad of being a liar and a murderer,
of helping frame her boys for Sallie Wagues-pack's murder. She said she had
proof."
"Why
did you believe her? Everything you've told me about your dad-"
"I
found this box of newspaper clippings in Dad's closet. They were all from the
summer of 1988. All concerning Sallie Wagues-pack's murder."
"His
having them supports Trudy Pruitt's claim."
"Not
necessarily. Her murder was the biggest thing to ever hit this town. It was a
shock, a wake-up call. He was civic-minded. He probably followed the story
because he-"
"Avery,"
she interrupted gently, "he clipped all those newspaper articles and kept
them for fifteen years. There has to be a reason. Something personal."
Avery knew
she was right. She had thought the same all along. But no way had he been an
accomplice to murder. No way. She told Gwen so.
The other
woman didn't argue. "When did you learn your caller was Trudy
Pruitt?"
"The
same afternoon she was killed. I goaded her into telling me her name. I
promised that if she showed me proof of her claims, I'd make it right. That I'd
find a way to exonerate Donny and Dylan. We set up a meeting for that
night."
Avery
pulled in a deep breath. "She was still alive…she tried to tell me
something but died before she could."
Gwen's
expression altered. "Didn't you know? They cut out her tongue."
"Are
you…that can't…" But it was true, Avery realized, picturing the woman's
face, her bloody mouth.
They fell
silent. Gwen broke it first. "Seems to me that shoots the whole
random-act-of-violence thing to hell."
Avery winced
at her sarcasm. Shifted the subject. "Buddy let me look at his records of
the Waguespack murder. Everything seemed in order, but I keep coming back to
that box of clippings. And my belief that Dad wouldn't take his own life. And
now, all the deaths." A lump formed in her throat; she swallowed past it.
"Who are these people, Gwen? Who are The Seven?"
"Put
it together, Avery." She leaned toward her. "You're a reporter…who
fits the profile?"
When Avery
didn't respond, Gwen filled in for her. "They're probably all men. Though,
obviously, since a woman lured me out tonight, women are part of the group.
They're no doubt longtime Cypress Springs residents. Pillars of the community.
Men who are looked up to. Ones in influential positions or ones who have influence."
She paused. "Like your dad."
"He
would never have been party to this. Never, he-"
Gwen held
up a hand, stopping her. "It's the only way this would work. I guess them
all to be mature, forty and up. Maybe way up, if the members of today's Seven
are the same, or partly the same, as the past's.
"And,"
she finished, "if today's group mirrors the one of the 1980s, they have
many accomplices in the community. Like-minded citizens willing to spy for
them. Break the law for them."
Avery
frowned. "The past and the present, they're intertwined. The group from
the 1980s, Sallie Waguespack's death. I just don't know how."
"What
do you think Trudy Pruitt's proof was?"
"I
don't know. But if it was for real, the way I figure it, there's a chance it's
still in her trailer."
Gwen moved
her gaze over Avery, her expression subtly shifting to one of understanding.
"And you're thinking we should go find it?"
"If
you're up fo it."
"At
this point, what do I have to lose?"
They both
knew, both were acutely aware of what they could lose.
Their
lives.
"Besides,"
Gwen murmured, smile sassy, "I've got a pair of black jeans I've been
dying to wear."
CHAPTER 38
Avery
parked the SUV just outside the trailer park and they walked in. Neither spoke.
They kept as much as possible to the deepest shadows. Unlike the previous
evening, Avery was grateful for the blown-out safety lights.
They
reached Trudy Pruitt's trailer. The yellow crime scene tape stretched across
the front, sagging in the center, forming an obscene smile. Avery shivered
despite the warm night.
"How
are we going to get in?"
"You'll
see." She quickly crossed to the trailer. Instead of climbing the steps,
she stepped into the garden. The frog figurine was just where she had expected
it to be. She picked it up, turned it over, opened the hidden compartment and
took out a key. "My bet is, this is a key to her front door."
"How
did you know that was there?"
"I
noticed the figurine, thought it was concrete until I accidentally knocked it
off the porch. Why else would someone have a fake concrete frog on the front
steps?"
"Good
detective work."
Avery
lifted a shoulder. "Journalists notice things."
They
climbed the steps, let themselves in. Avery retrieved her penlight, switched it
on. Gwen did the same. No one had cleaned up the mess. In all likelihood, even
when the police gave the okay, there would be no one to clean it up. She
averted her gaze from the bloody smear on the back wall.
From her
back pocket, she took the two pairs of gloves she had picked up at the paint
store that afternoon. She handed a pair to Gwen. "This is still a crime
scene. I don't want my prints all over the place."
Gwen
slipped them on. "We get caught, we're in deep shit."
"We're
already in deep shit. Let's start in the bedroom."
They made
their way there, finding it in the same state of chaos as the front room: the
bed was unmade, the dresser drawers hung open, clothes spilling out. Beer cans,
an overflowing ashtray, newspapers and fashion magazines littered the dresser
top and floor.
They
exchanged glances. "Wasn't a neat freak, was she?" Gwen murmured.
Avery
frowned. She moved her gaze over the room, taking in the mess. "You're
right, Gwen. The killer didn't make this mess, Trudy Pruitt was simply a
slob."
"Okay.
So?"
"Last
night I thought the place had been ransacked. Now I realize that wasn't the
case. Why search the living room but not the bedroom?"
"What
do you think it means?"
"Maybe
nothing. Just an observation. Let's get started."
"What
are we looking for?"
"I'll
know it when I see it. I hope."
They began
to search, carefully examining the contents of each drawer, then the closet,
finally picking through items on the dresser top. Avery shifted her attention
to the floor.
The
Gazette, she saw. Strewn across the floor. Avery squatted beside it. Not a current
issue, she realized. The issue reporting her father's death. Trudy Pruitt had
drawn devil horns and a goatee on his picture.
"What?"
Avery
indicated the newspaper. Gwen read the headline aloud. "'Beloved Physician
Commits Suicide. Community Mourns.'" She met Avery's eyes. "I'm
sor-" She stopped, frowning. "Look at this, Avery. Trudy made some
sort of notations, here in the margin."
The woman
had used a series of marks to count. Four perpendicular hatchet marks with
another crosswise through them. Beside it she had written "All but
two."
"Five,"
Gwen murmured. "What do you think she was counting?"
"Don't
know for certai-" She swallowed, eyes widening. "My God, five plus
two-"
"Equals
seven. Holy shit."
"She
was counting the dead. Dad was number five. There are, or were, two left."
"But
who were they?"
"On
the phone she said there weren't many of them left. That they were dropping
like flies."
"People
who knew the truth."
"Gotta
be."
Avery
carefully leafed through the remaining pages of the paper. Nothing jumped out
at her. She carefully folded the page with her father's photo and Trudy
Pruitt's notations, then slipped it into a plastic bag.
They
searched the living room next, checking the undersides and linings of the
chairs and sofa, behind the few framed photos, inside magazines. They found
nothing.
"Kitchen's
next," Avery murmured, voice thick.
"That's
where…it's going to be bad." Gwen paled. "I've never-" They
exchanged glances, and by unspoken agreement, Avery took the lead.
Using tape,
the police had marked where Trudy had died. A pool of blood, dried now, circled
the shape. Several bloody handprints stood out clearly on the dingy linoleum
floor.
Her
handprints.
Avery
started to shake. She dragged her gaze away, took a deep, fortifying breath.
"Let's get this over with."
Avery
checked the freezer. It was empty save for a couple unopened Lean Cuisine
frozen meals and a half-dozen empty ice trays. The cabinets and pantry also
proved mostly bare. They found nothing taped to the underside of shelves, the dining
table or trash barrel.
"Either
she never had any proof or the killer already picked it up," Avery said,
frustrated.
"Maybe
her proof was in her head," Gwen offered. "In the form of an
argument."
"Maybe."
Gwen
frowned. "No answering machine."
Avery glanced
at her. "What?"
"Everybody's
got an answering machine these days." She pointed at the phone, hanging on
the patch of wall beside the refrigerator. "I didn't see one in the
bedroom, either. Did you?"
Avery shook
her head and crossed to the phone, picked it up. Instead of a dial tone, a
series of beeps greeted her. She frowned and handed the receiver to the other
woman.
"Memory
call," Gwen said. "It's an answering service offered through the
phone company. I have it."
"How
do you retrieve the messages?"
"You
dial the service, then punch in a five-digit password. The beeps mean she has a
message waiting."
"What's
the number?"
"Mine's
local. It'd be different here. Sorry."
Avery
glanced around. "My guess is, Trudy wrote that number down, that it's
here, near the phone. So she wouldn't have to remember it." She slid open
the drawers nearest the phone, shuffled through the mix of papers, flyers and
unopened mail.
"Look
on the receiver itself," Gwen offered. "Until I learned mine, that's
where I taped it."
Avery did.
Nothing had been taped to either receiver or cradle. She made a sound of
frustration and looked at Gwen. "No good."
"Tom
had the service," she murmured. "He programmed it into his-"
"Speed
dial," Avery finished for her, glancing at the phone. Sure enough, the
phone offered that feature, for up to six numbers. She tried the first and was
connected to the Hard Eight.
She gave
Gwen a thumbs-up, then tried the second programmed number, awakening someone
from a deep sleep. She hung up and tried again.
The third
proved the winner. A recording welcomed her to "her memory call
service."
"Got
it," Avery said, excited. "Take a guess at a password."
"1-2-3-4-5." "
Avery
punched it in and was politely informed that password was invalid. She tried
the same combination, backward. She punched in several random combinations.
All with no
luck. She hung up and looked at Gwen. "What now?"
"Most
people choose passwords they can easily remember, their anniversary, birthday,
kid's birthday. But we don't know any of those."
"Oh
yes we do," Avery murmured. The date Trudy Pruitt had never forgotten. The
one she might use as a painful, self-mocking reminder. "June 18,1988. The
night Sallie Waguespack was murdered and her sons were killed in a shoot-out
with the police."
Avery
connected with the answering service again, then punched in 0-6-1-9-8-8. The
automated operator announced that she had five new messages waiting and one
saved message.
Avery gave
Gwen another thumbs-up, then pressed the appropriate buttons to listen to each.
The recording announced the day, date and time of call, then played the
message. The woman's boss at the bar, pissed that she hadn't shown up for work.
Several hangups. A woman, crying. Her soft sobs despairing, hopeless. Then
Hunter. He said his name, gave his number and hung up.
Avery's
knees went weak. She laid her hand on the counter for support. Hunter had
called Trudy Pruitt the last afternoon of her life. Why?
"What's
wrong?"
Avery
looked at Gwen. She saw by the other woman's expression that her own must have
registered shock. She worked to mask it. "Nothing. A…a woman crying. Just
crying. It was weird."
"Replay
it."
Avery did,
holding the phone to both their ears, disconnecting the moment the call ended.
"The
woman who called me sounded as if she had been crying," Gwen told her.
"What if they were one and the same?"
"What
time did she call you?"
Gwen
screwed up her face in thought. "About five in the afternoon."
Avery
dialed, called up the messages again. The woman had called Trudy Pruitt at four
forty-five. Avery looked at Gwen. "A coincidence?"
"A
weird one." Gwen frowned. "What do you think it means?"
"I
don't know. I wonder if the police have listened to the messages."
"They
could be retrieving them directly from the service. After all, the calls could
be evidence."
"Or
the police might have missed them, same way we almost did. Let's get out of
here," Avery said.
They left
the way they'd come, reaching the SUV without incident. Avery started the
engine and they eased off the road's shoulder. She didn't flip on her
headlights until they'd gone a couple hundred feet.
She
couldn't stop thinking about Hunter having called Trudy Pruitt. Why? What
business could he have had with the woman? And on the last day of her life? And
why hadn't he mentioned it when they'd discussed the woman's death?
The answers
to those questions were damning.
"Something's
bothering you."
She glanced
at Gwen. She should tell her. They were partners now, in this thing together.
If Gwen had been one of her colleagues at the Post, she would.
But she
couldn't. Not yet. She had to think it through.
"I'm
wondering why people like Trudy Pruitt stayed in Cypress Springs? Why not
leave?"
"I
asked her that. She said some did leave. For others, for most, this was their
home. Their friends were here. Their family. So they stayed."
"But
to live in fear. To know you're being watched. Judged. It's just so wrong.
So…un-American."
Avery
realized in that moment how carelessly she took for granted her freedoms, the
ones granted by the Bill of Rights. What if one day they were gone? If she woke
up to discover she couldn't express her views, see the movies or read the books
she chose to. Or if skipping worship Sunday morning or drinking one too many
margaritas might land her on a Most Wanted list.
"It's
not been until recently that things have gotten really weird," Gwen
continued. "For a long time before that it was quiet."
"Recently?
What do you mean?"
"In
the last eight months to a year. About the time the accidents and suicides
began. Trudy said that after Elaine disappeared she thought about going. But
she couldn't afford to leave."
Avery
hadn't considered that. It cost money to pick up and move. One couldn't simply
carry a trailer on their back. Apartments required security deposits, first and
last month's rent, utility deposits. Then there was the matter of securing a
job.
Not like
the moves she had made, ones where she'd lined up a job, and her new employer
had covered her moving expenses. She'd had money in the bank to fall back on, a
father she could have turned to if need be.
To a
degree, people like Trudy Pruitt were trapped.
Now she was
dead.
"According
to what Trudy told me, most of the citizens fell in like sheep. They were
frightened of what Cypress Springs was becoming, only too happy to head back to
church, rein in their behavior or spy on their neighbors if it meant being able
to leave their house unlocked at night."
"What
about her? She didn't fall in line with the rest."
Gwen's
expression became grim. "I don't think she knew how to be any different.
And…I don't think she felt any motivation to change. She hated this town, the
people. Because of her boys."
"But
she didn't say anything about them? About their deaths, Sallie Waguespack's
murder?"
"Nothing
except that they didn't do it. That they were framed."
"How
about Tom? Did she say anything about him?"
"I
asked. She didn't know anything about him but what she'd read in the paper. She
told me she didn't have a doubt The Seven killed him."
"He
hadn't interviewed her?"
"Nope.
She found me, actually."
Avery
pulled to a stop at a red light. She looked at Gwen. "Did she say who The
Seven were?"
"No.
She said revealing that would get her dead."
She got
dead anyway. The light changed; Avery eased forward.
The square
came into view up ahead. "Drop me at that corner," Gwen said.
"You're
sure? I could park around the corner, give you a hand cleaning up?"
"It's
better this way. The less possibility of us being seen together, the
better."
Avery
agreed. She stopped at the next corner. "Call me tomorrow."
Gwen
nodded, grabbed the door handle. "What's next?"
"I'm
not sure. I need to think about it. Lay out the facts, decide which direction
to go."
Gwen opened
her car door and stepped out. Avery leaned across the seat.
"Gwen?"
The other woman bent, met her eyes. "Be careful."
She said
she would, shut the door and walked quickly off. Avery watched her go, a knot
of fear settling in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling suddenly
as if she was being watched, but seeing nothing but the dark, deserted street.
But they
were out there. The Seven, their spies. A killer.
Being
careful wasn't going to be enough to keep either of them safe, she thought. Not
near enough.
CHAPTER 39
The Gavel
stood alone in his dark bathroom. Naked. Trembling. He stared at his reflection
in the mirror above the sink. The man who stared back at him barely resembled
the one he knew himself to be.
He was
sweating, he realized. He pushed the hair off his forehead. He leaned closer to
the mirror. Were those tears in his eyes?
He
stiffened, furious. He wasn't a child. Not some weak-bellied girl who fell
apart anytime the going got tough. He was the strong one. The one whose will,
whose determination, carried them all.
Without
him, Cypress Springs would have been lost. They all would have been lost.
He bent,
splashed his face with cold water, then straightened. Rivulets of water ran
over his shoulders, down his belly, beyond. He breathed deeply through his
nose. His chest expanded; he felt the oxygen feed his blood, the blood his muscles.
He swelled in size, stature.
He smiled.
Then laughed. They didn't understand. His eyes
were
everywhere. While his generals scurried pathetically about, he saw everything,
knew everything. Did they think he didn't hear them whispering to one another,
exchanging furtive, knowing glances? Making their plans? His enemies, it
seemed, were growing in number. Rage welled up in him. Those he trusted turning
on him. Those he had turned to for support-indeed, for love-planning his
demise. He had given his life for them. The things he had done, the chances he
had taken-that he continued to take-to make their lives, their world, a better
place. All he had done for them. Was absolute loyalty too much to ask for in
return? He narrowed his eyes. Apparently so. And for that, they would pay
dearly.
This was
his town. He was their leader. Nothing and no one would change that.
Not Gwen
Lancaster. Not Avery Chauvin. Tonight, he had stood in the shadows and watched
as the two women formed an unholy alliance. One of Cypress Springs's favored
daughters had proved herself an outsider. And traitor.
A spear of
sadness pierced his armor, he fought it off. The urge to open his arms again,
to forgive. Forget. Such emotions were for the weak. The self-indulgent. The
unencumbered. None of those applied to him.
His every
instinct told him to silence Gwen Lancaster, do it quickly, before she caused
more damage. But there were rules to be followed, a proven system to be adhered
to. To willfully ignore either would be a step toward anarchy.
It only
took one, he thought grimly. One spoiled fruit. One self-indulgent individual
on a misdirected campaign.
How was it
that only he had great resolve? Why had he been cursed with this perfect
vision? This absolute knowledge? He had been born to lead. To show others the
way.
It was
lonely. He longed to turn from his gift, his call, but how could he? He opened
his eyes each day and saw the truth.
He didn't
enjoy killing. He had hoped, prayed, that each of those found guilty would take
his warning to heart. His lips twisted. But they had been stupid. Ignorant and
small-minded.
Liar.
Killing the last had been a blessing. A pleasure. The woman had left him no
other option. Meeting with outsiders, calling insiders. She had forced his
hand. She should have been silenced years ago. He had allowed others to sway
him.
A mistake.
One of several recent mistakes his generals loved to discuss. That they used
against him. Who did they plan to replace him with? Blue? Hawk?
Laughable.
He would show them. Soon they would see.
They would
all see.
CHAPTER 40
Hunter sat
bolt upright in bed, the sound of children's screams echoing in his head. For a
moment he couldn't think. Couldn't separate himself from the nightmare.
With his
mind's eye he saw the car careening out of control. The fence going down. The
children's terror. The one child standing frozen in the path of his two
thousand pounds of steel and glass.
The woman,
throwing herself at the child. Saving the boy. Sacrificing herself.
He became
aware of the light streaming through the blinds. The soft hum of traffic, of
the Monday-morning delivery trucks in the alley. Sarah's puppies whimpering,
hungry.
Hunter
leaned over the side of the bed and looked at her. It seemed to him she was
doing her best to block out their cries. "You're being paged," he
said to her.
She lifted
her head, looked at him.
"I'll
get up if you will."
She stared
at him a moment, then thumped her tail once. "I'll take that as a
yes," he said and climbed out of bed.
He pulled
on a pair of shorts and headed to the bathroom. Teeth brushed, bladder emptied,
he beelined for the kitchen. Sarah beat him there. She stood at the door,
anxious but patient. He grabbed her lead off the hook, clipped it onto her
collar and then together they stepped out into the bright, warm morning.
He and
Sarah had their routine. A quick trip out to the nearest patch of grass to take
care of her immediate needs, then back for her to feed her pups and him to
guzzle coffee. Later, they would take a longer walk or a run.
Sarah did her
business and they started back. They rounded the corner. His steps faltered.
The dog whined.
Avery
waited at his door.
She turned.
Their eyes met. He sent her a sleepy, pleased smile. "No breaking and
entering today?"
She didn't
blink. "We need to talk."
"Guess
not." Hunter crossed to the door, pushed it open. From the corner of his
eye, he saw her bend and scratch Sarah behind the ears. "Come on in. I
need coffee."
He headed
for the coffeemaker. She didn't wait for him to reach it. "You called
Trudy Pruitt the day she was killed. Why?"
Son of a
bitch. Not good.
"A
little intense for this time of the morning, aren't we, Avery? It's not even
eight."
"I
asked you a question."
He filled
the coffeemaker's carafe with water, then poured it into the reservoir.
"Yeah, but you didn't ask it very nicely."
"I'm
not playing a game here."
He turned,
met her eyes. "She called me. I don't know why because she got my machine.
I returned her call. That's it."
He measured
dark roast into the filter, slid the basket into place and switched on the
machine. That done, he crossed to stand directly in front of her. "And
where, exactly, did you get that information? From Matt? Was he trying to
poison your mind against me?"
"You
don't need any help in that department."
"And
here I thought you'd still respect me in the morning."
Angry color
shot into her cheeks. "We talked about her, Hunter. You and I, we talked
about her calls to me…that I was there that night. You never said anything. Do
you have any idea how damning that looks?"
"I
don't really care how it looks, Avery."
She curled
her hands into fists. "You don't care, do you? You wear your indifference
like some twisted badge of honor."
The
coffeemaker gurgled; the scent of the brew filled the air. "What do you
want me to say?"
"I
want you to tell me the truth."
"I was
writing. She called, left a message. Truthfully, I didn't remember she was
Dylan and Donny's mother. Not until later. I assumed she was calling about
legal representation. Why else? Other than a vague recollection of the name, I
didn't have a clue who she was. That's the truth, believe it if you want."
"Why
didn't you mention she called, when we were talking about her? She was
murdered, Hunter!"
He laid his
hands on her shoulders. "What would it have brought to the equation? I
never even spoke to the woman."
She
shrugged off his hands. Took a step away. "You told me to get my proof,
Hunter. I went there, to her trailer to look for it."
"When?"
he asked, her words, the ramifications of them hitting him like a sledgehammer.
"Last
night. Late."
He made a
sound of disbelief. "Do you know how stupid that was, Avery? A woman was
murdered there. What if the killer had come back? Looking for the same thing
you were. Or to relive the kill?"
He pressed
his point, seeing that it was having its intended effect-scaring her. "The
percentage of killers who do just that is high, so high that police manuals
suggest staking out a murder scene as an effective investigative
strategy."
She looked
shaken, but didn't back down. "I found your message. It's on her machine,
okay? The woman saved it."
He thought
of Matt. His brother was already hot to pin Elaine St. Claire's murder on him.
Why not this murder as well?
He looked
at the ceiling. "Shit."
"Care
how things look now, Hunter?"
He swung
away from her, crossed to the cupboard. He selected a mug, then filled it. Took
a sip. He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Was there anything else you
wanted to grill me about this morning?"
She opened
her mouth as if to answer, then shut it, turned and started for the door.
He followed
her. "I take it you're not staying for coffee."
"Go to
hell."
Careening
out of control. Children screaming.
"Been
there, done that."
Her steps
faltered. She stopped but didn't turn.
He stood
directly behind her, so close he could hear her breathing, smell the fruity
shampoo she used. He longed to touch her. To coax her back into his arms. Tell
her everything, anything that would convince her to stay.
"And
that's supposed to make me feel what?" she asked softly, voice vibrating
with emotion. "Sorry for you? You think there's anyone alive who hasn't
experienced real pain? Personal tragedy?"
"I
wasn't asking for your pity. I was being honest."
"Well,
bully for you."
She pushed
the screen door open. Stepped out into the alley. And ran smack-dab into Matt.
"Avery!"
Matt caught her arm, steadying her. "What are you doing here?"
"Ask
your brother." She glanced back at Hunter, standing at the door.
"Maybe he'll give you a straight answer."
"I
don't understand."
She shook
her head, stood on tiptoe and kissed Matt's cneek. "Call me later, Matt.
I've got to go."
CHAPTER 41
Hunter
watched Avery go. She had asked Matt to call her later. Why? To make certain he
knew about the call on Trudy Pruitt's answering machine? Or because they were
sleeping together?
"What
was Avery doing here?"
Hunter
faced his brother. "Nothing kinky. Unfortunately."
A muscle in
his brother's jaw twitched. "Prick."
"So
I've been called on more than one occasion." One corner of his mouth
lifted. "This seems to be my morning for visitors. Lucky me."
Matt moved
his gaze over him, taking in the fact he wore nothing but a pair of shorts,
that he had obviously not been out of bed long. "What did she mean, about
getting a straight answer out of you?"
Hunter
leaned against the door frame, mug cradled between his palms. "I haven't a
clue."
"Bullshit."
He lifted
the mug to his lips, sipped. "Believe what you will. It's a free
country."
"How
free?"
"I
don't follow."
"Maybe
you're one of those Americans who believe your personal freedoms entitle you to
trample on the freedoms of others? Maybe even take the law into your own hands?
Or take a life?"
Hunter
laughed. "I'm a lawyer. I uphold the law."
"Funny,
that's what I do, too."
"What
can I do for you, Matt?"
"I'm
here on official business, Hunter."
"And
here I'd thought you might be wanting a brotherly chat. I'm devastated."
Matt
ignored his sarcasm. "May I come in?"
Wordlessly,
he stepped away from the door. Matt entered the kitchen. He moved his gaze over
the room, then brought it back to Hunter. "Where were you night before
last? Between nine and ten-thirty?"
The night
Trudy Pruitt was murdered.
Hunter
folded his arms across his chest. "I was here. Working."
"Alone?"
"With
Sarah."
"Sarah?"
Hunter
nodded in the direction of the dog. "And her pups."
A look of
annoyance passed over his brother's face. "You seem to spend an awful lot
of time here, alone."
"I
like it that way."
"You
hear about Trudy Pruitt?"
"Yeah."
"You
know the woman?"
"Nope.
Not personally."
"Not
personally. What does that mean?"
"I'd
heard of her. I knew who she was. Who her kids were."
Hunter
waited. This was where Matt would call Hunter a liar, challenge his story,
throw up the message on the recorder. If he had checked Pruitt's answering
machine.
And if he
did, this was where Hunter would lawyer-up.
"Mind
if I have a look around?"
Hunter
laughed, the sound humorless. His brother and his crew of small-town constables
had just flunked crime scene investigation 101. "Yeah, I mind. You want a
look around, you get a search warrant."
"Expect
it."
"Want
to tell me why you're so interested in me?"
"You'll
know soon enough."
"Right.
You don't have dick. Go fish someplace else."
Matt shook
his head. "For a lawyer, you're not very smart."
"And
for a cop, you're not very observant."
"I
don't have time for this." Matt made a sound of disgust and turned toward
the door. "I'll see you when I've got that warrant."
"You'd
love to pin this on me, wouldn't you, Matt? For a lot of different reasons, all
of which have nothing to do with guilt or innocence."
His brother
stopped. But didn't turn. "Name one."
"Avery."
The barb
hit his mark, Hunter saw. His brother stiffened. Swung to face him. "Stay
away from her. She's too good for you."
"At
least we agree on something. A miracle."
"You're
such an asshole. I can't believe you're my brother."
"Your
twin," Hunter corrected. "Your other half."
Matt
laughed, the sound tight. "We're nothing alike. I believe in family and
community, hard work, loyalty."
"Just
that I'm alive pisses you off, doesn't it?"
"Stay
away from Avery."
"Why
should I? She doesn't belong to you anymore. You let her go."
Matt flexed
his fingers, longing, Hunter knew, to take a swing at him. How many times as
kids had they argued, then come to blows, determined to beat the other
senseless.
Even so,
they had been a team then. Now, they were adversaries.
"What
do you have to offer her?" Matt challenged. "Nothing. You're a
broken-down drunk who-"
"A
former drunk. There's a difference, brother." He took a step toward the
other man. "Don't you see it? She and I are the same. We never fit in
here. We never will."
Matt
trembled with fury. This time it was he who took a step forward. "All
these years, is this what it's been about, Hunter? Avery? Jealousy? Over what I
am and what I had?"
"Had.
You said it, Matt. No longer. You chose Cypress Springs over her."
"Shut
up! Shut the fuck up!"
Hunter
closed the remaining distance between them. They stood nose to nose, his twin's
fury, his lust for blood palpable. Hunter recognized it because the same
emotion charged through him.
"Make
me," Hunter said.
"You'd
love that. You'd scream police brutality. Get my badge."
"I'm
not built that way. Take a punch. It's on me."
His brother
didn't move. Hunter knew exactly where to push, how. They'd grown up together,
knew each other's strengths-and weaknesses. Ever so softly, he clucked.
"Afraid?"
he taunted. "Chicken? Remember when we were kids? You wouldn't fight
unless you knew you could win. Guess the big tough sheriff's not so tou-"
Matt's fist
caught the side of Hunter's nose. Blood spurted. Pain ricocheted through his
head, momentarily blinding him.
With a
sound of fury, Hunter charged his brother. He caught him square in the chest,
sending them both flying backward. Matt slammed into the refrigerator. From
inside came the sound of items toppling.
"You
son of a bitch!" Matt shoved him backward. "You have nothing to offer
her! You threw away everything you ever had. Your family and community. Your
career. Reputation. You're pathetic!"
"I'm
pathetic? That's the difference between us, bro. The way I look at it, you
threw away the only thing that really mattered."
Hunter
twisted sideways, destabilizing the other man. They went down, taking the
assortment of plates and glasses that had been drying on the rack by the sink
with them. They crashed to the floor, the crockery raining down on them.
Hunter
reared back, smashed his fist into his brother's face. Sarah barked, the sound
high, frenzied. Matt grunted in pain; retaliated, catching Hunter in the side
of his head.
Sarah's
bark changed, deepened. She growled low in her throat.
The sound,
what it meant, penetrated; Hunter glanced toward the circling dog.
"Sarah!" he ordered. "Heel!"
Matt used
the distraction to his advantage, forcing Hunter onto his back. Glass crunched
beneath his bare shoulders. A hiss of pain ripped past his lips as the shards
pierced his skin. Sarah made her move.
She leaped
at Matt, teeth bared. In a quick move, Matt rolled sideways, unsheathed his
weapon and aimed at the dog.
"No!"
Hunter threw himself at Sarah, plowing into her side, knocking her out of
harm's way. They landed in a heap; she whimpered in pain, then scrambled to all
fours.
Hunter
jumped to his feet, shaking with rage. "You're a maniac."
Matt eased
to his feet, holstered his weapon. "It would have been self-defense. The
bitch could have torn me apart."
"Get
the hell out of here." Hunter wiped his bloody nose with the back of his
hand, aware of blood running in rivulets down his back. "You're not worth
it, Matt. Not anymore."
Expression
impassive, Matt tucked in his shirt, smoothed back his hair. "Two was
always too many, wasn't it, Hunter? Two of us, just alike?"
"That's
bullshit." He crossed to the sink. Yanked a paper towel off the roll,
soaked it in cold water, then looked back at the other man. "You're blind,
Matt. You don't have a clue."
"You're
the one who's blind. Blinded by jealousy. For me, my relationship with Mom and
Dad. Because of Avery."
Hunter's
gut tightened at the grain of truth. Matt had always been the leader of the
two, the charismatic one, the one everybody gravitated to: girls, the other
kids, teachers. Even their parents and Cherry.
"I
always loved you," Hunter said softly. "No matter what. I was proud
you were my brother."
"Now
who's shoveling the shit?"
"You've
got to open your eyes, Matt. When it comes to Dad, our family, this town, you
don't see anything as it really is."
"Better
being a blind man than a dead one."
"Is
that a threat, Sheriff Stevens?"
Matt
laughed. "I don't have to kill you, Hunter. You're already dead."
CHAPTER 42
Avery
decided to spend the morning going through her parents' attic, separating
things she wanted to save from those she would donate to charity or toss. If
she ever intended to put the house up for sale, it had to be done. Besides, she
needed something to occupy her hands while she mentally reviewed the events of
the past few days.
The pieces
fit together; she just hadn't figured out how. Not yet. This was no different
from any story she had ever tackled. A puzzle to be solved, assembled from bits
of information gleaned from a variety of sources. The meaning of some of those
bits obvious, others obtuse. Some would prove unrelated, some surprisingly key.
In the end,
every story required a cognitive leap. That ah-ha moment when the pieces all
fell into place-with or without the facts to back them up. That moment when she
simply knew.
Avery
climbed the stairs. When she reached the top, she glanced toward her parents'
bedroom. At the unmade bed. She stared at it a moment, then turned quickly away
and started toward the end of the hall and the door to the attic stairs. She
unlocked and opened the door, then headed up.
It was only
March, but the attic was warm, the air heavy. During the summer months it would
be unbearable. She moved her gaze over the rows of neatly stacked boxes, the
racks of bagged clothes. From hooks hung holiday decorations: wreaths, wind
socks and flags, one wall for each season. Evenly spaced aisles between the
boxes.
So neatly
organized, she thought. Her mother had been like that. Precise. Orderly. Never
a hair out of place or social grace forgotten. No wonder the two of them butted
heads so often. They'd had almost nothing in common.
Avery began
picking through the boxes. She settled first on one filled with books. While
she sorted through them, she pondered the newspaper she and Gwen had found in
Trudy Pruitt's bedroom, the woman's cryptic notation. The hatchet marks. The
words All but two. Trudy Pruitt had been counting the dead. Avery felt certain
of that.
All but two
who knew the truth about the Waguespack murder? It made sense in light of what
she had said on the phone, that those who knew were dropping like flies. But,
she could also have been counting the passing of people she hated. Or ones she
feared. Or people she believed responsible for her sons' deaths.
The last
rang true, made sense. Trudy Pruitt had been consumed by that event, that had
been obvious to Avery. Had she found the note that had been written on the
article about her father's suicide before the woman's murder, she would have
considered Trudy Pruitt a suspect in his death as well as that of the others.
But she
hadn't. Nor did she believe the woman had been smart or sophisticated enough to
have pulled off the murders. Not alone, anyway.
Avery's
fingers stilled. An accomplice. That could be. Perhaps the accomplice had
decided Trudy Pruitt had outlived her usefulness. Or had become a liability.
Hunter.
He'd left a message for her. Had he simply been returning the woman's call, as
he claimed?
His
explanation was plausible. She wanted it to be true. Wanted it in a way that
was anything but uninvolved. Anything but unemotional.
Avery
squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to recall exactly what he'd said in the
message. His full name and phone number. Not that he was returning her call.
But if they
had been accomplices, surely he wouldn't have had to identify himself, the
woman would have recognized his voice. And surely he wouldn't have identified
himself with his full name, Hunter Stevens. Nor, she supposed, would he have
had to give her his number.
She
frowned, shifting absently through the box of books, most of them westerns. Her
dad had loved the genre. He'd eaten them up, chewing through the paperback
novels as fast as publishers could put them out.
Her mother
had read, too. Not as voraciously, however. In truth, the book Avery remembered
seeing her mother with most had been her journal. She had carried one
everywhere, doggedly recording the moments and events of her life.
Her mother
had dreamed of being a writer. She had shared that before Avery left for
college. They had been arguing about Avery's decision to leave Cypress
Springs-and Matt-behind.
At the
time, Avery hadn't believed her mother. Now, she wondered.
She
recalled the scene clearly. Her mother had shared that tidbit in the context of
making choices in life. She had expected her daughter to follow in her
footsteps-be the traditional Southern woman, wife and mother, community
volunteer. She had expected Avery to acknowledge what was important.
Chasing a
dream wasn't. A career wasn't.
She had
urged her to marry Matt. Start a family. Look at her, she had said. Where would
Avery be if she had chased a career instead of marrying her father?
Perhaps she
and her mother had had something in common, after all.
A headache
started at the base of Avery's skull. She brought her hand to the back of her
neck and rubbed the spot, recalling how their conversation had ended. They'd
fought. It had been ugly.
"You
took the easy way, Mom. You settled. I'm not going to be like you!"
And then,
later, "You never loved me, Mother. Not for me. You always tried to change
me, make me like you. Well, it didn 't work."
Avery
cringed, remembering the hateful words, recalling her mother's devastated
expression. She had never taken those words back. Had never apologized.
And then it
had been too late.
"Shit,"
Avery muttered, regret so sharp and bitter she tasted it. She thought of what
Hunter had said, that her father believed her unresolved issues with her mother
had been the reason she'd visited so rarely. Had he been right? Had she been
waiting for an apology? Or had she stayed away because she knew how badly she
had hurt her mother and hadn't wanted to look her in the-
She had
carried a journal everywhere, doggedly recording the moments and events of her
life.
Of course,
Avery thought. Her mother's journals. She would have noted Sallie Waguespack's
death, its effect on the community and if her husband had somehow been
involved.
But where
were they? Avery had searched the house, emptied closets and drawers and
bookcases. She hadn't seen even one of the journals. So, what had her father
done with them?
Up here.
Had to be.
Although
she had already done a perfunctory search of the attic, she started a more
complete one now. She not only checked the notations on each box, she opened
each to make certain the contents matched the labels.
By the time
she had checked the last carton, she was hot, dirty and disappointed. Could her
father have disposed of them? Or her mother, sometime before she died?
Maybe Lilah
would know. Checking her watch, Avery headed downstairs to the phone. She
dialed the Stevenses number and Lilah answered immediately.
"Hi,
Lilah, it's Avery."
"Avery!
What a pleasant surprise. What are you up to this morning?"
"I'm
working on the house, packing things up, and realized Mother's journals are
missing."
"Her
journals? My goodness, I'd forgotten she used to do that."
"So
had I. Until this morning."
"At
one time she was quite committed to it. Remember the Sunday she pulled her
journal out during Pastor Dastugue's sermon? We were all sitting right up
front, he was so pleased." The woman laughed lightly. "He thought she
was taking notes."
"What
do you mean, she had been committed to it? Did she give it up?"
"Yes,
indeed. Let me think." The woman paused. "About the time you went off
to university."
Avery felt
the words like a blow. About the time she went off to L.S.U. After their fight.
After her mother had confided in Avery- and been met with disbelief and
disdain.
"She never
said anything, you understand," Lilah continued. "I just noticed she
didn't have one with her. When I asked, she said she had given it up."
"Lilah,
would you have any idea where she or Dad might have stored them?"
"Stored
them?" The other woman sounded confused. "If they're not at the
house, I imagine she got rid of them. Or your father, with the rest of her
things."
Avery's
stomach fell at the thought. "I just can't imagine either of them-"
"We
all thought him so strong, clearing out her things the way he did. The
reminders were just all too painful."
The
doorbell rang. Avery ended the call and hurried to answer it.
Hunter
stood at her door. She gazed at him through the screen, taking in his battered
face. "My God, what happened to you?"
"Long
story. Can I come in?"
"I
don't think that's such a good idea."
He looked
away, then back at her. "I've got this problem, Avery. And it has to do
with you."
She folded
her arms across her chest. "With me?"
"This
morning Matt called me a dead man. And I realized it was true." He paused.
"Except when I'm with you."
His words
crashed over her. She laid her hand against the door frame for support,
suddenly unbalanced. Light-headed. One second became two, became many.
"Avery,"
he said softly. "Please."
Wordlessly,
she swung the screen door open. Was she letting in friend or foe? She didn't
know, was simply acting on instinct. Or, if she was being honest, on longing.
She moved aside as he entered and with shaky hands closed the door, using the
moment to break their eye contact as she attempted to regain her equilibrium.
She turned the dead bolt, took a deep breath and faced him. "I'll make us
an iced tea."
Without
waiting for a response, she started for the kitchen.
Avery was
acutely aware of him following her, watching her as she poured them both an
iced tea, as she added a wedge of lemon. She cleared her throat, turned and
handed him the glass.
Their
fingers brushed as he took the glass. He brought it to his lips; the ice
clinked against its side as he drank.
She dragged
her gaze away, heart thundering. "You and Matt got into it this
morning."
It wasn't a
question. He answered anyway. "Yes. We fought about you."
"I
see."
"Do
you?"
She shifted
her gaze. Wet her lips.
"He
wanted to know where I was night before last."
"And did
you tell him?"
"Of
course. I was home working. Alone." He set his glass on the counter.
"I told you the truth this morning, Avery. Trudy Pruitt called me. I don't
know why, but I assumed it was for legal counsel. I returned her call. I never
even met the woman let alone killed her."
"Is
that what Matt thinks, that you killed her?"
"That's
what he wants to think."
She
defended the other man. "I doubt that, Hunter. You're brothers. He's just
doing his job."
"Believe
that if it makes you feel better." He glanced away, then back. "He
didn't think to check the woman's recorder. Yet, anyway. Are you going to tell
him about the message?"
She wasn't,
she realized. And not only because doing so would mean admitting to having
broken and entered a posted crime scene.
She shook
her head. "No."
"I
have to ask you something."
"All
right."
"Are
you sleeping with him?"
She met his
gaze. "That's a pretty shitty question, considering."
"He's
acting awfully possessive."
"So
are you."
He took a
step toward her. "But we are sleeping together."
Her mouth
went dry. "Did," she corrected. "One time. Besides, would it
matter to you if we were?"
"Ditto
on the pretty shitty question."
"No,"
she answered. "I'm not."
He brought
a hand to the back of her neck and drew her toward him. "Yes," he
murmured. "It would."
Heart
thundering against the wall of her chest, she trailed her fingers across his
bruised jaw. "Who threw the first punch?"
"He
did. But I goaded him into it."
She laughed
softly. Not because it was funny, but because it was so true to the boys she
had known all those years ago. "Well, frankly, you look like he kicked
your ass."
"Yeah,
but you should see him."
Avery
laughed again. "By the way," she murmured, "I believe you. About
your call to Trudy Pruitt."
"Thank
you." A smile tugged at his mouth. "Does this mean we can revisit the
sleeping-together versus the slept-together thing?"
"You're
awful."
His smile
faded. "Matt accused me of being jealous of him. Of his relationship with
you. With our parents. Jealous of his ability to lead. He suggested envy was at
the root of everything that's happened between the two of us. That I withdrew
from the family because of it."
She rested
her hands on his chest, her right palm over his heart. "And what did you
tell him?"
"That
it was bullshit." He cupped her face in his palms. "I always wanted
you. But you chose Matt. And he was my brother."
The simple
honesty inherent in those words rang true. They touched her. They spoke to the
man he was. And the relationship he and Matt had shared.
In light of
her intense feelings for Hunter, she wondered what would have happened all
those years ago if Hunter had made a play for her. She wondered where they
would all be today.
"What
about now, Avery? I have to know, do you still belong to my brother?"
She
answered without words. She stood on tiptoe, pressed her mouth to his, kissing
him deeply. She slid her hands to his shoulders. He tensed, wincing.
She drew
away. "You're hurt."
"It's
nothing. A few cuts."
"Turn
around." When he tried to balk, she cut him off. "Now, please."
He did. She
lifted his shirt and made a sound of dismay. Cuts riddled his back and
shoulders, some of them jagged and ugly. "How did this happen?"
"It's
no big deal."
"It
is. A very big deal." She lightly touched a particularly nasty cut with
her index finger. "Some of these look deep. You need stitches."
"Stitches
are for sissies." He looked over his shoulder and scowled at her. "I
picked out the pieces. As best I could, anyway."
Frowning,
she examined his back. "Most of them, anyway."
"Come
on." She led him to the bathroom and ordered him to sit, pointing to the
commode. "Take off your shirt."
He did as
he was told. From the medicine cabinet she collected bandages of varying sizes,
disinfectant and a pair of tweezers.
He eyed the
tweezers. "What do you plan to do with those?"
She ignored
the question. "This might hurt."
He nearly
came off the seat and she began probing with the tweezers. "Might hurt!
Take it easy."
She held up
the sliver of glass, pinned between the tweezer's prongs. "How did you say
this happened?"
"Matt
and I were going at each other like a couple of jackasses, broke some gla- Hey!
Ow!"
"Big
baby." She dropped another sliver into the trash. "So you two broke
some glass and rolled around in it."
"Something
like that."
"Bright."
"You
had to be there."
"No
thanks." She examined the rest of his injuries, didn't see any more glass
and began carefully cleaning the cuts. Each time she touched him with the
disinfectant-soaked cotton, he flinched.
"I
don't get it," she murmured, being as gentle as she could. "You can
roll on a bed of glass, but a little Betadine and you're ready to tuck tail and
run."
"Tuck
tail? No way. It's a guy thing."
"And I
say, thank God for the female of the species." She fitted a bandage over
the last wound. "There, all done."
He grabbed
her hand and tumbled her onto his lap. She gazed up at him, surprised, heart
racing.
"I
agree," he murmured, voice thick. "Thank God."
They made
love there, in the bathroom, against the back of the door. It shouldn't have
been romantic, but it was. The most romantic and exciting sex she had ever had.
She orgasmed loudly, crying out. He caught her cries with his mouth and carried
her, their bodies still joined, to the bed. They fell on it, facing one
another.
He brought
her hand to his chest, laid it over his wildly pumping heart. "I can't
catch my breath."
She smiled
and stretched, pleased. Satisfied beyond measure. "Mmm…good."
They fell
silent. Moments ticked past as they gazed at one another, hearts slowing,
bodies cooling.
Everything
about him was familiar, she realized. The cut of his strong jaw, the brilliant
blue of his eyes, the way his thick dark hair liked to fall across his
forehead.
And
everything was foreign as well. The boy she had known and liked had grown into
a man she desired but didn't know at all.
"I'm
sorry," he said softly. "About this morning. I acted like an ass.
Another one of my problems."
She trailed
a finger over his bottom lip. "What happened, Hunter? In New Orleans?
Why'd you come home?"
"Home?"
he repeated. "After all these years, you still call Cypress Springs
home?"
"Don't
you?"
He was
silent a moment. "No. It ceased being home the day I walked away."
"But
you've returned."
"To
write a book."
"But
why here?" He didn't reply. After a moment she answered for him.
"Maybe because you felt safe here? Or felt you had nowhere else to go?
Both could be called definitions of home."
He laughed
scornfully. Humorless. "More like returning to the scene of the crime. The
place my life began to go wrong."
She propped
herself on an elbow and gazed down at him. He met her gaze; the expression in
his bleak. "Talk to me," she said quietly. "Make me
understand."
He looked
as if he might balk again, then began instead. "New Orleans, my time at
Jackson, Thompson and Witherspoon, passed in a blur. I was good at what I did.
Too good, maybe. I moved up too fast, made too much money. I didn't have to
work hard enough."
So he didn
't respect it. Or himself.
"I
became counsel of choice for New Orleans's young movers and shakers. Not the
old guard, but their offspring. Life was a party. Drugs, sex and rock 'n'
roll."
Avery
cringed at the thought. She certainly wasn't naive. Her years in journalism had
been…illuminating. But she had been lucky enough-strong enough-to resist falling
into that particular pit.
"The
drugs were everywhere, Avery. When you're dealing with the rich and famous,
everything's available. Anything. Alcohol remained my drug of choice, though I
didn't turn down much of anything."
He rolled
onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. Retreating from her, she knew. And
into the past. "At first, the firm looked the other way. I was a hot
commodity. Staying on top of my cases and clients despite my after-hours
excesses. Substance abuse is not unheard of in lawyers. A by-product of the
stresses of the job and the opportunity for abuse.
"Then
the line blurred. I started using during the day. Started screwing up at work.
A missed court date here and forgotten deadline there. The firm made excuses
for me. After all, if word got out that one of their junior partners was a
drunk, their exposure would have been huge. When I showed up drunk for a
meeting with an important client, they'd had enough. They fired me.
"Of
course, I was in denial. It was everybody's problem but mine. I could handle
the alcohol. The drugs. I was a god."
Avery hurt
for him. If was difficult to reconcile the man he described with the one she
had known as a teenager-or the one she lay beside now.
"I
went on a binge. My friends deserted me. The woman I was living with left. I
had no more restraints, no one and nothing to hold me back."
He fell
silent a moment, still deeply in the past. Struggling, Avery suspected, with
dark, painful memories.
When he
resumed, his voice shook slightly. "One morning I lost control of my
vehicle by an elementary school. The kids were at recess. My car windows were
open, I heard their laughter, squeals of joy. And then their screams of terror.
"I was
speeding. Under the influence, big time. I crashed through the playground fence.
There was nothing I could do but watch in horror. The children scattered. But
one boy just stood there…I couldn't react."
He covered
his eyes with his hands as if wanting to block out the memory. "A teacher
threw herself at him, knocking him out of the way.
"I hit
her. She bounced onto the hood, then windshield. The thud, it-" He
squeezed his eyes shut, expression twisted with pain. "Miraculously, she
wasn't killed. Just a couple broken ribs, lacerations…I thank God every day for
that.
"The
fence and the tree I clipped had slowed my forward momentum. Still, if I'd hit
that boy, I would have killed him."
He looked
at her then, eyes wet. "She came to see me. Me, the man who- She forgave
me, she said. She begged me to see the miracle I had been offered. To use it to
change my life."
Avery
silently studied him. He had, she knew, without his saying so. The novel was
part of that change. Coming back to Cypress Springs. Going back to move
forward.
"That
boy, I wonder if he finds joy in the playground now. I wonder if any of them
can. Do they wake up screaming? Do they relive the terror? I do. Not a day goes
by I don't remember. That I don't see their faces, hear their screams."
"I'm
sorry, Hunter," she said softly. "I'm so sorry."
"So
you see, I'm both cliche and a cautionary tale. The drunk driver barreling into
a schoolyard full of children, the one lawyers like me argue don't exist."
He said the
last with sarcasm, then continued, "I was charged with driving under the
influence and reckless endangerment. The judge ordered me into a
court-monitored detox program. Took away my license for two weeks. Slapped me
with a ridiculously low fine and ordered me to serve a hundred hours of
community service."
If someone
had been killed he would have been charged with vehicular homicide. He would
have served time.
Hunter was
already serving time.
"I
haven't had a drink since," he finished. "I pray I never will
again."
She found
his hand, curled her fingers around his.
Moments
ticked past.
"Matt's
still in love with you."
She started
to deny it, he stopped her. "It's true. He never stopped."
"Why
are you telling me this?"
"I
goaded him into losing control today, into throwing the first punch. The sick
thing is, I took so much pleasure in doing it. In being able to do it. Perverse
SOB, aren't I?"
"You're
not so bad." Her lips lifted slightly. "Not as bad as you think you
are, not by a long shot."
He turned
his head, met her eyes. "Run, Avery. Go as fast as you can. I'm no good
for you."
"Maybe
I should be the judge of that."
His smile
didn't reach his eyes. "That'd be risky. We both know you've never been
that great a judge of character."
"Is
that so?" She sat up, feigning indignation. "Actually, I'm a pretty
damn good judge of-You're bleeding again."
"Where?"
He sat up, craning to see over his shoulder.
"Here."
She twisted to grab a couple of tissues from the box on her bed stand, then
dabbed at the trickle of blood seeping from the bandage under his left shoulder
blade. She remembered it had been the ugliest of the gashes.
Avery
climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with her. Wrapping it around her, toga
style. "I'll bet there are some heavy-duty bandages in Dad's
bathroom." She wagged a finger at him. "Stay put."
"Yes,
Nurse Chauvin."
Avery
padded into the hallway, heading toward her parents' bed-room. The door stood
open, giving her a clear view of the bed. She should make it, she thought. Or
strip it. Seeing it like that, day after day, reminded her of the last night of
her father's life. And in doing so, it reminded her of his death.
The last
night of his life.
The unmade
bed.
Avery
brought a hand to her mouth. Her dad had been in his pajamas. He had taken
sleep medication. Obviously, he had either been asleep or had climbed into bed.
Why put on his pj's if he meant to kill himself? Why climb into bed, under the
covers? Only to get out, step into his slippers and head to the garage to kill
himself?
It didn't
make sense to her. Even considering her father's state of mind as described by
his friends and neighbors.
She closed
her eyes, thoughts racing, assembling another scenario. Her father in bed.
Sleep aided by medication. Someone at the door. Ringing the bell or pounding.
The coroner
had found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his bloodstream. She had taken a
similar medication before, to help her sleep on international flights. She had
been easily roused. The medication had simply relaxed her, aided her ability to
sleep.
Her dad had
been a physician. Had spent his working life on call. Someone pounding on the
door would have awakened him, even from a deep, medicated sleep.
So he had
climbed out of bed. Stepped into his slippers and headed down to the front
door. Or side door. There the enemy had waited. In the guise of a friend, she
thought. Someone he had recognized and trusted.
So, he had
opened the door.
Avery
realized she was shaking. Her heart racing. It hurt, but she kept building the
scenario, fitting the pieces together.
He would
have been groggy. Easy to surprise and overpower, especially by someone he
trusted.
How had
they done it? she wondered. She flipped through the possibilities. Neither the
coroner nor police had found any indication of foul play. No marks. No
fractures. No detectable signs of a struggle, not at the scene or on the body.
She
recalled what she had learned about death by fire-that the flesh basically
melted but the body didn't incinerate. An autopsy could be performed. A blow to
the head with enough force to disable a man would leave evidence for the
pathologist.
Could his
assailant have subdued him, secured him with ropes and carried him to the
garage? She shook her head, eliminating the possibility. According to Ben
Mitchell, her dad had crawled a few feet toward the door, impossible if bound.
So, how did
one subdue a man without leaving a detectable mark on the body or in the
bloodstream?
Then she
had it. A friend in D.C. had carried a stun gun instead of pepper spray. She
had sung its praises and tried to convince Avery to purchase one. What had she
told Avery? That it delivered a high-voltage electrical charge that would
immobilize an attacker for up to fifteen minutes. With no permanent damage. And
no detectable mark on the body.
It would
have paralyzed her father long enough for his murderer to carry him out to the
garage, douse him with fuel and toss a match.
His slipper
had fallen off on the path between the house and garage.
That's why
he hadn't stopped to slip it back on. He hadn't been walking. He'd been
carried. She pictured the murderer dumping him in the garage. He'd had the fuel
there, ready. Diesel fuel lit on contact. No flashover. The murderer could have
tossed the match and walked away.
While her
father burned alive. By the time he had been able to respond, it had been too
late.
"What's
wrong?"
She turned.
Hunter had come up behind her. "I know how it happened. With Dad. I know
how they killed him."
CHAPTER 43
Hunter
awakened to realize he was alone in bed. He glanced at Avery's bedside clock.
Just after 5:00 p.m. They had slept the afternoon away.
At least he
had.
He sat up.
The pillow next to his still bore the imprint of Avery's head. He laid his hand
in the indention and found it cold. He shifted his gaze to the window. The
light had changed, lost the brilliance of midday and taken on the violet of
early evening.
He ran a
hand absently across his jaw, rough with a five o'clock shadow, thoughts on
Avery. She had shared her theory with him- that her father had been awakened by
a trusted friend at the door. That a stun gun had been used to immobilize him.
That her father had dragged himself to the door, but that his effort had been
too late.
Afterward,
Hunter had held her while she cried. Her weeping had broken his heart and he
had tried to comfort her by poking holes in her theory. Why would someone have
killed her father? he'd asked. What could their motive have been?
Nothing he
said had helped, so he had simply held her until her tears stopped. And then
he'd led her to the bed and lay with her until they had both drifted off.
Hunter
threw the coverlet aside and climbed out of bed. After retrieving his jeans
from the floor, he went in search of Avery.
He found
her in the kitchen. She stood at the sink, gazing out the window behind it. The
portable phone lay on the kitchen table. Beside it a steno-size spiral notebook
and a folded newspaper.
She had
been up for some time.
He
approached silently. She wore a white terry-cloth robe, cinched at the waist.
It swallowed her, accentuating her diminutive stature. With her little-boy
haircut and pixie features she looked like a child dressed up in her mother's
things.
Those who
underestimated her because of her petite size made a big mistake. She possessed
a keen mind and the kind of determination that sometimes bordered on
pigheadedness. He'd always admired her, even when she'd dug in her heels about
something that to his mind had made no sense.
He'd
admired her character, as well as her sense of fair play. She had stood up to
the bullies. Had taken the side of the underdog, befriended the new kids and
odd ones, championed the outsiders. It hadn't made her popular, but for the
most she hadn't cared about popularity.
Truth was,
he had always been in awe of her strength.
He had
always been a little bit in love with her.
Was that
what was going on now? he wondered. Had she decided to befriend the underdog?
Champion him, the outsider? No matter what others thought?
She became
aware of his presence and looked at him. The barest of smiles touched her
mouth. "It's going to storm."
He crossed
to stand beside her. The wind had begun to blow, he saw. Dark clouds tumbled
across the evening sky. "It's spring. We need the rain."
"I
suppose."
He touched
her cheek lightly. "Are you all right?"
"Hanging
in there." She tilted her head into his hand. "Hungry?"
"Starving.
We could order out."
She shook
her head. "I have eggs. And cheese."
"Sounds
like an omelette."
They worked
together, playfully arguing over what ingredients to include. Onions were out.
Bell peppers in. Mushrooms were a must. Lots of cheese. A bit of cayenne
pepper.
"I'll
make toast," he offered.
"I have
English muffins. In the fridge."
"Even
better." He retrieved them along with the orange juice and butter. After
splitting two of the muffins and popping them into the toaster, he rummaged
around in the cabinets and drawers, collecting flatware, plates, glasses and
napkins.
Hunter
carried them to the oak table. He moved the phone and newspaper; as he did, he
saw it was the issue of the Gazette that had reported her dad's death. He
frowned, shifting his gaze to the spiral notebook that lay beside it. A column
of names with a date beside each ran down the page. Pat Greene. Sal Mandina.
Pete Trimble. Kevin Gallagher. Dolly Farmer. Her father's name was there. At
the bottom, Trudy Pruitt's.
"What's
this?"
She didn't
look at him. "Something I'm working on."
"Working
on?" he repeated. "It looks like a list of people who have died
in-"
"The
past eight months," she finished for him. "Here in Cypress
Springs."
She
wouldn't have the list out if she hadn't wanted him to see it. "This is
about those things Trudy Pruitt said to you, isn't it? About your dad being
involved in Sallie Waguespack's death?"
She turned
the omelette. "Yes. And about the clippings I found in his closet. And two
murders and two disappearances in the past six weeks. And a group called The
Seven."
He frowned.
"I'm not going to be able to deter you from this, am I?"
She looked
over her shoulder at him. "No."
Determined
to the point of pigheaded. She wouldn 't let this go until she was satisfied
she knew the truth. Beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt truth.
No wonder
she was such a good investigative reporter.
"Dammit,
Avery. You drive me crazy."
She lifted
a shoulder. "Forget it then if it'll make you feel better."
"Like
hell. You think I'm going to leave you to track down a killer yourself? Two
women have already been murdered. I don't want you to be the third."
She smiled
and batted her eyelashes at him in exaggerated coquetry. "That's so sweet,
Hunter."
"This
isn't funny. There's a killer out there."
"That's
right. And he may have killed my father."
"Would
you like my help?" he asked, resigned.
She thought
a moment, then nodded. "I think I would. Eggs are ready."
She slid
the omelettes onto plates. He buttered the English muffins and set them on the
table. While they ate, Hunter curbed his impatience. This was her party, after
all.
When they
had finished, she stood, cleared the plates then sat back down. She met his
eyes. "As you know, last night I went to Trudy Pruitt's trailer. The woman
had accused my father of being involved in Sallie Waguespack's murder. Of
helping the police to frame her sons. She said she had proof, but she was
killed before she could give it to me."
"So
you went looking for it. Gwen Lancaster was with you."
"How
did you-?"
"Good
guess."
"What
you don't know is that Gwen had interviewed Trudy about The Seven just hours
before Trudy's death."
Hunter
straightened. "She interviewed Trudy Pruitt?"
"Yes.
The woman confirmed the existence of The Seven. She claimed the group was
responsible for Elaine St. Claire's murder."
"Avery,"
Hunter said, frowning, "word is, the woman was an unstable drunk. Because
of her boys, she had an ax to grind with this town. I wouldn't put too much
stock in what she had to say."
"You
sound like Matt. Buddy, too."
"They're
right. You should listen."
She looked
frustrated. "What about Gwen? Her place was ransacked. All her notes
stolen. Someone lured her out to a hunting camp off Highway 421 and No Name
Road. They left her a gutted cat."
"Try
that again."
"A
woman phoned Gwen. She told her she had information about Gwen's brother's
disappearance. She arranged a meeting at the hunting camp."
"But
she didn't show."
"Right.
Instead, Gwen found the cat. It was a warning. To cease and desist. That's the
way The Seven works. One warning, then they act."
Hunter
listened, his sense of unease growing. "How do you know any of that's
true, Avery? She could have ransacked her own place, lied about the cat, the
phone call and notes. All in an effort to convince you it was true. To gain
your trust."
She shook
her head. "I was at The Guesthouse when she returned. She was frightened,
Hunter. Terrified."
She slid
the piece of newspaper across the table. "Last night Gwen and I found
this. On Trudy Pruitt's bedroom floor."
Hunter
gazed at the clipping. The woman had drawn devil horns and a goatee on the
picture of Avery's father, yet Avery seemed so matter-of-fact about the item it
was as if finding such an upsetting thing in a murdered woman's bedroom was an
everyday occurrence.
"Look
here, in the margin," she continued. "She was tallying something,
keeping score."
'"All
but two,'" he murmured. "What do you think it means?"
"I
believe she was counting the dead so far. My dad was number five."
"Plus
two equals seven."
"I
noticed that."
"Okay,
you have my full attention."
She tapped
the page. "The way I figure it, these were either people she believed had
been involved in the cover-up of Sallie Waguespack's murder or ones who knew
the truth about it."
"Presuming
there was a cover-up."
"Yes."
She stood and began to pace. "You're a lawyer… Who would have been
involved in the investigation?"
"I'm
not a criminal attorney, but obviously you've got a murderer and a victim.
Person or persons who discovered the body. First officer. Detectives,
criminalists. The coroner or his deputy."
"Witnesses,
if any."
"Right."
"Your
dad let me read the file," she said. "Officer Pat Greene was out on
patrol. He saw the Pruitt boys leaving Sallie Waguespack's. The boys had a
history of trouble with the law, so he decides he'd better check it out. He
finds the woman dead, then calls Buddy."
She
stopped, expression intent, as if working to recall the exact sequence of
events. "From Pat's description, Buddy figures it was the Pruitt brothers
Pat saw. He and Pat go looking for them. The meeting ends in a shoot-out that
left the boys dead."
"They
left the murder scene untended?"
She thought
a moment. "I can't remember. They may have waited for the coroner, but I
don't think so. According to the file, no other officer was called to the
scene."
"Go
on."
"The
murder weapon was found in the ditch behind the Pruitt's trailer. Donny's
prints were on it. One of the boys had the victim's blood on his shoe. They
opened fire on the police when approached and Pat Greene had already placed
them at the scene. Case closed. No need for further investigation, nice and
neat."
"Too
nice and neat, you're thinking?"
"Maybe"
"What
about the autopsy? As I understand it, an autopsy is always requested in a
murder case."
"It
wasn't in the file. Buddy thought it had been misplaced and promised to locate
it for me. I'll give him a call tomorrow."
Silence
fell between them. Hunter sensed her doing the same as he, considering the
possibilities, doing a mental tally. The numbers didn't add up.
"Let's
count who could have been involved," he said. "You've got two
officers at the scene, Dad and Pat Greene. You've got the coroner. That's
three. Throw in the victim and the Pruitts you've got six. Your dad could be
number seven, though how he fit in I'm not certain."
He drummed
his fingers against the tabletop. "Maybe she was counting the deaths of
The Seven? Maybe she was the one bumping them off? Maybe one of the last two
killed her first?"
"Maybe,
but I don't think so. Unless she had an accomplice. These deaths were made to
look like accidents. There was a level of sophistication I don't believe Trudy
Pruitt capable of."
"If
she had an accomplice, who would that be? Someone who thought as she did.
Someone with an ax to grind against Cypress Springs or a group of her
citizens."
Avery
thought a moment, then shook her head. "Then who killed Elaine St. Claire?
Not Trudy Pruitt, they were friends. She told Gwen that The Seven were
responsible for Elaine's death."
"Maybe
The Seven are the ones who killed Sallie Waguespack."
"That
doesn't work because the way I understand it, the Waguespack murder was the
catalyst for the formation of The Seven."
"But
you don't know that for sure."
She made a
sound of frustration. "No, dammit. All I have is speculation."
"And a
growing number of dead." He stood and crossed to her. "Let's back up
again. Who could have known the truth about Sal-lie Waguespack's death?"
"The
Pruitt boys. Buddy. Pat Greene. My dad, because Trudy Pruitt implicated
him."
"Trudy
herself," he offered. "Maybe whoever prepared Sallie for
burial."
"Oh my
God."
"What?"
She crossed
to the counter, to her notebook. She ran a finger down the column of names,
mouth moving as she silently read them.
He watched
her, a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "What?"
She lifted
her gaze to his. "Everyone we named is dead, Hunter. Except your
dad."
The words
landed heavily between them. Hunter stared at her, his world shifting slightly.
"That can't be."
"It
is." She held the steno pad out and he saw that her hand trembled.
"Take a look."
He shook
his head, but didn't reach for the notebook. "Do you realize what you're
saying?"
She nodded
slowly, face pale.
Either
Buddy Stevens was a killer. Or next in line to die.
"Look
at the list," she said again. "Pat Greene, Dad, Kevin Gallagher,
Trudy Pru-"
"I
don't give a damn about your list!" The words exploded from him.
"You've gone around the bend with this thing, Avery. Way past
rational."
She took a
step back, expression hurt. "This doesn't mean your dad's the one. He
could be in danger, Hunter. If so, we need to warn him."
It was
bullshit. Nothing went on in this town without his dad knowing, never had. Who
better than the chief of police to orchestrate a cover-up? Who better than a
lawman to arrange deaths to look like accidents?
Hunter
tipped his face to the ceiling, thoughts racing. Reviewing the things they had
discussed, the key players in the Wagues-pack investigation.
But why?
After all these years? Had someone threatened to blow the whistle on them all?
That didn't
make sense. His father killing old friends in an effort to quiet them fifteen
years after the fact didn't make sense.
Someone
else was the perpetrator.
His dad was
in danger.
He looked
at Avery. "What about the coroner? Is he on your list?"
"Dr.
Harris. No, he's not." She glanced at the steno pad as if to reconfirm her
answer, then looked back at him. "Dr. Harris has been the parish coroner
on and off for twenty-eight years."
"Was
he coroner in 1988?"
"I
don't know. If he was-"
"Then
Dad's not the last."
CHAPTER 44
Gwen's eyes
snapped open. Heart pounding, she scrambled into a sitting position. She had
been dreaming about her brother. He had been trying to warn her.
As the
effects of the dream began to fade, a chill slid down her spine.
Something
was wrong.
Gwen moved
her gaze over the dark room, stopping on the window. From outside came the
sound of rain. A sudden, blinding flash of light.
She jumped,
then laughed softly at herself. At her jitters. The storm had awakened her. She
glanced at the bed stand. The clock's face, usually a reassuring glow in the
night, was dark.
The power
had gone out.
Gwen
climbed out of bed, heading for the bathroom.
She stopped
as her foot landed in something wet. She looked down at the floor, confused.
How-
A breeze
stirred against her ankles. She looked back at the window. It was closed.
Locked.
The
bathroom window. It faced the side yard. The big oak tree.
Lightning
illuminated the room. She lowered her gaze. Water, she saw. A trail of it from
the bathroom to the bed. She glanced over her shoulder at the half-open
bathroom door. The darkness beyond.
Someone,
waiting.
A cry
spilling past her lips, she bolted forward. He burst from the bathroom. Grabbed
her from behind. One strong arm circled her waist; a gloved hand covered her
mouth. Tightly. She was dragged backward.
He held her
pinned against his chest. She fought as best she could, kicking out, trying to
twist free of her assailant's grasp. He was too strong. His grip was so tight
over her nose and mouth she couldn't breathe. She grew light-headed. Pinpricks
of lights danced before her eyes.
He bent his
head close to hers. His labored breath was hot against her ear. He wore a ski
mask. The fuzzy knit tickled her cheek.
"You
have been judged, Gwen Lancaster. Judged and found guilty"
The Seven.
They had come for her.
As they had
come for Tom.
Terror
exploded inside her. It stole her ability to think. To resist. Was this what it
had been like for Tom? In the moments before the end, had he thought of her?
Their parents? Or had the fear stolen his ability to do that as well?
Don't give
in, Gwen. Keep your head.
It was as
if Tom had spoken to her. The sound of his voice moved over her, calming,
steadying. She had to keep her wits about her, not fall apart. Everybody made
mistakes. Slipped up. He would, too.
She needed
to be able to act at that moment. She forced herself to relax.
"We
warned you," he hissed. "Why didn't you go? Why did you have to
involve others? Now it's too late for you."
Others.
Avery.
She heard
what sounded like regret in his voice. She tried to respond, to apologize, to beg
for one last chance. Her words came out in pitiable whimpers against his hand.
"I
really am sorry," he murmured, forcing her forward, toward the bathroom.
"Sorry for the abominable state of the world that makes this necessary.
Sorry you were dragged into something that wasn't your battle. But this is war.
In war collateral damage is inevitable."
Collateral
damage. The unfortunate but unavoidable loss of life.
Had he said
the same to Tom? The others?
They
reached the bathroom. He forced her through the door, shutting it behind them.
Lightning flashed. What it illuminated sent fear spiraling through her. A black
plastic drop cloth laid out in the old-fashioned claw-footed tub. Several
lengths of rope. A knife, its jagged edge gleaming against the black plastic.
She dug in
her heels, fighting him in earnest. The mistake wasn't coming, she realized. He
had thought this through, every detail.
What of
Avery, she thought dizzily. Had she been killed already? Had she suffered the
knife as well?
She didn't
want to die.
Tears
flooded her eyes. Her vision blurred. She didn't want to die this way.
He made a
sound of disappointment. "This isn't about me. Or you. It's so much bigger
than either of us." He forced her closer to the tub. "I know what
you're thinking. That Cypress Springs is too small and inconsequential for what
happens here to make a difference in the world. You're wrong. Consider what
happens when you toss a pebble in the pool, how that little plunk affects the
entire pool in ever-widening ripples. So too with us.
"Our
influence is spreading. We're branching out into other small communities.
Finding others who think as we do. Others who are sick of the filth. The drugs.
The moral decay that has spread to every nook and cranny of this country.
Others who believe the end justifies the means."
Gwen began
to cry. She shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the knife.
"Time
for sentencing, Gwen Lancaster."
He turned
quickly, dragging her with him, propelling her forward. Before she could grasp
what was happening, her head smashed into the doorjamb.
Pain
exploded behind her eyes. Her world went black.
CHAPTER 45
Avery gazed
out at the rain-soaked morning. Leaves and branches littered the yard; a limb
from the neighbor's tree had fallen and partially blocked her driveway.
Hunter had
left hours ago, sometime before the storm hit. He'd used Sarah as an excuse.
She had known the truth to be otherwise; he had wanted to be alone. To sort
through his thoughts, come to grips with them.
Whatever
they were. She wasn't certain. He had been shaken, that she knew. But
noncommittal. Almost secretive.
They'd gone
over the list again. And again. With the possible exception of the coroner,
every person involved with the investigation had died recently. And
unexpectedly.
She closed
her eyes, picturing the notations Trudy Pruitt had made on the newspaper-All
but two.
Was Buddy
Stevens one of those two? Was his life in danger?
Or was he a
killer?
Avery
turned away from the window. Buddy Stevens was a good man. The very epitome of law
and order. To imagine him as otherwise was to ponder the ridiculous.
Then why
did she have this heavy feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach?
No. She
squeezed her eyes shut. Buddy wasn't a part of this. And she wouldn't lose him
to a killer.
Avery made
her way to the kitchen. She and Hunter had agreed that she would call Dr.
Harris and Buddy this morning. The clock on the microwave revealed that it was
not quite eight. She would wait a few more minutes before trying the man.
And before
trying Gwen. Again.
Gwen hadn'
t called yesterday, neither Avery's home line nor her cell. So Avery had tried
the woman's cell while Hunter slept. The number had worked, but Gwen hadn't
answered. She had tried early this morning with the same result.
Avery sank
onto one of the kitchen chairs then returned to her feet, too antsy to sit. She
began to pace. Neither time she had left a message; now she wished she had. At
least Gwen would know they were still on the same side. And that she was okay.
Where was
her friend? Why hadn't she called?
Avery
stopped, picked up the phone and brought it to her ear, checking for a dial
tone. At the welcoming hum, she hesitated then punched in the woman's cell
number. It went straight to her message service, indicating she didn't have the
device on.
"Gwen,
hi. It's Avery. I have information. Call me."
She
replaced the receiver. Now what? Call The Guesthouse, going through the
operator? Try the hall pay phone? Or wait?
She decided
on the last. In the meantime she would call Dr. Harris.
The coroner
answered the phone himself, on the first ring. "Dr Harris. It Avery
Chauvin."
"Ms.
Chauvin," he said warmly. "How are you?"
"Better,"
she said. "Thank you for asking."
"Glad
to hear it. What can I do for you this morning?"
"I'm
working on a story about the Sallie Waguespack murder."
"Did
you say Waguespack?"
"I
did."
"My,
that's an old one."
"Yes-1988.
Were you coroner at that time?"
"Nope.
That was during one of my hiatuses. Believe Dr. Bill Badeaux was coroner
then."
"Would
you know how I could contact him?"
"I'm
afraid that'd be tough, seeing he passed on."
That left
Buddy. He was the last one.
"I'm
sorry to hear that," she said, forcing normalcy into her tone. "Did
he pass away recently?"
"A
year or so ago. Heard through the grapevine. He'd moved away from the parish
way back."
A year or
so. Maybe he had been the first.
Her legs
began to shake. She found a chair and sank onto it.
"Ms.
Chauvin? Are you okay?"
"Absolutely."
She cleared her throat. She wanted to ask how the man had died, but didn't want
to arouse his suspicions, especially in light of what she intended to ask next.
"Did Buddy Stevens get in touch with you?"
"Buddy?
No, was he supposed to?"
"He
couldn't find the Waguespack autopsy report. He was going to give you a call.
Probably slipped his mind."
"
'Course, the autopsy would have been done in Baton Rouge, but I'd have a copy.
I tell you what, I'll pull it and give you a call back."
"Could
you do it now, Dr. Harris? I'm sorry to be such a pest, but my editor gave me
an unreal deadline on this story."
"I
can't." He sounded genuinely sorry. "I was on my way over to the
hospital when you called and it's going to take a few minutes to locate the
file."
"Oh."
She couldn't quite hide her disappointment.
"I
tell you what, I should be back in a couple hours. I'll take care of it then.
What number should I call?"
To ensure
she wouldn't miss him, Avery gave him her cell number. "Thank you, Dr.
Harris. You've been a big help."
She hung
up, then dialed Hunter. He answered right away.
"It's
Avery," she said. "A Dr. Bill Badeaux was West Feliciana Parish
coroner in 1988. He died about a year ago."
"Shit.
How?"
"I was
afraid to come off too nosy. I figured it wouldn't be too hard to find out. One
trip over to the Gazette-"
"I'll
do it."
"But-"
"But
nothing. You've already poked around over there. I don't want you drawing any
more attention to yourself."
"You
think I'm right, don't you? About The Seven?"
She heard a
rustling sound from the other end of the phone, then Sarah began to bark.
"I'll let you know," he said. "Where are you going to be?"
His voice
had changed. Become tight. Angry-sounding. "Are you all right?" she
asked.
"Fine."
In the
background Sarah was going nuts. A thought occurred to her. "Are you
alone?"
"Not
completely."
"I
don't understand. I-"
"Stay
put. I'll call you back."
"But-"
"Promise."
She
hesitated, then agreed.
The next
instant, the phone went dead.
CHAPTER 46
Avery
showered and dressed. Made her bed and separated her laundry before throwing a
load of whites in the washer. Then she foraged through the refrigerator and
checked her e-mail via her laptop. She responded evasively to her editor's
query about progress on her story and figured everyone else could wait.
Time ticked
past at an agonizing pace. She glanced at the clock every couple of minutes.
After nearly an hour, she acknowledged she couldn't stand another minute of
inactivity.
Bringing
both the portable and cell phone with her, she headed upstairs. As she reached
the top landing, her gaze settled on the framed photographs that lined the long
hallway wall. She had always jokingly called it her parents' wall of fame.
How many
times had she walked past all these photos without looking at them? Without
considering the fact that she was pictured in almost every one? How could she
have taken her parents' love so for granted?
She
stopped, pivoted to her right. Her gaze landed on a photo of her as a toddler.
Her first steps, Avery thought, taking in her mother on her knees on the floor,
arms out. Coaxing and encouraging her. Promising she would be there to catch
her.
Avery moved
her gaze across the wall. Baby pictures, school portraits, pictures from every
imaginable holiday and event of her life. And in a great number of them, there
stood her mother, looking on with love and pride.
She took in
the photograph of her first steps once more, studying her mother's expression.
The truth was, she hadn't known her mother at all. What had been her hopes,
dreams and aspirations? She had longed to be a writer. Yet Avery knew nothing
of her writing.
She had
always blamed her mother for their distant relationship, but perhaps the fault
had been hers. She'd had her father, and loving him had been so easy.
She, it
seemed, was the one who had taken the easy way. The one who had settled-for a
loving relationship with one parent instead of two. If only she had her
mother's journals. In them resided her mother's heart and soul. Her beliefs and
wishes, disappointments and fears. The opportunity to know her mother.
Her father
wouldn't have thrown them out. Her mother-the woman pictured in these
photographs-would not have destroyed them, even if she had given up on them.
They were
here. Somewhere.
Avery
started for the attic, a sense of urgency settling over her. A sense that time
was running out.
She reached
the attic. Scanned the rows and stacks of cartons. In one of these boxes she
would find the journals. Stored with other items. Hidden beneath.
She began
the search, tearing through the cartons-her mother's clothing, personal items,
other books, family memorabilia.
She found
them in the box housing Avery's doll collection. The dolls her mother had
insisted on buying and lining Avery's bed-room shelves with-despite Avery's
disdain for them.
Her mother
had packed the volumes neatly, arranging the books in chronological order. The
first one was dated 1965. Her mother had been seventeen. The last one dated
August 1990-just as Lilah had said, her mother had given up journaling the
August when Avery had gone off to university.
Avery
trailed a finger over the spines with their perfectly aligned, dated labels.
She stopped on the one dated January through June 1988.
All the
answers she sought were here, she thought, pulse quickening. About Sallie
Waguespack's death and her father's part in it. Perhaps ones about The Seven,
their formation.
But other
answers were here as well. Ones to personal questions, personal issues that had
plagued her all her life.
Sallie
Waguespack could wait, she decided, easing the volume dated 1965 from its slot.
Her mother could not.
Avery began
to read. She learned about a girl raised by strict, traditional parents. About
her dreams of writing. She learned that her mother had been a deeply passionate
woman, that she had often been afraid, that in her own way she had rebelled
against her parents' strict upbringing.
Through her
mother's words, Avery relived the day she met Phillip Chauvin, their first
date. Their courtship, wedding. The first time they made love. Avery's birth.
Avery
struggled to breathe evenly. She realized her cheeks were wet with tears.
Her mother
had given up a lot to be a wife and mother.
But what
she had gotten in return had been huge.
She had
loved being a mother. Had loved being Avery's mother. She had described with
pride her daughter's determination. That she was different from the other
girls-that she seemed insistent on marching to her own tune.
She baffles
me. I put a bow in her hair and when I'm not looking, she rips it out. Today
Avery won first prize in the parish-wide essay contest. She read her essay to
the class. I hid my tears. Her talent takes my breath away. Secretly, I smile
and think, "She got that from me. My gift to my precious daughter."
Avery wiped
tears from her cheeks and read on, this time from the 1986 journal.
She breaks
my heart daily. Doesn't she know I want the world for her? Doesn't she know how
frightened I am of losing her?
And then
later she poured out her heart.
I've lost
her. She and I have nothing in common. She turns to her dad, always. They laugh
together, share everything. I often think I made a huge mistake. If I'd pursued
my writing, we would have had something in common. Maybe then she wouldn't look
at me as if she thought I had no purpose in her life. That I had wasted my
life.
Avery
selected the last volume next-1990, the year she had graduated from high
school.
Where did I
go wrong? How did she and I grow so far apart? She's leaving Cypress Springs. I
begged her to stay. Even as I thought of my own choices, my mistakes and
regrets, I pleaded with her. I shared my dreams, but it is too late.
Avery
closed the book, hands shaking, fighting not to fall apart. She had accused her
mother of not loving her. But her mother had loved her deeply. Avery had
accused her of trying to change her, of trying to mold her into someone
different, something other than who she was.
But her
mother had understood and admired her for the person she was, different from
the other girls, the one who had never fit in.
In truth,
her mother had never fit in either. Not with her own parents. Not with her
community. Not with her daughter.
She and her
mother had been just alike.
Avery
pressed her lips together, holding back a sound of pain. If only she had read
the journals before her mother died. If only she had let go of her pride.
She had
wanted to. She'd been sorry for the way she'd acted, the way she had hurt her
mother. Instead of acting on the emotion, she had let pride control her. She
had been so certain she was right.
So, she had
stayed away. Nursed her feeling of self-righteous indignation.
And had
missed out on so much. Time with her mother and father. Now it was too late.
To be with
them. But not for justice for Sallie Waguespack and the Pruitt brothers.
She located
the appropriate volume and flipped through to the entry for June 19, the day
after Sallie Waguespack's murder.
That poor
woman. And pregnant, too. It's too horrible to contemplate.
Her mother
had then gone on to describe other, mundane events.
Avery
frowned, her investigative instincts kicking into over-drive. Pregnant? Nothing
else she had read had mentioned the woman being pregnant. Avery flipped ahead,
looking for another reference.
She didn't
find one. Could her mother have been mistaken? That didn't seem likely. Where
had she gotten her information?
Maybe from
her husband, Avery thought. The local general practitioner. Perhaps Sallie
Waguespack's physician. Probably.
So why had
that information been kept from the public?
Avery read
on, heart racing, realizing that all the answers she sought were here, in her
mother's words.
Phillip was
quiet today. Something is terribly wrong but he won't speak of it.
And then
later,
Phillip and
Buddy argued. They aren't speaking and it pains me that such good friends are
being torn apart by something like this.
Something
like what? Avery wondered. Sallie Waguespack's murder? Had they been on
opposite sides of the tide of public opinion?
Avery found
no further mention of conflict between the two friends or about the murder or
investigation until a passage that caused her heart to skip a beat.
Buddy has
involved himself in something…a group. There's seven of them. Something secret.
I heard him trying to convince Phillip to join.
Avery
stopped, working to collect her thoughts. Buddy a member of the original Seven?
Trying to convince her father to join? She read on.
Phillip
went out tonight; he met with that group, The Seven. He seemed troubled when he
returned. I'm concerned… Everything is different now. Everything has…changed.
Avery
glanced at her watch, shocked to see that nearly two hours had passed already.
There were so many journals yet to read. She needed another pair of eyes.
Hands
shaking, she dug in her pocket for the paper she had scrawled Gwen's cell
number on. She dialed the number, left a message and stood, a ripple of unease
moving over her. Where was Gwen?
To hell
with stealth, she decided, hurrying for the attic stairs, stopping when she
reached them. Turning, she darted back to the boxes of journals. She bent,
collected the ones from 1988 and 1990, then ran for the stairs.
Minutes
later, journals stuffed into her handbag, she backed her SUV down the driveway.
She reached The Guesthouse in no time at all, parked in front and hurried up
the walk. As she made a move to grab the doorknob, the door opened.
Avery
jumped backward, making a sound of surprise.
Her old
friend Laurie stepped through.
"Avery,"
she said, looking startled. "This is so weird. I was just thinking about
you. I've meant to call or stop by, but it's been nuts around here what with
Fall Festival and-"
"Don't
worry about it. It's good to see you."
Laurie
glanced at her watch. "I'd love to chat, but I'm late."
"Actually,
I stopped by to see Gwen Lancaster. Is she in?"
Laurie drew
her eyebrows together. "Gwen Lancaster? The woman in 2C?"
"Yes.
Is she here?"
"I
don't know. I haven't seen her today."
"When's
the last time you did see her? It's important."
The other
woman frowned. "I don't know…I don't keep tabs on our guests."
Realizing
how she sounded, Avery forced a laugh. "Of course you don't. If she's not
there, could I leave her a note?"
"Sure,
Avery. No law against that." She hitched her purse strap higher on her
shoulder, started off, then stopped and looked back at Avery, eyes narrowed.
"Gwen Lancaster's not from around here. How do you know her?"
Avery
lifted a shoulder in feigned nonchalance. "We met down at the Azalea Cafe.
Hit it off."
"Oh."
Laurie frowned slightly. "Her brother's the one who disappeared. Tom. He
stayed with us, too."
"I'd
heard that."
"A
girl can't be too careful, Avery."
Chill bumps
raced up her arms. Had that been a warning? A threat?
Or nothing
at all but small-town gossip?
"It
seems that in this case," Avery murmured, "a guy can't be too
careful, either."
The woman
hesitated, then laughed, the sound lacking warmth. "I've got to go,"
she said. "See you around."
Avery
watched her walk away, then turned and headed inside. The front desk was empty;
she trotted up the stairs, to the end of the hall.
She half
expected to find Gwen's door as she had last time- propped open, chaos inside.
It was
closed tight. She knocked, waited a moment, then knocked again.
"Gwen," she called softly. "It's Avery."
Still no
answer. From downstairs came the sound of the front door opening and closing.
She glanced over her shoulder, saw she was alone, then tried the door. And
found it locked.
Reassured,
she took the notepad and pen out of her purse, scrawled a brief note asking
Gwen to call her on her cell, ASAP, telling her she had found something
important. She wrote the number, bent and slid the note under the door.
She turned
and found Laurie standing a dozen feet behind her. Avery laughed nervously.
"You surprised me, Laurie. I thought you'd left."
"This
is a nice place to live, Avery," the woman said. "You don't know,
you've been away."
"Pardon
me?"
"Folks
around here like things the way they are. I thought you should know that."
Avery
stared at her old friend, heart thundering. "You're referring to The
Seven, aren't you?"
"I
don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes,
you do. The Seven. The ones who keep Cypress Springs a nice place to live. By
whatever means necessary."
"Gwen
Lancaster is a troublemaker. An outsider." Laurie took a step back.
"We take care of our own. You should know that. You used to be one of us,
too."
CHAPTER 47
Hunter!"
Avery called, rapping on his door. "It's me. Avery."
When he
didn't answer after a moment, she called out again, urgency pressing at her.
Time was running out. She had found the clues to the past and Sallie
Waguespack's murder. She had proof The Seven existed. She had figured out how
her father had been killed. She knew from experience that once the pieces of a
story began falling into place, anything could happen. And it usually happened
fast.
She needed
to uncover the killer's identity. Why he had done it.
Before it
was too late. Before he killed again.
If he
hadn't already,
Sarah
whined and pawed at the door. Avery peered through the window at the obviously
empty kitchen. Where was Hunter? It had been several hours since they'd spoken;
he'd said he would get back to her. Why hadn't he?
She checked
her watch, frowning. He could have gone for a run.
To the
grocery or out for lunch. He could be over at the Gazette, researching how Dr.
Badeaux had died.
Sure, she
reassured herself. That was it. He was fine. He-
He'd
sounded strange when they spoke. Sarah had been going nuts in the background.
Barking. Growling.
Are you
alone?
Not
completely.
Panicked,
she tried the door. She found it unlocked and stumbled inside.
"Hunter," she called. "Hunter!"
She moved
her gaze over the kitchen. Nothing appeared out of order and she hurried to the
living room. Hunter's computer was on, a document on the screen. She swung to
the right. The puppies slept in the pen Hunter had constructed for them, a heap
of soft, golden fur.
Nothing out
of place.
Turning,
she crossed to Hunter's bedroom. And found it much as she had the rest of the
apartment. Feeling more than a little neurotic, she checked under the bed and
in the closet.
Nothing.
Thank God.
She laughed
to herself and turned. Her gazed landed on Sarah. The dog sat at the closed
bathroom door, nose pressed to the crack. She whined, pawed at the door.
The breath
hissed past Avery's lips; her knees went weak.
Screwing up
her courage, she inched toward the closed door. She reached the dog. Hand
visibly trembling, Avery reached for the knob, grasped it and twisted.
The door
eased open. Sarah charged through. Avery stumbled in after. Something brushed
against her ankles and a scream flew to her throat.
A puppy,
Avery realized. One of Sarah's pups had gotten locked in the bathroom.
Avery
crossed to the commode, sank onto it. She dropped her head into her hands. She
was losing it. Going around the bend at the speed of light.
As if
sensing her distress, Sarah laid her head in Avery's lap. Avery stroked the
dog's silky head and ears, then patted her side. "I bet I look pretty
silly to you."
The dog
thumped her tail against the tile floor.
"Where'd
he go, girl?"
Sarah
lifted her head, expression baleful. Avery pressed her forehead to the dog's.
"Right. He didn't take me either. How about we wait together?"
Sarah
wagged her tail, collected her wayward pup by the scruff of its neck and
carried it back to its brothers and sisters.
Avery
followed, thoughts racing. Hunter had left his computer on, document up. She
crossed to his desk, sat and closed the document. She saw that he had last
saved at 7:37 that morning. Right about the time she had called. Just before.
That meant that he hadn't written since they'd spoken. She glanced at her
watch. Five hours ago.
She
frowned. Computer on. Document up. Door unlocked. Where could he have gone?
A scrap of
paper peeking out from the keyboard caught her eye. She inched it out.
Gwen 's
name. Her room number at The Guesthouse.
Avery gazed
at the notation. At Hunter's bold print. A tingling sensation started at her
fingertips and spread. Why had he written this? Why would he have needed to
know her room number?
Hunter had
left before the storm hit. Because of Sarah, he'd said. How did she know he'd
even gone home? Maybe he had left her and gone to Gwen's?
She had
told him about Gwen. Everything. How they had met. About her brother. The
gutted cat. That she had interviewed Trudy Pruitt.
He had
stopped on that, she recalled. He had looked strange, she remembered. Shaken.
Hunter's
voice on the answering machine.
Avery
brought a hand to her mouth, thoughts tumbling one over another. Hunter had
returned to Cypress Springs about ten months ago.
About the
time the rash of unexpected deaths had started.
No. She
shook her head. Not Hunter.
Cherry's
words rang in her head. He's come home to hurt us. To punish us.
Someone her
father had trusted, someone he would open the door to in the middle of the
night.
"Your
father and I had become friends. Every time we were together, he talked about
you."
Run, Avery.
Go as fast as you can.
With a
sense of inevitability, Avery reopened the computer document and read:
His
thoughts settled on vengeance. On the act he had just carried out. Some thought
revenge an ugly, futile endeavor. He fed on it. On thoughts of the pain he
could inflict. Punishment deserved-
Avery
leaped to her feet. The chair went sailing backward. Not Hunter! It couldn 't
be true.
She took a
deep breath, fighting for calm. A clear head. Her gaze settled on the desk once
again, its drawers. She tried them. And found them locked.
She had
found the paper with Gwen's name on it, maybe she would find something else.
She hoped
to God she didn't.
Turning,
she headed for the bedroom. She went to the closet, rifled through it, then
turned to the dresser. There, underneath some sweaters, she found a plastic
storage bag. With trembling fingers she eased it from under the garments and
held it up.
Tom
Lancaster's Tulane University ID card. A cheap gold crucifix. A man's class
ring.
A cry of
disbelief slipped past her lips. She dropped the bag, turned and ran blindly
for the door. What to do? Where to go? Buddy? Matt?
Gwen. Dear
God, let her be all right.
Even as the
prayer ran through her head, fear clawed at her. The sense of impending
disaster. That it was too late. That the clock had just stopped.
She had
been sleeping with the enemy.
She made it
to her car. Fighting hysteria, she unlocked it and climbed inside. It took her
three tries, but she finally got the keys into the ignition and the vehicle
started.
She glanced
out her window. Several people on the sidewalk had stopped and were staring at
her.
She jerked
away from the curb-a kid on a bike appeared before her and she slammed on the
brakes. The momentum of the vehicle jerked her against the safety harness,
knocking the wind out of her.
The kid
whizzed by. She collected herself and merged into traffic, gripping the
steering wheel so tightly her fingers went numb. The sound of a siren
penetrated her panic. She glanced in the rearview mirror. A sheriff's cruiser,
cherry lights flashing.
Matt! She
pulled over. Tumbled out of the vehicle and ran to him. He met her halfway.
Caught her in his arms.
"Avery,
thank God you're safe." He held her tightly to his chest. "When I
heard, I was so afraid-"
She clung
to him. "How did you know about Hunter? When did you find out?"
"Hunter?"
He frowned, searching her gaze, his concerned. "What are you talking
about?"
"But I
thought…the way you pulled me over…"
Her words
trailed off. She went cold with dread. "What's wrong, Matt? What's
happened?"
"Your
parents' house is on fire. I just got the call."
CHAPTER 48
Avery left
her car and rode with Matt. She smelled the fire a block before she saw the
flames. Saw the smoke billowing up into the pristine blue spring sky. The two
trucks came into view next, the pumper and water truck, lights flashing. Half a
dozen guys had turned out, the firefighters in their chartreuse coats and
helmets, hoses spewing water at the dancing flames.
Then she
caught sight of the house. The fire had completely en-gulfed the structure. A
cry ripped past her lips. Until that moment, she had hoped-prayed-Matt was
wrong. That it was a mistake.
Matt
stopped the car and she stumbled out. The heat slammed into her, the acrid
smell of smoke. Her eyes and throat burned. She brought a hand to her mouth,
holding back a cry.
Neighbors
clustered around the perimeter of the scene, huddling together, their
expressions ranging from fear and disbelief to horrified fascination. They
glanced at her, then looked away. As if ashamed. As if in meeting her eyes, her
tragedy became theirs.
And because
they were so very grateful this had happened to her not them.
If they
looked away, maybe they could pretend it hadn 't happened.
She hugged
herself, chilled despite the heat. Lucky them. She wished she could pretend.
That her childhood home wasn't in flames. Gone, she thought. All her parents'
things. Mementos. The photographs she had looked at that very morning. Gone.
Forever.
She had
nothing left to remember them by.
"Wait
here," Matt said. "I'm going to see if I can help." He
hesitated, searching her expression, his concerned. "Are you going to be
all right?"
A
hysterical-sounding laugh raced to her lips. Oh sure, she thought. Just dandy.
"Fine,"
she managed to say. "Go."
He squeezed
her hand, then disappeared. She watched him, and turned at the sound of her
name. Buddy had arrived and was hurrying toward her.
She ran to
him. He enfolded her in his arms, holding her tightly. "When the call came
in, I was so frightened. No one knew if you were in the house. Thank God you're
all right. Thank God."
She clung
to him. "What am I going to do, Buddy? I've lost everything."
"Not
us, baby girl," he said fiercely. "You haven't lost us."
"Where
will I go? Where is home now?"
"You
will stay with us as long as you like. We're your family now, Avery. That
hasn't changed. It will never change."
"Ms.
Chauvin?"
She glanced
over her shoulder at John Price, the firefighter she'd met at her father's
wake. He took off his helmet. His dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat,
his face black with soot. "I'm sorry we couldn't save it, Ms. Chauvin. I'm
really…sorry."
She nodded,
unable to speak. She shifted her gaze. Ben Mitchell, the arson investigator,
had arrived; he was conferring with Matt. They disappeared around the side of
the house.
"Do
you know how this happened?" she asked.
The fireman
shook his head. "Arson takes over from here."
"I
don't understand how…I was home this morning. I used my laptop, made some
coffee, everything was fine."
The man
shifted his helmet from one hand to the other, expression uneasy. "You
have to know how odd this is, considering your father's death."
Her dad had
burned. Now his house. A small sound passed her lips. Until that moment she
hadn't made that connection.
One of his
colleagues called him. "I've got to go. Ben's good, he'll figure it
out."
Buddy put
an arm around her shoulder. "Here comes Matt and Mitchell."
Avery
turned. Waited. When they reached her, Matt and his dad exchanged glances,
their expressions grim.
"Looks
like arson, Avery," Matt said. "Whoever did it left the fuel
can."
"Arson,"
she repeated. "But why…who-"
"Can
you account for your whereabouts for the last few hours?" Ben Mitchell
asked.
"Yes,
I-"
The
journals. Going to The Guesthouse, looking for Gwen. Leaving the note.
Hunter.
Gwen's name and room number scrawled on paper by his computer.
"Avery?"
Matt laid his hands on her shoulders. "Earlier, you said something about
Hunter. You asked me how I had found out. What were you talking about?"
She stared
at her friend, mouth working. She fought to think clearly. To focus. Not to
panic.
Her
mother's journals. Evidence of The Seven. Of something wrong with the
Waguespack murder investigation.
All
destroyed in the fire. All but…
But she
hadn't told anyone about the journals.
"Avery?"
Matt shook her lightly. "Avery, what-"
"You
have to help me, Matt." She caught his hands. "You have to come with
me now."
"Avery,"
Buddy said softly, "you're in shock. You need to rest. Come home with me
and-"
"No!"
She shook her head. "A friend. Gwen Lancaster, she's in trouble." Her
voice rose. "You have to help me!"
"Okay,"
Buddy said softly, tone soothing. "I'll help you. We'll go find this
friend of yours. Everything will be fine."
"I'll
go, Dad." Matt looked from Avery to her father. "You've got your
hands full here."
Buddy
looked as if he wanted to argue, then nodded. "Okay, but keep me posted.
And bring her back to the ranch. Lilah and Cherry will get her fixed up for the
night."
Matt agreed
and they walked to his cruiser. He helped her into the vehicle, went around and
climbed behind the wheel. He looked at her. "Where are we going?"
"The
Guesthouse. I think there might have been another murder."
CHAPTER 49
Matt
flipped on the vehicle's cherry lights and siren and threw the cruiser into gear.
He flew through the streets, handling the vehicle like a professional driver,
the only indication of his distress the muscle that jumped in his jaw.
"What
the hell's going on, Avery?" He didn't take his eyes from the road.
"How do you know Gwen Lancaster?"
"It's
a long story." She wrapped her arms around her middle. "Do you know
her?"
"Yes,
because of her brother. I worked on the investigation." He paused. "I
felt real bad for her. She seemed like a nice person."
"And
now she's dead, too."
"We
don't know that."
"Then
where is she?" Her voice rose, hysteria pulling at her. "We were
supposed to talk. She didn't call. She wouldn't have left without-"
"Stop
it," he said sharply. "We don't know she's dead. Until there's a
body, we'll presume she's alive. Okay?"
They
arrived at The Guesthouse. He screamed to a stop; they piled out and hurried up
the walk. Unlike earlier, Laurie sat at the front desk. She stood as they
entered. "Matt, Avery, what-"
"Have
you seen Gwen Lancaster today?"
Her gaze
moved between them. "No, I-"
"Mind
if we go upstairs?" She shook her head. "We may need you to open the
door."
It was only
the second time Avery had seen Matt acting in an official capacity and she
acknowledged being impressed. And a bit taken aback. Gone was the aw-shucks small-town
sheriff, replaced by a determined lawman whose tone left no doubt he meant
business.
The three
hurried up the stairs. Matt rapped on Gwen's door. "Sheriff, Ms.
Lancaster." When he repeated the process without answer, he turned to
Laurie. "Open it, please."
Laurie
nodded, face deathly pale. She took out a master key, unlocked the door and
stepped back.
"Wait
downstairs for now. But don't leave the premises, I may need to question
you." He softened his tone. "Please, Laurie."
The woman
hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then backed toward the stairs. Avery
watched her, frowning. She looked frightened.
Did she
know more than she was telling? Had she played some part in Gwen's
disappearance?
Matt
unsheathed his service weapon. "Stay put, Avery." He stepped across
the threshold, Colt.45 out. "Sheriff!" he called.
He
disappeared into the unit, reappearing several moments later, features tight.
"Is
she-"
"No."
Avery
brought a hand to her chest, relieved. "Thank God. I was so worried."
"I'd
like you to look around. You might see something I missed." He paused.
"But don't touch anything. Take as few steps as possible."
"I
don't understand."
"The
fewer people through a crime scene the better."
"But
you said she…wasn't dead. You said you didn't find evidence of…"
Her words
trailed off. He hadn't said either of those things, she realized.
"Until
we find a body, we presume she's alive."
Obviously,
he hadn't found a body.
But he had
found something else.
She stepped
inside. Moved her gaze over the room. "She's cleaned up. The last time I
was here, the place had been ransacked."
"Ransacked?"
he repeated, scowling at her. "Just how much haven't you told me?"
She met his
eyes, feeling like an idiot. "A lot."
His mouth
thinned, but he didn't comment. Instead, he motioned to the room.
"Anything else?"
She
carefully studied the interior. The unmade bed, robe thrown over the foot.
Blinds open, Gwen's running shoes on the floor by the bed.
Her gaze
stopped at what appeared to be a puddle. "The floor's wet."
"Excuse
me?"
"Look."
She
pointed. He crossed to the spot, squatted, dipped his middle and index fingers
into the liquid and brought his fingers to his nose. "Water."
He shifted
his gaze toward the bathroom. "There's another."
In all they
found three in what appeared to be a line from the bathroom to the bed.
"What
do you think it means?" she asked.
"Don't
know yet." He touched her arm. "I need you to take a look at
this."
He led her
to the bathroom. A circular-shaped bloodstain marred the white wooden door.
Splatters radiated from the circle, drips from the bottom of the stain.
Avery
stared at the mark, pinpoints of lights dancing in front of her gaze.
"Blood's
dry." He leaned close, examining the mark but not touching it. "A few
strands of hair," he murmured. "Maybe some tissue."
"I
don't feel so good," she said, swaying slightly.
He caught
her arm, steadying her. "Are you okay?"
"No."
He led her
out of the unit and into the hall. He ordered her to sit.
She did,
lowering her head to her knees. She breathed deeply through her nose until she
felt steady enough to lift her head.
"My
note's gone," she said.
"You
left a note?"
"Slid
it under her door. Around noon." She realized what that meant and brought
a hand to her chest, relieved. "If she picked it up, she's alive."
"If she
picked it up. Someone else may have."
"But
who? The door was locked." She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge he
had a point. "No, she got it."
"Avery-"
He squatted in front of her, caught her hands, gripping them tightly. "The
blood's completely dry. It's been there a while."
"I
don't understand what you're…" Her words trailed off as she got it.
"I'm
sorry, Avery. I really am."
She brought
her head to her knees once more.
"She
could have fallen," he said softly. "Have you checked the
hospitals?"
She looked
up, hopeful. "No."
"I'll
do it. I need to make a few calls, including one to Dad. Order an evidence crew
over. Talk to Laurie, her family. The other guests. But first, I think we
should talk."
"Talk,"
she repeated weakly. "Now?"
"It's
important." He rubbed her hands between his. "I need you to tell me
everything. Are you up to it?"
She managed
a nod. "I'll try."
"That's
my girl. First, how did you become involved with Gwen Lancaster?"
As quickly
and as succinctly as she could, Avery filled him in on how she and Gwen had
become acquainted. She explained about Gwen coming to her with proof of The
Seven's existence. The suicides, the freak accidental deaths. "I didn't
believe her until I researched at the Gazette. When I saw all the deaths…there…in
black and white, I couldn't ignore her. Plus, she believed my father was
murdered."
"And
that's what you believed?"
She laced
her fingers. "I just couldn't accept he had killed himself."
"Go
on."
"So we
joined forces."
He paused a
moment as if mulling over what she had told him, putting the various pieces
together, filling in the blanks. "Why did you believe she had been
murdered?"
"Because
we had arranged to speak by phone and I wasn't able to reach her. And because
The Seven knew she was onto them. They had given her a warning."
He frowned.
"What kind of warning?"
"A
gutted cat. They ransacked her room. Stole her notes and interview tapes."
When he simply stared at her, she stiffened her spine. "You think I'm
making all this up, don't you? You think I'm losing my mind."
"I
wish I did. As unbelievable as this all is, I can't discount it." He
pointed. "That bloodstain is stopping me. The fact that she's missing. And
that two other women are dead."
He paused.
"The note you left, what did it say, Avery?"
"To
call me. That I had found some evidence." It seemed a lifetime already
since this morning, so much had happened. "Sallie Waguespack was pregnant,
Matt."
He looked
startled. "Are you certain?"
"It
was in my mother's journals. She had…boxes of-" Her voice broke.
All gone.
Her parents. Her childhood home. Every memento of growing up, ash now.
"He
burned my house down. Because of the journals. He found out somehow. He killed
Gwen. And the others. I found evidence. Trophies."
Matt leaned
toward her. "Who, Avery? Who did it?"
"Hunter,"
she said, words sticking in her throat. "I think Hunter did it."
CHAPTER 50
After the
sheriff's department criminalists arrived at the scene, Matt drove her out to
his parents' house. As they drove across town, she detailed everything that had
happened in the past few days-about her and Gwen going to Trudy Pruitt's
trailer and finding Hunter's message on the woman's voice mail; discovering
Gwen's name and room number scrawled on a paper by his computer; realizing that
all the deaths had begun after Hunter's return to Cypress Springs; and then
finding the Ziploc bag of personal items that had obviously belonged to the
victims.
"It's
my fault," she said as he drew the vehicle to a stop in the driveway.
"I told him about Gwen. About what we discovered. That she had interviewed
Trudy Pruitt." Her voice thickened. "I trusted him, Matt."
He turned
and drew her into his arms. Held her tightly. When he released her, she saw
that his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
She
realized how hard this must be for him. Hunter was his brother. His twin.
His other
half.
She brought
a hand to his cheek. "Matt, I don't know what to say. I wish-"
"Shh."
He brought her hand to his mouth. "We'll have time for this later. I have
to go. Are you going to be all right?"
She forced
lightness into her tone. "With Lilah and Cherry cooing and clucking over
me, are you kidding?"
He glanced
toward the doorway where his mother and sister waited. "I'll come by
later. Okay?"
She said it
was and climbed out of the cruiser. She watched him back out of the driveway,
then turned and started toward the two women.
Lilah
hugged her. "Avery, honey, I don't know what to say. I'm devastated."
Cherry
touched her arm. "Don't worry about a thing, Avery. If I don't have
something you need, I'll go out and buy it."
"Buddy
called. He said it was arson." Lilah shuddered. "Who would do such a
thing?"
Avery
didn't want to talk about it. Truth was, she had neither the energy nor heart
for it.
There would
be time for talking, hashing and rehashing. Time to break it to Lilah what her
son had become. She prayed she wasn't around when that happened.
"Would
you mind terribly if we didn't talk about it right now? I'm
just…overwhelmed."
"Poor
baby. Of course I don't mind." The woman's cheeks turned rosy. "Maybe
you should lie down, take a little nap. I know everything is clearer when I'm
rested."
"Thank
you, Lilah. You're so good to me."
The woman
looked at her daughter. "Why don't you take Avery up to the guest room.
I'll get some towels and soap for the guest bath."
"Sure."
She smiled sympathetically at Avery. "I'll grab you a change of clothes,
in case you want to clean up."
"Thanks,"
Avery said, realizing then that she smelled of smoke.
They
started upstairs. Halfway up, Lilah stopped them. Avery glanced back. "I'm
fixing baked macaroni and cheese for supper. With blueberry pie for dessert.
We'll eat about six."
Avery
managed a small smile, though thoughts of eating couldn't be farther from her
mind.
Cherry left
her at the guest room, then returned moments later with clothes and a basket of
toiletries, including a new toothbrush. Cherry held the items out. "If you
need anything else, just ask."
Avery saw
real concern in her eyes. She experienced a twinge of guilt for her former
suspicions about the other woman. "Thank you, Cherry, I…really appreciate
this."
"It's
the least I-" She took a step backward. "Bathroom's all yours."
"Thanks."
Avery hugged the items to her chest. "I think I…a shower will be
nice."
"Are
you going to be all right?"
"I'll
manage. Thanks for worrying about me. It means a lot."
Avery
watched Cherry hurry down the hall, then retreated to the silence of her room.
As that silence surrounded her, the smell of the fire filled her head.
With it
came the image of her family's home being engulfed in flames. And a feeling of
despair. Of betrayal.
Hunter, how
could you?
Turning,
she carried the toiletries and clothes to the guest bath, which was accessible
from the bedroom. A Jack and Jill-style bath, consisting of one bath and
commode area, flanked on either side by individual sink and dressing areas. She
locked the door that led to the other bedroom's dressing area.
A half hour
later she stepped out dressed in the pair of lightweight, drawstring cotton
pants and white T-shirt Cherry had lent her, the smell of the fire scrubbed
from her hair and skin. She towel-dried and combed her hair, then crossed to
the bed. Sank onto a corner.
She closed
her eyes. Her head filled with images-of fire engulfing her home, of Gwen's
name and room number scrawled on a paper by Hunter's manuscript, of blood
smeared across the wall of Trudy Pruitt's trailer.
Her cell
phone rang.
She jumped,
startled, then scrambled across the bed for her purse. She grabbed it, dug
inside for the device. She answered before it rang a third time. "Gwen, is
that-"
"Ms.
Chauvin?"
Her heart
sank. "Yes?"
"Dr.
Harris. I apologize for it having taken so long for me to get back to you, I
had some trouble locating the information you needed."
Avery
frowned, confused. Dr. Harris? Why was he-
Then she
remembered-the autopsy report. Her call to the coroner that morning seemed a
light-year ago.
"Ms.
Chauvin, are you there?"
"Yes,
sorry. It's been a rough day."
"And
I'm afraid my news won't make it any better. There was no autopsy performed on
Sallie Waguespack."
"No
autopsy," she repeated. "Aren't autopsies always performed in the
case of a murder?"
"Yes,
I'm surprised as well. That said, however, because of the circumstances, the
coroner determined an autopsy unnecessary."
"The
coroner has that option?"
"Certainly."
He paused a moment. "With a typical homicide, the lawyers will require
one. The police or victim's family."
"But
the Waguespack murder wasn't a typical homicide."
"Far
from it. The perpetrators were dead, there would be no trial. No lawyers
requiring proof of cause of death. The police had plenty of evidence to support
their conclusion, including the murder weapon."
"An
open and closed case," she murmured. Perfect for a setup. Everything tied
up nice and neat.
"Would
you have made that call, Dr. Harris?"
"Me?
No. But that's my way. When it comes to the cessation of life, I don't take
anything for granted." He paused, cleared his throat. "I have one
more piece of information that's going to surprise you, Ms. Chauvin. Dr.
Badeaux wasn't the coroner on this homicide."
She
straightened. "He wasn't. Then who-"
"Your
father was, Avery. Dr. Phillip Chauvin."
CHAPTER 51
Avery sat
stone still, heart and thoughts racing, cell phone still clutched in her hands.
Dr. Harris had explained. Dr. Badeaux had employed two deputy coroners, all
West Feliciana Parish physicians, all appointed by him. The coroner or one of
his deputies went to the scene of every death, be it from natural causes, the
result of accident, suicide or homicide.
The night
of the Waguespack murder, Dr. Badeaux had been winging his way to Paris for a
second honeymoon. Her dad had been the closest deputy coroner. When Dr. Badeaux
had returned, Sallie Waguespack had been in the ground. He had accepted his
deputy's call and it had stood for fifteen years.
"My
boys didn 't kill that Sallie Waguespack. They was framed."
"Your
father got what he deserved."
Trudy
Pruitt had been telling the truth. Her sons had been framed. And her father had
been a part of it.
Betrayal
tasted bitter against her tongue. She leaped to her feet, began to pace. She
couldn't believe her father would do this. She'd thought him the most honorable
man she had ever known. The most moral, upright.
The box of
clippings, she realized. That was why he had saved them all these years. As a
painful reminder.
What he'd
done would have eaten at him. She hadn't a doubt about that. All these
years…had he feared exposure? Or had he longed for it?
That was
it, she thought. The why. He hadn't been able to live with his guilt any
longer. But he hadn't killed himself. He had decided to come clean. Clear the
Pruitt boys' names. And he had been murdered for it. But why had he done it?
For whom had he lied? His best friend. Sheriff Buddy Stevens.
Avery
squeezed her eyes shut. Buddy had lied to her. The day she'd gone to see him,
about having found the clippings. She had asked him why her father would have
followed this murder so closely, why he would have kept the box of news stories
all these years. She had asked if her dad had been involved with the
investigation in any way.
Buddy had
claimed he hadn't had a clue why her father would have clipped those stories,
that her father hadn't been in any way involved in the investigation.
He'd been
up to his eyeballs in this. They both had been. She recalled the words in her
mother's journal. That after the murder everything had been different. That her
father and Buddy's relationship had been strained. Hunter had claimed that
their fathers never even spoke anymore.
What could
cause such a serious rift between lifelong friends?
The answer
was clear. For a friend, her dad had gone against his principles. Afterward, he
had hated both himself and his friend for it.
That poor
woman. And pregnant, too. Pregnant. With whose baby? Avery didn't like what she
was thinking. She glanced toward the doorway. Lilah was in the kitchen,
preparing dinner. She would know. Like her mother, she had lived through it.
Had watched as best friends grew distant, then to despise one another.
Avery
grabbed her handbag, with the two journals tucked inside, and slipped into her
shoes. She went to the bedroom door and peeked out. The house was quiet save
for sounds coming from the kitchen.
She slipped
into the hall and down the stairs. From the study came the sound of Cherry and
Buddy, talking softly. Avery tiptoed past the closed door and headed to the
kitchen.
Lilah
glanced over her shoulder at her and smiled. Avery saw that she was grating
cheese. She wore a ruffled, floral apron-a flour smudge decorated her nose and
right cheek. The blueberry pie, pretty as a picture from Bon Appetit, sat
cooling on a rack by the oven.
"You
look refreshed," she said brightly.
"At
least I don't reek of smoke anymore."
"There's
something to the whole comfort-food thing, don't you think?" She turned
back to her grating. "Macaroni and cheese, chicken pot pie, tuna
casserole. Good, old-fashioned stick-to-your-ribs stuff. Just thinking about it
makes one feel better."
If only it
was so easy, Avery thought, watching her work. If only life were so simple.
Like something out of Life magazine in the 1950s. Or an episode of an old TV
show.
Life wasn't
like that, no matter how much she longed for it to be. The picture Lilah
presented was wrong. She saw that now. A deception. An illusion.
A
picture-perfect mask to hide the truth from the world.
But what
was the truth?
Avery
opened her handbag and drew out the journal from 1988. "Lilah," she
said softly, "I need to ask you something. It's important."
The woman
glanced at her. Her gaze dropped to Avery's hands. "What's that?"
"One
of my mother's journals. I found it in my parents' attic."
"But I
thought your father had gotten rid of them."
"No.
Mother had packed them away. They were almost all lost in the fire."
Lilah's
expression altered slightly. Her gaze skittered from Avery's to the journal.
"Not that one."
"No.
Or one other."
"Thank
God for that."
"Yes."
Avery carefully slid it back into her purse. "I discovered something
interesting in this journal, Lilah. I wanted to ask you about it."
"Sure,
hon." She went to the refrigerator and retrieved a jug of milk. She filled
a measuring cup full. "What do you need to know?"
"Whose
baby was Sallie Waguespack carrying?"
The
measuring cup slipped from her fingers. It hit the counter-top and milk spewed
across the country-blue Formica. With a small cry, she began mopping up the
mess.
"Lilah?"
"I
don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes,
you do. Whose baby was it?"
Lilah's
movements stilled. The kitchen was silent save for the steady drip drip of milk
dropping onto the tile floor.
"They're
all dead now, Lilah. Everyone connected with the Waguespack murder
investigation. All of them but Buddy. Do you know how damning that is?"
Lilah
whimpered. Avery took a step toward her. "What really happened that night?
Buddy, my dad, Pat Greene, they were all in on it. All covering up for
somebody. Who was it, Lilah? Who?"
Avery
grabbed her arm. "Those boys were framed, weren't they? They didn't kill
Sallie Waguespack."
Lilah's
mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Avery shook her. "Those boys were
sacrificial lambs. It's in the journal, Lilah! I discovered it this morning.
You were the only person I mentioned the journals to. Who did you tell? That's
why my house was torched, to destroy the evidence!"
A sound of
pain escaped Lilah's lips. "No. Please, it's not-"
"Stop
protecting him, Lilah. You have to come clean. You have to make this
right." She lowered her voice, pleading. "Only you can do it, Lilah.
Only you can-"
"It
was Buddy's baby!" she said, the words exploding from her. "He
betrayed me, our children. This town. By day, Mr. Morality. Lecturing about how
the citizens needed to take action, restore Cypress Springs to a God-fearing,
law-abiding place to live. By night fornicating with that…with that cheap
whore!"
Her tears
came then, deep wrenching sobs. She doubled over. Her small frame shaking with
the force of her despair.
"And
she became pregnant."
"Yes."
Lilah looked up, expression naked with pain. "That's when Buddy confessed
to me what had been going on, that the woman was pregnant. I hadn't…I
never-"
She bit the
words back but they landed between them- She hadn 't known. She never
suspected.
Avery's
heart went out to the other woman. She had always thought the Stevenses had the
perfect marriage. Apparently, Lilah had thought so, too.
"She
was going to make trouble for him. She wanted to ruin him. Make it public.
Shame him…all of us."
Lilah met
Avery's gaze, calm seeming to move over her. "I couldn't have that. I
couldn't have my family exposed to his filth. I couldn't let that happen."
"What
did you do?" Avery asked softly, though she already knew.
"I
went to see her. To beg her to keep quiet. To do the right thing." An
angry sound escaped her. "The right thing? I was so naive. Sallie
Waguespack wouldn't know the right thing if it hit her with a sledgehammer.
"She
laughed at me. Called me pathetic. The stupid little house-wife." Lilah
fisted her fingers. "She bragged about how she seduced him, about the…sex
they had. She bragged about being pregnant. She promised that before she gave
up Chief Raymond 'Buddy' Stevens, she would drag him and his family through the
mud.
"We
were in the kitchen. I was crying, begging her to shut up. I saw a knife on the
counter." Lilah's eyes took on a glazed look. "I didn't do it on
purpose. You have to believe me."
"Go
on, Lilah. Tell me everything."
"I
picked up the knife and I…stabbed her. Again and again. I didn't even
realize…until…the blood. It was everywhere."
Avery took
a step back, found the counter, leaned on it for support. "So Buddy took
care of it for you," Avery whispered.
"Yes.
I didn't ask him to. He told me to stay put, that he would take care of
everything. But I didn't understand what that meant… didn't know until…the next
day."
He framed
the Pruitt boys. Manufactured the evidence against them and covered up the
evidence against his wife.
He called
upon his best friend to help. Pat Greene and Kevin Gallagher, too.
"I've
had to live with that all these years. The guilt. The self-hatred. Those
boys…what I did-"
She curved
her arms around her middle, seeming to fold in on herself. "We were all so
close back then. The best of friends. Buddy begged your daddy to lie, to make
the medical facts agree with the evidence. To not request an autopsy. It was
easy because the Pruitt boys were dead."
"And
nothing would have to stand up to the scrutiny of a trial."
"Yes.
Phillip couldn't live with the guilt at what he'd done. That's why he did it.
Why he killed himself. I wish to God I had the guts to do the same! My
children…my friends, I ruined everything!"
The kitchen
door flew open. Buddy charged through, Cherry behind him, expression stricken.
"Enough!"
he roared, face mottled with angry color.
Lilah
cringed. Cherry rushed to her mother's side, drew her protectively into her
arms.
Avery
turned to the man she had once thought of as a second father. "It's too
late, Buddy. How could you?"
"I
never wanted you to know, Avery," he said, tone heavy with regret.
"Your father didn't want you to know."
Avery
trembled with anger. With betrayal. "How do you know what my father
wanted? You used your friendship to force him to lie!"
He shook
his head. "I only wanted to protect my family. You understand that, don't
you, Avery? What happened wasn't Lilah's fault. I couldn't allow her to go to
jail for my mistakes. My sins. Your father understood. Sallie's death was a
crime of passion, not premeditated murder."
"Pat
Greene didn't see the Pruitt boys leaving Sallie Waguespack's that night, did
he?"
"No. I
told him I did. Confessed to having an affair with her. Asked him to help me
out. Because of how it looked."
"And
he believed you?"
"He
was my friend. He trusted me."
She made a
sound of derision. "And the murder weapon in the ditch behind their
trailer-"
"I
planted it. The prints on the weapon and the blood on Donny's shoe as well. Pat
didn't know."
She had
looked up to him. Loved him. To know he had done this hurt. Her vision swam.
"And Kevin Gallagher?"
"Kevin
prepared Sallie for burial. All he knew was she was pregnant. I asked him to
keep it quiet. Why exacerbate the situation? Why smear the poor woman's name
any further?"
"And
my dad?"
He drew a
heavy breath. "Your daddy was hard to convince. In the end, he did it not
just for me, but for Lilah and the kids."
"Those
two boys," she whispered. "They were-"
"Trash.
Delinquents. Only nineteen and twenty and had been busted a half-dozen times
each. For drugs, attempted rape, drunk and disorderly conduct. They were never
going to amount to anything. Never going to contribute anything to society but
ills. To sacrifice them to save my family, it wasn't a difficult
decision."
"You
don't get to play God, Buddy. It's not your job."
His mouth
twisted. "Your daddy said the same. I guess that old saying about the
apple not falling far from the tree is true."
"What
about Sal?" she asked. "Why include him, Buddy? You needed the
Gazette, but for what? Swaying public opinion?"
"He
wasn't included. He thought the crime went down exactly as officially reported.
But I was able to use Sal and the Gazette as a way to focus the public's
attention on the social context of the crime. Whip them into a state of outrage
over the crime rate, the immorality of the young, the drug epidemic, and take
their attention away from the crime itself."
"You
bought into your own spin, didn't you?" Avery all but spat the words at
him. "And The Seven was born. You and your buddies all got together to
decide what was appropriate behavior and what wasn't. You took the law into
your own hands, Buddy. You and your group became judge and jury. And things got
out of hand."
"It wasn't
like that. We loved this community, all of us did. We had-have-its good at
heart. We only want to make life better, to keep things the way they had been.
We keep watch on our friends and fellow citizens. Monitor the important things.
If need be, we pay a friendly visit. Use a little muscle if necessary."
"Muscle?
A palatable euphemism for what? A brick through the window? The threat of
broken bones? Financial ruin through boycotts? Or just good old-fashioned cross
burnings on the front lawn? What's the criteria for a death penalty in Cypress
Springs?"
He looked
shocked. "Good God, Avery, it's nothing like that. We're not terrorists.
We're not killers. We offer help. Guidance. If that doesn't work, we suggest a
change of residence." He lowered his voice. "If we didn't make things
a little uncomfortable for them, what would their motivation for change
be?"
She made a
sound of disgust. "Motivation for change? You make me sick."
"You
don't understand. It's all done in the spirit of caring and community concern.
Nobody gets hurt."
"Actually,
I think I understand too well." Avery glanced at Cherry. She was holding
her mother, crying quietly. She returned her gaze to Buddy. "You're such a
hypocrite. Making like you're Mr. Morality. Persecuting others for their sins,
when all the while you're the biggest sinner of all."
Tears
glistened in his eyes. "Do you think I haven't suffered for my sins? A day
doesn't go by that I don't wish I could go back, do it all over. I had
everything. A beautiful family. The love of a wonderful woman. The respect of
my friends and the community. If I could make that choice again, I wouldn't go
near Sallie Waguespack. None of this would have happened."
He held out
a hand to her. "Don't look at me like that," he pleaded. "Like
I'm some sort of monster. I'm still Buddy, you're still my baby girl."
"No."
She took a step back. "Not anymore. Never again."
"You
have to understand. I was afraid for my family. I did what I had to in order to
protect them." He took another step toward her. "I had to do it,
don't you see? A man protects his family."
"At
all costs, Buddy?" she asked. "What lengths would you go? From
covering up a murder to committing one?"
"No,
never."
"Everybody
involved in the cover-up is dead now, Buddy. Everyone but you. What am I
supposed to think?"
"Daddy?"
Cherry whispered. "What's she talking about?"
Buddy
glanced nervously at his daughter. "It's not true, sweetheart. Don't
listen to her. She's had a shock. She's confused."
"I'm
not confused. You killed all your old friends. Why? Did they threaten to come
clean? Go to the Feds because the guilt had become too much for them to live
with? Is that why you killed your best friend, Buddy? Why you immobilized him,
doused him in diesel fuel and-"
"No!"
Lilah cried out. "No!"
Buddy darted
his gaze between the women. "It's not true! I didn't have anything to do
with that. I couldn't! I-"
"You
went in the middle of the night. He opened the door because he trusted you. You
immobilized him with a stun gun. Then you carried him out to the garage, doused
him with fuel and set him on fire!"
"No!"
His face went white.
"Hunter
had nothing to do with any of this. You set up your own son."
"No.
You have to believe me!"
"I
can't believe anything you say. Not now. Not ever again."
It all made
sense now-Lilah's depression and addiction. Hunter's break with the family.
Cherry's dedication to keeping the family together, to making them look happy
and normal.
"No
one needs to know, Avery." Buddy lowered his voice, tone soothing.
"We're a family. We're your family. We love you."
Tears
choked her. She shook her head. She had believed that once. Had thought of this
family as an extension of her own. "It's over, Buddy."
"We're
all you have left, Avery." He took a step toward her, forcing her
backward. "Cypress Springs is your home."
He took
another step. He had her cornered, she realized. Had backed her into a wall,
the only way out through him. She tamped down her rising panic.
"I'll
need those journals." He held out a hand. "Laurie called me. Told me
you'd been there. That you'd left Lancaster a note."
"One
of your many spies."
"She
was worried about you."
"Right.
Worried about me."
"We
love you, Avery," Lilah whispered. "You're one of us."
"Yes,"
Cherry piped in. "Give Dad the journals and everything will be okay."
Avery moved
her gaze between the three, heart racing, struggling to stay calm. To assess
her options. Three against one. One of them the size of a tree and packing a
gun. Lilah looked on the verge of falling apart. Cherry seemed stunned, her
reactions wooden. The little focus she possessed seemed directed toward
supporting her mother.
Only Buddy
posed a threat to her escape. Immobilize him and she could make it. But how?
Her pepper
spray! She hadn't taken it out of her purse.
"Come
on, baby girl." He stretched his hand out. "You know we only want the
best for you. It's all in the past. We'll be one big, happy family."
"A
family," she repeated, voice shaking. "You're right." She
reached into her handbag. Her fingers closed around the cylinder of spray. She
drew the can out and lunged forward, shooting the spray directly into Buddy's
eyes, blinding him.
With a cry,
he stumbled backward, clawing at his eyes. Avery darted past him. Out of the
kitchen, into the front hall. She heard Lilah and Cherry calling her back.
The front
door was locked. She fumbled with the dead bolt; after what seemed a century,
it slid back and she raced out onto the porch. She paused there, realizing she
didn't have a vehicle.
Behind her
she heard the kitchen door fly open, heard the thunder of footfalls.
She leaped
forward, hitting the stairs, racing down them. Into the yard. Avery glanced
back. Buddy had gained on her, she saw. He called her name.
Headlights
sliced across the dark road. Avery changed direction, running toward them,
waving her arms wildly.
The white
sedan pulled over. She grabbed the passenger door, yanked it open.
"Thank
God! Can you giv-"
She bit the
words back, a cry springing to her lips.
"Get
in, Avery," Matt ordered. "Quickly, before it's too late."
She froze.
Behind her, Buddy closed in.
She saw
Matt had his gun. He motioned with it. "It wasn't Hunter," he said.
"It was Dad. Come on, he's almost here."
She glanced
back. Buddy was calling her name, going for his gun. She dived into the
vehicle, yanking the door shut as she did.
Matt hit
the autolock and floored the accelerator. The vehicle surged forward,
fishtailing, tires squealing. Avery swiveled in her seat, craning her neck to
see Buddy. He ran into the street, gave chase for a moment, then stopped.
She brought
her shaking hands to her face, fighting hysteria. The urge to fall completely
apart.
"Are
you okay?"
She nodded,
dropping her hands. "When did you…how did you find out-"
"About
Dad?" He shook his head. "I love my dad. He's got a good heart, but
he's weak. A total fuckup, Avery."
She didn't
understand. "You're not making excuses for him, are you? He's a murderer,
Matt."
Matt
smiled. Oddly. Avery frowned, becoming suddenly aware of the closeness of the
vehicle, that Matt kept one hand on his weapon, lying on the seat beside him.
The hair on
the back of her neck prickled. "Aren't you going to put that away?"
He ignored
her. "You were right to trust me, Avery. Dad's over-emotional. He means to
do the right thing, but emotion gets in the way. It's what makes him
weak."
Matt was in
cahoots with his dad. One of The Seven. An accomplice to murder.
And she had
gotten into the car with him. He had a gun.
She saw a
stop sign ahead. She shifted slightly in her seat in an attempt to hide what
she was about to do. As he slowed the sedan, she inched her hand toward the
door handle, grasped it and yanked.
The door
didn't budge. Matt laughed and eased through the intersection without stopping.
"Childproof locks, Avery. How stupid do you think I am?"
"I
don't know what you're talking about, Matt. I didn't__"
"Say
good-night, Avery."
Before she
realized his intention, he struck her in the temple with the butt of his gun.
Pain jackknifed through her skull; in the next instant, she felt nothing at
all.
CHAPTER 52
Avery came
to slowly. She ached all over; her head throbbed. Moaning, she opened her eyes.
She lay on
a bed, she realized. A bare mattress. She tried to sit up but found she
couldn't. Her arms had been anchored above her head, wrists bound tightly. Her
legs were tied to opposite bedposts.
Buddy, his
confession. Matt picking her up. The gun.
Fear
exploded inside her. Blinding, white hot. It stole her ability to think. To
reason. With it came panic. She fought her restraints, tugging and twisting,
getting nowhere.
She
stopped, wrists and ankles burning, breath coming in trembling gasps. Tears
choked her. She fought them as well. She would not give in. She would not lie
down and die.
They would
not get away with this. She wouldn 't let them.
In an
attempt to center herself, Avery closed her eyes. She drew in as deep a breath
as she could and expelled it slowly. Then repeated the process. She needed
calm. Fear and panic bled her abil- ity to think. To reason. She needed to be
able to do both if she was going to escape.
She opened
her eyes, a semblance of calm restored. The only light in the room came from
the open doorway to the right of the bed. The air was damp, heavy. It stank,
the smell familiar, though she couldn't place it. The single window stood open.
From outside came the sounds of insects, more dense than she was accustomed to.
He had
taken her outside the city limits. She traveled her gaze over the room, taking
in what she could from her prone position. Spare. Rough-hewn. A hunting cabin,
she thought. At the edge of woods. Or along the bayou.
The same
one Gwen had been lured to? Avery searched her memory. Gwen had said the
junction of Highway 421 and No Name Road.
That would
put her south of Cypress Springs. Not far from the old canning factory.
The sour
smell, she realized. Of course. The same smell that rolled into town when the
wind shifted to a northerly direction.
The stench
of the burned-out factory.
Matt
appeared in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the rectangle of light.
"Rise and shine, beautiful."
"Untie
me and I will."
She all but
spat the words at him and he laughed. "Somebody wake up on the wrong side
of the bed?"
"Bastard."
He
sauntered across the room, humming the tune from the children's nursery rhyme
"The Itsy-Bitsy Spider." He reached the bed, bent and tiptoed his
fingers up her thigh in time with the tune. She saw he had his gun tucked into
the waistband of his jeans.
His fingers
made the juncture of her thighs and stilled-the tune died on his lips. He
cocked his head and gazed at her, expression curiously blank. "I'm sorry
it's come to this, Avery. I really am."
"Then
let me go, you psycho prick."
"Such
language. I'm disappointed in you."
He climbed
onto the bed and straddled her, placing a hand on either side of her head. The
position brought his pelvis into contact with hers. The butt of the gun pressed
into her abdomen.
"You
betrayed me, Avery. You betrayed us."
"Don't
talk to me about betrayal. You killed my father!"
He laughed
softly and trailed a finger down the curve of her cheek, then lower, across her
collarbone to her breast. "You always were too smart for your own good.
Too opinionated."
He bent and
kissed her. Lightly at first, then deeply, forcing his tongue into her mouth.
Avery
fought the urge to fight and instead lay frozen beneath him. Her lack of
response seemed to frustrate him and he broke the contact.
As he did,
she spit in his face. He jerked away, face flooding with angry color. Rearing
back, he slapped her. Her head snapped to the side; she tasted blood and saw
stars.
But she
didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"You
know what?" He curled his fingers around the neck of the T-shirt Cherry
had lent her. "For a smart girl you do some really stupid things."
He yanked
the fabric so hard she came off the bed. The T-shirt gave, ripping from neck to
belly button, revealing her naked breasts. He covered them with his hands,
squeezing tightly. "Like pissing off the guy who holds your life in his
hands. And now, your breasts as well."
He
tightened his grip, pinching the nipples, twisting. She swallowed the whimper
of pain that flew to her lips. He bent forward so that his face hovered just
above hers. His stale breath stirred against her cheek.
Avery
shuddered. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, he had none.
"You
were supposed to be mine. I chose you. Not once, but twice. And you broke my
heart. The first time by leaving. The second by giving yourself to my
brother."
He laughed.
"You look so surprised. How stupid do you think I am? I was suspicious
that day at Tiller's Pond. Like a fool, I gave you the benefit of the doubt.
After I found you at his place that morning, I knew."
She
whimpered, thinking of Hunter. Of what she had gotten him into.
And what
she had suspected him of.
Matt's
mouth twisted into a thin line. "Did you think of me, Avery? While you
fucked my brother? While you betrayed-" He bit the words back, though he
shook with a rage so potent the bed quaked with it.
He could
kill her now, this moment.
He wanted
to.
Avery
shrank back against the mattress, losing her grip on her emotions. Fear became
terror, rampaging through her.
For the
first time, her own death became a stark reality. She pictured it. Matt's hands
around her neck, squeezing and squeezing…being unable to fight him except with
her frantic thoughts. Her silent screams for help.
Her fear
seemed to calm him. He looked pleased. "I like you this way," he said
softly, straightening. "Helpless."
He moved
his hands over her breasts, his touch changing from punishing to coaxing. He
brought his hands to her waist, then curved his fingers around the waistband of
her drawstring pants.
"Remember
how it used to be between us?" he asked, trailing his fingers across her
abdomen, dipping them lower and dragging the fabric down. Revealing her belly
button, then abdomen, the top of her panties and pubic mound.
He bent and
pressed his face to the vee, breathing deeply, making a sound of pleasure.
"When we were together this way?"
Bile rose
in her throat. She fought gagging.
"It
was so good. Nobody's ever come close to making me feel the way you did. We
were meant to be together."
Get smart,
Avery. Play along. Give him what he wants.
There was
always a chance. Always.
"Yes,"
she whispered, voice quaking. "I remember."
"How
did we come to this?" he whispered. "You left me. Why?"
"I was
young. Stupid." She looked up at him in what she hoped he would take as
adoration. "I didn't know how strong you were. I didn't see your
power."
His mouth
thinned in fury. "Don't bullshit me. You left. You fucked my brother.
You-"
"I'm
not!" she cried, cutting him off, trying another tack, using his own words
against him. "I see it now, I understand why I left. I thought you were
like…that you were going to be like your dad. I love him but he's not…not
strong like you."
Matt
stilled. His gaze bored into hers. She pressed on. "You were so brilliant.
You sailed through school. Your SAT scores were perfect and yet…you chose to
stay in Cypress Springs and go into law enforcement. Like your dad. You see why
I thought that, Matt?"
He studied
her a moment more, then inclined his head in agreement. "I needed to lead.
I had a mission."
"I
understand that now."
"Dad's
weak. He's been a disappointment."
"Unwilling
to do what's necessary," she said, making a guess.
"Exactly."
He looked at her as if he was the proud parent, she his gifted child. "Too
often, his emotions rule. His heart."
He shook
his head sadly. "A leader can't be swayed by emotion. A leader must always
keep his focus on the big picture."
"The
cause. In this case, the good of the community."
"Yes."
Matt searched her gaze. "Dad was the leader of the original Seven. Did you
know that?"
She shook
her head.
"He
proved too weak to lead. He bowed to pressure from others in the group. Mostly
your father."
"My
dad?" She struggled to inject just the right amount of surprise and
disappointment into her tone.
"Oh
yeah, your dad. The great Dr. Phillip Chauvin." Dislike dripped from each
word. "He threatened to go to the Feds. They had crossed the line, he'd
claimed."
Matt leaned
closer. "There is no line when it comes to war. Do you understand, Avery?
Life and death. Black or white. Win or lose."
"No
compromise."
"Exactly."
He trailed a finger tenderly over the curve of her cheek. "Some are
sacrificed for the good of the many. Individual rights lost…but quality of life
maintained."
"My
father wouldn't go along with that?"
"A
do-gooder pussy. He nearly ruined it for everyone."
She bit
down on her lip to keep from defending her father. From cheering him aloud.
"Tonight,
did Buddy tell you everything? About that night, about Sallie Waguespack?"
He answered his own question. "Of course he didn't. He wouldn't."
Matt
laughed. "That night, Hunter and I had fought about that new kid, Mike
Horn. Remember him? His dad was the plant manager over at the canning
factory."
He didn't
wait for her reply but went on. "I didn't like the way Mike was acting,
like he owned the place. Like he was going to take my place. I figured we
should give him a little lesson in humility, me, Hunter and a couple of the
other guys. Hunter refused to back me up. Told me he liked Mike. And that what
I wanted to do was wrong."
Mart's face
twisted. "He'd been pulling that shit a lot that summer, refusing to go
with the program. I called him on that. And on his feelings for you. He wanted
to fuck you. I saw that, too. Everybody saw it. I accused him of doing it. We
came to blows," he finished simply, "and he left the house. Went over
to Karl's."
"Karl
Wright's?"
"Yes.
I couldn't sleep. I heard the front door. I thought Hunter had changed his
mind, come home to apologize."
"But
it wasn't Hunter?"
"No.
It was Mother. She was sobbing, hysterical. Covered with blood. It was
splattered on her hands and face. Her clothes."
"At
first I panicked. I thought she was hurt. Then I realized what she was saying.
She had killed someone. Dad's girlfriend. His lover. It was an accident, she
didn't know what to do."
Avery
pictured the scenario. Lilah covered with blood, hysterical. Matt sixteen and
terrified. Reeling with all his mother was telling him.
"I didn't
either. Dad was out. I didn't know for sure where. I couldn't call the
department. So I went.
"It
was just as Mom had said. With one exception-the woman wasn't dead. She must
have lost consciousness. By the trail of
blood, I
saw that sometime between when Mom left and I arrived, she had tried to pull
herself to the door. She didn't make it, she couldn't pull herself up to get it
open.
"At
first I meant to help her. To convince her to be quiet, not to tell anyone
about the affair or about Mom.
"She
laughed at us," Matt continued. "She laughed at me. How was I going
to like seeing his father's bastard take his place in their home? Seeing all of
them made a laughingstock. She called me stupid, Avery. Me. Can you imagine
that? And the whole time she's bleeding all over the place. Struggling not to
pass out." He made a sound of disgust. "Like she's the one in charge.
"She
wouldn't shut up," he went on. "I begged her to. I was crying. She
laughed at me…the things she said were so ugly. So…vile.
"So I
shut her up. I put my hands over her nose and mouth and pressed and pressed
until she didn't say anything anymore."
Avery
shuddered, recalling her image of earlier, of Matt choking the life out of her.
"It
felt good," he murmured, a small smile tipping the corners of his mouth.
"I felt powerful. Unbeatable."
He leaned
toward her. "Power, Avery. My hands. I always knew I was special. I saw
things, understood things others didn't. Things regular people couldn't. As I
watched her die, I knew that I was meant to lead. That I had the power over
life and death."
Avery
stared at him, mouth dry, heart hammering. Horrified. That summer…they had been
together back then. They had seen each other every day-had been physically
intimate. She had considered spending her life with him.
She would
have sworn she knew everything about him.
She hadn 't
known him at all.
She found
her voice. It shook. "So my dad knew you-"
"Killed
her? No." He shook his head. "Dad found me there. He promised to
protect me. To take care of everything. Told me to get out of there, to keep it
to myself."
"He
never told anyone, did he? Not even Lilah."
He grinned.
She found something about the way his lips stretched over his teeth more
terrifying than if he had growled. "He was going to save me. That's a
hoot, isn't it? He was going to save me? But over the years he has served his
purpose. In a limited way, he shared my vision."
In a
lightning-quick change of mood, his eyes filled with tears. "We could have
been a family," he said. "We could have had children together, grown
old together."
The thought
that she had imagined that very thing, not long ago, made her ill. She hid her
true feelings as best she could. "It's not too late, Matt. Let me go. I
won't make any trouble, we can be together."
He looked
away, then back. "I'm really sorry, Avery. I didn't want this to happen.
None of it. But in a conflict one must sacrifice individual wants and needs for
the good of the many."
She caught
her breath at his meaning. "It's not too late, I can change. I see now. I
understand what you're fighting for."
He bent and
pressed his mouth to hers in a hard kiss. One that smacked of finality.
"It's not about me, Avery. Not about what I feel or what I want. The
generals have called for action. They've voted."
"But
you're their leader. They'll do what you-"
"I
can't take my eyes off the big picture." He cradled her face in his palms.
"No matter how much I want to."
"What
are you going to do to me? Kill me? The way you killed Elaine St. Claire and
Trudy Pruitt?" Her voice quivered. "The way you killed Gwen?"
He didn't
deny it. "I don't enjoy the killing. I do it because it's a necessity.
Because-"
From the
doorway came the soft click of a gun's hammer falling into place. "Off the
bed, son."
Matt
twisted, hand going to his weapon.
"Try
it and you're dead," the older man warned.
"You
will be, too." Matt's hand hovered over his weapon. "And poor Avery
will lie on this bed and rot."
Buddy's aim
didn't waver. "Drop the fucking gun. To the floor. Now!"
Matt
hesitated, then slid the weapon from his waistband and tossed it to the floor.
"Good
boy. Now, off the bed. Hands up." He motioned with the gun. "To the
wall."
Matt lifted
his hands, climbed off the bed. "Think this through, Dad. Don't make a
mistake."
Buddy moved
into the room, gun trained on his son. "Hands on the wall." When Matt
obeyed, Buddy bent, never talking his gaze from the other man, retrieved the
gun and slid it into his waistband.
"It's
okay, baby girl," he said, inching toward the bed. "Everything's
going to be okay."
He freed
Avery's hands, then feet. She saw that his cheeks were wet.
She pulled
up her pants, then scrambled into a sitting position. After tying the pieces of
T-shirt together, she scrambled off the bed and crossed to stand behind Buddy.
"You
have to stop, Matt." Buddy took a step toward his son. "The killing
has to stop."
Matt
turned, held out a hand to his father, expression pleading. "We're in this
together. Everything I've done, I've done for us. The family. The
community."
Tears
trickled down Buddy's cheeks. "You're ill, son. I should have faced it
long ago but I didn't want to see. That night…Sallie Waguespack, I thought I
was doing the right thing. But it wasn't right. I've been covering up and
making excuses all these years. And these past months, pretending I didn't
suspect something was wrong."
"It's
not me, Dad. It's her. She won't keep quiet. We have to keep her quiet. To
protect the family. She's just like Sallie."
"I
didn't know, baby girl," Buddy said, voice heavy with pain. "Not about
your daddy. Not about the others. I thought…let myself believe it wasn't
happening. That all the deaths were just what they appeared to be."
Matt's
expression went soft. "What would you have had me do? Phillip was going to
the district attorney. The others were going to back him up. Tell everyone
about Sallie and The Seven. I only meant to protect us."
"I
know. I'm sorry." He removed his handcuffs from the pouch on his utility
belt. "I've got to cuff you."
"Don't
do it, Dad." His eyes filled with tears. "Please, don't cuff
me."
Avery saw
the emotional toll this was taking on the older man. She ached for him-the
father having to face the consequences of his mistakes and the terrible truth
about his own flesh and blood.
"I've
got to son. I'm sorry."
Matt held
out his arms. "I'll come quietly then. If you believe this is the right
thing, I'll do whatever you say."
"I'll
protect you as best I can, Matt. Within the law." Buddy lowered his
weapon, crossed to his son.
Matt's gaze
flicked to Avery's. In his she saw triumph.
"Buddy!"
she cried, seeing the switchblade cupped in Mart's palm. "It's a
trick!"
Matt lunged
forward, catching his father by surprise. The blade popped out. He buried it in
the side of Buddy's neck.
"No!"
Avery screamed. A look of surprise crossed the older man's face; he reached up
to grab the blade. Matt twisted it, then yanked it out. Blood sprayed.
Buddy
looked at his son, mouth working. He took a step. Wobbled, then crashed to the
floor.
Avery
turned to run. Matt grabbed her around the middle, dragged her to his chest and
brought the blade to her throat. She saw that his hand was splattered with
blood. His father's blood.
"See,
Avery? Weak. Stupid." He gazed down at his father's still-twitching form.
"And a traitor as well."
She saw no
remorse in his expression. No regret. "You're crazy. A psychotic,
murdering son of a bitch!"
"I'm a
soldier. I'm fighting for something bigger than you or I or an old man who'd
forgotten what was important." He bent and retrieved his father's
handcuffs. Wrenching an arm behind her back, Matt cuffed one wrist, then the
next.
He turned
his emotionless gaze on her. "You have been judged and found guilty, Avery
Chauvin. Of crimes against this community. Of attempting to bring an end to a
way of life that has existed for a century. The Seven will decide your
fate."
CHAPTER 53
Avery
fought to keep hysteria at bay as Matt forced her deeper into the bowels of the
charred canning factory. The odor, simply unpleasant from the outside, turned
foul inside. Overpowering, like the stench of the grave.
Her throat
and eyes burned. She saw that parts of the interior, though fire damaged, were
still intact. Here and there a wall stood, oddly unmarred. A piece of untouched
furniture sat beside a gaping hole in the flooring, as if the flames had been
fickle, choosing one but not another.
Matt nudged
her forward, gun between her shoulder blades. Obviously, he had spent a good
bit of time here. Though the place was as dark as the devil's will, he guided
her through the charred landscape without hesitation.
He pressed
his mouth to her ear. "We're going up. But watch your step, you wouldn't
want to miss your date with my generals."
"Go to
hell."
He laughed,
the sound delighted. "We're there, don't you think?"
She did,
though she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a response.
They made
their way up the fire-ravaged stairs. As they did he murmured directions in her
ear, "Step left, skip the next stair, go all the way right."
She
stumbled and righted herself, a difficult feat without her arms for balance. He
didn't offer a hand and she sensed he enjoyed watching her struggle. That her
discomfort amused him.
Finally at
the top landing, she could see. A portion of the roof was gone and moonlight
spilled through the opening, revealing a rabbit's warren of doors, hallways and
half walls.
They
stopped in front of a closed door fixed with a padlock. "We're here,"
he said.
He took his
eyes off her as he unlocked the door. She glanced back toward the stairs. She
could take her chances, run. But how far would she get before she stumbled,
fell through the floor or he shot her in the back? Two steps? A half-dozen?
"Go
ahead," he murmured as if reading her thoughts. "Take your chance. As
you lay bleeding to death from internal injuries, you'll beg me to finish you
off with a bullet."
"Bastard."
"You
think so, that's understandable, I suppose." He unfastened the padlock, swung
the door open. "But future generations will hold me up as a hero. A
visionary."
"Future
generations?" she spat. "You'll be reviled, then forgotten as you rot
in a cell at Angola. Or the Feliciana Forensic Facility for the Criminally
Insane in Jackson."
"Poor
Avery," he murmured. "Blind like the others. In you go." He
grabbed her arm and shoved her violently through the door. Without her arms to
break her fall, she landed on her knees, then pitched forward. Her chin struck
the concrete floor.
Matt
chuckled as he slammed and locked the door behind her. She managed to get to
her feet, ran to the door. She threw herself against it. "Bastard!"
she shouted, kicking it. "You won't get away with this!"
"Don't
waste your energy, there's no way out."
The
whispered advice came from behind her. Avery whirled around. "Gwen?"
"The
one and only."
Avery
searched the interior, eyes not yet accustomed to the darkness. "Where are
you?"
"Here."
She saw her
then, on the floor, pressed into the far corner. Avery hurried to her side and
knelt beside her. "Thank God, I thought…I thought you-"
"Were
dead. I did, too."
Avery saw
that she was hurt. The right side of her head was crusted with dried blood, her
blond hair matted with it.
Avery
pictured the blood on Gwen's bathroom door. He must have knocked her out.
"When did he do it?"
"The
storm," Gwen whispered. "I awoke, he was there, in my room. I thought
he was going to kill me. But he brought me here, instead." Gwen bent and rested
her forehead against Avery's. "I prayed you'd come. But not this
way."
With the
police.
But Matt
was the police.
"We're
going to get out of this." Avery frowned. "He said The Seven would
decide my fate. I think they're meeting here tonight."
"He's
going to kill us, isn't he?"
He or one
of his generals. "Let's not think about that now." Avery moved her
gaze over the room's walls. Judging by its size and the shelving along one
wall, the room had been a storage closet. "Have you looked for a way
out?"
"There's
none."
"You're
sure?"
"Yes."
Gwen's voice broke. "I don't want to die, Avery. Not now. Not like
this."
"We
will if we give up, that's for sure. Can you stand?"
She nodded
and, using the wall for leverage, inched to her feet.
"Good,"
Avery murmured. "Our only shot may be trying to over-power him when he
comes for us. One of us can rush him while the other goes for his gun. Or
runs."
It sounded
lame even to Avery's own ears. Overpower Matt? Her arms were secured behind her
back and Gwen was almost too weak to stand. But she refused to give up. Refused
to die without a fight.
"All
right," Gwen said, though her voice quivered. "You tell me what to do
and I'll do it."
A rapping
sound caught her attention. Avery stilled, listening. It had come from behind
the shelves.
The sound
came again and Avery realized what it was. Matt, calling The Seven to order.
"Come
on, Gwen. Let's see if we can move these shelves."
The shelves
were metal and heavy, though not bolted in place. Together they eased one unit
away from the wall, Gwen using her arms, Avery her body as a wedge.
They
managed to create a space big enough to slip behind.
Once behind
the shelves Avery found herself, absurdly, reassured by the small, tight space.
It felt safe. Like a womb. Like a child's perfect hiding place. The one where
nobody could ever find her.
As a kid
she'd had several. She'd been good at hide-and-seek, had had the ability to
slip into nooks and crannies and remain still and silent for long periods of
time. Sometimes so long, the person who was "It" gave up.
Even as she
wondered if Matt would give up if she was quiet enough, still enough, she
acknowledged the stupidity of the thought.
Gwen
followed her in. They both put an ear to the wall.
Matt was
talking. He named her and Gwen as defendants, listing their crime as treason.
He called for questions and comments from his generals.
Who were
they? Avery wondered, straining to hear. Old friends of hers? Neighbors?
Someone she had gone to school with? Would they feel any loyalty to her? Any
regret?
Gwen met
Avery's eyes and shook her head, indicating she couldn't hear what they were
saying.
Avery
couldn't either and pressed her ear closer, straining. Matt murmured a reply
she couldn't make out, then paused as if listening to another question. She
heard him mention his father, voice breaking.
Buddy had
not been a part of this inner circle, that had become clear to her back at the
cabin. That he had not been party to their extremist ideology had also become
obvious. But still, she wondered, would they simply sit back and condone his
murder?
If their
silence was an indication, they accepted their leader's actions without
question. Who were they? she wondered again, disbelieving. Who had he convinced
to join his insane cause?
Avery
jumped as Matt once again called for order. "A vote, then," he said
loudly. "Guilty or not?"
Silence
ensued. The seconds ticked past. Avery realized that she was sweating. Holding
her breath though she had no real doubt what the outcome would be.
"It's
unanimous then," Matt boomed. "The Seven find Gwen Lancaster and
Avery Chauvin guilty of treason."
CHAPTER 54
Hunter
paced the length of the windowless interrogation room. Two CSPD uniforms had
retrieved him from his home that morning. His father had requested they pick
him up, they'd said. Bring him in for questioning. Cooperation hadn't been an
option.
They had
dumped him here, told him Buddy would be in shortly and left. That had been
nearly twelve hours ago.
He stopped.
Moved his gaze over the room. A single table made out of wood. Three chairs,
also made out of wood. They'd been around a while and bore the evidence of each
of those years in the form of cigarette burns, chips, scratches and carvings.
He continued his inspection. No fire alarm. No phone. Reinforced door, locked
from the outside.
This was
wrong. He had known it was wrong this morning. Had sensed a setup.
The officers
had said it was about Avery. She was in trouble. Buddy had said to tell him
that.
So he had
come. And left Avery on the outside. Alone.
He pivoted
and crossed to the door. "This is bullshit!" he shouted and pounded
on it. "Charge me or release me!"
He pressed
his ear to the door, swearing at the silence on the other side. He had to get
out of here. Avery was in trouble.
He pounded
again. "Hey! I gotta take a piss. Unless you want a mess to clean up, you
better get your asses to this doo-"
The door
swung open. A pimply-faced officer with big ears stood on the other side,
Cherry directly behind him.
"Cherry?"
Hunter said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"Dad
needs our help. Inside," she ordered the officer, nudging him forward.
With a gun,
Hunter saw. A big gun. A.357 Magnum, long barrel. He returned his gaze to hers.
"You really know how to use that?"
"I'm
not dignifying that with an answer." She grabbed his arm with her free
hand. "Come on, we need to get out of here."
She pulled
him through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. She pocketed the key.
The officer began pounding on the door.
"What
the hell's going on?"
"We'll
talk in the car." She hurried forward. "Sammy there was manning the station
alone, but the patrol guys are going to be checking in soon."
"What
time is it?"
"Eight-thirty."
"I've
been locked in that room since early this morning, I need to use the
John."
"Make
it quick."
She was
waiting for him when he emerged moments later. Wordlessly, they went to her car
and climbed in. His mother sat in the back seat. She had been crying: her eyes
were red and swollen, her skin blotchy.
She looked
on the verge of falling apart.
He glanced
over at Cherry. "Somebody better start talking, fast."
Cherry
pulled away from the curb. "Dad said if we didn't hear from him by eight,
to come and get you."
"Get
me? What was I doing there?"
"He
wanted you to be somewhere safe. He figured locked up at the CSPD was about as
safe as he could find."
"What
the hell are you talking about?"
"Matt's
the one," she said. "And he's got Avery."
CHAPTER 55
"The
one?" Hunter moved his gaze between the two women. "What do you
mean?"
"The
one who killed Elaine St. Claire and Trudy Pruitt." Cherry's voice shook.
"He killed Avery's dad as well. At least, we think so. Dad told us before
he went after them."
"I
didn't know," Lilah whispered. "I thought…all these years, I thought
I killed Sallie Waguespack. And now-" her voice broke "-and now I
wish I had."
"It's
not your fault," Cherry murmured. "You didn't know what he had
become, neither did I."
Hunter
struggled to come to grips with what they were saying. Struggled not to give in
to panic. "What's he become? I don't understand. What did you have to do
with Sallie Waguespack's death?"
Lilah met
his eyes. "I better start at the beginning."
She told
him about his father's affair, Buddy's lover's pregnancy. About going there to
plead for her husband.
And about
what followed.
"Until
tonight, I thought I'd killed her. Buddy…he kept that secret from
everyone."
"When
people began dying, he reasoned the deaths away," Cherry interjected.
"He accepted them as accidents and suicides because…the other was
unthinkable.
"Avery
forced him to reevaluate," his sister continued. "Her questions. Her
unshaking belief that her father hadn't killed himself. Then, when Trudy Pruitt
was killed-"
"He
was forced to admit what was happening," Hunter said. "That everybody
involved in the cover-up had croaked. Except him."
"And
Matt." She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. "He knew for
certain today, when he learned about Avery's mother's journals. That's why Matt
set the house on fire."
"Slow
down. Avery's mother journaled-"
"Every
day since she was a teenager," Lilah said. "Avery called about them
the other day, wondering if I had any idea what happened to her mother's
journals. I mentioned the call to Matt."
Cherry took
over. "Avery found the journals. Her mother wrote about The Seven. And
Sallie Waguespack being pregnant. Somehow Matt found out and torched her house
to destroy the evidence. And now, Gwen Lancaster's missing."
Lilah
moaned. "That poor girl. I tried to warn her. I called…was going to meet
her…try to convince her to go. Buddy overheard me…he kept me from…"
She
dissolved into tears. Hunter looked at his sister, who continued. "Dad
checked out Gwen's room, found evidence that indicated foul play. He figured
Matt…that if he had her, had her cell phone. That he'd retrieved Avery's
messages."
And now he
had Avery. Hunter went cold with fear.
Silence
fell between them. Cherry broke it. "There's one more thing, Hunter. Matt
knew about you and Avery. That you had become-romantically involved. He told
Dad. He was in a rage. A cold rage. Dad was afraid for your life."
"So he
locked me up."
"Yes.
Until he could figure out what to do about Matt. How to protect him."
"Protect
Matt!" Hunter exploded. "He's a murderer! He should be behind-"
"He's
his son!" she returned, cutting him off. "What was he supposed to
do?"
"The
right thing, dammit! People are dying!"
She fell
silent. Lilah sobbed quietly. Hunter fought to get a grip on his emotions.
"What
about Tom Lancaster?" he asked. "And McDougal? How do they fit
in?"
"Dad
didn't know for sure." She turned onto Highway 421. "Matt was
obsessed with The Seven, which could explain Lancaster. But McDougal, he didn't
see a connection. There might be none."
"What
about Avery?" he demanded. "Where is she?"
"Dad
thought the old hunting cabin. The one Grandpa used."
"You've
called the authorities, right?" They didn't respond and he made a sound of
disbelief. "The sheriff? State police?"
"Buddy
said we should keep it to ourselves. Keep it in the family."
"Son
of a bitch! Cell phone?" They shook their heads. "How many guns do we
have?"
"Just
the one."
"Shit.
Fucking great."
"But
Buddy's here," Lilah said. "He'll-"
"He's
in trouble. Or he would have called long before now."
The women
couldn't argue with that and they rode the rest of the way in silence. They
turned onto No Name Road and moments later the access road that led to the
cabin.
They
reached it. Two cars sat out front-an unmarked sedan with a dome light on the
dash and a CSPD cruiser.
"They're
here," Cherry said, voice quivering. She looked at Hunter. "What
now?"
He thought
a moment. "One of us should stay here, stand watch. Keep the car running
in case we need to get out fast. Honk if there's trouble."
Hunter and
Cherry looked at their mother then at each other, silently acknowledging she
was incapable of the responsibility.
"I'll
do it," Cherry offered. "Mom can stay with me. You take the
gun."
Lilah tried
to argue; Hunter cut her off. "If there's gunfire, I don't want to be
worrying about you instead of my own hide. Got that?"
"I
agree," Cherry said quickly. "Absolutely."
She handed
him the gun, butt out. "You know how to use one of these?"
He took it
from her. Like his sister and brother, he had grown up handling a gun. It had
been a while but some things you never forgot. He checked the chamber, saw that
it carried a full round and snapped it shut. "Yeah," he answered.
"Point and shoot."
He climbed
out of the car. Weapon out, he crossed to the other vehicles and peered inside.
They were empty.
He glanced
back at Cherry and pointed toward the cabin. She nodded.
He made his
way cautiously toward it. A traditional raised cabin, he climbed the three
stairs to the front porch. Half-rotted, they creaked under his weight.
The cabin
door was unlocked. He eased it open, then slipped through, pausing to listen.
It was
silent. Too silent. The hair on his arms stood up. He inched across the main
room, toward the kitchen. It proved empty. The small window above the sink
stood open; flies buzzed around an overflowing garbage pail. He saw dirty
dishes in the sink.
The cabin
might be empty now, but it had been occupied recently. He swiveled, crossed to
the bathroom. He found it as deserted as the other two rooms.
Only the
bedroom remained. He made his way there, heart pounding. The first thing he saw
was the bed, the nylon rope attached to the foot posts, the length coiled on
the bare mattress.
Someone had
been tied to the bed. The blood rushed from his head. He laid a hand on the
doorjamb for support.
Not
someone. Avery.
He shifted
his gaze and froze. Peeking out from the far side of
the bed was
the toe of a boot. One he recognized-alligator hide, a deep green-hued black.
His father
had worn those boots, made from the hide of a gator he'd caught, for twenty
years.
Denial rose
in him as he made his way into the room. Around the bed. His father lay
facedown in a pool of blood, head twisted at an unnatural angle.
Hunter
stumbled backward. Pivoting, he ran back through the cabin and onto the porch.
His sister sat behind the wheel of the vehicle, door open. "Cherry,"
he shouted. "Use Dad's radio, get an ambulance. Tell them an officer's
down."
She leaped
out of the vehicle, alarmed. "An officer? Dad or-"
"Do
it, Cherry. Now!"
Without
waiting for her to comply, he returned to his father's side. He knelt beside
him, felt for a pulse. Found none.
At a sound
from behind him, Hunter turned. Lilah stood in the doorway, eyes on her
husband. A cry spilled past her lips, high and terrible.
Cherry came
up behind her and stopped dead. "Dad?" The color drained from her
face. "No." She shook her head. "No!"
Lilah made
a move to go to her husband's side. Hunter jumped to his feet, caught her in
his arms, stopping her. She fought him, pummeling him with her fists, cursing
him.
He held her
until the fight drained out of her. He met his sister's eyes. "Help me get
her outside."
Cherry
blinked. Her mouth moved. He saw that she trembled. She looked a hairbreadth
from falling apart herself.
"Cherry,"
he said softly, "it's a crime scene. The police-"
"We
know who did it." Her voice shook. "Matt killed Dad."
His
brother. His twin. A murderer capable of killing his own father.
And he had
Avery.
"Where
are they?" he demanded. "Where's Matt taken Avery?"
His sister
looked startled by his question. Confused. "I don't… know. I don't-"
"Think,
Cherry! They're on foot. Where could he have taken her?"
She shook
her head, her gaze riveted to their father's still form "There's nothing
out here. Nothing. Just the-"
"Canning
factory," he finished for her. "Cherry, help Mom to the car. Then
call the sheriff's department and the state police. I'm going after them."
CHAPTER 56
Avery and
Gwen waited by the door. Nearly an hour had passed since The Seven had found
them guilty. They had made their plan; feeble though it was, it was their only
chance.
"What's
he waiting for?" Gwen whispered. "Where did he go?"
Avery
didn't know. She had expected him to come for them right away. Perhaps he was
preparing, setting the rest of his plan in motion, putting the final pieces in
place. She shook her head, indicating she didn't know.
"Do
you really think this will work?"
Avery heard
the note of panic in her friend's voice. The edge of hysteria. Seven against
two. What hope did they have?
"What
do we have to lose by fighting?" Avery countered softly, more, she
realized, to convince herself than Gwen. "They're going to kill us
anyway."
From the
other side of the door came the sound of footsteps. Avery looked at Gwen. The
other woman's face had gone white. Avery nodded and moved to the far right side
of the door. She took her place directly in front of it, though far enough back
not to get hit when it swung open.
They heard
him at the door, unlocking the padlock. Avery tensed, readying herself. The
door eased open. She held her breath, waiting for the right moment. Praying it
would come.
It did.
Avery lunged at him, using her body as a battering ram, aiming for his middle.
As she had prayed she would, she caught him by surprise, nailing him square in
the chest.
Matt
stumbled. The gun flew from his hand. She heard it clatter to the floor.
"Run,
Gwen!" she screamed. "Run!"
Her friend
did, her feet pounding against flooring as she tried to race for the stairs.
Avery expected to hear the others coming to Matt's aid, expected him to call
for them; neither occurred. She wondered if they had left the building, had
left the dirty work to him.
Avery
regained her balance and threw herself at him again, this time knocking him
down. He landed with a grunt of pain.
"Bitch!"
he screamed, slamming his fist into her face. Her head snapped to the side, the
explosion of pain unimaginable. She couldn't catch her breath, realized she was
sobbing.
He
straddled her, put his hands to her throat and squeezed. She fought as best she
could, twisting, turning. Flailing her legs. Her lungs burned. Pinpricks of
light danced in front of her eyes.
Let Gwen
make it, she prayed. Please, God, let her make it.
From below
came the sound of something crashing to the floor. Matt eased his grip,
straightening. Twisting as if to listen.
"What's
going on?" Matt shouted. "Blue? Hawk? Have you got her?"
Silence
answered. He released her, jumped to his feet, listening. Air rushed into her
lungs. Avery sucked it greedily in, gasping, coughing.
"Hawk!"
he screamed. "Talk to me."
Avery
rolled onto her side, caught sight of his gun. A half-dozen feet to her right,
just behind where he stood. Tears stung her eyes. Cuffed, what could she do?
A whimper
slipped past her lips. Matt turned. Looked down. He saw the weapon, saw her
gaze upon it.
He looked
at her and smiled. "Is that what you're wanting?" He bent and
retrieved it. "It's just not fair, is it?"
She dragged
herself to her feet, took a step, stumbled and went down. Still, she didn't
give up. She inched herself along the floor like a worm. Unwilling to say die.
He laughed
as he followed, taunting her. "Gutsy little Avery," he mocked.
"I admire you. I do. Such a shame it didn't work out between us, with my
brains and your determination we would have made awesome babies."
He stepped
over her, then in front, blocking her path. She lifted her head, met his gaze
defiantly.
His teeth
gleamed bright white against the dark shadow of his face. He lifted the gun.
"End of the road, sweetheart."
CHAPTER 57
Avery came
to and found herself bound to a chair. Her head throbbed. Something liquid
rolled down her cheek, then splashed onto her collarbone. Blood, she realized
as what had happened came rushing back-Matt, the butt of his gun.
She was
still alive. Why?
Her eyelids
flickered up. Her vision swam. She made out a table, figures grouped around it,
sitting in silence.
Seven
figures. Matt and his generals.
One of them
turned and stood. Matt. He picked up the lantern at his feet. A camping
lantern, turned down low.
He lifted
the lantern, brought it close to her face. She squinted against the feeble
light, right eye burning. Bloody. He smiled. "You've looked better,
Avery."
A retort
sprang to her lips, it came out a garbled croak.
His smile
widened. "In case you're wondering, Gwen didn't make it."
A moan
escaped her, one of grief and denial. Of hopelessness.
He turned
toward the table. "Gentlemen," he said, holding the lantern high,
"I have good news. Ms. Chauvin has returned to the world of the living.
For how long is up to her."
The soft
glow from the lantern fell across the men sitting closest to her. Avery
blinked, vision going in and out of focus. It couldn 't be. She traveled her
gaze, straining to make out the figures at the far side of the table.
Cadavers.
In various stages of decomposition.
A scream
rose to her throat. She looked at Matt, waiting for the punch line.
It didn't
come.
"Avery,
I think you know Karl Wright." He indicated a badly decomposed body
directly across from her. "General Hawk to us."
Karl
Wright. Matt's oldest friend. The man Cherry loved. The man she had planned to
marry.
But he'd
moved to California. He'd up and left Cypress Springs without a word to anyone
but Matt.
Anyone but
Matt.
A sound of
horror slipped past her lips. Matt had killed his best friend.
Avery
shifted her gaze to the cadaver to the right of Karl. Less decayed than all but
one of the others, the corpse appeared to be that of a young man. A Tulane
University sweatshirt, logo partially obliterated by blood, hung on the
decomposing form.
"Tom
Lancaster," Matt offered, seeing the direction of her gaze.
They found
his car, abandoned. His body was never recovered.
Avery moved
her gaze again, this time to the other nearly intact corpse.
Luke
McDougal missing, his car found empty.
That first
day, she remembered, down at the CSPD, the missing persons flyers on the
bulletin board. There'd been several.
Too many
for such a small community.
Avery's
teeth began to chatter. She fought falling apart. Matt inducted members to The
Seven through murder.
She found
her voice, though it trembled. "Tell me how it went down, Matt? Did you
just happen upon Luke McDougal, broken down by the side of the road and offer
him a ride? Is that when you decided to recruit him?"
Matt
smiled. "Not on sight, of course, but soon after. One of the generals had
recently defected, I needed a replacement. I offered him a lift and discovered
we saw eye to eye, General Blue and I."
Defected?
How did that happen? she wondered, hysteria rising up in her. When the bodies
became so badly decayed, they could no longer stay propped up in a chair? When
they disagreed too vocally with their leader?
Matt looked
at the corpse that had been Luke McDougal and smiled. He paused as if listening
to something the man said, then nodded and chuckled. "I completely agree,
Blue."
Avery
watched the exchange, the full realization of what was happening hitting her.
Matt believed them to be alive. He heard them speak, vote for life or death,
offer comment.
He returned
his attention to her. "General Lancaster was more difficult to convince.
At first, he didn't understand our cause. But I could see that he wanted to.
And that he could be a wonderful addition to our number.
"In
the end he believed wholeheartedly in our cause. When I explained the group's
vision, there were actually tears in his eyes. He begged to be a member. He
pledged his total allegiance to us. Gwen would be proud of him, he has become a
tremendous asset."
Avery
pictured Tom Lancaster begging. Willing to pledge and promise anything to save
his own life.
Having no
idea that becoming one of The Seven equaled a death sentence.
"And
of course, you know Sal." Matt turned, smiled and nodded toward another
corpse. "Our member of the old guard."
"Sal?"
she repeated. "But he was…shot. Waked and buried-"
In a
closed-casket ceremony.
Matt
switched the bodies. But with whose?
"General
Wings," Matt murmured. "He faked his own death, Avery. He decided to
devote his life to our cause." He turned and smiled at the
half-decapitated corpse. "I've been grateful for his dedication. His
wisdom has proved invaluable to us."
Matt arched
his eyebrows, then nodded and turned back to her.
"Just
so you know, he has been your champion through this whole thing."
"Who's
buried in Sal's casket, Matt? Just some poor slob you picked up?"
"A
worthless, homeless drunk. A nobody whose life I gave purpose, Avery." He
motioned to the final two figures at the table. "Generals Beauregarde and
Starr, outsiders who were drawn to our cause."
"So
this is it?" she said, voice shaking. "The infamous Seven. A group
formed," she paused to rest, "to counter the crime wave in Cypress
Springs resorts to murder. Seems to me, the cure is worse than the
illness."
"You
sound just like your bleeding-heart father. He ruined the original Seven,
reduced them to a system of little more than tat-tletales and whiners. I wasn't
about to allow him to ruin us."
"How
did you do it?" she asked. "How did you kill him?"
"It
was easy. Phillip wanted to believe me a malleable weakling who would bend to
his wishes-the way Buddy and the other Seven had all those years ago. So he
underestimated me."
"He
trusted you. You knew that. You knew he would open the door to you in the
middle of the night. Even though he was groggy from the sleep medication he'd
taken before going to bed."
She
narrowed her eyes, hate rising up in her, nearly choking her. "Medication
you knew he was taking. How? He never locked the doors… Did you go through his
medicine cabinet?"
Matt
laughed, the sound pleased. "It didn't take even that much effort. Heard
it from Earl over at Friendly Drugs."
One of The
Seven's network of eyes and ears.
Matt
glanced at his generals, then back at her, expression disgusted. "I see
what you're thinking. That Earl had no right discussing your dad's private
business. People like you never understand. Private business is a nice
euphemism for immoral self-indulgence. Human weakness. Such self-indulgences
corrupt. They spread from citizen to citizen like a disease, until a whole
community is infected."
She fought
to keep her tone controlled. It wavered slightly and she cursed the telltale
show of vulnerability. "And as not only sheriff but son of Cypress
Springs's chief of police, you heard everything, didn't you? It was easy. You
knew every citizen's every step? You made it your business to know."
He puffed
up, proud. "Mail. Medications. Police calls. What they ate and drank, when
they had sex."
"And
Elaine St. Claire's weakness?"
"Promiscuity."
She died of
internal injuries. An artificial phallus had been inserted into her, it had
torn her to shreds.
"What
about Pete Trimble?"
"Poor
old Pete. Chronic D.W.I. He refused to give up the bottle, refused our efforts
to get him into a program."
Drunk, he
was crushed by his own tractor.
She thought
of the kids who had overdosed, the one into auto-eroticism who had hung
himself. Of Trudy Pruitt's tongue cut out of her head. Avery understood.
"Their mode of death mirrored their crime."
He inclined
his head. "They died as they lived, a fitting punishment, we
believe."
Bile rose
in her throat. She swallowed past it. "And my dad? The others involved in
the Waguespack cover-up? What were their crimes? Knowing too much?"
"Treason,"
he said softly, regretfully. "They began to talk amongst themselves. Began
speculating about Sallie Waguespack's death and the way their good friend Chief
Stevens told them it went down. They began speculating that someone had
retooled The Seven. Before they could be silenced, they went to Phillip."
"Retooled
The Seven?"
"We
are the elite, Avery. The best, operating in secret, willing to do whatever
necessary to protect what we hold dear. What the original group was supposed to
be."
"Cypress
Springs's very own version of Delta Force?"
"I
like that analogy."
"You
would. And the group of seven men at Dad's wake and funeral, who were
they?"
"Nobody.
Nothing but an unfortunate number of men standing together."
She
processed that, then went on. "My dad figured out what was going on?"
"To a
degree. But he made a mistake, he thought Dad was the one. Behind it all. He
had decided to go to the D.A. about Sallie Waguespack. He went to Lilah first,
to prepare her."
"And
she told you."
"Yes."
He smiled. "After his suicide, she assumed that he hadn't been able to do
it and had killed himself instead. She understood guilt, you see. How it ate at
a person."
Avery
curled her hands into fists, cuffed behind her back. "So you woke him up
in the middle of the night. He opened the door and you immobilized him with a
stun gun."
A look of
surprise, then respect, crossed his features.
"You
had everything ready in the garage," she continued. "The diesel fuel,
the syphoning hose."
He inclined
his head. "It's not easy to get away with murder these days, forensic
science being what it is. The tazer leaves no detectable mark but offered me
the time I needed to carry out my plan. That he was groggy from the sleep
medication helped."
Tears
choked her. She struggled to force the image of her father from her mind, force
out what she imagined were his last thoughts. The way he had suffered.
"How
did you know?" he asked. "What made you so certain?"
"The
slipper," she said. "It was wrong."
"It
fell off when I carried him to the garage. A detail I shouldn't have
ignored."
"Even
without the slipper, I wouldn't have bought the story. My father valued life
too much to take his own." She paused. "Unlike you, Matt. Someone
disagrees with your politics and you kill them. You're no better than a
terrorist."
Color
flooded his face. She had angered him. His voice took on the tone of a teacher
speaking to a rebellious student. "In a war, Avery, there are only two
sides. The good guys and the bad guys. For a cause or against it. They were
against us. So they were eliminated."
"And
who's been watching you, Matt? Who's been keeping tabs on your activities?
Making certain your behavior doesn't veer outside the appropriate?"
She had caught
him off guard, she saw by his momentary confusion. "My generals, of
course," he answered. "I'm not all-powerful, Avery. I don't want to
be. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."
"They're
dead, Matt. Your generals are rotting corpses. No one is monitoring you, and if
they do, you kill them in the name of the cause."
"You're
not helping yourself, Avery. We reevaluated and were prepared to make you an
offer. Of an opportunity. Join us. You're smart, courageous. Use those
qualities to better the world."
The
children's story Peter Pan popped into her head, the place in the tale when
Captain Hook offers to spare Wendy's and the Lost Boys' lives-if they join him,
become pirates. Avery had always admired Wendy's bravery. The courage of her
convictions in the face of certain death.
Wendy
hadn't died. Peter had saved her.
There would
be no Peter Pan to save her, Avery acknowledged. Only the courage of her own
convictions.
"You
have three minutes to decide, Avery." He set his watch. "And the clock's
ticking."
CHAPTER 58
Hunter
crouched behind the partially gutted wall, sweating, listening to Avery and his
brother. Three minutes. Shit.
He squeezed
his eyes shut in an attempt to force out what lay in the adjoining room.
Cadavers. Murder victims.
Ones his
brother thought were alive.
If he
focused on that, he would be defeated. If he focused on what his brother had
become, he would be defeated. If he allowed himself to dwell for even a minute
on Avery strapped to that chair, he would lose it.
He needed a
plan. Reasoning with Matt was out, that had become obvious. What was left?
Charge in, guns blazing?
It sucked.
It was all he had.
"Time's
up, Avery. Are you with us or against us?"
Hunter
tensed, waiting for the right moment, praying for it.
"Please,
Matt," she begged, "listen to me. You're in the grip of some sort of
paranoid delusion. There is no war. Your generals are corpses, victims of
murder. You need a doctor, Matt. A psychia-tri-"
He cut her
off. "So be it."
Hunter
launched himself into the doorway,.357 out, aimed at his brother's chest.
"Drop the fucking gun, Matt! Now!"
Avery cried
out his name. He didn't look at her, didn't take his eyes off his brother.
"The
cavalry arrives," Matt said, then laughed, moving neither his gaze nor his
aim from Avery. "In a last-ditch effort to save his true love's
life."
"Drop
the gun."
"And
why would I do that?"
"Because
it's over, Matt. Because I'll kill you if you don't."
"And
I'll kill her. So I guess it comes down to who's the better, faster shot."
"I'll
take my chances."
"That's
your right, of course. But how are you going to feel watching her die? Always
wondering if maybe, just maybe, you could have saved her."
He was
right, dammit. Every minute could be the difference between life and death.
Avery's life or death.
Hunter's
gaze flicked to Avery, then back. Matt saw it and laughed. "Reading you
like a book, bro. Always could."
"Cherry
and Mom are going for the police."
"Bullshit."
"They
know you killed Dad."
"You're
grasping at straws." His features tightened. "Let's stop fucking
around. Lay down your piece."
"You
won't get away with this," Hunter warned. "Too many people have died.
After this, you won't be able to cover your tracks."
"I
already have, actually. You're crazy, Hunter. On a murder spree. You hate
Cypress Springs and your family. Everybody knows that. Tom Lancaster's Tulane
student ID will be found in your apartment. As will Luke McDougal's class ring
and Elaine St. Claire's crucifix. You discovered Elaine St. Claire's body and
McDougal's vehicle. Your voice is on Trudy Pruitt's recorder…thank you, Avery,
for alerting me to that. And to the paper with Gwen Lancaster's name and room
number on it."
Fury rose
up in Hunter. "Everything nice and neat, just like Sallie
Waguespack."
"Just
like," he agreed.
Hunter
tried another tack. "I just realized why you went into law enforcement,
Matt. So you can hide behind your gun. The badge."
"If
that helps, believe it."
Hunter
laughed. "You never fought unless you knew you could win. And you can't
win without the gun."
"I
could always take you. I still can."
"Prove
it, then. You throw yours, I'll throw mine. Just you and me, no hardware.
Winner takes all."
Matt
narrowed his eyes. "You think you can take me, bro? You think you're that
tough?"
Hunter
bent, laid his gun on the floor. He took a step toward his brother, hands up.
"I'm willing to give it a try. How about you?" When his brother
hesitated, Hunter clucked his tongue. "Or when it really counts, are you
just a yellow-belly chicken?"
The tension
crackled between the two men. Matt glanced at his silent generals as if for
their okay, then nodded. "All right." He crossed to the table and
laid his gun on top, then faced his brother, a smile tugging at the corners of
his mouth. "Come on, let's dance." They advanced, circled each other,
both waiting for the right moment to throw the first punch.
"Don't
chicken out now, Matt," Hunter taunted. "Hate to have the cops arrive
and see you're both yellow and crazy."
Matt
lunged. Only then did Hunter see the knife. Avery did, too, and screamed a
warning. Hunter threw himself to the right. But not fast enough to avoid
contact with the blade. Matt buried it in his shoulder, lost his grip on it and
his footing. A shot rang out. They both went down. Cherry stood in the doorway,
a shotgun to her shoulder. She had it aimed at them, though even at this
distance Hunter saw how unsteady she was. That she was crying.
Hunter
silently swore. She hadn't gone for the police. Secrets had won again.
Matt's
expression went slack with surprise. "Cherry?" he said.
"You
killed Dad, Matt." Her voice broke. "How could you do that? You
shouldn't have done it."
"Dad
turned on us, Cherry. He turned on the family.He sided with an outsider against
us. He had to be eliminated."
She shook
her head. "Family sticks together. They always stick together."
"That's
right," Matt murmured, tone coaxing. "I taught you that." He got
to his feet slowly. "You're my baby sister, but you always took care of
us, of all of us."
He took a
step toward her and she took a step back. "Don't come any closer."
"He's
trying to trick you," Hunter said to Cherry, following Matt to his feet.
He grabbed the knife and yanked it out of his shoulder. He went momentarily
light-headed at the pain, at the whoosh of blood spurting from the wound.
"He's out of his mind. Look around-"
"Don't
listen to him." Matt's expression became pleading. "He's not one of
us. He left us, remember? He broke our hearts."
"I
remember," she whispered. "The two of you fought that night.
Something about school. And Avery. It always scared me when you got like that,
Matt. When you got like…this."
Her gaze
flicked to Hunter. "Dad was working. Mom had been on edge all day, then
had gone out. I went to bed but couldn't sleep. I was scared. It felt
like…everything was falling apart"
She drew in
a broken breath. "That's when I heard Mom. She was crying. I crept out of
bed…I saw the blood. Heard everything. About Dad…his girlfriend…that Mom
had…hurt her. Matt told her not to worry, that everything would be all right. I
saw him get his car keys.
"I
sneaked outside, climbed into the bed of his pickup. Pulled the tarp over me.
There…I sneaked in after Matt. I saw what he did."
She'd only
been ten at the time, Hunter thought. He imagined her terror. Her confusion. If
only he had been home, she could have come to him.
It all made
sense now. The way they had withdrawn from him, shut him out. They'd all been a
part of the same secret club.
It all made
sense.
"I
kept quiet." She shifted her gaze from Matt to Hunter. "I wanted to
tell you, but I was afraid. I didn't know what would happen if I did. They'd
split us up. Send Mom and Matt away."
Hunter
ached for his little sister, alone with her terrible secret. Frightened and
vulnerable. No wonder she had been so angry with him.
"I'm
so sorry, Cherry," he said. "I didn't know. I didn't know you needed
me. If I had, I would have been there for you. I promise."
"But
he wasn't," Matt said sharply. "He abandoned you. Abandoned us. While
I stayed. What I did was for all of us."
Cherry
turned the shotgun on Hunter. "It wasn't his fault, Hunter. Don't be angry
with him. I was there, I saw. He was pushed into doing what he-" Her words
cracked on a sob. "That woman was awful. A cheap whore who had stolen my
daddy.
"When
Avery came back, I was so happy. I thought, if she and Matt got back together,
if she would just stay and love him, everything would be okay. The way it was
before. But now…I wish she'd stayed away. I wish you had both stayed away.
You've ruined everything!"
"It's
not true," Hunter said quickly. "Nothing's been okay since that
night. And nothing could be. You've been living a lie, all of-"
"It's
all their fault," Matt cut him off. "They're outsiders. Traitors to
the family. To Cypress Springs."
"Ask
him about Karl," Avery called out, voice high, desperate-sounding.
"He didn't go to California! He's here, in this room. Ask Matt if it's
true."
Cherry
looked at Matt. "What's she talking about?"
"I
need you, sis. You take care of me. Of all of us. Don't abandon me now, not
when I need you most."
"He
killed him, Cherry!" Avery struggled against her restraints. "Like
he's going to kill all of us. Ask him about Karl and the cause."
"Matt?"
Cherry whispered, voice shaking.
"He
put the cause before love, sis." Matt held a hand out. "You can't
hold that against him. The cause is everything."
Matt
glanced toward the table as if for verbal confirmation from the other man.
Cherry followed his gaze to the circle of the silent, a look of horror crossing
her face. She took a step back, her hold on the shotgun slipping.
"No."
She shook her head; her voice rose. "No!"
Matt used
the moment and leaped forward. Hunter shouted a warning and dived for his own
gun. Avery screamed.
A blast
shattered the quiet. Hunter turned in time to see the force of the shot propel
his twin backward. Matt seemed to hang suspended a moment, standing yet
weightless, before he went down.
The shotgun
slipped to the floor. Sobbing, Cherry fell to her knees beside their brother.
CHAPTER 59
In the next
instant the room filled with the sound of police sirens. Minutes later, a
contingent from both the state police and the West Feliciana Parish Sheriff's
Department stormed the factory.
Avery had
learned that Lilah and Cherry had called the state police; it had taken some
convincing, but they had agreed to send a trooper to the cabin. While waiting,
Cherry had remembered that her father carried a shotgun in the trunk of his
cruiser. She had retrieved it and gone to back up Hunter.
If she
hadn't, Avery knew, she and Hunter would be dead. Like Gwen. Buddy. Her father.
And so many others.
Avery and
Hunter had been transported by ambulance to West Feliciana Parish Hospital in
St. Francisville. She'd required fifty stitches to her face and head. A CT scan
had revealed neither blood nor swelling to her brain, but the doctor had
decided to keep her overnight for observation anyway. Considering, she had come
through relatively unscathed.
Unscathed.
Tears flooded her eyes. She would never be the same. She hurt deep down, in a
way no amount of pain medication, no doctor's skill, could relieve.
"Hello,
gorgeous."
Avery
turned her head toward the doorway. The pillowcase crackled with the movement.
Hunter stood there, fully dressed, smiling at her. "What are you doing
up?" she asked.
"Been
released."
"No
fair." She winced, thinking of Matt's knife sinking into Hunter's
shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"Just
a flesh wound. Real ugly, lots of blood. No real damage."
"That's
not what I meant."
"I
know."
His gaze
held hers. In his she saw reflected the horror of the past hours. Hers, she
knew, reflected the same.
"The
police talk to you, too?" he asked.
"Yes."
She had been questioned by both the state police and sheriff's department. She
had answered questions until her words had begun to slur from fatigue and pain
medication. The doctor had stepped in then, firmly insisting that the rest of
their questions would have to wait until morning.
"You
want to go for a ride?"
"A
ride? Are you busting me out of here?"
"That's
an idea, but no." He disappeared; a moment later reappearing pushing a
wheelchair. "I've got a surprise for you."
He rolled
the chair to her bedside. After locking the chair's wheels, he lowered the bed
rail and helped her into the seat.
"You
know I don't need this thing."
"I
know no such thing. And quit being so independent. It was hard enough getting
the nurse to approve this trip."
She looked
up at him, ready to argue. He stopped her by pressing a quick kiss to her
mouth.
Hunter
rolled her out of the room and down the hall, toward the nurses' station. The
night nurse smiled as they went past. They moved by the empty lounge, with its
drink and snack machines, then stopped at a patient's room. The door stood
ajar.
Hunter
nudged it the rest of the way open and wheeled her in.
A woman lay
in the bed. Dangerously pale, hooked up to monitors and by IV to all manner of
bags and drips.
But alive.
She was alive.
"Gwen?"
Avery said, her voice a husky croak.
The woman's
eyelids fluttered up. She looked their way, staring blankly at Avery a moment,
then her mouth curved into a weak smile. "Avery? Is that…really-"
"Yes,
it is." Tears of joy flooding her eyes, Avery climbed out of the chair and
moved slowly to the other woman's side. She caught her hand, curled her fingers
tightly around Gwen's. "Matt told me you were dead."
"He
thought…I was," she managed to say.
Her voice
fading in and out, she recounted being shot, going down, then managing to get
to her feet and making it to the road. There, she collapsed.
Gwen's eyes
closed and Avery looked up at Hunter. "How did you know she was
here?"
"I
heard the emergency room nurses talking about the woman brought in with a
gunshot wound. Apparently, a motorist found her unconscious by the side of
Highway 421 and brought her to the emergency room. They rushed her into
surgery."
"A
motorist?" Avery questioned Hunter. "Out there, at that time of
night?"
"A
miracle," Hunter murmured. "The hand of God at work."
Her
thoughts exactly. She turned back to the other woman and found Gwen looking at
her, eyes wet. "Is Matt, is he-"
"Dead?"
She nodded, bent and kissed her forehead. "I'm so glad you're alive."
"That's
enough, you two," the nurse said quietly from the doorway behind them.
"Ms. Lancaster needs her rest."
"Can't
I stay?" Avery asked, not wanting to let go of Gwen's hand, afraid,
irrationally, to leave her. "I promise to be quiet."
"You
need your rest as well." The woman's expression softened with
understanding. "She'll be here in the morning, Ms. Chauvin."
In the
morning, Avery thought. No three words had ever sounded so sweet.
EPILOGUE
Monday, March
31, 2003 9:00 a.m.
Avery
watched as Hunter shut the U-Haul trailer's door and snapped the padlock. He
gave the lock a yank to make certain it was secure and turned toward her.
"Ready?"
She nodded
and climbed into the Blazer. Gwen had headed back to New Orleans two days ago,
anxious to leave Cypress Springs behind as quickly as possible. Avery missed
her already. She and Hunter had promised to stop and visit on their way through
the city.
They
couldn't stay long, though. Her editor expected her at her desk, bright and
early the following Monday morning. She had a story to write. A big one.
Sarah
whined. She sat in the back; her pups crated in the cargo area. "It's
okay, girl," Avery murmured, scratching her behind the ears. "No
worries."
Avery
turned forward in her seat. As she did she caught a glimpse of herself in the
side mirror and cringed.
"I saw
that," Hunter murmured, checking traffic and pulling away from the curb.
"I
look like Frankenstein's bride. And my stitches itch."
"I
think you look beautiful."
"Haven't
you heard? Blind men aren't supposed to drive."
He laughed
softly, reached across the console and squeezed her hand. "I'm really glad
you're alive."
She curled
her fingers around his, a sudden, surprising knot of tears in her throat.
They turned
onto Main Street, easing past town square and its startlingly white gazebo.
People stopped, looked their way. A few waved, others simply stared.
Everybody
had heard the story. One bigger than the Waguespack murder. Reactions had
ranged between shock, disbelief, anger. Many had expressed their sorrow, their
confusion. How could this have happened? And here? Cypress Springs was such a
nice place to live. A number of citizens had been brought in, questioned by the
FBI about The Seven, past and present. No arrests had been made as yet.
Cypress
Springs was in mourning. For its dead. For a way of life that had been built
upon a lie. Change was coming.
Avery
caught sight of Rauche's Dry Goods, at the corner of Main and First Streets.
"Hunter, pull over."
He did,
drawing the SUV to a stop in front of the store. As she had four weeks ago, she
climbed out and gazed down Main Street, at the quaint buildings and lovely town
square, the unchanged storefronts.
It looked
wrong, she thought. An anachronism. Time marched on-life progressed, for better
or worse. All else was unnatural. Like an elixir that promised eternal youth.
Hunter came
to stand beside her. "You okay?"
She glanced
up at him. "Going to be. How about you?"
"I
keep waking up at night wondering why him and not me? We were brothers. Twins.
It could have just as easily been me."
The police
shrinks believed that Matt had suffered from delusional disorder, a psychotic
disorder related to paranoid schizophrenia with a major difference: the
afflicted person was able to function normally except when acting on their
delusions.
Complete
and accurate diagnosis was difficult, the psychiatrist had explained, because
they could now only be privy to the aftermath of Matt's delusions. The shrink
had speculated that the incident with Sallie Waguespack had planted the seed
that later provided a dramatic outlet for his illness. Ideology that had fed
into his delusions had also been reinforced by his family, the community and
his chosen profession.
Avery found
Hunter's hand, curled her fingers around his. "No," she murmured,
"it couldn't have been you."
He met her
eyes, his filled with gratitude. "All those years, feeling abandoned by my
family. Shut out. Nobody said anything, but I felt it. After that night,
everything was changed. Now I know why."
She rubbed
her cheek against his shoulder, hurting for him. "I'm so sorry,
Hunter."
"Me,
too. About everything but you." He met her eyes. "I'm going to help
Cherry and Mom through this," he said, tone fierce. "I'm going to be
there for them."
The
district attorney had decided to waive charges against either of them. Because
of Cherry's age at the time of the murder, because of the time that had passed,
lack of evidence and the fact the real murderer was dead.
Even so,
Cherry had acknowledged that she and Lilah couldn't stay in Cypress Springs.
They'd already put the house up for sale, already seen a Realtor in
The were
going to emerge intact, Avery thought. Finally free of the secrets that had
been slowly killing them.
"I
know how my novel ends," Hunter murmured suddenly.
"You
do?"
"Not
the specifics. Just that my hero's going to be okay. And that's good
enough."
She
understood. She felt the same. She didn't know for certain what the future
held, she only knew she was ready to face it. Starting now.
Standing on
tiptoe, she kissed him. "What do you say we get the hell out of
here?"