Erica Spindler (10 page)

H
unter 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 presence. 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 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 awhile?”

“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 Matt'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.”

T
he 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 community 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 diz
ziness. 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.