Erica Spindler (27 page)

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.”

G
wen'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.

A
very 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's 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.

A
very 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 bedroom 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.

Avery wiped tears from her cheeks and read on, this time from the 1986 journal.

And then later she poured out her heart.

Avery selected the last volume next—1990, the year she had graduated from high school.

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.

Her mother had then gone on to describe other, mundane events.

Avery frowned, her investigative instincts kicking into overdrive. 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.

And then later,

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.

Avery stopped, working to collect her thoughts. Buddy a member of the original Seven? Trying to convince her father to join?

She read on.

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 Café. 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.”