Erica Spindler (28 page)

“
H
unter!” 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:

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.”

A
very 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 engulfed 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 shoulders. “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.”

M
att 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 awhile.”

“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.”