Erica Spindler (13 page)

A
very 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 considered 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 imagine 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 whose 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.

A
very 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 September 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.”