Erica Spindler (22 page)

“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.”

G
wen 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 Café. 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 bro
ken-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.

A
very 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 déjà 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—a pedestal sink, medicine cabinet, claw-footed tub with pink, flowered 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 on to 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 Waguespack'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 Waguespack's murder.”

“His having them supports Trudy Pruitt's claim.”