She collapsed against his chest. Beneath her cheek his heart thundered. She had always wondered, all those years ago, what kissing Hunter would be like. What being with him would be like.
Now she knew. And she wondered why she had waited so long to find out.
"I hated that."
She lifted her head and met his eyes. "Me, too."
His eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. "I could tell."
She rubbed her forehead against his bristly chin. "You have anything to eat in this place?"
"A loaded question."
"Funny. Got any homemade chocolate cake?"
"Sure. Baked it this morning."
She grinned, feeling young, randy and totally irresponsible. "How about a PBJ?"
"Got something even better."
He rolled them both out of bed. He gave her one of his T-shirts to wear. The soft white fabric swallowed her. She glanced at its front. "Party hard on Bourbon Street?"
"From the old days."
She followed him to the kitchen, Sarah at their heels, the puppies on hers. Avery leaned against the counter while he made them both PBM-peanut butter and marshmallow cream-sandwiches, then poured two big glasses of cold milk.
Whole milk, she saw. Talk about irresponsible.
They sat at the tiny dinette and dug in. "My God, this is good," she said, mouth full. She washed it down with a long swallow of the creamy milk.
"Awesome, isn't it? Worth shouting about."
He wasn't talking about the milk. Or the sandwiches. She flushed and shifted her gaze. He laughed softly, stood and went to make himself another sandwich.
"Want another?" he asked.
"Not if I want to be able to snap my pants tomorrow. But thanks."
He fixed his and sat back down. "Earlier, you said something about wishing you had taken a call from your dad. What did you mean?"
She laid the last of her sandwich carefully on the plate. "That last day, before Dad…died, he called. I was on my way out. Meeting a source, one who'd finally agreed to talk to me."
Her voice thickened; she cleared it. "I heard Dad's voice on the recorder and I…I thought, I'd call him later. My source couldn't wait, but my father…he'd always be there."
Hunter reached across the table and touched her hand. "I'm sorry, Avery."
"If only I could go back, take that call."
"But you can't."
Silence fell between them. Hunter broke it. "Why were you at Trudy Pruitt's last night?"
"Remember the caller I told you about? The woman who said Dad got what he deserved?" He nodded. "She called again. A couple of times. She said Dad was a liar. And a murderer."
"Your dad? Avery, you can't honestly belie-"
She stopped him. "That woman was Trudy Pruitt. Donny and Dylan Pruitt's mother."
"They're the ones who killed that woman."
"Sallie Waguespack." Sarah whined and laid her head on Avery's lap. Avery scratched her behind the ears. "She claimed they didn't do it. That they were framed."
"Of course she did. She was their mother."
"She said Dad was part of the cover-up. That she had proof."
"And?"
"She was killed before she could give it to me."
"And you think she was murdered because of that proof?"
"It's crossed my mind. It's an awfully big coincidence, she lives all these years, contacts me and gets herself killed."
He was silent a moment. "And you believe whoever was involved with your dad in this frame-up killed him then Trudy Pruitt?"
She leaned forward. "You ever heard of a group called The Seven?"
He frowned. "My mother was part of a civic organization called The Seven something or other."
"How about a woman named Gwen Lancaster? Ever heard of her?" He shook his head. "Her brother, Tom Lancaster?"
His expression altered subtly. "That name's familiar but I can't place from where."
"He disappeared in February this year. Similar situation to Mc-Dougal. A Cypress Springs outsider. No sign of violence, but the police suspected foul play. The Gazette ran the story on the sixth."
"That's right." He paused as if remembering. "The big difference between the two, of course, was the car. Lancaster's was left out in the open. McDougal's had been hidden. Which to me suggests the two are unrelated."
"Unrelated? Two young men disappear from the same small community, barely eight weeks apart and you don't think those disappearances are related?"
"Modus operandi, Avery. Criminals tend to repeat their crimes, how they carry out those crimes. If a murderer leaves a body out in the open the first time, they'll do it the second, then the third. Basic investigative technique."
She shook her head. "Trudy Pruitt, Elaine St. Claire, Tom Lancaster, Luke McDougal. If I accept your definition, we're dealing with four different killers."
"McDougal may very well have chosen to go missing. People do it all the time. Coming on the heels of Lancaster is a coincidence. Or clever planning from a man intent on disappearing."
"For heaven's sake." She made a sound of frustration. "Three killers then. In a town that has had only a couple of murders in a decade?"
He pushed his plate away. Sat back. "Okay, you're obviously up to your elbows in this. You tell me."
She began at the beginning, with Gwen Lancaster. She told him about how they'd met, the things she had told Avery about a group called The Seven. And about her brother Tom, who had disappeared while researching the group.
"At first I didn't believe her. The idea of a vigilante-style group operating in Cypress Springs seemed ludicrous. According to Gwen, the original group disbanded after only a few years, but are operating again. Willing to murder to achieve their goals."
"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 te
ll 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."
CHAPTER 36
Gwen 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 Cafe. 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 broken-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.
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