Erica Spindler (26 page)

“It is. A very big deal.” She lightly touched a particularly nasty cut with her index finger. “Some of these look deep. You need stitches.”

“Stitches are for sissies.” He looked over his shoulder and scowled at her. “I picked out the pieces. As best I could, anyway.”

Frowning, she examined his back. “Most of them, anyway.”

“Come on.” She led him to the bathroom and ordered him to sit, pointing to the commode. “Take off your shirt.”

He did as he was told. From the medicine cabinet she collected bandages of varying sizes, disinfectant and a pair of tweezers.

He eyed the tweezers. “What do you plan to do with those?”

She ignored the question. “This might hurt.”

He nearly came off the seat as she began probing with the tweezers. “Might hurt! Take it easy.”

She held up the sliver of glass, pinned between the tweezer's prongs. “How did you say this happened?”

“Matt and I were going at each other like a couple of jackasses, broke some gla—Hey! Ow!”

“Big baby.” She dropped another sliver into the trash. “So you two broke some glass and rolled around in it.”

“Something like that.”

“Bright.”

“You had to be there.”

“No thanks.” She examined the rest of his injuries, didn't see any more glass and began carefully cleaning the cuts. Each time she touched him with the disinfectant-soaked cotton, he flinched.

“I don't get it,” she murmured, being as gentle as she could. “You can roll on a bed of glass, but a little Betadine and you're ready to tuck tail and run.”

“Tuck tail? No way. It's a guy thing.”

“And I say, thank God for the female of the species.” She fitted a bandage over the last wound. “There, all done.”

He grabbed her hand and tumbled her onto his lap. She gazed up at him, surprised, heart racing.

“I agree,” he murmured, voice thick. “Thank God.”

They made love there, in the bathroom, against the back of the door. It shouldn't have been romantic, but it was. The most romantic and exciting sex she had ever had. She orgasmed loudly, crying out. He caught her cries with his mouth and carried her, their bodies still joined, to the bed. They fell on it, facing one another.

He brought her hand to his chest, laid it over his wildly pumping heart. “I can't catch my breath.”

She smiled and stretched, pleased. Satisfied beyond measure. “Mmm…good.”

They fell silent. Moments ticked past as they gazed at one another, hearts slowing, bodies cooling.

Everything about him was familiar, she realized. The
cut of his strong jaw, the brilliant blue of his eyes, the way his thick dark hair liked to fall across his forehead.

And everything was foreign as well. The boy she had known and liked had grown into a man she desired but didn't know at all.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “About this morning. I acted like an ass. Another one of my problems.”

She trailed a finger over his bottom lip. “What happened, Hunter? In New Orleans? Why'd you come home?”

“Home?” he repeated. “After all these years, you still call Cypress Springs home?”

“Don't you?”

He was silent a moment. “No. It ceased being home the day I walked away.”

“But you've returned.”

“To write a book.”

“But why here?” He didn't reply. After a moment she answered for him. “Maybe because you felt safe here? Or felt you had nowhere else to go? Both could be called definitions of home.”

He laughed scornfully. Humorless. “More like returning to the scene of the crime. The place my life began to go wrong.”

She propped herself on an elbow and gazed down at him. He met her gaze; the expression in his bleak. “Talk to me,” she said quietly. “Make me understand.”

He looked as if he might balk again, then began instead. “New Orleans, my time at Jackson, Thompson and Witherspoon, passed in a blur. I was good at what I did. Too good, maybe. I moved up too fast, made too much money. I didn't have to work hard enough.”

So he didn't respect it. Or himself
.

“I became counsel of choice for New Orleans's young movers and shakers. Not the old guard, but their offspring. Life was a party. Drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll.”

Avery cringed at the thought. She certainly wasn't naive. Her years in journalism had been…illuminating. But she had been lucky enough—strong enough—to resist falling into that particular pit.

“The drugs were everywhere, Avery. When you're dealing with the rich and famous, everything's available. Anything. Alcohol remained my drug of choice, though I didn't turn down much of anything.”

He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. Retreating from her, she knew. And into the past. “At first, the firm looked the other way. I was a hot commodity. Staying on top of my cases and clients despite my after-hours excesses. Substance abuse is not unheard of in lawyers. A by-product of the stresses of the job and the opportunity for abuse.

“Then the line blurred. I started using during the day. Started screwing up at work. A missed court date here and forgotten deadline there. The firm made excuses for me. After all, if word got out that one of their junior partners was a drunk, their exposure would have been huge. When I showed up drunk for a meeting with an important client, they'd had enough. They fired me.

“Of course, I was in denial. It was everybody's problem but mine. I could handle the alcohol. The drugs. I was a god.”

Avery hurt for him. If was difficult to reconcile the man he described with the one she had known as a teenager—or the one she lay beside now.

“I went on a binge. My friends deserted me. The woman I was living with left. I had no more restraints, no one and nothing to hold me back.”

He fell silent a moment, still deeply in the past. Struggling, Avery suspected, with dark, painful memories.

When he resumed, his voice shook slightly. “One morning I lost control of my vehicle by an elementary
school. The kids were at recess. My car windows were open, I heard their laughter, squeals of joy. And then their screams of terror.

“I was speeding. Under the influence, big time. I crashed through the playground fence. There was nothing I could do but watch in horror. The children scattered. But one boy just stood there…I couldn't react.”

He covered his eyes with his hands as if wanting to block out the memory. “A teacher threw herself at him, knocking him out of the way.

“I hit her. She bounced onto the hood, then windshield. The thud, it—” He squeezed his eyes shut, expression twisted with pain. “Miraculously, she wasn't killed. Just a couple broken ribs, lacerations…I thank God every day for that.

“The fence and the tree I clipped had slowed my forward momentum. Still, if I'd hit that boy, I would have killed him.”

He looked at her then, eyes wet. “She came to see me.
Me
, the man who—She forgave me, she said. She begged me to see the miracle I had been offered. To use it to change my life.”

Avery silently studied him. He had, she knew, without his saying so. The novel was part of that change. Coming back to Cypress Springs. Going back to move forward.

“That boy, I wonder if he finds joy in the playground now. I wonder if any of them can. Do they wake up screaming? Do they relive the terror? I do. Not a day goes by I don't remember. That I don't see their faces, hear their screams.”

“I'm sorry, Hunter,” she said softly. “I'm so sorry.”

“So you see, I'm both cliché and a cautionary tale. The drunk driver barreling into a schoolyard full of children, the one lawyers like me argue don't exist.”

He said the last with sarcasm, then continued, “I was charged with driving under the influence and reckless
endangerment. The judge ordered me into a court-monitored detox program. Took away my license for two weeks. Slapped me with a ridiculously low fine and ordered me to serve a hundred hours of community service.”

If someone had been killed he would have been charged with vehicular homicide. He would have served time.

Hunter was already serving time
.

“I haven't had a drink since,” he finished. “I pray I never will again.”

She found his hand, curled her fingers around his.

Moments ticked past.

“Matt's still in love with you.”

She started to deny it, he stopped her. “It's true. He never stopped.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I goaded him into losing control today, into throwing the first punch. The sick thing is, I took so much pleasure in doing it. In being able to do it. Perverse SOB, aren't I?”

“You're not so bad.” Her lips lifted slightly. “Not as bad as you think you are, not by a long shot.”

He turned his head, met her eyes. “Run, Avery. Go as fast as you can. I'm no good for you.”

“Maybe I should be the judge of that.”

His smile didn't reach his eyes. “That'd be risky. We both know you've never been that great a judge of character.”

“Is that so?” She sat up, feigning indignation. “Actually, I'm a pretty damn good judge of—You're bleeding again.”

“Where?” He sat up, craning to see over his shoulder.

“Here.” She twisted to grab a couple of tissues from the box on her bed stand, then dabbed at the trickle of blood seeping from the bandage under his left shoulder
blade. She remembered it had been the ugliest of the gashes.

Avery climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with her. Wrapping it around her, toga style. “I'll bet there are some heavy-duty bandages in Dad's bathroom.” She wagged a finger at him. “Stay put.”

“Yes, Nurse Chauvin.”

Avery padded into the hallway, heading toward her parents' bedroom. The door stood open, giving her a clear view of the bed. She should make it, she thought. Or strip it. Seeing it like that, day after day, reminded her of the last night of her father's life. And in doing so, it reminded her of his death.

The last night of his life.

The unmade bed
.

Avery brought a hand to her mouth. Her dad had been in his pajamas. He had taken sleep medication. Obviously, he had either been asleep or had climbed into bed. Why put on his pj's if he meant to kill himself? Why climb into bed, under the covers? Only to get out, step into his slippers and head to the garage to kill himself?

It didn't make sense to her. Even considering her father's state of mind as described by his friends and neighbors
.

She closed her eyes, thoughts racing, assembling another scenario. Her father in bed. Sleep aided by medication. Someone at the door. Ringing the bell or pounding.

The coroner had found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his bloodstream. She had taken a similar medication before, to help her sleep on international flights. She had been easily roused. The medication had simply relaxed her, aided her ability to sleep.

Her dad had been a physician. Had spent his working life on call. Someone pounding on the door would have awakened him, even from a deep, medicated sleep.

So he had climbed out of bed. Stepped into his slip
pers and headed down to the front door. Or side door. There the enemy had waited. In the guise of a friend, she thought. Someone he had recognized and trusted.

So, he had opened the door.

Avery realized she was shaking. Her heart racing. It hurt, but she kept building the scenario, fitting the pieces together.

He would have been groggy. Easy to surprise and overpower, especially by someone he trusted.

How had they done it? she wondered. She flipped through the possibilities. Neither the coroner nor police had found any indication of foul play. No marks. No fractures. No detectable signs of a struggle, not at the scene or on the body.

She recalled what she had learned about death by fire—that the flesh basically melted but the body didn't incinerate. An autopsy could be performed. A blow to the head with enough force to disable a man would leave evidence for the pathologist.

Could his assailant have subdued him, secured him with ropes and carried him to the garage? She shook her head, eliminating the possibility. According to Ben Mitchell, her dad had crawled a few feet toward the door, impossible if bound.

So, how did one subdue a man without leaving a detectable mark on the body or in the bloodstream?

Then she had it. A friend in D.C. had carried a stun gun instead of pepper spray. She had sung its praises and tried to convince Avery to purchase one. What had she told Avery? That it delivered a high-voltage electrical charge that would immobilize an attacker for up to fifteen minutes. With no permanent damage. And no detectable mark on the body.

It would have paralyzed her father long enough for his murderer to carry him out to the garage, douse him with fuel and toss a match.

His slipper had fallen off on the path between the house and garage.

That's why he hadn't stopped to slip it back on. He hadn't been walking. He'd been carried. She pictured the murderer dumping him in the garage. He'd had the fuel there, ready. Diesel fuel lit on contact. No flashover. The murderer could have tossed the match and walked away.

While her father burned alive. By the time he had been able to respond, it had been too late.

“What's wrong?”

She turned. Hunter had come up behind her. “I know how it happened. With Dad. I know how they killed him.”

H
unter awakened to realize he was alone in bed. He glanced at Avery's bedside clock. Just after 5:00 p.m. They had slept the afternoon away.

At least he had.

He sat up. The pillow next to his still bore the imprint of Avery's head. He laid his hand in the indention and found it cold. He shifted his gaze to the window. The light had changed, lost the brilliance of midday and taken on the violet of early evening.

He ran a hand absently across his jaw, rough with a five o'clock shadow, thoughts on Avery. She had shared her theory with him—that her father had been awakened by a trusted friend at the door. That a stun gun had been used to immobilize him. That her father had dragged himself to the door, but that his effort had been too late.

Afterward, Hunter had held her while she cried. Her weeping had broken his heart and he had tried to comfort her by poking holes in her theory. Why would someone have killed her father? he'd asked. What could their motive have been?

Nothing he said had helped, so he had simply held her until her tears stopped. And then he'd led her to the bed and lay with her until they had both drifted off.

Hunter threw the coverlet aside and climbed out of
bed. After retrieving his jeans from the floor, he went in search of Avery.

He found her in the kitchen. She stood at the sink, gazing out the window behind it. The portable phone lay on the kitchen table. Beside it a steno-size spiral notebook and a folded newspaper.

She had been up for some time
.

He approached silently. She wore a white terry-cloth robe, cinched at the waist. It swallowed her, accentuating her diminutive stature. With her little-boy haircut and pixie features she looked like a child dressed up in her mother's things.

Those who underestimated her because of her petite size made a big mistake. She possessed a keen mind and the kind of determination that sometimes bordered on pigheadedness. He'd always admired her, even when she'd dug in her heels about something that to his mind had made no sense.

He'd admired her character, as well as her sense of fair play. She had stood up to the bullies. Had taken the side of the underdog, befriended the new kids and odd ones, championed the outsiders. It hadn't made her popular, but for the most she hadn't cared about popularity.

Truth was, he had always been in awe of her strength.

He had always been a little bit in love with her.

Was that what was going on now? he wondered. Had she decided to befriend the underdog? Champion him, the outsider? No matter what others thought?

She became aware of his presence and looked at him. The barest of smiles touched her mouth. “It's going to storm.”

He crossed to stand beside her. The wind had begun to blow, he saw. Dark clouds tumbled across the evening sky. “It's spring. We need the rain.”

“I suppose.”

He touched her cheek lightly. “Are you all right?”

“Hanging in there.” She tilted her head into his hand. “Hungry?”

“Starving. We could order out.”

She shook her head. “I have eggs. And cheese.”

“Sounds like an omelette.”

They worked together, playfully arguing over what ingredients to include. Onions were out. Bell peppers in. Mushrooms were a must. Lots of cheese. A bit of cayenne pepper.

“I'll make toast,” he offered.

“I have English muffins. In the fridge.”

“Even better.” He retrieved them along with the orange juice and butter. After splitting two of the muffins and popping them into the toaster, he rummaged around in the cabinets and drawers, collecting flatware, plates, glasses and napkins.

Hunter carried them to the oak table. He moved the phone and newspaper; as he did, he saw it was the issue of the
Gazette
that had reported her dad's death. He frowned, shifting his gaze to the spiral notebook that lay beside it. A column of names with a date beside each ran down the page.
Pat Greene. Sal Mandina. Pete Trimble. Kevin Gallagher. Dolly Farmer.
Her father's name was there. At the bottom, Trudy Pruitt's.

“What's this?”

She didn't look at him. “Something I'm working on.”

“Working on?” he repeated. “It looks like a list of people who have died in—”

“The past eight months,” she finished for him. “Here in Cypress Springs.”

She wouldn't have the list out if she hadn't wanted him to see it. “This is about those things Trudy Pruitt said to you, isn't it? About your dad being involved in Sallie Waguespack's death?”

She turned the omelette. “Yes. And about the clippings I found in his closet. And two murders and two disappear
ances in the past six weeks. And a group called The Seven.”

He frowned. “I'm not going to be able to deter you from this, am I?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “No.”

Determined to the point of pigheaded. She wouldn't let this go until she was satisfied she knew the truth. Beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt truth.

No wonder she was such a good investigative reporter.

“Dammit, Avery. You drive me crazy.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Forget it then if it'll make you feel better.”

“Like hell. You think I'm going to leave you to track down a killer yourself? Two women have already been murdered. I don't want you to be the third.”

She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him in exaggerated coquetry. “That's so sweet, Hunter.”

“This isn't funny. There's a killer out there.”

“That's right. And he may have killed my father.”

“Would you like my help?” he asked, resigned.

She thought a moment, then nodded. “I think I would. Eggs are ready.”

She slid the omelettes onto plates. He buttered the English muffins and set them on the table. While they ate, Hunter curbed his impatience. This was her party, after all.

When they had finished, she stood, cleared the plates then sat back down. She met his eyes. “As you know, last night I went to Trudy Pruitt's trailer. The woman had accused my father of being involved in Sallie Waguespack's murder. Of helping the police to frame her sons. She said she had proof, but she was killed before she could give it to me.”

“So you went looking for it. Gwen Lancaster was with you.”

“How did you—?”

“Good guess.”

“What you don't know is that Gwen had interviewed Trudy about The Seven just hours before Trudy's death.”

Hunter straightened. “She interviewed Trudy Pruitt?”

“Yes. The woman confirmed the existence of The Seven. She claimed the group was responsible for Elaine St. Claire's murder.”

“Avery,” Hunter said, frowning, “word is, the woman was an unstable drunk. Because of her boys, she had an ax to grind with this town. I wouldn't put too much stock in what she had to say.”

“You sound like Matt. Buddy, too.”

“They're right. You should listen.”

She looked frustrated. “What about Gwen? Her place was ransacked. All her notes stolen. Someone lured her out to a hunting camp off Highway 421 and No Name Road. They left her a gutted cat.”

“Try that again.”

“A woman phoned Gwen. She told her she had information about Gwen's brother's disappearance. She arranged a meeting at the hunting camp.”

“But she didn't show.”

“Right. Instead, Gwen found the cat. It was a warning. To cease and desist. That's the way The Seven works. One warning, then they act.”

Hunter listened, his sense of unease growing. “How do you know any of that's true, Avery? She could have ransacked her own place, lied about the cat, the phone call and notes. All in an effort to convince you it was true. To gain your trust.”

She shook her head. “I was at The Guesthouse when she returned. She was frightened, Hunter. Terrified.”

She slid the piece of newspaper across the table. “Last night Gwen and I found this. On Trudy Pruitt's bedroom floor.”

Hunter gazed at the clipping. The woman had drawn
devil horns and a goatee on the picture of Avery's father, yet Avery seemed so matter-of-fact about the item it was as if finding such an upsetting thing in a murdered woman's bedroom was an everyday occurrence.

“Look here, in the margin,” she continued. “She was tallying something, keeping score.”

“All but two,'” he murmured. “What do you think it means?”

“I believe she was counting the dead so far. My dad was number five.”

“Plus two equals seven.”

“I noticed that.”

“Okay, you have my full attention.”

She tapped the page. “The way I figure it, these were either people she believed had been involved in the cover-up of Sallie Waguespack's murder or ones who knew the truth about it.”

“Presuming there was a cover-up.”

“Yes.” She stood and began to pace. “You're a lawyer…Who would have been involved in the investigation?”

“I'm not a criminal attorney, but obviously you've got a murderer and a victim. Person or persons who discovered the body. First officer. Detectives, criminalists. The coroner or his deputy.”

“Witnesses, if any.”

“Right.”

“Your dad let me read the file,” she said. “Officer Pat Greene was out on patrol. He saw the Pruitt boys leaving Sallie Waguespack's. The boys had a history of trouble with the law, so he decides he'd better check it out. He finds the woman dead, then calls Buddy.”

She stopped, expression intent, as if working to recall the exact sequence of events. “From Pat's description, Buddy figures it was the Pruitt brothers Pat saw. He and Pat go looking for them. The meeting ends in a shoot-out that left the boys dead.”

“They left the murder scene untended?”

She thought a moment. “I can't remember. They may have waited for the coroner, but I don't think so. According to the file, no other officer was called to the scene.”

“Go on.”

“The murder weapon was found in the ditch behind the Pruitt's trailer. Donny's prints were on it. One of the boys had the victim's blood on his shoe. They opened fire on the police when approached and Pat Greene had already placed them at the scene. Case closed. No need for further investigation, nice and neat.”

“Too nice and neat, you're thinking?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the autopsy? As I understand it, an autopsy is always requested in a murder case.”

“It wasn't in the file. Buddy thought it had been misplaced and promised to locate it for me. I'll give him a call tomorrow.”

Silence fell between them. Hunter sensed her doing the same as he, considering the possibilities, doing a mental tally. The numbers didn't add up.

“Let's count who could have been involved,” he said. “You've got two officers at the scene, Dad and Pat Greene. You've got the coroner. That's three. Throw in the victim and the Pruitts you've got six. Your dad could be number seven, though how he fit in I'm not certain.”

He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “Maybe she was counting the deaths of The Seven? Maybe she was the one bumping them off? Maybe one of the last two killed her first?”

“Maybe, but I don't think so. Unless she had an accomplice. These deaths were made to look like accidents. There was a level of sophistication I don't believe Trudy Pruitt capable of.”

“If she had an accomplice, who would that be?
Someone who thought as she did. Someone with an ax to grind against Cypress Springs or a group of her citizens.”

Avery thought a moment, then shook her head. “Then who killed Elaine St. Claire? Not Trudy Pruitt, they were friends. She told Gwen that The Seven were responsible for Elaine's death.”

“Maybe The Seven are the ones who killed Sallie Waguespack.”

“That doesn't work because the way I understand it, the Waguespack murder was the catalyst for the formation of The Seven.”

“But you don't know that for sure.”

She made a sound of frustration. “No, dammit. All I have is speculation.”

“And a growing number of dead.” He stood and crossed to her. “Let's back up again. Who could have known the truth about Sallie Waguespack's death?”

“The Pruitt boys. Buddy. Pat Greene. My dad, because Trudy Pruitt implicated him.”

“Trudy herself,” he offered. “Maybe whoever prepared Sallie for burial.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

She crossed to the counter, to her notebook. She ran a finger down the column of names, mouth moving as she silently read them.

He watched her, a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “What?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “Everyone we named is dead, Hunter. Except your dad.”

The words landed heavily between them. Hunter stared at her, his world shifting slightly. “That can't be.”

“It is.” She held the steno pad out and he saw that her hand trembled. “Take a look.”

He shook his head, but didn't reach for the notebook. “Do you realize what you're saying?”

She nodded slowly, face pale.

Either Buddy Stevens was a killer. Or next in line to die
.

“Look at the list,” she said again. “Pat Greene, Dad, Kevin Gallagher, Trudy Pru—”

“I don't give a damn about your list!” The words exploded from him. “You've gone around the bend with this thing, Avery. Way past rational.”

She took a step back, expression hurt. “This doesn't mean your dad's the one. He could be in danger, Hunter. If so, we need to warn him.”

It was bullshit. Nothing went on in this town without his dad knowing, never had. Who better than the chief of police to orchestrate a cover-up? Who better than a lawman to arrange deaths to look like accidents?

Hunter tipped his face to the ceiling, thoughts racing. Reviewing the things they had discussed, the key players in the Waguespack investigation.