Erica Spindler (34 page)

Monday, March 31, 2003
9:00 a.m.

A
very watched as Hunter shut the U-Haul trailer's door and snapped the padlock. He gave the lock a yank to make certain it was secure and turned toward her. “Ready?”

She nodded and climbed into the Blazer. Gwen had headed back to New Orleans two days ago, anxious to leave Cypress Springs behind as quickly as possible. Avery missed her already. She and Hunter had promised to stop and visit on their way through the city.

They couldn't stay long, though. Her editor expected her at her desk, bright and early the following Monday morning. She had a story to write. A big one.

Sarah whined. She sat in the back; her pups crated in the cargo area. “It's okay, girl,” Avery murmured, scratching her behind the ears. “No worries.”

Avery turned forward in her seat. As she did she caught a glimpse of herself in the side mirror and cringed.

“I saw that,” Hunter murmured, checking traffic and pulling away from the curb.

“I look like Frankenstein's bride. And my stitches itch.”

“I think you look beautiful.”

“Haven't you heard? Blind men aren't supposed to drive.”

He laughed softly, reached across the console and squeezed her hand. “I'm really glad you're alive.”

She curled her fingers around his, a sudden, surprising knot of tears in her throat.

They turned onto Main Street, easing past town square and its startlingly white gazebo. People stopped, looked their way. A few waved, others simply stared.

Everybody had heard the story. One bigger than the Waguespack murder. Reactions had ranged between shock, disbelief, anger. Many had expressed their sorrow, their confusion. How could this have happened? And here? Cypress Springs was such a nice place to live. A number of citizens had been brought in, questioned by the FBI about The Seven, past and present. No arrests had been made as yet.

Cypress Springs was in mourning. For its dead. For a way of life that had been built upon a lie. Change was coming.

Avery caught sight of Rauche's Dry Goods, at the corner of Main and First Streets. “Hunter, pull over.”

He did, drawing the SUV to a stop in front of the store. As she had four weeks ago, she climbed out and gazed down Main Street, at the quaint buildings and lovely town square, the unchanged storefronts.

It looked wrong, she thought. An anachronism. Time marched on—life progressed, for better or worse. All else was unnatural. Like an elixir that promised eternal youth.

Hunter came to stand beside her. “You okay?”

She glanced up at him. “Going to be. How about you?”

“I keep waking up at night wondering why him and not me? We were brothers. Twins. It could have just as easily been me.”

The police shrinks believed that Matt had suffered from delusional disorder, a psychotic disorder related to
paranoid schizophrenia with a major difference: the afflicted person was able to function normally
except
when acting on their delusions.

Complete and accurate diagnosis was difficult, the psychiatrist had explained, because they could now only be privy to the aftermath of Matt's delusions. The shrink had speculated that the incident with Sallie Waguespack had planted the seed that later provided a dramatic outlet for his illness. Ideology that had fed into his delusions had also been reinforced by his family, the community and his chosen profession.

Avery found Hunter's hand, curled her fingers around his. “No,” she murmured, “it couldn't have been you.”

He met her eyes, his filled with gratitude. “All those years, feeling abandoned by my family. Shut out. Nobody said anything, but I felt it. After that night, everything was changed. Now I know why.”

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, hurting for him. “I'm so sorry, Hunter.”

“Me, too. About everything but you.” He met her eyes. “I'm going to help Cherry and Mom through this,” he said, tone fierce. “I'm going to be there for them.”

The district attorney had decided to waive charges against either of them. Because of Cherry's age at the time of the murder, because of the time that had passed, lack of evidence and the fact the real murderer was dead.

Even so, Cherry had acknowledged that she and Lilah couldn't stay in Cypress Springs. They'd already put the house up for sale, already seen a Realtor in Baton Rouge. Cherry had decided to open that catering business she and her mother had been talking about for so long.

They were going to emerge intact, Avery thought. Finally free of the secrets that had been slowly killing them.

“I know how my novel ends,” Hunter murmured suddenly.

“You do?”

“Not the specifics. Just that my hero's going to be okay. And that's good enough.”

She understood. She felt the same. She didn't know for certain what the future held, she only knew she was ready to face it. Starting now.

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

I
've become a bit of a fixture at a local coffeehouse, sitting in a quiet corner, feverishly tapping away at my laptop keyboard. I share this with you because many of the people who I intend to acknowledge here, I connected with while sitting in that corner. A friendlier bunch you won't find; I think of us as “Cheers” for the caffeine set.

I continue to be humbled and amazed by the enthusiasm and generosity shown me by the various professionals I approach for information, hat in hand. Thank you one and all. Without your generous contribution of time, personal insights and professional expertise,
In Silence
would have been much more difficult to bring to life. I hope you are pleased with the way I used the fruits of your labor.

I begin with my fellow coffee addicts: Renee Plauché and Linda Daley, who blew me away with their generosity toward me, a total stranger. Renee, a University of New Orleans graduate student in counseling, overheard me discussing avenues to research mental illness and offered help. She went so far as to lend me her textbooks, including the DSM IV (that I now know to be),
the
clinician's guide to diagnosis. Likewise Linda, hearing that I was tackling the subject of suicide, offered to share the story of her own father's suicide. With a master's in psy
chology and couseling, she was able to give me both professional and personal insights into suicide and its emotional aftermath. Captains Ralph and Patrick Juneau, Jefferson Parish Fire Department, for the crash course on all things fire: from arson to turn-out gear. Stephanie Otto, nursing student, Charity School of Nursing, for on-the-spot medical terminology and procedure information.

From beyond the coffeehouse walls: Michael D. Defatta, chief deputy coroner, St. Tammany Parish Coroner's Office, for taking time out of his busy schedule to meet and answer my questions about the role of the coroner in criminal investigations and forensic pathology, particularly as it applies to burn victims. Frank Jordan, director of Emergency Medical Services, Mandeville Fire District #4, for his explanation of death by fire. Mrs. Barbara Gould, wife of West Feliciana Parish coroner Dr. Alfred Gould, for the long chat and great quote. Pat McLaughlin, friend, fellow author and journalist, for giving me a glimpse into the mind of the investigative reporter. Tom Mincher, owner of America Hunter Gun and Archery Shop, for information about hunting rifles and ammunition.

Thanks to my friends and colleagues who not only make the journey a smooth one, but a heck of a lot of fun as well. The amazing Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA crew. My assistant, Rajean Schulze. My agent, Evan Marshall. My publicist, Lori Ames.

To my family, without whose love and support the days would be long, indeed.

And last but unquestionably first, thanks to my God, the one responsible for it all.