In Silence

by Erica Spindler

  He exited the office and made his way to the kitchen. The dog whined. "Okay, girl." He grabbed the leash from the hook, snapped it to her collar and opened the door. She leaped forward, dragging him through the door and into the alley before he got a firm grip on the lead.

  When he did, he yanked hard on it. Sarah heeled.

  "What's up with you?" Hunter bent and scratched behind her ears. Instead of sinking on her haunches and sagging against him in grateful ecstasy, she stayed at attention, muscles taut. Quivering.

  He frowned and turned his gaze in the direction of hers-the narrow, dark alley. "What is it, Sarah? What's wrong?"

  She growled, low in her throat. The fur along the ridge of her back stood up.

  "Anyone there?" he called.

  Silence answered. He squinted at the darkness ahead, working to make out details, differentiate shape from shadow. Wishing for Sarah's acute sense of smell and hearing. He called out once more. Again, without answer.

  Wondering at the wisdom of what he was about to do, he eased his grip slightly. The dog charged forward. Or tried to. He held her back, forcing her to proceed slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dark.

  As they reached the middle point of the alley, she angled right. Her growl deepened. Hunter drew back on the leash, struggling to hold her. The dog's muscles bunched and rippled as she fought him, digging in with each step.

  Produce crates, he saw. A stack of them sent askew. From the Piggly Wiggly around front. And tipped trash barrels, discarded bakery and deli items spewing out into the alleyway. Sarah began to bark. Not a high, shrill bark of excitement, but a fierce one. Deep, threatening.

  "Sarah," he chided, "all this over a little spoiled chow?" He bent and thumped her side. "Or is the possum or coon that made this mess still hanging around?"

  The sound of his voice did little to comfort her. As he moved to straighten, something peeking out from under the pile of crates and boxes caught his eye.

  An animal's tail. No wonder Sarah was going bonkers. The creature that caused this messed had gotten itself trapped under one of the tipped crates. It could be hurt, maybe dead.

  He glanced around, looking for something he could use to move the crates. No way was he about to use his hand. Cornered creatures defended themselves ferociously. Especially when hurt.

  He spotted a broom propped in the opposite doorway. He retrieved it, then wedged its handle through the crate's wooden slats and tipped it up. His stomach rose to his throat. He took a step backward, Sarah's frenzied barking ringing in his ears.

  Not an animal's tail. Human hair.

  The woman it belonged to stared up at him, face screwed into a death howl.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hunter stumbled backward, dragging Sarah with him. Bending, he propped his hands on his knees and dragged in deep breaths. Steady, Stevens. Don't throw up. Dear God, don't-

  The image of the woman filled his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in another lungful of oxygen. A woman…Jesus… What to do? What-

  Make certain she's dead. Call the cops.

  Hunter expelled a long breath and straightened slowly. He turned his gaze toward the woman. She hadn't moved. She stared fixedly at him, mouth stretched into that horrible scream.

  He hadn't a doubt she was dead. And that her death had been excruciating. But still, he should check her pulse. Shouldn't he? Wasn't that what they always did in the movies and on TV? That or fall completely apart.

  Not an option, Stevens. He shortened his hold on Sarah's lead and inched closer. Carefully, he moved a couple of the toppled crates, revealing the woman's arm.

  Sometime before she'd died, she'd polished her fingernails a bright, bloody red. Now, the contrast between the red polish and the fish-belly white of her skin affected him like a shouted obscenity.

  Hunter moved closer. He circled his fingers around the woman's wrist. She was cold. Her skin spongy to the touch.

  No pulse. Not even a flutter.

  He yanked his hand back, instinctively wiping it against his blue jeans, and straightened.

  Get the cops. His dad. Or Matt.

  They were all around the corner. At Phillip's wake.

  He considered his choices and decided he could notify them as quickly on foot as he could by calling the department. Decision made, he started forward at a run. As if sensing his urgency, Sarah stayed by his side. They cleared the alley, making the block to Gallagher's in less than three minutes.

  He took the front steps two at a time, ordered Sarah to stay and burst through Gallagher's front door. Danny Gallagher stood just inside the door. His eyes widened. "Hunter, what-"

  "Where are they?"

  Danny pointed. "Number one, but-"

  Hunter darted forward, not waiting for him to finish. He spotted his family the moment he entered the room. They stood in a tight clutch.

  Stevens clan against the world. Minus one, of course.

  He strode forward; the crowd parted silently for him. Conversations ceased. Expressions registered surprise. Then excitement. They expected a scene. They wanted one.

  He could liven things up, all right. Just not for the reason they thought.

  Hunter saw the moment his family became aware of his pres-ence. They turned. Their gazes settled on him. Matt frowned; Buddy's eyebrows shot up even as his stance altered subtly, becoming defensive. Preparing for battle. His mother looked particularly pale, her eyes wide, alarmed. Cherry averted her gaze when he looked at her.

  As American as apple pie and Prozac.

  Damn them all.

  "Dad," he said, not bothering with a greeting, "we need to talk."

  Matt stepped forward, fists clenched. "You picked a hell of a time for one of your confrontations. Get out of here before Avery-"

  "Back off," Hunter snapped. "This is an emergency, Dad. We need to speak privately."

  "It'll have to keep, son. Tonight I'm honoring my best friend."

  Hunter leaned toward him. He lowered his voice. "There's been a murder. Think that'll keep?"

  From behind him came the sound of a sharply drawn breath. He turned. Avery had come up behind them, that she'd heard was obvious by her distraught expression.

  She shifted her gaze from him to his dad, then Matt. "What's going on?"

  Hunter held out a hand. "I'm sorry, Avery. I didn't mean to involve you in this."

  Matt stepped between them. "Let's take this outside." Hunter was happy to oblige. He followed his father and brother out front. Sarah thumped her tail against the porch when she saw him.

  The two men faced him. Matt spoke first. "This better not be your idea of a sick-"

  "Joke? I wish it was."

  Quickly, Hunter explained, starting with Sarah pawing at the door and finishing with checking the woman's pulse.

  Buddy and Matt exchanged glances, then met his eyes once more. Buddy took the lead. "Are you certain the woman was murdered?"

  Hunter hesitated. He wasn't, he realized. She could have been a street person. Or someone who worked at one of the businesses on the alley. She could have had a heart attack, fallen into the crates, causing them to topple.

  He pictured those ruby-colored nails and his relief died. Street people didn't get manicures. The businesses lining the alley all closed at five; if the woman worked in one of those businesses, wouldn't a loved one be looking for her by now? Wouldn't they think to check the alley?

  Still, the woman could have died of natural causes.

  "Hunter?"

  He blinked, refocusing on his father. "I just assumed…because she was dead, in the alley…"

  "Show us where she is."

  Hunter did, leading the men to the spot. As he passed his door he could hear the puppies crying and stopped to put Sarah in. His dad and brother continued without him.

  "Son of a bitch. Shit."

  "Oh, goddamn."

  They'd found her. Their brief responses expressed volumes.

  Hunter made his way up the alley. He hung back a
few feet, keeping his gaze averted as the other two men carefully shifted the crates to get a better look at the victim. He listened to their dialogue.

  "This woman did not die of natural causes."

  "No shit."

  "Oh man, she's torn up bad."

  That had come from Matt; he sounded weird, more than shaken. As if someone had a hold on his vocal cords and was squeezing. Hard.

  "Slow down," his father warned. "We don't know what happened. We have to be careful not to destroy any evidence."

  Hunter glanced at his brother. He saw him nod at his father's advice. Saw him trying to pull himself together. Saw the moment he got a grip on himself.

  "Look, she's propped up on the right-" Matt squatted and peered closely at the corpse. "But no lividity on her left side."

  "So she's been moved."

  "Bingo."

  It was human nature, Hunter supposed, that made him look her way. He immediately regretted it, but couldn't tear his gaze away. The woman's lower half was naked, her legs spread. It looked as if her panties had been ripped away, her mini skirt shoved up over her hips, bunching at her waist. Blood…everywhere. Smeared over her thighs, belly. Bile rose in his throat. He averted his gaze, struggling to breathe.

  Not to throw up.

  "I've got to call this in," Buddy said, voice thick. "Get a crew here, ASAP."

  "You need the sheriff's department's help on this one, Dad?" Matt sounded just as shaky. Hunter realized that for all their years in law enforcement, they had little experience with this kind of thing.

  This kind of thing? He was already dehumanizing it. Making it palpable.

  Call it what it was. Murder. The violent extinguishing of a human life.

  "Hell yes," his father answered. "We're not equipped…this…It's Sallie Waguespack all over again."

  Buddy and Matt made their calls. Within twenty minutes a crew consisting of both the Cypress Springs Police Department and the West Feliciana Parish Sheriff's Department had assembled at the scene.

  Hunter stood back as a CSPD officer secured the scene with yellow tape. Another stood at each end of the alley to keep the curious away. The sheriff's department's crime scene guys had begun to do their thing: they'd set up portable spotlights to illuminate the alley so they could begin the painstaking job of collecting evidence. The police photographer was shooting the scene from every imaginable angle.

  Except from the perspective of the victim, Hunter thought. Her eyes would never see anything again.

  He turned his back on the scene and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Still he pictured her, as if her image had been stamped on the inside of his eyelids. How long would it take to fade? he wondered. Would it ever?

  "Need to ask you a few questions, Hunter."

  The request came from Matt. Hunter dropped his hands and looked over his shoulder at his brother, realizing then how tired he was. Bone tired. "Figured. What do you want to know?"

  "Tell us again the sequence of events that led to your finding the | victim. As exactly as you can recall. Every detail."

  The victim. Hunter angled a glance her way. "She have a name?"

  "Yeah," Buddy answered. "Elaine St. Claire. Keep it to yourself for a couple hours until we notify her next of kin."

  He wasn't surprised his father knew her name-he knew everybody in his town. "Who was she?"

  "A local barfly. Party girl." Buddy glanced over his shoulder at her, grimaced and looked back. "Last I heard, she'd left town."

  She hadn't gotten far. Poor woman. He sometimes thought of Cypress Springs as a spiderweb. Once tangled in its threads, there was no escape.

  If the town was the web, who was the spider?

  Matt made a sound of irritation. "Can we get on with it?"

  "Sure." Hunter narrowed his eyes on his brother. "What do you want to know?"

  His brother repeated his question and for the second time Hunter detailed how he had come upon Elaine St. Claire.

  "And that's it? You're certain?" Buddy asked.

  "Yes."

  Matt frowned. "And you heard nothing, no commotion from the alley?"

  "No. Nothing. I was working."

  "Working?"

  "At my computer."

  "The dog, did she bark anytime during the evening?"

  Hunter searched his memory. "Not that I noticed."

  "A big dog like her must have a pretty big bark."

  "I get preoccupied when I'm working. Tune out the world."

  "What were you working on?"

  Hunter hesitated. He didn't want his family to know about the novel. So he lied. "A divorce settlement."

  Matt arched an eyebrow. "You don't seem so certain."

  "No, I'm certain."

  "Whose divorce?"

  Hunter shook his head, disgusted. "That, as I'm sure you know, is confidential. And has nothing to do with why we're standing here."

  Matt turned toward Buddy. "Could she have been here a while?"

  "No way. The alley is busy during business hours. Employees out for a smoke, deliveries, kids skateboarding."

  "That means she was dumped here sometime after the close of business today."

  Buddy nodded. "I'll get one of my guys to talk to Jean about the crates, when they were put out." Jean, Hunter knew, was the owner of the grocery. "Make certain they were neatly stacked when she locked up."

  "What about the trash barrels?" Matt asked. "Why aren't they depositing this stuff in the Dumpster?"

  "I know the answer to that," Hunter offered. "If she's short staffed at the end of the day, she'll leave them in the barrels until morning." The two men looked at him. Hunter shrugged. "I ran into her one morning while walking Sarah."

  "It seems this alley is a busy place."

  Hunter frowned at Mart's tone. "Are we finished here? Can I go?"

  "How much traffic does the alley see at night?"

  "It's dead. Pardon the word choice."

  "No traffic at all?" Matt questioned.

  "Kids making out sometimes. Somebody turning in by mistake, realizing it and backing out. Me and Sarah, out for a walk. That's about it."

  "You hear the kids, the cars, from your apartment?"

  "Yeah. Most of the time."

  "But tonight you didn't see or hear anything?"

  Hunter stiffened at the sarcasm in his brother's voice. At his smirk. "If that's it, I'd like to go. It's been a rough night."

  "Go on," Buddy said. "When we know more, we might need to speak with you again."

  Hunter walked away, aware of his father's and brother's speculative gazes on his back. He longed to look back at them, to read their expressions. His every instinct shouted for him to do it.

  He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Wouldn't let them know just how weird this encounter had made him feel.

  They'd treated him like a stranger.

  A stranger whose sincerity they doubted.

  "Hey, Hunter?"

  He stopped, turned. Met his brother's gaze. "You remember anything else, it'd help. Give one of us a call."

  CHAPTER 14

  The morning of her father's funeral dawned bright and warm. Turnout proved much smaller than the wake, mostly close family friends and neighbors. But Avery had expected that.

  Lilah stood on her right, Buddy on her left. Each held her arm in a gesture of comfort and support. Lilah seemed much stronger than the night before, though she cried softly throughout the service. Matt stood behind his mother, Cherry beside him. Directly across from her stood Hunter. Alone. Expression resolute.

  Avery's gaze went to his. She saw no grief there. No pity or sympathy. Only anger. Only the chip he carried on his shoulder. A shudder moved over her. Without compassion, what would a man become? What would such a man be capable of?

  He would be capable of anything.

  He would be a monster.

  The pastor who had baptized her spoke warmly of the person her father had been, of the difference he had made in the commu- nity and to
so many individuals' lives.

  "He was a light in a sometimes dark world," the pastor finished. "That light will surely be missed."

  She shifted her gaze to the casket, acknowledging dizziness. Conscious of rubberiness in her legs. A feeling of being disconnected from the earth.

  "Ashes to ashes-"

  "He doused himself with diesel fuel and lit a match."

  "Dust to dust-"

  "Where were you, Avery, when your dad was so depressed he set himself on fire? "

  Avery couldn't breathe. She swayed slightly. Buddy tightened his grip on her arm, steadying her.

  This wasn't right, she thought, a thread of panic winding through her. Her father couldn't have taken his own life. He couldn't be gone.

  She hadn't said goodbye. It was her fault.

  Avery stared at the casket. Scenes of grief she had witnessed over the years played in her head: weeping widows; too-solemn children; despairing family, friends, neighbors, colleagues, all of humanity.

  Death. The ultimate loss. The universal gut shot.

  She fought the urge to throw herself on the casket. To scream and flail her fists and sob. She closed her eyes, fighting for calm. He would rest beside her mother, she told herself. His partner in this life and the next.

  Or would he? Tears choked her. Would his sin separate them for eternity? Who would absolve him of it?

  Who would absolve her?

  "Avery, honey, it's over."

  Over. The end.

  Ashes to ashes…doused himself in diesel fuel and lit a…where were you, Avery? Where were you when he…

  Dust to dust.

  "Avery? Sweetheart, it's time."

  She looked blankly at Buddy and nodded. He led her away from the grave. She shifted her gaze, vision swimming. It landed on the group of men from the wake. All in black. Standing together. Again.

  Seven of them. They were staring at her. One of them laughed. A sound passed her lips. She stumbled and Buddy caught her. "Avery, are you all right?"

  She looked up at him, pinpricks of light dancing before her eyes. "Those men, that group over there. Who are they?"