She lowered her voice even more. "That's how I know about The Seven, from Tom. The thesis was his. He was here researching. He got too close."
"I think you're unstable," Avery said, voice shaking. "I think you should get some help."
"Check it out. Come see me when you believe."
CHAPTER 26
Just past dawn the next morning, Avery lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Fatigue pulled at her. A headache from lack of sleep pounded at the base of her skull. Gwen Lancaster's baldly stated question had played over and over in her head, making rest impossible.
"Even if they killed your father? Would you love them then?"
Avery rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball. She wished she had never met the woman. She wished she could find a way to find and hold on to the peace of mind she had felt the other night after speaking with Buddy.
Why couldn't she simply believe in Buddy and Matt and the other people she loved and trusted? Why couldn't she put her faith in the various agencies that had investigated her father's death and determined it to be a suicide?
"I can ask that question, because they killed my brother."
"Dammit!" Avery sat up. She balled her hands into fists. Des-perate people resorted to desperate measures to get their way. Gwen Lancaster was desperate, that had been obvious. So why should she believe her? Why not write her off as either a nut or a liar?
That very desperation. It rang true. Gwen Lancaster believed what she was saying. She was frightened.
Avery flopped onto her back, staring up at the ceiling once more. Gwen could be suffering from a psychotic disorder. Schizophrenics believed the voices they heard in their heads; their visions, the people who populated them, were as real to them as Matt and Buddy were to her. Paranoid schizophrenics believed that others plotted against them. Some functioned for years without detection.
But that didn't explain her anonymous caller. It didn't explain Luke McDougal's disappearance or Elaine St. Claire's murder.
And it certainly didn't assuage her feeling that her father could take his own life.
She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. She crossed to the window and nudged aside the curtain. Cypress Springs had not yet awakened. She saw not a single light shining.
Headlights cut across the road, slicing through the dim light, bouncing off the trees and morning mist. A police cruiser, she saw. It slowed as it reached her property line, inching past at a snail's pace. Instinctively, she eased away from the window, out of sight. Silly. Without a light inside, they wouldn't be able to see her. Besides, the cruiser was no doubt Buddy's doing. Playing daddy. Watching out for her.
She rubbed her face, acknowledging exhaustion. She was being silly. Losing sleep over this. Letting it tear her apart. She should be able to go on faith. Should be able to, but couldn't. She wasn't built that way. As an investigative reporter, she tested premise against facts, day in and day out.
If she wanted to regain her peace of mind, she would have to disprove Gwen Lancaster's claims.
Avery turned away from the window and began to pace, mind working, the skills she used on her job kicking in. If this were a story she was considering, what would she do?
Begin with a premise. One she thought had merit, that would not only make a good story but also make a difference. Remedy a problem.
Like the story she had done about the flaws in the foster care system. She had exposed the problems. By doing so, she'd helped future children caught in the system. Hopefully. That had been her aim; it was the aim of all good investigative reporting.
She stopped. So what was her premise? A group of small town citizens, frightened over the growing moral decay of their community, take the job of law and order into their own hands. Their actions begin benignly enough but unchecked, become extremist. Anyone who's actions fall outside what is considered right, moral or neighborly is singled out. They break the civil rights of their fellow citizens in the name of righteousness, law and order. Before it's all over, they resort to murder, the cure becoming worse than the illness, the judges more corrupt than the judged.
It was the kind of premise she loved to sink her teeth into. One that would make a startling, eye-opening story. It spoke to her on many levels. She loved her country and believed in the principles on which it had been founded. The freedoms that had made it great. Yet, she also bemoaned the loss of personal safety, the ever-decaying American value system, the inability of law enforcement and the courts to adequately deal with crime.
But this wasn't some anonymous story she was following up, Avery reminded herself. Her role wasn't that of uninvolved, cool-headed journalist. This was her hometown. The people involved her friends and neighbors. People she called family. One of the dead was her father.
She was emotionally involved, all right. Up to her eyeballs.
Premise against facts, she thought, determination flowing through her. She wouldn't let her emotions keep her from being objective. She would stay on her guard, wouldn't be blinded by personal involvement.
And same as always, she would uncover the truth.
CHAPTER 27
Avery decided her first stop of the morning would be at the office of the Cypress Springs Gazette, located in a renovated storefront a block and a half off the square. Founded in June 1963, just months before the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, a picture of the former president still hung in the front waiting area.
She stepped through the door and a bell tinkled, announcing her presence. The front counter stood empty.
A tall, sandy-haired man appeared in the doorway to the newsroom. Behind his Harry Potter spectacles, his eyes widened. "Avery Chauvin? I was wondering if you were going to stop by for a visit."
"Rickey? Rickey Plaquamine? It's so good to see you."
He came around the counter and they hugged. She and Rickey had been in the same grade and had gone to school together all their lives. They had worked together on the high-school newspaper, had both pursued journalism and attended Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. He, however, had opted to return to Cypress Springs after graduation, to report for the local paper.
"You haven't changed a bit," she said.
He patted his stomach. "Not if you ignore the thirty pounds I've gained. Ten with each one of Jeanette's pregnancies."
"Three? Last I heard-"
"We just had our third. Another boy."
"Three boys." She laughed. "Jeanette's got her hands full."
"You don't know the half of it." His smile faded. "Damn sorry about your dad. Sorry we didn't make the service. The new one's got colic and the entire household's been turned upside down."
"It's okay." She shifted her gaze toward the newsroom. "Where's Sal?"
He looked surprised. "You didn't know? Sal passed away about six months ago."
"Passed away," she repeated, crestfallen. Sal had been a big supporter of hers and had encouraged her to go into journalism. With each advancement of her career, he'd written her a note of congratulations. In each, his pride in her accomplishments had come shining through. "I didn't know."
His mouth thinned. "Hunting accident."
Avery froze. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. "Hunting accident?"
"Opening day of deer season. Shot dead. In fact, the bullet took half Sal's head off."
Her stomach turned. "My God. Who was the shooter?"
"Don't know, never found the guy."
"Sounds like it could have been a homicide."
"That's not the way Buddy called it. Besides, who'd want Sal dead?"
Her father. Sal Mandina. Two men who had been pillars of the community, men the entire town had looked up to. Both dead in the past six months. Neither from natural causes.
Rickey cleared his throat. She shifted her attention to the task at hand. "I was doing a little research and wondered if I could take a look at the archived issues of the Gazette."
"Sure. What're you looking for?"
"The Waguespack
murder."
"No kidding? How come?"
She debated a moment about her answer then decided on incomplete honesty, as she called partial truth. "Dad saved a bunch of clippings- I'd forgotten the entire incident and wanted to fill in the blanks." She smiled brightly. "You mind?"
"Not at all- Come on." He led her back into the newsroom. From there they headed up to the second floor. "Biggest local news story we ever carried. I'm not surprised your dad kept clippings."
"Really? Why?"
"Because of the furor the murder caused in the community. Nobody escaped unchanged."
"That's what Buddy said."
"You talked to Buddy about it?"
Was that relief she heard in his voice? Or was she imagining it? "Sure. After all, he and Dad were best friends."
He unlocked the storage-room door, opened it and switched on the light. She stepped inside. It smelled of old newspapers. The room was lined with shelves stacked with bound volumes of the Gazette. At the center of the room sat a long folding table, two chairs on either side. Her throat began to tickle, no doubt from the dust.
"Call me if you need me. I'm working on Saturday's edition. The spring Peewee soccer league is kicking into high gear. Pardon the pun." He pointed toward the far wall. "The 1980s are over there. They're arranged by date."
Avery thanked him, and when she was certain she was alone, she crossed to issues from the past eight months. She carried a stack to the table and sat. From her purse she took a steno pad and pen and laid them on the table.
She opened the volume for Wednesday, February 6 of this year. And found the story just where Gwen had said she would.
Young Man Missing
Tom Lancaster, visiting grad student from Tulane University, went missing Sunday night. Sheriff's department fears foul play. Deputy Sheriff Matt Stevens suspects Lancaster a victim of a random act of violence. The investigation continues.
Avery sucked in a shaky breath. One truth did not fact make, she reminded herself. The best lies-or most insidious delusions-contained elements of truth. That element of believability sucked people in, made them open their wallets or ignore warning signs indicating something was amiss.
She found a number of stories about Sal's death. Since he'd been the Gazette's editor-in-chief, the biweekly had followed it closely. As Rickey had told her, he had been shot on the opening day of deer season. The guilty party had never been found, though every citizen who'd applied for a hunting license had been questioned. Buddy had determined Sal had been shot from a distance with a Browning.270-caliber A-bolt rifle. Both it and the Nosier Ballistic Tip bullet were local hunters' favorites. Closed-casket services had been held at Gallagher's.
Rickey had been wrong about one thing: Buddy had classified the death as a homicide.
For the next two hours she picked her way through the archived issues. What she found shook her to the core. Gwen Lancaster hadn't been fabricating. Avery picked up her notepad, scanning her notes. She had listed every death not attributed to natural causes. Kevin Gallagher had died this year, she saw. Danny Gallagher's dad. A car wreck on Highway 421, just outside of town. His Lexus had careened off the road and smashed into a tree. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and had gone through the windshield.
Deputy Chief of Police Pat Greene had drowned. A woman named Dolly Farmer had hung herself. There'd been a couple more car wrecks, young people involved-both in the same area Sal had died. The city, she saw, had commissioned the state to reduce the speed limit along that stretch of highway.
She frowned. Another hanging-this one deemed accidental. The kid, it seemed, had been into autoeroticism. Another young person had OD'd. Pete Trimble had fallen off his tractor and been run over.
Avery laid the notepad on the table and brought a trembling hand to her mouth. Eight months, all this death. Ten of them. Thirteen if she tossed in Luke McDougal, Tom Lancaster and Elaine St. Claire.
She struggled for impartiality. Even so, Gwen had not presented the facts accurately: she had claimed there'd been six suicides- deluding her father's-in the past eight months. She saw two.
"You okay up here?"
Avery took a second to compose herself and glanced over her shoulder at Rickey. She forced a smile. "Great." She hopped to her feet. "Just finished now."
She tucked the notebook into her purse, then grabbed up the volume she had been studying. She carried it to the section that housed the 1980s, hoping he wouldn't notice she was shelving it incorrectly.
She wasn't that lucky.
"That doesn't go there." He crossed the room. "Wrong color code."
He slid the volume out, checked the date, frowning. "Though you wanted to look at stuff from 1988."
"Caught me." She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. "I did, I just-" She looked away then back, working to capture just the right note of sincerity. "It's so maudlin, really. But Dad's…his death…I-"
He glanced down at the volume as the date registered. "Geez, Avery, I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She manufactured a trembling smile. "Want to walk me out?"
He did just that, stopping at the front door. "Avery, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Rumor on the street is you're staying. Is that so?"
She opened her mouth to deny the rumor, then shut it as she realized she didn't know for certain what she was doing. "I haven't decided yet," she admitted. "But don't tell my editor."
He smiled at that. "If you stay, I'd love to have you on the Gazette staff. A big step down, I know. But at the Post you've got to put up with the city."
"You're right about that." She smiled, pleased by the offer. "If I stay, there's no one I'd rather work with."
"Stop by and see Jeanette. Meet the kids. She'd love it."
"I would, too." She crossed to the door. There she glanced back. "Rickey? You ever hear of a group called The Seven?"
His expression altered subtly. He drew his eyebrows together, as if thinking. "What kind of group? Religious? Civic?"
"Civic."
"Nope. Sorry."
"It's okay. It's something Buddy mentioned. Have a great day."
She stepped out onto the sidewalk. Squinting against the sun, she dug her sunglasses out of her purse, then glanced back at the Gazette's front window.
Rickey was on the phone, she saw. In what appeared to be a heated discussion. He looked upset.
Rickey glanced up then. His gaze met hers. The hair on the back of her neck prickling, she lifted a hand in goodbye, turned and walked quickly away.
CHAPTER 28
Avery went home to regroup and decide on her next step. She sat at her kitchen table, much as she had for the past hour, untouched tuna sandwich on a plate beside her. She stared at her notebook, at the names of the dead.
Such damning evidence. Didn't anyone in Cypress Springs find this rash of deaths odd? Hadn't anyone expressed concern to Buddy or Matt? Was the whole town in on this conspiracy?
Slow down, Chauvin. Assess the facts. Be objective.
Avery pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the window. She peered out at the lush backyard, a profusion of greens accented by splashes of red and pink. What did she actually have? Gwen Lancaster, a woman who claimed that a vigilante-style group was operating in Cypress Springs. A number of accidental deaths, suspicious because of their number. Two missing persons. A murder. A suicide. And a box of newspaper clippings about a fifteen-year-old murder.
Accidents took lives. People went missing. Murders happened, as tragic a fact as that was. Yes, the suicide rate was slightly higher than the state average, but statistics were based on averages not absolutes. It might be two years before another Cypress Springs resident took his own life.
And the clippings? she wondered. A clue to state of mind or nothing more than saved memorabilia?
If the clippings were evidence to a state of mind, wouldn't her dad have saved something else as well? She thought yes. But where would he have stored them? She h
ad emptied his bedroom closet and dresser drawers, the kitchen cabinets and pantry and the front hall closet. But she hadn't even set foot in his study or the attic.
Now, she decided, was the time.
Two and a half hours later, Avery found herself back in the kitchen, no closer to an answer than before. She crossed to the sink to wash her hands, frustrated. She had gone through her father's desk and bookshelves, his stored files in the attic. She had done a spot check of every box in the attic. And found nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary.
She dried her hands. What next? In Washington, she'd had colleagues to brainstorm with, editors to turn to for opinions and insights, sources she trusted. Here she had nothing but her own gut instinct to guide her.
She let it guide her now. She picked up the phone and dialed her editor at the Post. "Brandon, it's Avery."
"Is it really you?" He laughed. "And here I thought you might be hiding from me."
He appreciated bluntness. He always preferred his writers get to the point-both in their work and their pitches. The high-stress business of getting a newspaper on the stands afforded no time for meandering or coy word games.
"I'm onto a story," she said.
"Glad to hear your brain's still working. Though I'm a bit surprised, considering. Tell me about it."
"Small town turns to policing its citizens Big Brother-style as a way to stop the ills of the modern world from encroaching on their way of life. It began when a group of citizens, alarmed by the dramatic increase in crime, formed an organization to counter the tide. At first it was little more than a Neighborhood Watch-type program. A way to help combat crime."
"Then they ran amok," he offered.
"Yes. According to my source, the core group was small, but they had an intricate network of others who reported to the group. Citizens were followed. Their mail read. What they ate, drank and watched was monitored. Where they went. If they worshiped. If the group determined it necessary, they were warned that their behavior would not be tolerated."
In Silence Page 16
