As the effects of the dream began to fade, a chill slid down her spine.
Something was wrong.
Gwen moved her gaze over the dark room, stopping on the window. From outside came the sound of rain. A sudden, blinding flash of light.
She jumped, then laughed softly at herself. At her jitters. The storm had awakened her. She glanced at the bed stand. The clock's face, usually a reassuring glow in the night, was dark.
The power had gone out.
Gwen climbed out of bed, heading for the bathroom.
She stopped as her foot landed in something wet. She looked down at the floor, confused. How-
A breeze stirred against her ankles. She looked back at the window. It was closed. Locked.
The bathroom window. It faced the side yard. The big oak tree.
Lightning illuminated the room. She lowered her gaze. Water, she saw. A trail of it from the bathroom to the bed. She glanced over her shoulder at the half-open bathroom door. The darkness beyond.
Someone, waiting.
A cry spilling past her lips, she bolted forward. He burst from the bathroom. Grabbed her from behind. One strong arm circled her waist; a gloved hand covered her mouth. Tightly. She was dragged backward.
He held her pinned against his chest. She fought as best she could, kicking out, trying to twist free of her assailant's grasp. He was too strong. His grip was so tight over her nose and mouth she couldn't breathe. She grew light-headed. Pinpricks of lights danced before her eyes.
He bent his head close to hers. His labored breath was hot against her ear. He wore a ski mask. The fuzzy knit tickled her cheek.
"You have been judged, Gwen Lancaster. Judged and found guilty"
The Seven. They had come for her.
As they had come for Tom.
Terror exploded inside her. It stole her ability to think. To resist. Was this what it had been like for Tom? In the moments before the end, had he thought of her? Their parents? Or had the fear stolen his ability to do that as well?
Don't give in, Gwen. Keep your head.
It was as if Tom had spoken to her. The sound of his voice moved over her, calming, steadying. She had to keep her wits about her, not fall apart. Everybody made mistakes. Slipped up. He would, too.
She needed to be able to act at that moment. She forced herself to relax.
"We warned you," he hissed. "Why didn't you go? Why did you have to involve others? Now it's too late for you."
Others.
Avery.
She heard what sounded like regret in his voice. She tried to respond, to apologize, to beg for one last chance. Her words came out in pitiable whimpers against his hand.
"I really am sorry," he murmured, forcing her forward, toward the bathroom. "Sorry for the abominable state of the world that makes this necessary. Sorry you were dragged into something that wasn't your battle. But this is war. In war collateral damage is inevitable."
Collateral damage. The unfortunate but unavoidable loss of life.
Had he said the same to Tom? The others?
They reached the bathroom. He forced her through the door, shutting it behind them. Lightning flashed. What it illuminated sent fear spiraling through her. A black plastic drop cloth laid out in the old-fashioned claw-footed tub. Several lengths of rope. A knife, its jagged edge gleaming against the black plastic.
She dug in her heels, fighting him in earnest. The mistake wasn't coming, she realized. He had thought this through, every detail.
What of Avery, she thought dizzily. Had she been killed already? Had she suffered the knife as well?
She didn't want to die.
Tears flooded her eyes. Her vision blurred. She didn't want to die this way.
He made a sound of disappointment. "This isn't about me. Or you. It's so much bigger than either of us." He forced her closer to the tub. "I know what you're thinking. That Cypress Springs is too small and inconsequential for what happens here to make a difference in the world. You're wrong. Consider what happens when you toss a pebble in the pool, how that little plunk affects the entire pool in ever-widening ripples. So too with us.
"Our influence is spreading. We're branching out into other small communities. Finding others who think as we do. Others who are sick of the filth. The drugs. The moral decay that has spread to every nook and cranny of this country. Others who believe the end justifies the means."
Gwen began to cry. She shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the knife.
"Time for sentencing, Gwen Lancaster."
He turned quickly, dragging her with him, propelling her forward. Before she could grasp what was happening, her head smashed into the doorjamb.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her world went black.
CHAPTER 45
Avery gazed out at the rain-soaked morning. Leaves and branches littered the yard; a limb from the neighbor's tree had fallen and partially blocked her driveway.
Hunter had left hours ago, sometime before the storm hit. He'd used Sarah as an excuse. She had known the truth to be otherwise; he had wanted to be alone. To sort through his thoughts, come to grips with them.
Whatever they were. She wasn't certain. He had been shaken, that she knew. But noncommittal. Almost secretive.
They'd gone over the list again. And again. With the possible exception of the coroner, every person involved with the investigation had died recently. And unexpectedly.
She closed her eyes, picturing the notations Trudy Pruitt had made on the newspaper-All but two.
Was Buddy Stevens one of those two? Was his life in danger?
Or was he a killer?
Avery turned away from the window. Buddy Stevens was a good man. The very epitome of law and order. To imagine him as otherwise was to ponder the ridiculous.
Then why did she have this heavy feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach?
No. She squeezed her eyes shut. Buddy wasn't a part of this. And she wouldn't lose him to a killer.
Avery made her way to the kitchen. She and Hunter had agreed that she would call Dr. Harris and Buddy this morning. The clock on the microwave revealed that it was not quite eight. She would wait a few more minutes before trying the man.
And before trying Gwen. Again.
Gwen hadn' t called yesterday, neither Avery's home line nor her cell. So Avery had tried the woman's cell while Hunter slept. The number had worked, but Gwen hadn't answered. She had tried early this morning with the same result.
Avery sank onto one of the kitchen chairs then returned to her feet, too antsy to sit. She began to pace. Neither time she had left a message; now she wished she had. At least Gwen would know they were still on the same side. And that she was okay.
Where was her friend? Why hadn't she called?
Avery stopped, picked up the phone and brought it to her ear, checking for a dial tone. At the welcoming hum, she hesitated then punched in the woman's cell number. It went straight to her message service, indicating she didn't have the device on.
"Gwen, hi. It's Avery. I have information. Call me."
She replaced the receiver. Now what? Call The Guesthouse, going through the operator? Try the hall pay phone? Or wait?
She decided on the last. In the meantime she would call Dr. Harris.
The coroner answered the phone himself, on the first ring. "Dr Harris. It Avery Chauvin."
"Ms. Chauvin," he said warmly. "How are you?"
"Better," she said. "Thank you for asking."
"Glad to hear it. What can I do for you this morning?"
"I'm working on a story about the Sallie Waguespack murder."
"Did you say Waguespack?"
"I did."
"My, that's an old one."
"Yes-1988. Were you coroner at that time?"
"Nope. That was during one of my hiatuses. Believe Dr. Bill Badeaux was coroner then."
"Would you know how I could contact him?"
"I'm afraid that'd be tough, seeing he passed on."
&nbs
p; That left Buddy. He was the last one.
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, forcing normalcy into her tone. "Did he pass away recently?"
"A year or so ago. Heard through the grapevine. He'd moved away from the parish way back."
A year or so. Maybe he had been the first.
Her legs began to shake. She found a chair and sank onto it.
"Ms. Chauvin? Are you okay?"
"Absolutely." She cleared her throat. She wanted to ask how the man had died, but didn't want to arouse his suspicions, especially in light of what she intended to ask next. "Did Buddy Stevens get in touch with you?"
"Buddy? No, was he supposed to?"
"He couldn't find the Waguespack autopsy report. He was going to give you a call. Probably slipped his mind."
" 'Course, the autopsy would have been done in Baton Rouge, but I'd have a copy. I tell you what, I'll pull it and give you a call back."
"Could you do it now, Dr. Harris? I'm sorry to be such a pest, but my editor gave me an unreal deadline on this story."
"I can't." He sounded genuinely sorry. "I was on my way over to the hospital when you called and it's going to take a few minutes to locate the file."
"Oh." She couldn't quite hide her disappointment.
"I tell you what, I should be back in a couple hours. I'll take care of it then. What number should I call?"
To ensure she wouldn't miss him, Avery gave him her cell number. "Thank you, Dr. Harris. You've been a big help."
She hung up, then dialed Hunter. He answered right away.
"It's Avery," she said. "A Dr. Bill Badeaux was West Feliciana Parish coroner in 1988. He died about a year ago."
"Shit. How?"
"I was afraid to come off too nosy. I figured it wouldn't be too hard to find out. One trip over to the Gazette-"
"I'll do it."
"But-"
"But nothing. You've already poked around over there. I don't want you drawing any more attention to yourself."
"You think I'm right, don't you? About The Seven?"
She heard a rustling sound from the other end of the phone, then Sarah began to bark. "I'll let you know," he said. "Where are you going to be?"
His voice had changed. Become tight. Angry-sounding. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"Fine."
In the background Sarah was going nuts. A thought occurred to her. "Are you alone?"
"Not completely."
"I don't understand. I-"
"Stay put. I'll call you back."
"But-"
"Promise."
She hesitated, then agreed.
The next instant, the phone went dead.
CHAPTER 46
Avery showered and dressed. Made her bed and separated her laundry before throwing a load of whites in the washer. Then she foraged through the refrigerator and checked her e-mail via her laptop. She responded evasively to her editor's query about progress on her story and figured everyone else could wait.
Time ticked past at an agonizing pace. She glanced at the clock every couple of minutes. After nearly an hour, she acknowledged she couldn't stand another minute of inactivity.
Bringing both the portable and cell phone with her, she headed upstairs. As she reached the top landing, her gaze settled on the framed photographs that lined the long hallway wall. She had always jokingly called it her parents' wall of fame.
How many times had she walked past all these photos without looking at them? Without considering the fact that she was pictured in almost every one? How could she have taken her parents' love so for granted?
She stopped, pivoted to her right. Her gaze landed on a photo of her as a toddler. Her first steps, Avery thought, taking in her mother on her knees on the floor, arms out. Coaxing and encouraging her. Promising she would be there to catch her.
Avery moved her gaze across the wall. Baby pictures, school portraits, pictures from every imaginable holiday and event of her life. And in a great number of them, there stood her mother, looking on with love and pride.
She took in the photograph of her first steps once more, studying her mother's expression. The truth was, she hadn't known her mother at all. What had been her hopes, dreams and aspirations? She had longed to be a writer. Yet Avery knew nothing of her writing.
She had always blamed her mother for their distant relationship, but perhaps the fault had been hers. She'd had her father, and loving him had been so easy.
She, it seemed, was the one who had taken the easy way. The one who had settled-for a loving relationship with one parent instead of two. If only she had her mother's journals. In them resided her mother's heart and soul. Her beliefs and wishes, disappointments and fears. The opportunity to know her mother.
Her father wouldn't have thrown them out. Her mother-the woman pictured in these photographs-would not have destroyed them, even if she had given up on them.
They were here. Somewhere.
Avery started for the attic, a sense of urgency settling over her. A sense that time was running out.
She reached the attic. Scanned the rows and stacks of cartons. In one of these boxes she would find the journals. Stored with other items. Hidden beneath.
She began the search, tearing through the cartons-her mother's clothing, personal items, other books, family memorabilia.
She found them in the box housing Avery's doll collection. The dolls her mother had insisted on buying and lining Avery's bed-room shelves with-despite Avery's disdain for them.
Her mother had packed the volumes neatly, arranging the books in chronological order. The first one was dated 1965. Her mother had been seventeen. The last one dated August 1990-just as Lilah had said, her mother had given up journaling the August when Avery had gone off to university.
Avery trailed a finger over the spines with their perfectly aligned, dated labels. She stopped on the one dated January through June 1988.
All the answers she sought were here, she thought, pulse quickening. About Sallie Waguespack's death and her father's part in it. Perhaps ones about The Seven, their formation.
But other answers were here as well. Ones to personal questions, personal issues that had plagued her all her life.
Sallie Waguespack could wait, she decided, easing the volume dated 1965 from its slot. Her mother could not.
Avery began to read. She learned about a girl raised by strict, traditional parents. About her dreams of writing. She learned that her mother had been a deeply passionate woman, that she had often been afraid, that in her own way she had rebelled against her parents' strict upbringing.
Through her mother's words, Avery relived the day she met Phillip Chauvin, their first date. Their courtship, wedding. The first time they made love. Avery's birth.
Avery struggled to breathe evenly. She realized her cheeks were wet with tears.
Her mother had given up a lot to be a wife and mother.
But what she had gotten in return had been huge.
She had loved being a mother. Had loved being Avery's mother. She had described with pride her daughter's determination. That she was different from the other girls-that she seemed insistent on marching to her own tune.
She baffles me. I put a bow in her hair and when I'm not looking, she rips it out. Today Avery won first prize in the parish-wide essay contest. She read her essay to the class. I hid my tears. Her talent takes my breath away. Secretly, I smile and think, "She got that from me. My gift to my precious daughter."
Avery wiped tears from her cheeks and read on, this time from the 1986 journal.
She breaks my heart daily. Doesn't she know I want the world for her? Doesn't she know how frightened I am of losing her?
And then later she poured out her heart.
I've lost her. She and I have nothing in common. She turns to her dad, always. They laugh together, share everything. I often think I made a huge mistake. If I'd pursued my writing, we would have had something in common. Maybe then she wouldn't look at me as if she thought I
had no purpose in her life. That I had wasted my life.
Avery selected the last volume next-1990, the year she had graduated from high school.
Where did I go wrong? How did she and I grow so far apart? She's leaving Cypress Springs. I begged her to stay. Even as I thought of my own choices, my mistakes and regrets, I pleaded with her. I shared my dreams, but it is too late.
Avery closed the book, hands shaking, fighting not to fall apart. She had accused her mother of not loving her. But her mother had loved her deeply. Avery had accused her of trying to change her, of trying to mold her into someone different, something other than who she was.
But her mother had understood and admired her for the person she was, different from the other girls, the one who had never fit in.
In truth, her mother had never fit in either. Not with her own parents. Not with her community. Not with her daughter.
She and her mother had been just alike.
Avery pressed her lips together, holding back a sound of pain. If only she had read the journals before her mother died. If only she had let go of her pride.
She had wanted to. She'd been sorry for the way she'd acted, the way she had hurt her mother. Instead of acting on the emotion, she had let pride control her. She had been so certain she was right.
So, she had stayed away. Nursed her feeling of self-righteous indignation.
And had missed out on so much. Time with her mother and father. Now it was too late.
To be with them. But not for justice for Sallie Waguespack and the Pruitt brothers.
She located the appropriate volume and flipped through to the entry for June 19, the day after Sallie Waguespack's murder.
That poor woman. And pregnant, too. It's too horrible to contemplate.
Her mother had then gone on to describe other, mundane events.
Avery frowned, her investigative instincts kicking into over-drive. Pregnant? Nothing else she had read had mentioned the woman being pregnant. Avery flipped ahead, looking for another reference.
She didn't find one. Could her mother have been mistaken? That didn't seem likely. Where had she gotten her information?
Maybe from her husband, Avery thought. The local general practitioner. Perhaps Sallie Waguespack's physician. Probably.
In Silence Page 27
