In Silence

CHAPTER 42

Avery decided to spend the morning going through her parents' attic, separating things she wanted to save from those she would donate to charity or toss. If she ever intended to put the house up for sale, it had to be done. Besides, she needed something to occupy her hands while she mentally reviewed the events of the past few days.

The pieces fit together; she just hadn't figured out how. Not yet. This was no different from any story she had ever tackled. A puzzle to be solved, assembled from bits of information gleaned from a variety of sources. The meaning of some of those bits obvious, others obtuse. Some would prove unrelated, some surprisingly key.

In the end, every story required a cognitive leap. That ah-ha moment when the pieces all fell into place-with or without the facts to back them up. That moment when she simply knew.

Avery climbed the stairs. When she reached the top, she glanced toward her parents' bedroom. At the unmade bed. She stared at it a moment, then turned quickly away and started toward the end of the hall and the door to the attic stairs. She unlocked and opened the door, then headed up.

It was only March, but the attic was warm, the air heavy. During the summer months it would be unbearable. She moved her gaze over the rows of neatly stacked boxes, the racks of bagged clothes. From hooks hung holiday decorations: wreaths, wind socks and flags, one wall for each season. Evenly spaced aisles between the boxes.

So neatly organized, she thought. Her mother had been like that. Precise. Orderly. Never a hair out of place or social grace forgotten. No wonder the two of them butted heads so often. They'd had almost nothing in common.

Avery began picking through the boxes. She settled first on one filled with books. While she sorted through them, she pondered the newspaper she and Gwen had found in Trudy Pruitt's bedroom, the woman's cryptic notation. The hatchet marks. The words All but two. Trudy Pruitt had been counting the dead. Avery felt certain of that.

All but two who knew the truth about the Waguespack murder? It made sense in light of what she had said on the phone, that those who knew were dropping like flies. But, she could also have been counting the passing of people she hated. Or ones she feared. Or people she believed responsible for her sons' deaths.

The last rang true, made sense. Trudy Pruitt had been consumed by that event, that had been obvious to Avery. Had she found the note that had been written on the article about her father's suicide before the woman's murder, she would have considered Trudy Pruitt a suspect in his death as well as that of the others.

But she hadn't. Nor did she believe the woman had been smart or sophisticated enough to have pulled off the murders. Not alone, anyway.

Avery's fingers stilled. An accomplice. That could be. Perhaps the accomplice had decided Trudy Pruitt had outlived her usefulness. Or had become a liability.

Hunter. He'd left a message for her. Had he simply been returning the woman's call, as he claimed?

His explanation was plausible. She wanted it to be true. Wanted it in a way that was anything but uninvolved. Anything but unemotional.

Avery squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to recall exactly what he'd said in the message. His full name and phone number. Not that he was returning her call.

But if they had been accomplices, surely he wouldn't have had to identify himself, the woman would have recognized his voice. And surely he wouldn't have identified himself with his full name, Hunter Stevens. Nor, she supposed, would he have had to give her his number.

She frowned, shifting absently through the box of books, most of them westerns. Her dad had loved the genre. He'd eaten them up, chewing through the paperback novels as fast as publishers could put them out.

Her mother had read, too. Not as voraciously, however. In truth, the book Avery remembered seeing her mother with most had been her journal. She had carried one everywhere, doggedly recording the moments and events of her life.

Her mother had dreamed of being a writer. She had shared that before Avery left for college. They had been arguing about Avery's decision to leave Cypress Springs-and Matt-behind.

At the time, Avery hadn't believed her mother. Now, she wondered.

She recalled the scene clearly. Her mother had shared that tidbit in the context of making choices in life. She had expected her daughter to follow in her footsteps-be the traditional Southern woman, wife and mother, community volunteer. She had expected Avery to acknowledge what was important.

Chasing a dream wasn't. A career wasn't.

She had urged her to marry Matt. Start a family. Look at her, she had said. Where would Avery be if she had chased a career instead of marrying her father?

Perhaps she and her mother had had something in common, after all.

A headache started at the base of Avery's skull. She brought her hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the spot, recalling how their conversation had ended. They'd fought. It had been ugly.

"You took the easy way, Mom. You settled. I'm not going to be like you!"

And then, later, "You never loved me, Mother. Not for me. You always tried to change me, make me like you. Well, it didn 't work."

Avery cringed, remembering the hateful words, recalling her mother's devastated expression. She had never taken those words back. Had never apologized.

And then it had been too late.

"Shit," Avery muttered, regret so sharp and bitter she tasted it. She thought of what Hunter had said, that her father believed her unresolved issues with her mother had been the reason she'd visited so rarely. Had he been right? Had she been waiting for an apology? Or had she stayed away because she knew how badly she had hurt her mother and hadn't wanted to look her in the-

She had carried a journal everywhere, doggedly recording the moments and events of her life.

Of course, Avery thought. Her mother's journals. She would have noted Sallie Waguespack's death, its effect on the community and if her husband had somehow been involved.

But where were they? Avery had searched the house, emptied closets and drawers and bookcases. She hadn't seen even one of the journals. So, what had her father done with them?

Up here. Had to be.

Although she had already done a perfunctory search of the attic, she started a more complete one now. She not only checked the notations on each box, she opened each to make certain the contents matched the labels.

By the time she had checked the last carton, she was hot, dirty and disappointed. Could her father have disposed of them? Or her mother, sometime before she died?

Maybe Lilah would know. Checking her watch, Avery headed downstairs to the phone. She dialed the Stevenses number and Lilah answered immediately.

"Hi, Lilah, it's Avery."

"Avery! What a pleasant surprise. What are you up to this morning?"

"I'm working on the house, packing things up, and realized Mother's journals are missing."

"Her journals? My goodness, I'd forgotten she used to do that."

"So had I. Until this morning."

"At one time she was quite committed to it. Remember the Sunday she pulled her journal out during Pastor Dastugue's sermon? We were all sitting right up front, he was so pleased." The woman laughed lightly. "He thought she was taking notes."

"What do you mean, she had been committed to it? Did she give it up?"

"Yes, indeed. Let me think." The woman paused. "About the time you went off to university."

Avery felt the words like a blow. About the time she went off to L.S.U. After their fight. After her mother had confided in Avery- and been met with disbelief and disdain.

"She never said anything, you understand," Lilah continued. "I just noticed she didn't have one with her. When I asked, she said she had given it up."

"Lilah, would you have any idea where she or Dad might have stored them?"

"Stored them?" The other woman sounded confused. "If they're not at the house, I imagine she got rid of them. Or your father, with the rest of her things."

Avery's stomach fell at the thought. "I just can't imagine either of them-"

"We all thought him so strong, clearing out her things the way he did. The reminders were just all too painful."

The doorbell rang. Avery ended the call and hurried to answer it.

Hunter stood at her door. She gazed at him through the screen, taking in his battered face. "My God, what happened to you?"

"Long story. Can I come in?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

He looked away, then back at her. "I've got this problem, Avery. And it has to do with you."

She folded her arms across her chest. "With me?"

"This morning Matt called me a dead man. And I realized it was true." He paused. "Except when I'm with you."

His words crashed over her. She laid her hand against the door frame for support, suddenly unbalanced. Light-headed. One second became two, became many.

"Avery," he said softly. "Please."

Wordlessly, she swung the screen door open. Was she letting in friend or foe? She didn't know, was simply acting on instinct. Or, if she was being honest, on longing. She moved aside as he entered and with shaky hands closed the door, using the moment to break their eye contact as she attempted to regain her equilibrium. She turned the dead bolt, took a deep breath and faced him. "I'll make us an iced tea."

Without waiting for a response, she started for the kitchen.

Avery was acutely aware of him following her, watching her as she poured them both an iced tea, as she added a wedge of lemon. She cleared her throat, turned and handed him the glass.

Their fingers brushed as he took the glass. He brought it to his lips; the ice clinked against its side as he drank.

She dragged her gaze away, heart thundering. "You and Matt got into it this morning."

It wasn't a question. He answered anyway. "Yes. We fought about you."

"I see."

"Do you?"

She shifted her gaze. Wet her lips.

"He wanted to know where I was night before last."

"And did you tell him?"

"Of course. I was home working. Alone." He set his glass on the counter. "I told you the truth this morning, Avery. Trudy Pruitt called me. I don't know why, but I assumed it was for legal counsel. I returned her call. I never even met the woman let alone killed her."

"Is that what Matt thinks, that you killed her?"

"That's what he wants to think."

She defended the other man. "I doubt that, Hunter. You're brothers. He's just doing his job."

"Believe that if it makes you feel better." He glanced away, then back. "He didn't think to check the woman's recorder. Yet, anyway. Are you going to tell him about the message?"

She wasn't, she realized. And not only because doing so would mean admitting to having broken and entered a posted crime scene.

She shook her head. "No."

"I have to ask you something."

"All right."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

She met his gaze. "That's a pretty shitty question, considering."

"He's acting awfully possessive."

"So are you."

He took a step toward her. "But we are sleeping together."

Her mouth went dry. "Did," she corrected. "One time. Besides, would it matter to you if we were?"

"Ditto on the pretty shitty question."

"No," she answered. "I'm not."

He brought a hand to the back of her neck and drew her toward him. "Yes," he murmured. "It would."

Heart thundering against the wall of her chest, she trailed her fingers across his bruised jaw. "Who threw the first punch?"

"He did. But I goaded him into it."

She laughed softly. Not because it was funny, but because it was so true to the boys she had known all those years ago. "Well, frankly, you look like he kicked your ass."

"Yeah, but you should see him."

Avery laughed again. "By the way," she murmured, "I believe you. About your call to Trudy Pruitt."

"Thank you." A smile tugged at his mouth. "Does this mean we can revisit the sleeping-together versus the slept-together thing?"

"You're awful."

His smile faded. "Matt accused me of being jealous of him. Of his relationship with you. With our parents. Jealous of his ability to lead. He suggested envy was at the root of everything that's happened between the two of us. That I withdrew from the family because of it."

She rested her hands on his chest, her right palm over his heart. "And what did you tell him?"

"That it was bullshit." He cupped her face in his palms. "I always wanted you. But you chose Matt. And he was my brother."

The simple honesty inherent in those words rang true. They touched her. They spoke to the man he was. And the relationship he and Matt had shared.

In light of her intense feelings for Hunter, she wondered what would have happened all those years ago if Hunter had made a play for her. She wondered where they would all be today.

"What about now, Avery? I have to know, do you still belong to my brother?"

She answered without words. She stood on tiptoe, pressed her mouth to his, kissing him deeply. She slid her hands to his shoulders. He tensed, wincing.

She drew away. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing. A few cuts."

"Turn around." When he tried to balk, she cut him off. "Now, please."

He did. She lifted his shirt and made a sound of dismay. Cuts riddled his back and shoulders, some of them jagged and ugly. "How did this happen?"

"It's no big deal."

"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 and 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 cliche 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' bed-room. 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 slippers 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."