In Silence. Erica Spindler
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months had dimmed her fear, had lessened the immediacy of the danger. It was human nature, he acknowledged. He hadn’t been surprised.
He was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of the warning system they had devised. Warnings rarely worked. Or only proved a short-term deterrent.
“She’s in St. Francisville now,” he said.
“Better,” a general murmured. “We have friends there.”
“We won’t need them,” the Gavel said. “I’ve planned a trap. A carefully executed trap.”
“Lure her back to Cypress Springs,” General Blue said. “Once here, she’s ours.”
“Exactly.” He gazed from one face to another around the table. “Are we in agreement, shall I set the trap?”
The generals didn’t hesitate. They had learned nothing good came with lack of conviction. Weakness opened the door to destruction.
The Gavel nodded. “Consider it done. Next? Any concerns?”
Blue spoke again. “A newcomer to Cypress Springs. An outsider. She’s asking questions about The Seven. About our history.”
The Gavel frowned. He’d heard, too. Outsiders always posed serious threats. They didn’t understand what The Seven were fighting for. How seriously they took their convictions. Invariably, they had to be dealt with quickly and mercilessly.
Outsiders with knowledge of The Seven posed an even more significant danger.
Damn the original group, he thought. They’d been weak. They hadn’t concealed their actions well. They hadn’t been willing to take whatever measures were required, no matter the consequences to life or limb.
Too touchy-feely, the Gavel thought, lips twisting into a sneer. They’d bowed to internal fighting and the squeamishness of a few members. Bowed to a member who threatened to go to the American Civil Liberties Union and the Feds. And to any and all of those prissy-assed whiners who were sending this country to hell in a handbasket.
It made him sick to think about it. What about the rights of decent, law-abiding folks to have a safe, morally clean place to live?
That’s where he and his generals differed from the original group. The Gavel had chosen his men carefully. Had chosen men as strong-willed as he. Men whose commitment to the cause mirrored his own in steadfastness and zeal.
He was willing to die for the cause.
He was willing to kill for it.
“The outsider,” the Gavel asked, “anyone have a name yet?”
No one did. A general called Wings offered that she had just moved into The Guesthouse.
The Gavel nodded. Her name would be easy to secure. One call and they would have it.
“Let’s keep an eye on this one,” he advised. “She doesn’t make a move we don’t know about. If she becomes more of a risk, we take the next step.”
He turned to Hawk, his most trusted general. The man inclined his head in the barest of a nod. The Gavel smiled. Hawk understood; he agreed. If necessary, they would take care of this outsider the way they’d taken care of the last.
Determination flowing through him, he adjourned the meeting.
CHAPTER 8
The Azalea Café served the best buttermilk pancakes in the whole world. Fat, fluffy and slightly sweet even without syrup, Avery had never stopped craving them—even after twelve years away from Cypress Springs. And after a weekend spent preparing her childhood home for sale, Avery had decided a short stack at the Azalea wasn’t just a treat—it was a necessity.
She stepped into the café. “Morning, Peg,” she called to the gray-haired woman behind the counter. Peg was the third-generation Becnal to run the Azalea. Her grandmother had opened the diner when her husband had been killed in the Second World War and she’d needed to support her five kids.
“Avery, sweetheart.” She came around the counter and gave Avery a big hug. She smelled of syrup and bacon from the griddle. “I’m so sorry about your daddy. If I can do anything, anything at all, you just let me know.”
Avery hugged her back. “Thanks, Peg. That means a lot to me.”
When the woman released her, Avery saw that her eyes were bright with tears. “Bet you came in for some of my world-famous pancakes.”
Avery grinned. “Am I that transparent?”
“You ate your first short stack at two years old. I remember your daddy and mama like to have died of shock, you ate the whole thing. Every last bite.” She smoothed her apron. “Have yourself a seat anywhere. I’ll send Marcie over with coffee.”
The nine-to-fivers had come and gone, leaving Avery her choice of tables. Avery slipped into one of the front window booths. She looked out the window, toward the town square. They had begun setting up for Spring Fest, she saw. City workers were stringing lights in the trees and on the gazebo. Friday night it would look like a fairyland.
A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. Louisianians loved to celebrate and used any opportunity to do so: the Blessing of the Fleet on Little Caillou Bayou, the harvest of the strawberries in Pontchatoula, Louisiana’s musical heritage in New Orleans at the Jazz Fest, to name only a few. Spring Fest was Cypress Springs’s offering, a traditional Louisiana weekend festival, complete with food booths, arts and crafts, music and carnival rides for the kids. People from all over the state would come and every available room in Cypress Springs would be booked. She had gone every year she’d lived at home.
“Coffee, hon?”
Avery turned. “Yes, thanks.”
The girl filled her cup, then plunked down a pitcher of cream. Avery thanked her, added cream and sugar to her coffee, then returned her gaze to the window and the square beyond.
The weekend had passed in an unsettling mix of despair and gratitude, tears and laughter. Neighbors and friends had stopped by to check on her, bringing food, baked goods and flowers. The last time she’d seen most of them had been at her mother’s funeral and then only briefly. The majority had stayed to chat, reliving times past—sharing their sweet, funny, outrageous and precious memories of her father. Some, too, shared their regret at not having acted on his bizarre behavior before it had been too late. The outpouring of concern and affection had made her task less painful.
But more, it had made her feel less alone.
Avery had forgotten what it was like to live among friends, to be a part of a community. Not just a name or a P.O. box number, but a real person. Someone who was important for no other reason than that they shared ownership of a community.
Avery sipped her coffee, turning her attention to her dad’s funeral. Danny Gallagher had recommended Avery wake her father Wednesday evening, with a funeral to follow the next morning. He had chosen that day so the Gazette could run an announcement in both the Saturday and Wednesday editions. The whole town would want to pay their respects, he felt certain. This would offer them the opportunity to do so.
Lilah had insisted on opening her home for mourners after the service on Thursday. Avery had accepted, relieved.
Two days and counting.
Would burying him enable her to say goodbye? she wondered, curving her hands around the warm mug. Would the funeral give her a sense of closure? Or would she still feel this great, gaping hole in her life?
The waitress brought the pancakes and refilled her coffee. Avery thanked her and not bothering with syrup, dug in, making a sound of pleasure as the confection made contact with her taste buds.
In an embarrassingly short period of time, she had plowed through half the stack. She laid down her fork and sighed, contented.
“Are they as good as you remember?” Peg called