In Silence

Critical acclaim for the novels of

ERICA SPINDLER

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

“… a high adventure of love’s triumph over twisted obsession.” —Publishers Weekly

“Outstanding! A first-rate romantic thriller.”

—Rendezvous

SHOCKING PINK

“… a compelling tale of kinky sex and murder.”

-Publishers Weekly

DEAD RUN

“… a classic confrontation between good and evil.”

—Publishers Weekly

ALL FALL DOWN

“… smooth, fast ride to the end. Spindler is at the controls, negotiating the curves with consummate skill.”

—John Lutz, author of Single White Female

CAUSE FOR ALARM

“Spindler’s latest moves fast and takes no prisoners. An intriguing look into the twisted mind of someone for whom murder is simply business.”

-Publishers Weekly

Already available in MIRA® Books by Erica Spindler

RED

FORTUNE

CAUSE FOR ALARM

ALL FALL DOWN

BONE COLD

DEAD RUN

SHOCKING PINK

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

SEE JANE DIE

KILLER TAKES ALL

In Silence

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Erica Spindler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

“The cruellest lies are often told in silence.”

—Robert Louis Stevenson

Acknowledgments

I’ve become a bit of a fixture at a local coffeehouse, sitting in a quiet corner, feverishly tapping away at my laptop keyboard. I share this with you because many of the people who I intend to acknowledge here, I connected with while sitting in that corner. A friendlier bunch you won’t find; I think of us as “Cheers” for the caffeine set.

I continue to be humbled and amazed by the enthusiasm and generosity shown me by the various professionals I approach for information, hat in hand. Thank you one and all. Without your generous contribution of time, personal insights and professional expertise, In Silence would have been much more difficult to bring to life. I hope you are pleased with the way I used the fruits of your labor.

I begin with my fellow coffee addicts: Renee Plauché and Linda Daley, who blew me away with their generosity toward me, a total stranger. Renee, a University of New Orleans graduate student in counseling, overheard me discussing avenues to research mental illness and offered help. She went so far as to lend me her textbooks, including the DSM IV, (that I now know to be), the clinician’s guide to diagnosis. Likewise Linda, hearing that I was tackling the subject of suicide, offered to share the story of her own father’s suicide. With a master’s in psychology and couseling, she was able to give me both professional and personal insights into suicide and its emotional aftermath. Captains Ralph and Patrick Juneau, Jefferson Parish Fire Department, for the crash course on all things fire: from arson to turn-out gear. Stephanie Otto, nursing student, Charity School of Nursing, for on-the-spot medical terminology and procedure information.

From beyond the coffeehouse walls: Michael D. Defatta, chief deputy coroner, St. Tammany Parish Coroner’s Office, for taking time out of his busy schedule to meet and answer my questions about the role of the coroner in criminal investigations and forensic pathology, particularly as it applies to burn victims. Frank Jordan, director of Emergency Medical Services, Mandeville Fire District #4, for his explanation of death by fire. Mrs. Barbara Gould, wife of West Feliciana Parish coroner Dr. Alfred Gould, for the long chat and great quote. Pat McLaughlin, friend, fellow author and journalist, for giving me a glimpse into the mind of the investigative reporter. Tom Mincher, owner of America Hunter Gun and Archery Shop, for information about hunting rifles and ammunition.

Thanks to my friends and colleagues who not only make the journey a smooth one, but a heck of a lot of fun as well. The amazing Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA crew. My assistant, Rajean Schulze. My agent, Evan Marshall. My publicist, Lori Ames.

To my family, without whose love and support the days would be long, indeed.

And last but unquestionably first, thanks to my God, the one responsible for it all.

PROLOGUE

Cypress Springs, Louisiana Thursday, October 17, 2002 3:30 a.m.

The one called the Gavel waited patiently. The woman would come soon, he knew. He had been watching her. Learning her schedule, her habits. Those of her neighbors as well.

Tonight she would learn the price of moral corruption.

He moved his gaze over the woman’s darkened bedroom. Garments strewn across the matted carpeting. Dresser top littered with an assortment of cosmetic bottles and jars, empty Diet Coke and Miller Lite cans, gum and candy wrappers. Cigarette butts spilled from an overflowing ashtray.

A pig as well as a whore.

Twin feelings of resignation and disgust flowed over him. Had he expected anything different from a woman like her? An alley cat who bedded a new man nearly every night?

He was neither prude nor saint. Nor was he naive. These days few waited for marriage to consummate their relationship. He could live with that; he understood physical urges.

But excesses such as hers would not be tolerated in Cypress Springs. The Seven had voted. It had been unanimous. As their leader, it was his responsibility to make her understand.

The Gavel glanced at the bedside clock. He had been waiting nearly an hour. It wouldn’t be long now. Tonight she had gone to CJ’s, a bar on the west side of town, one frequented by the hard-partying crowd. She had left with a man named DuBroc. As was her MO, they had gone to his place. To the Gavel’s knowledge, this was a first offense for DuBroc. He would be watched as well. And if necessary, warned.

From the front of the apartment came the sound of the door lock turning over. The door opening, then clicking shut. A shudder moved over him. Of distaste for the inevitable. He wasn’t a predator, as some might label him. Predators sought the small and weak, either to sustain themselves or for twisted self-gratification.

Nor was he a bloodthirsty monster or sadist.

He was an honorable man. God-fearing, law-abiding. A patriot.

But as were the other members of The Seven, he was a man driven to desperate measures. To protect and defend all he held dear.

Women like this one soiled the community, they contributed to the moral decay running rampant in the world.

They were not alone, of course. Those who drank to excess, those who lied, cheated, stole; those who broke not only the laws of man but those of God as well.

The Seven had formed to combat such corruptions. For the Gavel and his six generals, it wasn’t about punishing the sinful but about maintaining a way of life. A way of life Cypress Springs had enjoyed for over a hundred years. A community where people could still walk the streets at night, where neighbor helped neighbor, where family values were more than a phrase tossed about by political candidates.

Honesty. Integrity. The Golden Rule. All were alive and well in Cypress Springs. The Seven had dedicated themselves to ensuring it stayed that way.

The Gavel likened individual immorality to the flesh-eating bacteria that had been in the news so much a few years back. A fisherman had contracted necrotizing fasciitis through a small cut on his hand. Once introduced to the body, it ate its covering until only a putrid, grotesque patchwork remained. So, too, was the effect of individual immorality on a community. His job was to make certain that didn’t happen.

The Gavel listened intently. The woman hummed under her breath as she made her way toward the back of the apartment and the bedroom where he waited. The self-satisfied sound sickened him.

He eased to his feet, moved toward the door. She stepped through. He grabbed her from behind, dragged her to his chest and covered her mouth with one gloved hand to stifle her screams. She smelled of cheap perfume, cigarettes. Sex.

“Elaine St. Claire,” he said against her ear, voice muffled by the ski mask he wore. “You have been judged and found guilty. Of contributing to the moral decay of this community. Of attempting to cause the ruination of a way of life that has existed for over a century. You must pay the price.”

He forced her to the bed. She struggled against him, her attempts pitiable. A mouse battling a mountain lion.

He knew what she thought—that he meant to rape her. He would sooner castrate himself than to join with a woman such as her. Besides, what kind of punishment would that be? What kind of warning?

No, he had something much more memorable in mind for her.

He stopped a foot from the bed. With the hand covering her mouth, he forced her gaze down. To the mattress. And the gift he had made just for her.

He had fashioned the instrument out of a baseball bat, one of the miniature, commemorative ones fans bought in stadium gift shops. He had covered the bat with flattened tin cans—choosing Diet Coke, her soft drink of choice—peeling back V-shaped pieces of the metal to form a kind of sharp, scaly skin. The trickiest part had been the double-edged knife blade he had imbedded in the bat’s rounded tip.

He was aware of the exact moment she saw it. She stilled. Terror rippled over her—a new fear, one born from the horror of the unimaginable.

“For you, Elaine,” he whispered against her ear. “Since you love to fuck so much, your punishment will be to give you what you love.”

She recoiled and pressed herself against him. Her response pleased him and he smiled, the black ski mask stretching across his mouth with the movement.

He could almost pity her. Almost but not quite. She had brought this fate upon herself.

“I designed it to open you from cervix to throat,” he continued, then lowered his voice. “From the inside, Elaine. It will be an excruciating way to die. Organs torn to shreds from within. Massive bleeding will lead to shock. Then coma. And finally, death. Of course, by that point you will pray for death to take you.”

She made a sound, high and terrified. Trapped.

“Do you think it would be possible to be fucked to death, Elaine? Is that how you’d like to die?”

She fought as he inched her closer. “Imagine what it will feel like inside you, Elaine. To feel your insides being ripped to shreds, the pain, the helplessness. Knowing you’re going to die, wishing for death to come swiftly.”

He pressed his mouth closer to her ear. “But it won’t. Perhaps, mercifully, you’ll lose consciousness. Perhaps not. I could keep you alert, there are ways, you know. You’ll beg for mercy, pray for a miracle. No miracle will come. No hero rushing in to save the day. No one to hear your screams.”

She trembled so violently he had to hold her erect. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“This will be your only warning,” he continued. “Leave Cypress Springs immediately. Quietly. Tell no one. Not your friends, your employer or landlord. If you speak to anyone, you’ll be killed. The police cannot help you, do not contact them. If you do, you’ll be killed. If you stay, you’ll be killed. Your death will be horrible, I promise you that.”

He released her and she crumpled into a heap on the floor. He stared down at her shaking form. “There are many of us and we are always watching. Do you understand, Elaine St. Claire?”

She didn’t answer and he bent, grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her face up toward his. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” she whispered. “Anythi … I’ll do … anything.”

A small smile twisted his lips. His generals would be pleased.

He released her. “Smart girl, Elaine. Don’t forget this warning. You’re now the master of your own fate.”

The Gavel retrieved the weapon and walked away. As he let himself out, the sound of her sobs echoed through the apartment.

CHAPTER 1

Cypress Springs, Louisiana Wednesday, March 5, 2003 2:30 p.m.

Avery Chauvin drew her rented SUV to a stop in front of Rauche’s Dry Goods store and stepped out. A humid breeze stirred against her damp neck and ruffled her short dark hair as she surveyed Main Street. Rauche’s still occupied this coveted corner of Main and First Streets, the Azalea Café still screamed for a coat of paint, Parish Bank hadn’t been swallowed by one of the huge banking conglomerates and the town square these establishments all circled was as shady and lovely as ever, the gazebo at its center a startlingly bright white.

Her absence hadn’t changed Cypress Springs at all, she thought. How could that be? It was as if the twelve years between now and when she had headed off to Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, returning only for holiday breaks, had been a dream. As if her life in Washington, D.C., was a figment of her imagination.

If they had been, her mother would be alive, the massive, unexpected stroke she had suffered eleven years in the future. And her father—

Pain rushed over her. Her head filled with her father’s voice, slightly distorted by the answering machine.

“Avery, sweetheart … It’s Dad. I was hoping … I need to talk to you. I was hoping—” Pause. “There’s something … I’ll … try later. Goodbye, pumpkin.”

If only she had taken that call. If only she had stopped, just for the time it would have taken to speak with him. Her story could have waited. The congressman who had finally decided to talk could have waited. A couple minutes. A couple minutes that might have changed everything.

Her thoughts raced forward, to the next morning, the call from Buddy Stevens. Family friend. Her dad’s lifelong best friend. Cypress Springs’ chief of police.

“Avery, it’s Buddy. I’ve got some … some bad news, baby girl. Your dad, he’s—”

Dead. Her dad was dead. Between the time her father had called her and the next morning, he had killed himself. Gone into his garage, doused himself with diesel fuel, then lit a match.

How could you do it, Dad? Why did you do it? You didn’t even say—

The short scream of a police siren interrupted her thoughts. Avery turned. A West Feliciana Parish sheriff’s cruiser rolled up behind her Blazer. An officer stepped out and started toward her.

She recognized the man by his long, lanky frame, the way he moved and held himself. Matt Stevens, childhood friend, high-school sweetheart, the guy she’d left behind to pursue her dream of journalism. She’d seen Matt only a handful of times since then, most recently at her mother’s funeral nearly a year ago. Buddy must have told him she was coming.

Avery held up a hand in greeting. Still handsome, she thought, watching him approach. Still the best catch in the parish. Or maybe that title no longer applied; he could be attached now.

He reached her, stopped but didn’t smile. “It’s good to see you, Avery.” She saw herself reflected in his mirrored sunglasses, smaller than any grown woman ought to be, her elfin looks accentuated by her pixie haircut and dark eyes, which were too big for her face.

“It’s good to see you, too, Matt.”

“Sorry about your dad. I feel real bad about how it all happened. Real bad.”

“Thanks, I … I appreciate you and Buddy taking care of Dad’s—” Her throat constricted; she pushed on, determined not to fall apart. “Dad’s remains,” she finished.

“It was the least we could do.” Matt looked away, then back, expression somber. “Were you able to reach your cousins in Denver?”

“Yes,” she managed, feeling lost. They were all the family she had left—a couple of distant cousins and their families. Everyone else was gone now.

“I loved him, too, Avery. I knew since your mom’s death he’d been … struggling, but I still can’t believe he did it. I feel like I should have seen how bad off he was. That I should have known.”

The tears came then, swamping her. She’d been his daughter. She was the guilty party. The one who should have known.

He reached a hand out. “It’s okay to cry, Avery.”

“No … I’ve already—” She cleared her throat, fighting for composure. “I need to arrange a … service. Do the Gallaghers still own—”

“Yes. Danny’s taken over for his father. He’s expecting your call. Pop told him you were getting in sometime today.”

She motioned to the cruiser. “You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

The sheriff’s department handled all the unincorporated areas of the parish. The Cypress Springs Police Department policed the city itself.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Guilty as charged. I was hanging around, hoping to catch you before you went by the house.”

“I was heading there now. I just stopped to … because—” She bit the words back; she’d had no real reason for stopping, had simply responded to a whim.

He seemed to understand. “I’ll go with you.”

“That’s really sweet, Matt. But unnecessary.”

“I disagree.” When she tried to protest more, he cut her off. “It’s bad, Avery. I don’t think you should see it alone the first time. I’m following you,” he finished, voice gruff. “Whether you want me to or not.”

Avery held his gaze a moment, then nodded and wordlessly turned and climbed into the rented Blazer. She started up the vehicle and eased back onto Main Street. As she drove the three-quarters of a mile to the old residential section where she had grown up, she took a deep breath.

Her father had chosen the hour of his death well—the middle of the night when his neighbors were less likely to see or smell the fire. He’d used diesel fuel, most probably the arson investigators determined, because unlike gasoline, which burned off vapors, diesel ignited on contact.

A neighbor out for an early-morning jog had discovered the still smoldering garage. After trying to rouse her father, who he’d assumed to be in bed, asleep, he had called the fire department. The state arson investigator had been brought in. They in turn had called the coroner, who’d notified the Cypress Springs Police Department. In the end, her dad had been identified by his dental records.

Neither the autopsy nor CSPD investigation had turned up any indication of foul play. Nor had any known motives for murder materialized: Dr. Phillip Chauvin had been universally liked and respected. The police had officially ruled his death a suicide.

No note. No goodbye.

How could you do it, Dad? Why?

Avery reached her parents’ house and turned into the driveway. The lawn of the 1920s era Acadian needed mowing; the beds weeding; bushes trimming. Although early, the azaleas had begun to bloom. Soon the beds around the house would be a riot of pinks, ranging from icy pale to deep rose.

Her dad had loved his yard. Had spent weekends puttering and planting, primping. It all looked forlorn now, she thought. Overgrown and ignored.

Avery frowned. How long had it been since her father had tended his yard? she wondered. Longer than the two days he had been gone. That was obvious.

Further evidence of the emotional depths to which he had sunk. How could she have missed how depressed he had grown? Why hadn’t she sensed something was wrong during their frequent phone conversations?

Matt pulled in behind her. She took a deep breath and climbed out of her vehicle.

He met her, expression grim. “You’re certain you’re ready for this?”

“Do I have a choice?”

They both knew she didn’t and they started up the curving driveway, toward the detached garage. A separate structure, the garage nestled behind the main house. A covered walkway connected the two buildings.

As they neared the structure the smell of the fire grew stronger—not just of wood smoke, but of what she imagined was charred flesh and bone. As they turned the corner of the driveway she saw that a large, irregularly shaped black mark marred the doorway.

“The heat from the fire,” Matt explained. “It did more damage inside. Actually, it’s a wonder the building didn’t come down.”

A half-dozen years ago, while working for the Tribune, Avery had been assigned to cover a rash of fires that had plagued the Chicago area. It turned out the arsonist had been the estranged son of a firefighter, looking to punish his old man for kicking him out of the house. Unfortunately, the police hadn’t caught him before he’d been responsible for the deaths of six innocent people—one of them an infant.

Avery and Matt reached the garage. She steeled herself for what would come next. She understood how gruesome death by fire was.

Matt led her to the side door. Opened it. They stepped into the building. The smell crashed over her. As did the stark reality of her father’s last minutes. She imagined his screams as the flames engulfed him. As his skin began to melt. Avery brought a hand to her mouth, her gaze going to the large char mark on the concrete floor—the spot where her father had burned alive.

His suicide had been an act of not only despair but self-hatred as well.

She began to tremble. Her head grew light, her knees weak. Turning, she ran outside, to the azalea bushes with their burgeoning blossoms. She doubled over, struggling not to throw up. Not to fall apart.

Matt came up behind her. He laid a hand on her back.

Avery squeezed her eyes shut. “How could he do it, Matt?” She looked over her shoulder at him, vision blurred by tears. “It’s bad enough that he took his own life, but to do it like that? The pain … it would have been excruciating.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured, tone gentle. “I don’t have any answers for you. I wish I did.”

She straightened, mustering anger. Denial. “My father loved life. He valued it. He was a doctor, for God’s sake. He’d devoted his life to preserving it.”

At Matt’s silence, she lashed out. “He was proud of himself and the choices he’d made. Proud of how he had lived. The man who did that hated himself. That wasn’t my dad.” She said it again, tone taking on a desperate edge. “It wasn’t, Matt.”

“Avery, you haven’t been—” He bit the words off and shifted his gaze, expression uncomfortable.

“What, Matt? I haven’t been what?”

“Around a lot lately.” He must have read the effect of his words in her expression and he caught her hands and held them tightly. “Your dad hadn’t been himself for a while. He’d withdrawn, from everybody. Stayed in his house for days. When he went out he didn’t speak. Would cross to the other side of the street to avoid conversation.”

How could she not have known? “When?” she asked, hurting. “When did this start?”

“I suppose about the time he gave up his practice.”

Just after her mother’s death.

“Why didn’t somebody call me? Why didn’t—” She bit the words back and pressed her trembling lips together.

He squeezed her fingers. “It wasn’t an overnight thing. At first he just seemed preoccupied. Or like he needed time to grieve. On his own. It wasn’t until recently that people began to talk.”