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