They sat. The woman met her eyes. Tall and slender with short, curly blond hair, Avery judged her to be

about the same age as she was.

"My name's Gwen Lancaster. I'm sorry if I've upset you. I know this is a difficult time. I...I lost my brother not long ago."

Avery gazed at her, unmoved. "Did you know my father?"

"No, I didn't."

"May I ask then, why you attended his wake and why you're here today?"

She paused a moment before answering. "I'm new to Cypress Springs. Pretty town."

"Yeah, it is." Avery narrowed her eyes. "Friendly, too."

Her lips twisted slightly. "Doesn't look so friendly from where I'm sitting."

"Do you blame me?"

She laughed, the sound short. Tight. "Actually, I don't." She glanced away, then back at Avery. "I've

come to Cypress Springs to do some research. I'm working on my Ph.D. in social psychology. From Tulane University."

"Good for you," she said flatly. "So, what does that have to do with my father's death?"

"If I tell you, will you promise to keep an open mind?"

Avery leaned toward her. "I'm not promising you anything. I don't think I should have to."

Gwen held her gaze, then nodded. "At least allow me to begin at the beginning."

"Fair enough."

The woman folded her hands and laid them on the table's top, over a set of initials someone had carved in the wood. "I'm writing a thesis titled "Crime, Punishment and the Rise of Vigilantism in Small-Town America."

She paused. Avery wondered if she used the time to collect her thoughts-or to manufacture her answer. Avery had earned her right to suspicion, earned it through years of interviewing people with agendas that ran counter to the truth, people who manipulated and manufactured. People, she had learned, lied for a variety of reasons. Because it was easier than telling the truth. Or to shield themselves from punishment or incrimination. They lied to protect their reputations. Or as a way to keep from revealing who they really were.

"In my undergraduate studies, I became fascinated with the psychology of groups and group dynamics. What motivates a seemingly average, law-abiding citizen to take on the role of crusader? To take the law into their own hands or act outside the law?"

She lowered her eyes a moment, then returned them to Avery's, her blue gaze unblinking. "Vigilantes are strong believers in law and order. They're usually patriots and highly moral. It's a form of extremism, of course. And like all extremists, they turn their beliefs inside out and upside down."

Avery acknowledged being intrigued despite herself. "Like Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma City bomber."

"Exactly. He fit the profile to a T, although he acted alone. Remember, the thing that makes these people so dangerous is that they absolutely believe in their cause and are willing to die for it. Their beliefs aren't a way to justify their acts, in their minds those acts are justified by their beliefs."

Avery nodded, understanding. "So, you'd lump all extremists in this same category? Religious groups like Afghanistan's Taliban, political extremists like Al-Qaeda?"

"And white supremacists, survivalists or any other group that pushes its ideology to the extreme. No country, religion or race is immune. History is riddled with the bodies of those killed in the name of a cause."

"Why are you here?"

"A bartender told me a story about this picture-perfect Louisiana town.The town began to suffer an increase in crime. Instead of combating it through traditional law enforcement, they took the law into their own hands. They organized a group that policed the behavior of its citizens. They nipped in the bud behavior they con-sidered aberrant. The crime rate fell, further justifying their actions in their own minds. I did some digging and found information that seemed to corroborate the story."

She was talking about Cypress Springs. Avery stared at her, waiting for the punch line. When it didn't come, she laughed. "A vigilante group? In Cypress Springs? You can't be serious."

"These types of groups are more likely to arise in communities like Cypress Springs. Insular communities, resistant to change, reluctant to welcome outsiders."

"This is ridiculous."

Avery made a move to stand; the woman reached out, caught her hand. "Hear me out. The group formed in the late 1980s as a reaction to the rapid increase in crime. They disbanded sometime later, beset by internal fighting and threats of exposure from within their own ranks."

The 1980s? During the time before and after Sallie Waguespack's murder.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. If it weren't for the fact that she had just relived that time through her father's clippings and Buddy's recollections, she would have totally discounted the woman's assertions. She had learned during her years in investigative journalism that when one element of a story rang true, often others would, too.

But vigilantism? Could the people of Cypress Springs have been so concerned, desperate really, that they'd taken the law into their own hands? Could her father have been that desperate? Or Buddy? Their friends and fellow community leaders? She couldn't imag-ine them in the role of Big Brother.

"The core group was small, but they had an intricate network of others who monitored the activities of the citizens and reported to the group."

Avery frowned. "Spies? You're saying Cypress Springs citizens spied on each other?"

"Yes. The citizens were watched. Their mail read. What they ate, drank, read and watched was monitored. Where they went. If they worshiped. If need be, they were warned."

"Warned? You mean threatened?"

She nodded. "If the warnings went unheeded, the group took action. Businesses were boycotted. Individuals shunned. Property vandalized. To varying degrees, everyone was in on it."

"Everyone?" Avery made a sound of disbelief. "I have a hard time believing that."

"In groups such as these, responsibility for acts are disbursed throughout the group. What that means is, no one person carries the burden of responsibility for an act against another. It's the group's responsibility. By lessening the burden, the act becomes much easier to carry out. In addition, the individual's sense of responsibility shifts from the self to the group and its ideology."

Avery shook her head again. "I grew up here, I've never heard of any of this."

"It's not as outlandish as it sounds. It began as little more than a Neighborhood Watch-type program. A way to help combat crime. As unchecked good intentions sometimes do," the woman continued, "theirs spun out of control. Anyone who's actions fell outside what was considered right, moral or neighborly was singled out and warned. Before it was all over, they'd broken the civil rights of their fellow citizens in the name of righteousness, law and order."

"And nobody went to jail?"

"Nobody talked. The community closed ranks. Not untypical for this type of group." Gwen leaned toward Avery. Lowered her voice. "They called themselves The Seven."

At her father's wake, the group of men. Watching Gwen.

Seven of them.

A coincidence, she told herself, struggling to keep her thoughts from showing. To deny them. "And what exactly does all this have to do with my father? And you posing as my nonexistent sister?"

Gwen Lancaster didn't blink. "I'm trying to locate sources to verify the information I've gotten so far. Your dad fits the profile"

"My father's dead, Ms. Lancaster."

"Fit the profile," she corrected, flushing. "White. Male. Lifelong Cypress Springs resident. A respected community leader during that time."

Her meaning sank in and Avery stiffened. "You're saying you believe my father might have been a part of this Seven?"

"Yes."

Avery stood. She realized she was shaking. "He wasn't," she said flatly. "He would never have been a part of something like that. Never!"

"Wait, please!" She followed Avery to her feet. "Hear me out. There's-"

"I've heard enough." Avery snatched her purse off the picnic bench. "There's a difference between thinking you're honorable and being honorable. And you know that, Ms. Lancaster. My father was a highly principled, moral man. A man others looked up to. A man who dedicated his life to helping others. To doing right, not to self-righteousness. It's an insult to his memory, to all he was, to suggest he would be party to this extremist garbage."

"You don't understand. If you would just-"

"I do understand, Ms. Lancaster. And I've listened quite enough." Avery backed away. "Stay away from me. If I find out you're prying into my father's life or death again, I'll go to the police. If I hear you're spreading these lies, I'll go to a lawyer."

Without waiting for the woman's reply, Avery turned and walked away.

CHAPTER 19.

Avery sat at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of her, hands curled around a mug of freshly brewed coffee. Early-morning sun streamed through the window. The screen glowed softly; the text blurred before her eyes.

She set the mug on the table and rubbed her eyes. Her head ached. She'd slept little. She'd left St. Francisville and driven blindly home, thoughts whirling. She'd been angry. Furious. That Gwen Lancaster could accuse her father of such despicable acts toward his fellow citizens. That she could suggest the people of Cypress Springs capable of spying on one another, punishing them for behavior that fell outside what a few had decided was acceptable.

Cypress Springs was a nice place to live. People cared about one another. They helped one another.

Gwen Lancaster, she had decided was either a liar or an academic hack. She had dealt with journalists like that. They started with a story someone told them, something juicy, outrageous or shocking. Like the one the bartender told Gwen Lancaster about a picture-perfect small town that turns to vigilantism to combat crime.

Great hook. A real grabber. They proceeded on the premise that it was true and began collecting the "facts" to prove it. Tabloid journalism cloaked in the guise of authentic journalism. Or in Gwen Lancaster's case, academia.

The group of seven men at the wake. Watching Gwen Lancaster. The one laughing.

Avery shook her head. A coincidence. A group of men, friends, standing together. Admiring an attractive woman. One making a sexual comment, then laughing. It happened all the time.

She turned her attention to the computer screen. She had realized she knew little more about vigilantism and extremism than what Gwen had told her and had spent the night researching both via the Internet.

She'd done searches on vigilantism. Crowd mentality and social psychology. Fanaticism. She had read about the Ku Klux Klan. Nazism. Experiments in group behavior.

Extremist groups had been much in the news since the Septem- ber 11, 2001, attacks on the United States by the al-Qaeda terrorist organization. Her search had led her there and to pieces written in the aftermath of Timothy McVeigh's bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. And others concerning the 1993 FBI shootout with the Branch Davidians in Waco, Texas.

What she'd found disturbed her. Any idea or belief, it seemed, could be taken to an extreme. The amount of blood spilled for God and country staggered. A chief motivator, she'd learned, was fear of change. The intense desire to keep the world, the order of things, the way it was.

Folks were scared. And angry. Real angry. The town was turning into a place they didn 't like.

People stopped taking their community, their quality of life for granted. They realized that safety and a community spirit were worth working for. People started watching out for each other.

Avery stood and crossed to the sink. She flipped on the cold water, bent and splashed her face. How frightened had the people of Cypress Springs been? Enough to take the law into their own hands?

Could this be why her father had clipped and kept all those articles?

Avery ripped off a paper towel, dried her face, then tossed the towel into the trash. As much as she wanted to discount everything Gwen Lancaster had told her, she couldn't. Because of that damn box.

Gwen Lancaster knew something about her father that she wasn't telling. Why else would she have wanted to talk to the coroner about Phillip's death? Avery couldn't imagine he would have been able to shed any light on The Seven or her father's involvement in the group.

The coroner could answer questions about her father's death, not life.

That was it, Avery realized. Gwen Lancaster doubted the official explanation of Dr. Phillip Chauvin's death.

And Avery was going to find out why. First, she needed to locate the woman.

She crossed to the phone and dialed the ranch. Buddy knew everybody in this town, even outsiders. He answered.

"Hi, Buddy, it's Avery. Good morning."

"Baby girl. Good morning to you, too." Pleasure radiated from his voice. "How are you? We've been so worried, but wanted to give you some space."

"I'm hanging in there, Buddy. Thanks for your concern. How's Lilah?"

"She's good. Come by for dinner. Anytime."

"I will. Got a question. You know everyone around here, right?"

"Pretty much. Figure it's my job."

"I'm trying to find a woman named Gwen Lancaster. She's only been here a couple of weeks, tops."

"Pretty blonde? Writing some sort of paper?"

"That's her."

"You might check The Guesthouse. Why're you looking for her?"