"Who's buried in Sal's casket, Matt? Just some poor slob you picked up?"

"A worthless, homeless drunk. A nobody whose life I gave purpose, Avery." He motioned to the final two figures at the table. "Generals Beauregarde and Starr, outsiders who were drawn to our cause."

"So this is it?" she said, voice shaking. "The infamous Seven. A group formed," she paused to rest, "to counter the crime wave in Cypress Springs resorts to murder. Seems to me, the cure is worse than the illness."

"You sound just like your bleeding-heart father. He ruined the original Seven, reduced them to a system of little more than tat-tletales and whiners. I wasn't about to allow him to ruin us."

"How did you do it?" she asked. "How did you kill him?"

"It was easy. Phillip wanted to believe me a malleable weakling who would bend to his wishes-the way Buddy and the other Seven had all those years ago. So he underestimated me."

"He trusted you. You knew that. You knew he would open the door to you in the middle of the night.

Even though he was groggy from the sleep medication he'd taken before going to bed."

She narrowed her eyes, hate rising up in her, nearly choking her. "Medication you knew he was taking.

How? He never locked the doors... Did you go through his medicine cabinet?"

Matt laughed, the sound pleased. "It didn't take even that much effort. Heard it from Earl over at Friendly Drugs."

One of The Seven's network of eyes and ears. Matt glanced at his generals, then back at her, expression disgusted. "I see what you're thinking. That Earl had no right discussing your dad's private business. People like you never understand. Private business is a nice euphemism for immoral self-indulgence. Human weakness. Such self-indulgences corrupt. They spread from citizen to citizen like a disease, until a whole community is infected."

She fought to keep her tone controlled. It wavered slightly and she cursed the telltale show of vulnerability. "And as not only sheriff but son of Cypress Springs's chief of police, you heard everything, didn't you? It was easy. You knew every citizen's every step? You made it your business to know."

He puffed up, proud. "Mail. Medications. Police calls. What they ate and drank, when they had sex."

"And Elaine St. Claire's weakness?"

"Promiscuity."

She died of internal injuries. An artificial phallus had been inserted into her, it had torn her to shreds.

"What about Pete Trimble?"

"Poor old Pete. Chronic D.W.I. He refused to give up the bottle, refused our efforts to get him into a

program."

Drunk, he was crushed by his own tractor.

She thought of the kids who had overdosed, the one into auto-eroticism who had hung himself. Of Trudy

Pruitt's tongue cut out of her head. Avery understood. "Their mode of death mirrored their crime."

He inclined his head. "They died as they lived, a fitting punishment, we believe."

Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed past it. "And my dad? The others involved in the Waguespack

cover-up? What were their crimes? Knowing too much?"

"Treason," he said softly, regretfully. "They began to talk amongst themselves. Began speculating about Sallie Waguespack's death and the way their good friend Chief Stevens told them it went down. They

began speculating that someone had retooled The Seven. Before they could be silenced, they went to Phillip."

"Retooled The Seven?"

"We are the elite, Avery. The best, operating in secret, willing to do whatever necessary to protect what

we hold dear. What the original group was supposed to be."

"Cypress Springs's very own version of Delta Force?"

"I like that analogy."

"You would. And the group of seven men at Dad's wake and funeral, who were they?"

"Nobody. Nothing but an unfortunate number of men standing together."

She processed that, then went on. "My dad figured out what was going on?"

"To a degree. But he made a mistake, he thought Dad was the one. Behind it all. He had decided to go

to the D.A. about Sallie Waguespack. He went to Lilah first, to prepare her."

"And she told you."

"Yes." He smiled. "After his suicide, she assumed that he hadn't been able to do it and had killed himself

instead. She understood guilt, you see. How it ate at a person."

Avery curled her hands into fists, cuffed behind her back. "So you woke him up in the middle of the night.

He opened the door and you immobilized him with a stun gun."

A look of surprise, then respect, crossed his features.

"You had everything ready in the garage," she continued. "The diesel fuel, the syphoning hose."

He inclined his head. "It's not easy to get away with murder these days, forensic science being what it is.

The tazer leaves no detectable mark but offered me the time I needed to carry out my plan. That he was

groggy from the sleep medication helped."

Tears choked her. She struggled to force the image of her father from her mind, force out what she imagined were his last thoughts. The way he had suffered.

"How did you know?" he asked. "What made you so certain?"

"The slipper," she said. "It was wrong."

"It fell off when I carried him to the garage. A detail I shouldn't have ignored."

"Even without the slipper, I wouldn't have bought the story. My father valued life too much to take his

own." She paused. "Unlike you, Matt. Someone disagrees with your politics and you kill them. You're no

better than a terrorist."

Color flooded his face. She had angered him. His voice took on the tone of a teacher speaking to a rebellious student. "In a war, Avery, there are only two sides. The good guys and the bad guys. For a cause or against it. They were against us. So they were eliminated."

"And who's been watching you, Matt? Who's been keeping tabs on your activities? Making certain your

behavior doesn't veer outside the appropriate?"

She had caught him off guard, she saw by his momentary confusion. "My generals, of course," he answered. "I'm not all-powerful, Avery. I don't want to be. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

"They're dead, Matt. Your generals are rotting corpses. No one is monitoring you, and if they do, you kill

them in the name of the cause."

"You're not helping yourself, Avery. We reevaluated and were prepared to make you an offer. Of an opportunity. Join us. You're smart, courageous. Use those qualities to better the world."

The children's story Peter Pan popped into her head, the place in the tale when Captain Hook offers to spare Wendy's and the Lost Boys' lives-if they join him, become pirates. Avery had always admired Wendy's bravery. The courage of her convictions in the face of certain death.

Wendy hadn't died. Peter had saved her.

There would be no Peter Pan to save her, Avery acknowledged. Only the courage of her own convictions.

"You have three minutes to decide, Avery." He set his watch. "And the clock's ticking."

CHAPTER 58.

Hunter crouched behind the partially gutted wall, sweating, listening to Avery and his brother. Three minutes. Shit. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to force out what lay in the adjoining room. Cadavers. Murder victims.

Ones his brother thought were alive.

If he focused on that, he would be defeated. If he focused on what his brother had become, he would be

defeated. If he allowed himself to dwell for even a minute on Avery strapped to that chair, he would lose

it.