Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

  The boat drew closer, the engine whine blocking out the sound of the radio. Angie glanced at her friend, who’d turned her back to the water. Trisha was her best friend. Her only friend. But sometimes she acted like an old maid. When she looked back at the water, her smile was big and eager. What would it hurt to have some fun?

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was almost noon and hot as hell. After a near-sleepless night, Dixon wondered if she’d died and was suffering her punishment—running a weekly newspaper in a small Mississippi town split by religion, gender, and poverty.

  She sat in her truck gathering herself for the fray. The unexpected closure of the Jexville Canaan Baptist Church Wee Care—the second big story in less than twelve hours involving a church—had thrown the town into an uproar. Thirty-seven working women had no one to care for their young children. Religion was big business in Chickasaw County.

  Several men carrying hastily made signs supporting the closure were lined up on the east side of the church lawn. On the west side were angry women. Screaming, whining, running-wild children ping-ponged between them.

  Dixon sat in the blast of the truck’s air conditioner, examining her notes and watching the bedlam. Rev. James Farrell stood, arms linked with a dozen women, guarding the front door of the church. Three television camera crews were set up on the church lawn. Someone had been giving the good minister lessons in staging a media event.

  Dixon scanned the crowd, making certain Tucker Barnes was photographing the fracas. Her gaze stopped on a tall, dark-haired man who was staring at her. She hadn’t seen him in her two weeks in Jexville. The man made no effort to hide his interest. He looked as if he didn’t belong in Jexville any more than she did.

  Tucker’s actions caught her gaze.

  He was getting dangerously close to a big, beefy man with a high-blood-pressure red face. Tucker was young and ambitious, and in the brief time he’d worked at the Independent, he’d come a long way. He reminded her of the reasons she’d once loved journalism. He had yet to learn that reporting could be a dangerous profession.

  Dixon got out of her truck and crossed the well-maintained lawn. The minister and his forces guarded the church steps. On one side were the angry women; on the other were the men with signs and placards.

  “Go back to God’s way!” one sign read. The picket line was marching, and the men were chanting, “God’s plan—obey your man! God’s plan—obey your man!”

  Dixon saw a brown sheriff’s car pull to the curb half a block down the street. J.D. got out. He had the look of a man who’d spent his youth in the military. Good posture, a casual self-confidence. He looked at her and nodded, then shifted his gaze to the dark-haired man, who was still staring at Dixon.

  Whoever he was, he was a bold one. The intensity of his stare sent a ripple of anticipation down her arms. The impulse to go over and ask him, point blank, why he was gawking at her was strong. She didn’t act, though. She had a paper to put to bed, and strange men, no matter how compelling, would have to wait until Thursday, when the edition was on the streets.

  The general bedlam on the church lawn increased, and Dixon was reminded of traffic accidents she’d worked long ago as a photographer. She realized anew how many years had passed since she’d actually been a good journalist. She’d had plenty of opportunities to show that she was her father’s daughter, but drinking had been safer and more satisfying, until the last year when she’d finally felt her spirit eroding. Buying the Independent was her last-ditch stand. Jexville was her mound of ashes. If her phoenix was going to rise, it would have to be here, despite the naysayers who’d urged her not to make the move.

  Her misgivings resurfaced. This wasn’t going to be anything like journalism as she’d known it. This was grassroots, right in the middle of a town where everyone knew everyone else. This was the kind of newspapering her father had loved—the paper as the watchdog of the community. She took a breath, fighting for calm. By god, she’d made it through the night without a drink, but she needed one now.

  She walked up the stone steps. Into the teeth of angels, she thought as she faced the minister.

  “I’m Dixon Sinclair, publisher of the Independent. Could you tell me why Canaan Baptist has decided to close its day care facility?”

  Reverend Farrell’s face was flushed. His blue eyes radiated a glow. Some would call it angelic, but Dixon had a feeling that he was mad as a March hare.

  “I know who you are.” Farrell disengaged his hand from the grasp of a thin young woman who held a toddler on her hip. “I’ve heard all about you.” His tone was insulting.

  “I understand you’re closing the day care facility. Is there a reason for this action, maybe a structural problem?”

  “The building is sound as a dollar. I’m closing it because God commanded me to do so.” Several of the women whispered, “Amen.”

  “Is that a joke?” she asked, hesitating.

  “I don’t make jokes about God’s will.”

  “You realize you’re leaving forty-two youngsters with no day care?” Maybe it was just a media event, a platform so he could air his views.

  “Last night, God spoke to me. He said our family units are disintegrating. He said our womenfolk have laid down the burden of tending their children, giving their own flesh and blood into the hands of strangers to raise and mold. He said that Canaan Baptist Church had played a role in that desecration and that I was to put a stop to it.”

  “That was a rather lengthy conversation. God must have been in a talkative mood,” Dixon observed.

  “Blasphemer,” the thin woman whispered.

  Farrell ignored Dixon’s sarcasm. He lifted his blue gaze toward the sky. “I am blessed that God chooses to speak with me. I am blessed, as is the entire congregation of the church. We are obedient to God’s will. The vandalism at the Catholic church shows how far we’ve fallen from God’s graces. No place is sacred any more, not even God’s house of worship. Look toward the Catholics, if you must. Wayward young people desecrated God’s house, destroyed a statue of the mother of Jesus. No matter what we think about the Catholics and their papist ways, that tells us how far our children have strayed.”

  “Amen!” the women chorused.

  Farrell’s smile was tolerant. “Our children are growing up wild. Without the love and security of a home where their mothers cook and care for them, they are falling to the Beast.”

  “Reverend, some of those women,” Dixon pointed across the lawn, “don’t have a choice. They work because they have to. And while they work, someone has to care for their children. It would seem to me that the church is a safe setting for children.”

  “Women must stay at home and keep the family unit intact.”

  “What if the mother is the only provider for the family?”

  “God will provide. He never closes a door unless he opens a window.”

  Dixon looked across the lawn. Spectators were cheering the picketers and the women on. If someone didn’t break it up soon, there would be some dramatic photo opportunities, complete with blood. She looked for the sheriff and saw him walking, unhurriedly, toward the church. His gaze was on the minister. He did not look happy.

  Dixon looked back at Farrell. The light of battle was in his eyes.

  “Come, ladies, let us sing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’ “ Farrell launched into the hymn, his tenor leading the women.

  The sheriff came up the steps and stopped beside Dixon. He leaned down to speak softly to her. “Giving them publicity will only excite them to more of this kind of behavior.” He nodded toward the church grounds. “With just one little push, this could turn into a riot. I don’t want you to be the match that lights that fuse.”

  “I’m not here to make news; I cover it.”

  The sheriff turned to Farrell. “You’ve got quite a scene going here, James.” His voice was low, conversational.

  “It is a scene designed by God to show His will.” Farrell nodded as he spoke, his focus now on the sh
eriff.

  The woman beside Farrell blanched as a tall man came toward them. His white hair crested in a wave atop a handsome face. He wore a navy blue suit, tailored to fit. Although she’d never met him, Dixon knew instantly he was James “Big Jim” Welford, superintendent of education in Chickasaw County.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Farrell?” Welford demanded. The singing faltered to a stop. Welford ignored everyone except the minister. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “When God speaks, I listen, and then I act.” Farrell’s angelic demeanor was spoiled by a slight frown.

  Welford looked at the women. “Get out of here.” They scurried like leaves in a wind. He turned to Dixon. “Who are you?”

  “Dixon Sinclair, publisher of the Independent.”

  Welford’s gaze went to Farrell, quick and deadly, then to J.D. “She’s the new owner of the newspaper?” He turned back to stare again. “This has all been blown out of proportion.” He put his hand on her shoulder in a gentle, familiar gesture. “I need to speak with the minister here, see if I can’t talk some sense into him before this thing goes too far.”

  “Are you affiliated with the church?” Dixon asked.

  “I’m on the board of deacons.” He nodded at her notes. “There’s no need for any of this to go in the paper. I’ll have it settled in less than an hour.” He grasped Farrell’s arm. “Get inside,” he ordered. “Now!” He propelled the minister through the church door.

  Dixon and J.D. were left. He stared at her long enough that she lifted one eyebrow.

  “Looks like it’s over.” He pulled the brim of his hat so that it shaded his eyes. “Have a good day, Miss Sinclair.”

  Dixon hurried to catch up to him. “Sheriff, just a minute; I have some questions. Have you got any leads on the vandalism of the statue at St. John the Baptist?”

  He studied her a moment. “Nothing for print.”

  “I need a comment,” she said.

  “Religion is Chickasaw County’s claim to fame. There’re eighty-seven churches in the county.”

  She couldn’t read his expression, which was carefully neutral. “And St. John’s? Is this related?”

  “Only in that Farrell saw an opportunity to get on the front page.”

  “What about the blood?”

  He hesitated. “Cow blood. Juney Moons found one of his cows with its throat cut. The blood came from the cow.”

  Dixon tasted something metallic in the back of her throat. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I couldn’t accurately speak to that. You take care, Ms. Sinclair.” He started down the steps, his gait casual, as if he were out for a stroll.

  “Sheriff, why was Reverend Beatrice Smart at the church last night?”

  He turned and studied her. “Because I asked her to be.” He tipped his hat and turned away.

  Dixon’s eyes followed him until her attention was diverted to the dark-haired man, who was still staring at her. Then he turned and walked away.

  The fish were elusive shadows in the big, artesian-fed vat. They swam frantically, almost colliding with the sides. As they approached a wall, they swerved at the last instant, darting toward another corner.

  Eustace Mills never tired of watching the fish. Some were better than five pounds, others just under two, perfect for church fish fries. He liked the bigger ones himself. The darker, gamier meat made the best-tasting stews. In his sixty-odd years on the Pascagoula, he’d seen river cats that weighed eighty pounds, granddaddy fish with dangling whiskers on a head as big as a man’s. Those were fighters, fish that sought the mud bottom of the river and went deep, ignoring the hook that tried to pull them to the surface.

  A fish tail broke the surface, and Eustace straightened. He limped toward the supply of hooks, knives, hammers, and pliers he kept on a picnic table beneath the tin roof of his skinning shed. He led with his right foot, the left one dragging after him. He was glad to be in the shade during the early afternoon heat.

  Next to the open-sided shed a stout creosote post held a heavy board where he cleaned fish. The three fish heads he’d left nailed there the night before were gone. The board, five feet off the ground, was empty. The six-pack of beer he’d left on the picnic table was gone too.

  “Eu-stace! Eu-stace, honey! Are you on the grounds?”

  “Here.” He looked at the table again to make certain the beer was truly gone and not just playing with him.

  “Are you busy?”

  He could tell by her voice that she was sitting in the middle of the floor. She’d have an ashtray beside her slender right thigh and tarot cards spread out by her left. He could almost smell the dark coffee she drank each morning as she read the cards.

  Limping slightly, he made his way across the grassless yard and climbed the twenty-three steps to the cypress camp that he’d built on pilings driven deep into the clay bank of the river.

  “I’m goin’ to check the trot lines up the Leaf,” he said. “I got the Chickasawhay earlier.”

  “You’ve got half the fish in the river in your vat already.” She turned over a card revealing a man hung upside down. She put her hand over the card and looked up at him. Eustace got the feeling she was protecting him.

  “I got to check the lines anyway. You can’t just leave the fish hanging on ‘em. They’ll die there.”

  She nodded, looked into his eyes for several seconds, then took a drag off her cigarette. “We need some coffee and some other things. Shall I go into town and do some shopping?”

  “Okay.” He touched his face. “I need some razor blades.”

  “I’ll be back by five. I’m going to stop by Mama’s and make sure she hasn’t driven Daddy completely insane. She has her massage on Tuesdays. Maybe I’ll have one.”

  “Be careful.” He turned and went back down the stairs, past the skinning shed, and on toward the Pascagoula River that glimmered reddish yellow through the dense oak leaves. When he looked back at the fish camp he saw her coming down the stairs. She wore her hair tucked up in a man’s hat, utterly feminine with a red slash of lipstick. She waved once, and he turned to the water.

  His boat was chained to a cypress knee. He freed the rusted lock and climbed in. The small outboard cranked instantly, and he aimed the boat north. He’d set his lines some five miles upriver, beyond the fork. The sun was hot on his head and back. He dipped his hand in the water, then ran it through his thick hair.

  When he rounded the bend and came in sight of the bridge, he heard music above the gurgle of his motor. He crossed under the old bridge, moving fast and steady. The tip of the sandbar came into view, and in a few moments he passed two girls.

  One was topless and sat cross-legged. She held a silver beer can out to him in an apparent toast. “Hey, old man, come on up and have a drink!” she yelled. The sun glinted off a thick gold bracelet on her left wrist.

  Eustace increased the throttle.

  “Hey! We’re having a party. Come have a beer with us.” She laughed, holding the beer high as she poured it into her mouth, some of it splashing down to the breasts she covered with her hand.

  The other girl lifted her head, and brown hair fell forward over her sunglasses. She simply looked at him before she lowered her head.

  Eustace notched the motor up, never looking back.

  One of the girls let out a blood-curdling yell. “Tell everybody they’re invited to the party! Just a little harmless fun!” she called.

  The sandbar disappeared behind him, and he took the fork of the Leaf River. He worked the lines on the west bank, easing his boat among the trees that managed to survive in soil that was more water than dirt. The point of land between the Leaf and the Chickasawhay was treacherous swamp. Not even poachers wandered into it.

  Once, fifty years before, Eustace had packed a lunch, stolen his daddy’s best shovel and boat, and deliberately headed into that swamp searching for buried treasure. He had gone hunting fancies—and had almost died in the sucking kiss of the swamp. No
w he lurked on the edge, going no farther than the river willingly took him. There were still places the river demanded to keep as her own, and he respected that. He pulled up the line he’d tied in a dying sweet gum, unhooked a five-pound cat, and moved farther up river.

  An hour later he had twenty pounds of writhing fish in the big chest that centered his boat. He’d cut one spoonbill free. A snapping turtle, dead on a line, had been flung into the bottom of the boat. Blacks would pay good money for turtle meat. He headed back to the camp.

  The sandbar was half a mile away, but his thoughts had already jumped ahead to the girls. They were so young. He knew they could hear his boat motor. Had probably heard it for the last ten minutes.

  The sandbar loomed in front of him, nearly a mile of the whitest sand anywhere. Music vibrated off the water, the bass booming in a steady rhythm with words that sounded like another language. He eased the motor back, drifting.

  He saw the blonde, basking in the sun and the beat of the music. She didn’t bother covering her naked breasts. She was a bold one. The other girl had her back to him.

  It occurred to him, not for the first time, that half-baked, naked girls, alone on the sand, were incentive for a fucking or a fight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  J.D. Horton wasn’t a man who let his demons or the opinions of others govern his actions. He lived by few rules, preferring a code of personal ethics where judgment came into play. There were truths about human nature, though, that he believed. One was that an emotionally unhinged man or woman was capable of anything. Decapitation of the statue at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church was the work of someone unbalanced, someone enraged, someone who had lost control. And that was dangerous.