Judas Burning
Page 4
“What if this man is innocent?”
“Innocent? He’s not innocent.” Welford flushed, openly contemptuous. “Tommy Hayes was in that classroom with those young girls talking about reproduction and sex. He’s leading them on, getting them thinking about sex, working them up. He’s using his youth and knowledge to stir a hornet’s nest. And even if he hasn’t actually made advances toward the girl, then he’s stupid for putting himself in a vulnerable position, staying after school with her, tutoring her. Next time Tommy Hayes will know to behave in an appropriate fashion. We don’t need his kind of teacher here in Chickasaw County.”
Dixon wondered if Welford’s use of the teacher’s name was a slip or a deliberate plant. She was developing a distinct dislike for the superintendent. “Does he have an attorney?”
“Look, I know how it might seem to an outsider. The truth is, the fat’s in the fire. The best thing for the teacher is to cut his losses and move on.”
As Dixon bent to make a notation on her pad, she saw movement in the dark hallway behind Welford. The woman was slender, with red hair. Dixon couldn’t be positive, but she looked like Vivian Holbert, the bank president’s elegant wife. Whoever she was, she disappeared through the door like a wraith. Dixon looked into Welford’s flushed face. “Thanks for your time.”
He patted her back. “I haven’t had a chance to welcome you to Jexville.” He patted her back again and leaned closer. “Actually, I find the story of the week to be that Pine Trust Bank made such a large loan to a single woman. Calvin is generally more conservative.”
Dixon met his gaze. “There’re no secrets in a small town. Everybody’s dirty laundry eventually gets hung out.”
The sun had set as Dixon walked down the empty streets to the paper. She heard the sound of a sputtering car engine behind her. When she turned, she saw Tucker in his ancient Toyota. She noted the high color on his peach-fuzz cheeks, the eagerness in his face.
“Linda sent me after you,” he said as he leaned out the window. “Her friend called back. They think those two missing girls might have drowned in the river. I want to follow the story.”
“You’ve already got one big front-page story this week with the chancery clerk charged with embezzlement. Blood lust is unattractive in a young reporter.” She gave a lopsided smile to take the sting out of her words. “How long have they been gone:
“They skipped school after first period, so probably since nine A.M. Someone saw a vehicle they might have been driving parked near a sandbar. Linda knows the part of the river they went to. It’s up at Fitler where the Leaf and Chickasawhay join to form the Pascagoula. She said the currents are treacherous. Kids drown there a lot.”
Dixon checked her watch. The front page had to be put to bed soon. She had decisions to make. She could go to the paper, or she could track down Tommy Hayes, the high school teacher who had just been fired for alleged misconduct. Perhaps Hayes would make a statement. Maybe he had a side to his story that needed to be printed.
“Go over to the sheriff’s office and see what you can find out. See if they’re getting search parties up or what. Could be the girls just decided to drive over to Mobile or down to the beach.”
“You think?”
Dixon saw his sudden deflation. Tucker had been working on his master’s degree in journalism at the University of Southern Mississippi when his money ran out. It had taken a sub-subhuman salary and the promise of many front-page bylines to draw him out of the USM library and into the newspaper office. She had appealed, cold-bloodedly and without remorse, to Tucker’s pale blond ambition. Beneath the bookworm exterior beat the heart of a newshound.
“Check it out with the sheriff.” She hesitated. “Don’t let Horton send you down a rabbit hole.”
“Okay. So what happened at the school board meeting?” Tucker pushed his hair out of his eyes, a gesture he made at least a thousand times a day and one he’d obviously studied in the mirror. Dixon could only hope he never went bald; he would have no defining action.
“They moved the meeting, and as my daddy always told me, secret meetings are held for one purpose: to conduct secret business …” She faltered, hearing the echo of an explosion. She shook her head and checked her watch again. “Make it fast, Tucker. I’m going to give a teacher a call. Time is running out. We’ve got to get the paper ready to take to the printer.”
As she walked briskly toward the newspaper, she pondered Big Jim Welford’s agenda. She was tempted to slam him with a story that would spin his head around on his neck. Public business needed to be conducted in public to give all sides a chance to have their say. If she went after Welford the way he deserved, a young girl and a teacher could suffer. It was also possible that Welford had set her up to do his dirty work for him.
The street was empty, and as she walked she listened to the sounds of a small town settling in for the night. A child laughed in a backyard. The smell of barbecue wafted through the oaks. She stopped and looked around. She could be in a small town anywhere in the south—the early September heat, the trees, the sense of day ending and evening—for families—beginning. The quiet street, lined with oaks whose gnarled roots bumped up the sidewalk, embodied the charm and beauty of the old south.
She started walking again. Only time would tell what course she should take. But the problem with hindsight was that it only pointed out that no choice was without penalty, no action without consequence.
J.D. sat at his desk, a sense of impending doom weighing him down. First he’d been visited by Robert Medino. That conversation stuck in his craw, but he’d attributed it to a simple dislike of a smartass—until he’d gotten a phone call an hour ago from Beth Salter. She’d been out of control, demanding that he form a search party for her daughter Angie and another teen, Trisha Webster. The two girls had left school in the morning and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Angie had a record as a runaway, but Trisha, from all accounts, was a quiet, well-behaved girl.
From his window he could see the Chickasaw County board of education building. He watched Dixon Sinclair’s conversation with Big Jim and knew trouble was brewing there. He’d made it his business to learn about Dixon, and what he’d discovered was that she wouldn’t be intimidated by the good ole boys who ran Chickasaw County. She had a reputation as a drunk, but he hadn’t seen any signs of it. Her eyes had been clear, her questions sharp. Dixon was a harbinger of change. He felt it in his bones.
He made another call to the Webster house, and Trisha’s mother answered.
“I don’t want to speak poorly of anyone, but I believe Angie is a bad influence on Trish. My daughter would never skip school unless she got talked into it. I feel sorry for Angie. She’s a lost child, but I don’t want her taking Trish down that road with her.”
“You still haven’t heard from your daughter?” J.B. asked, his sense of trouble deepening.
“Not a word. When she does get home, she’s going to be grounded for the rest of the year. Are you organizing a search party?”
“Let’s give them a little bit longer to show up,” he said. He replaced the phone, thinking about the treacherous current of the river, especially at Fitler where the two rivers joined. He looked up when Tucker Barnes walked into his office. Tucker looked as if he were fourteen, but behind the John Lennon glasses was a quick mind.
“Sheriff, have you had a report on some missing girls?”
“We don’t have an official report yet. Mrs. Salter called and said Angie didn’t come home from school.” He hesitated, then continued. “Mrs. Webster hasn’t seen them, either.” Perhaps that would prevent the reporter from calling and upsetting Mrs. Webster further. “So far, they aren’t considered missing, just late.”
“Are you launching a search?” Tucker asked.
J.D. considered. “It’s just getting dark. I hope the girls show up before bedtime.” He didn’t tell Tucker about Angle’s record as a troubled teen.
“If they don’t come home, what’ll you do?”
“I got some photographs of the girls from the school annual,” Tucker said. He pulled two small photos from his pocket. “Is this Angie Salter?” he held out one photo.
J.D. looked at the image of the girl. She had on make-up so heavy she looked twenty-one instead of fifteen. “That’s her.”
“And this is Trisha Webster?”
The girl was timid. He could see it in the way her gaze didn’t quite make it to the camera. Her brown hair was thick. She had the look of a follower. “That’s the Webster girl.” He hesitated. “If you play this story up, those girls are going to have to live with it when they come home.”
“If they come home,” Tucker said. “Folks are saying they might have drowned in the river.”
“Folks aren’t the most reliable source, Mr. Barnes. I hope you keep that in mind.”
His office door opened again, and Vivian Holbert stood in the doorway, looking annoyed at Tucker. “Sorry, Sheriff Horton. I didn’t realize you had someone in here.”
“Mr. Barnes was just leaving, Vivian. Is there something I can do for you?”
She entered, her pale face pink from exposure to the sun. “I want to speak to you alone.”
J.D. nodded at Tucker.
“I have to get back to the paper,” Tucker said, closing the door behind him.
J.D. turned his attention to Vivian. He knew more about the Holberts than he cared to know. Vivian and Calvin’s daughter, Camille, lived on the river with Eustace Mills, a fisherman and retired bootlegger who was nearly forty years her senior. Calvin had repeatedly tried to force J.D. to go to the river and physically remove Camille. J.D. had consistently refused, pointing out that Camille was a grown woman and could live with whomever she chose. Such logic cut no ice with Calvin. Now, here was Vivian, ready to launch a fresh assault when he had two missing girls to worry about.
“I was over at the board of education.” She paused, her pale green eyes steady. “I heard that two girls are missing. I was there when Beth Salter showed up. She made an ass of herself, trying to blame the school because her daughter cut class. She says she’s going to sue.”
J.D. was silent. In his dealings with Vivian, he’d learned to neither confirm nor deny.
“I think Eustace did it. I think he took those girls and hurt them.” She lifted her chin, daring him to deny it.
“Vivian, there’s no indication that anyone took those girls. I believe they’re just working out a wild hair. They’ll be back by suppertime.”
“And if they aren’t?” Her tone was cool. “That man is a deviant. I will never understand why you protect him. He has my daughter, and Camille may be twenty-three, but she isn’t capable of making that kind of decision.”
“Until Camille is legally ruled incompetent, I have to allow her to behave as an adult.” J.D. wanted to tell Vivian that Eustace would never hurt Camille or any other young woman, but that would just fuel the fire.
“You defend him when his actions are indefensible.” She stood up. “One day, and not too far away, you’ll have to admit that you’re wrong about him.” She marched out of the office, her high heels tapping on the floor.
J.D. leaned back in his chair. It was time to go home. If anything happened, the dispatcher would call him.
CHAPTER SIX
Dixon read Tucker’s brief story on the missing girls. It had been a difficult call to make, but by eleven, when the girls hadn’t returned, she’d finally settled on a small story simply saying they were missing. Her decision not to use names or photographs had aggravated Tucker, but she explained her reasons: no speculation, no panic. It was consideration for the families of the girls that held her back, not worry about the Chickasaw County authorities. As the sheriff had told Tucker, the girls would have to live down whatever was printed in the paper.
She typed out her four-paragraph story on the closed-door school board meeting and walked to the composing room to hang her copy on a hook for Linda. Once those stories were set and pasted up, the paper would be ready for Tucker to take to Gautier at two A.M., where it would be printed by an offset press. Wednesday before noon, the papers would be hauled to the post office for delivery.
She stood in the composing room, the backshop of the paper visible. When she’d bought the Independent, she’d gotten the old press and linotypes, dinosaurs, from a time long past in newspapering. She’d wanted them.
As a preschooler, she’d frequently gone to work with her father at his politically oriented weekly in Jackson. She’d stood on a crate beside him as he made up the heavy metal pages. Her job had been removing the old slugs of lead from the previous week’s issue. She’d take the slugs to the linotype machines where they would be melted down and reset. Most of the linotype operators were deaf, and they’d laughed in a high-pitched cackle when she deposited her small buckets of lead for them.
The press had been a roaring monster that rolled forward and retracted on its bed, the steady rhythm frightening—yet also satisfying and exciting. Once a pressman’s fingers had been crushed beneath the press as she watched. The pressman had gone to the emergency room, then returned to continue running the press. Getting the paper out was a matter of honor for all involved.
Shaking off the ghosts, she sighed. The Independent’s press hadn’t run in years and wouldn’t ever again. She was lollygagging in the past. She returned to her desk, picked up the phone, and dialed. There was one last lead to follow. A wary male voice answered on the first ring.
“This is Dixon Sinclair. May I speak with Tommy Hayes?”
There was a pause. “He isn’t home.”
“When do you expect him back?” She tapped the eraser on the pad as she listened to dogs barking in the background.
“He was supposed to be back at four.”
The man’s voice sounded worried. He was hoping she was the cavalry. Wrong story—she was the Big Bad Wolf. “I’m the publisher of the Independent, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Hayes when he returns. Would you take a message for him?”
“Why is the newspaper calling Tommy?” the young man demanded. “Has something happened? He should be home by now.”
Dixon hesitated. “Please ask Mr. Hayes to call me when he returns,” she answered.
“It’s that bitch Angie, isn’t it? He should have had her expelled.”
“Angie?” Dixon fumbled on her desk for the story of the missing girls. One of them was named … she found the copy that Tucker had turned in. Angie Salter. “What does Angie Salter have to do with this?”
There was silence, then the telephone hummed in her ear. Dixon swiveled her chair to face the front window. Dust motes swirled in the slanting golden sunlight, and she thought of the story her father had told her when she was a child. When the day died, the dust motes turned into tiny fairies, creatures brought to life by the fading sun to dance for an instant in the blue hour before the fall of night.
A brief, fierce dance of death.
Outside, along the half-mile strip of Main Street, the lights were on. The pink mercury vapors were the only concession to “town.” Jexville didn’t exactly welcome the night with celebration, but it didn’t struggle against the darkness with shafts of neon, either. It gave up gently with a locking of shop doors and the glow of kitchen lights and televisions.
She went to the composing room and reread Tucker’s story on the missing girls. The connection between Tommy Hayes, a just-fired teacher, and a missing girl, who might be the source of his problems, was disturbing. Her gut told her to play it big, but she left it as it was. If she trusted her gut, she’d end up back in the bottom of a bottle.
Awake in the moist embrace of the night, Dixon lay on her left side. In the moonlight that filtered through the bedroom window, the far wall was a pale coral. The beaded board paneling had been a bitch to paint.
In the darkness a vehicle shushed past leaving isolation in its wake. The house on Peterson Lane, with the woods around i
t and the small creek behind, remained untouched and secluded. She’d lived her adult life in the hustle of cities. Now she found the woods comforting but wasn’t sure why.
Beside the bed the gauzy curtain fluttered as if blown about by the unexpected cry of a bird that swam through the humid night. The gentle question of a hoot owl came from somewhere in the woods behind the house.
Dixon wasn’t sure whether it was the awful heat and humidity, anxiety, or a noise from the woods that had awakened her. She listened for a moment, but there was nothing except the owl and the autumnal rustle of the leaves, a branch brushing lightly against the screen on the window.
She rose from the bed and walked across the room, pulling the nightshirt away from her sticky skin. She fought the uncooperative windows closed and flipped on the old air conditioning unit that droned so loudly it blocked out the night sounds.
Ignoring the letter on her bedside table, she checked the clock. It was nearly dawn. Tucker would already have driven the black asphalt highway to the printing press in Gautier with this week’s edition of the Independent, Leaning back into the pillows, she forced herself to savor the sense of accomplishment. The front page was solid, and the editorial page had some teeth. It was a good start. The only thing that troubled her was the story on the missing girls. That and the letter.
At last she snapped on the light and lifted the letter to read again her mother’s angry words.
Dear Dixon,
Since you won’t return my calls I have no other recourse but to write. The warden at the prison has called me again. He said you were there, asking to talk with that murderer. I demand that you stop this foolishness. Your father is dead. By going to the prison, you make that horrible day alive for me and for everyone else who suffered so. You must stop this reckless behavior, for your own sake as well as mine. I view the purchase of that weekly newspaper as another reckless act. You are bent on self-destruction. You and your father …