“No.” Eustace motioned for the sheriff to follow him. “You want to talk, I’ve got to finish this fish. A man’s comin’ by for thirty pounds, cleaned and skinned.”
J.D. followed him, noting that his limp was more pronounced than usual. J.D. looked back at the redhead smoking on the steps. She was a good thirty-five, maybe forty, years younger than Eustace. She looked like a child.
There had been wild talk about Camille. Her name had been linked with a host of younger men, boys really, but as far as J.D. knew, none of them had ever confirmed the gossip. When she left a man, she sealed his lips, and that was a talent in a town where counting notches was a public competition.
Eustace pointed to a picnic table with benches beneath an open-air shed. J.D. took a seat while Eustace finished pulling the skin off a five-pound catfish he’d nailed to a board. J.D. looked away at the sound of the skin tearing free.
“Have you seen anything unusual on the river?” he asked.
Eustace shook his head. “I was up the Chickasawhay almost to Leakesville. Anybody coulda come and gone.” He paused to wipe his sweaty forehead with his arm. “I’m not surprised they’re gone. My bet is, if they aren’t dead, they ran off with somebody. They’ll be home when they finish scratching their itch.”
Eustace picked up a net and went to the vat where the artesian water bubbled. Struggling briefly, he pulled up another catfish. The creature thrashed coming out of the water, its gray sides slick, scaleless. Eustace lowered it to the concrete floor beside J.D.’s boot. Stepping on the net to pin the fish in place, he lifted a baseball bat and brought it down with a smack on the fish’s head. The fish stilled.
Careful not to touch the whiskers, Eustace freed the fish from the net and picked it up. Selecting a huge nail, he drove it through the fish’s head and hung it on the board.
Eustace worked smoothly, quickly, with an efficiency of movement that J.D. admired. The knife flicked below the head, and Eustace began to peel the skin off with pliers.
When he finally spoke, it was to ask a question. “Why didn’t those girls’ folks start hunting before now? If it’d been my girls, I’d have been out on the river yesterday.”
J.D. looked at the dusty toes of his boots. “Angie Salter has been known to get into a little trouble and then come home with her tail tucked between her legs. It wasn’t until I found out her boyfriend retrieved his truck and left the girls stranded in the woods that I got worried.”
“So the boy was there.” Eustace looked at J.D. “What about him?”
“Jimmy Franklin’s got an air-tight alibi. He was in class all day, and my deputy was with him when he ‘repossessed’ his truck. Jimmy drove straight to work at Delchamp’s. The manager vouched for him. Didn’t leave the store.”
“Maybe the girls hitched a ride,” Eustace suggested.
J.D. recalled the set of prints, one foot bare, that led into the water. “No prints leading off the sandbar.”
“So you’re thinking if they left, dead or alive, they left by water.” Eustace netted another fish. “It’s hard to say about the boats. I hear motors. Some are distinctive. Others …” He shrugged. “I haven’t seen anyone on the water that made me stop and think about ‘em. Truth of the matter is, since I put in the air conditioner for Camille, we turn it up at night and I don’t hear things like I used to.”
“Anybody unusual in Fitler?” J.D.’s gaze drifted to the artesian vats, which were cold as ice and where Eustace kept beer chilling. It had been a long, discouraging day.
“Nobody I took notice of. There’s some beer down in the vat if you want one.”
“No, not right now.” J.D. worried the edge of the table where some animal had chewed. “I found a place. Sort of strange. Some boards fitted across blocks with a cloth on it, some candles. An altar.” He waited.
Eustace lowered the pliers and turned to look at him. “Folks don’t just happen through Fitler any more. Especially not someone holding religious services in the woods. Where was this?” He nudged the net with his foot. “Catch me another fish.”
J.D. picked up the net and went to the vat. Beneath the clear water the fish swam in a frenzy. He wondered if, isolated in water, they heard the terrible silence that preceded their death. “About half a mile off the sandbar, up a hill. Dense woods.” He lowered the net, scooped out a two-pounder and took it back to Eustace. He described the cloth and candles in more detail as Eustace skinned.
“I can’t help you there,” Eustace said, not looking up from his work.
J.D. walked to the SUV and came back with the plastic bag holding the long cloth he’d taken from the altar. He unbagged it and held it up. “Does this look familiar?”
“Nope.” Eustace bent to his work.
Something moved near the house, and J.D. turned. Camille was running toward him, her eyes excited.
“J.D., where’d you get that?” She reached for the cloth, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming quickly. “Eustace said someone stole it off the clothesline.”
J.D. felt the beat of his heart, as if his chest had suddenly grown hollow. He’d been thirteen when he first met Eustace, and it was Eustace more than anyone else who’d saved him from the path of self-destruction on which he’d been bent. In all of those years, he’d never known Eustace to lie to him. Never. Until now. He looked into Eustace’s eyes. “Stolen off the clothesline, huh?”
Eustace didn’t say anything.
“Someone’s been slipping around here,” Camille said. “They’ve taken a sheet and some pants and a shirt.” She took the cloth out of J.D’s hand. “I’m sure glad to get this back. I use it to lay out my tarot cards.” She looked up from the cloth. “And the thief took some food and beer. And a pair of Eustace’s boots.” She smiled. “But he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just scared and hungry.”
J.D. held Eustace’s gaze. “I guess this doesn’t qualify as unusual?”
Eustace didn’t look away. “I figured it was some kids sneaking around, jerking my chain since I can’t hear ‘em because of the air conditioner. Truth is, I forgot about it. Camille, he’s got to take that cloth with him. It could be evidence.”
“You need to give me a list of everything that’s missing. Everything.” J.D. dropped all expression from his face. He held the evidence bag open so Camille could drop the cloth in.
Eustace shook his head, the furrows in his brow deepening. “You know as well as I do that anybody could have come down the river, or up. They could have come in from 57 or 98. If someone took those girls, they could be halfway to China by now.”
“What girls?” Camille asked. “I saw all those cars and trucks on the bridge. What’s wrong?” She looked to Eustace for an answer.
“Two girls are missing. They may have drowned.”
She shook her head. “That’s terrible. The river is dangerous. Eustace says I can’t ever go swimming unless he’s right with me.
“That’s good advice,” J.D. said. It was time to go. “Eustace, sometime tomorrow do you think you could go over a map and point out some of the deeper holes on the Pascagoula? And maybe a few places where if you wanted to hide, it might be a good place?”
Eustace took his arm and began to move him gently down the drive. When they were out of Camille’s earshot, Eustace said, “Don’t put no bad pictures in her head. She has nightmares.”
“Eustace, something has happened to those girls. I’d keep Camille out of the woods if I were you.”
“That’s not easy to do. She likes to go by herself. She says the spirits of the Indians come there to talk to her.”
Camille had been institutionalized in an expensive private clinic in Louisiana. Visiting with Indian spirits didn’t seem to be a good sign. They both turned at the sound of a vehicle approaching. Eustace spoke first. “I think they’re looking for you.”
“I’ll get rid of them.” J.D. walked forward to meet the white minivan that pulled toward the camp. The peacock on the side indicated that it was the NBC affiliate
out of Mobile.
J.D. turned around and watched Eustace walk back to his camp. Camille saw him and waved. J.D. was chilled by the gesture. It was as if her arm floated up in water.
CHAPTER TEN
Long ago, Dixon had learned that a good editorial page in a newspaper served as a voice of reason, but according to her father, it was also a carrot and a stick. The letters-to-the-editor section should churn with dissenting opinions. An editorial could praise the actions of a public official or damn him. Ray Sinclair had prided himself on editorials with teeth.
She sat at her typewriter, wondering if an editorial on the state sunshine law were the best choice. Although Big Jim Welford, with his high-handed tactics, had aggravated her, the secret school board meetings were not the story that weighed most heavily on her mind.
Seven days had passed since Trisha Webster and Angie Salter had disappeared. The only evidence that the two girls had been on the sandbar were a few beers, some footprints, and the bikini that Mrs. Webster had identified as Trisha’s. Dixon knew that an editorial about the missing girls would sound like blame.
Willard Jones was one week closer to his execution. Doubt about his guilt ate at her, and the morality of the death penalty would make a knock-down editorial. But Jones’s crime, if he’d committed it, was in the middle of the state. He held no interest for readers of the Independent.
That left the school board’s penchant for secret meetings. The board had held another secret meeting, and Tommy Hayes had been reinstated. Dixon had heard that Hayes had hired a Gulfport lawyer. The young teacher had not gone quietly, and the school board, facing more legal problems over the disappearance of the two girls, had backed off. In essence, Hayes had been charged, hung, and resuscitated without ever having a trial.
Dixon picked up the photographs of Trisha and Angie. Since the river search a week ago, there had been five others, with dogs, horses, four-wheelers, jeeps, and a psychic whom Beth Salter had brought from Pensacola. God, Beth Salter was a nightmare. She’d ranted and accused and laid the blame for Angle’s disappearance everywhere except at her own doorstep. She was more interested in lawsuits and laying blame than in finding her daughter.
It didn’t seem possible that the two girls had disappeared without a trace, but no one had seen or heard from them since first period at school the past Tuesday.
Dixon thought again of the river, with its deceptively quiet surface. The girls had been taken. By the river or by someone. What would a kidnapper do with them? They weren’t girls whose families could pay a big ransom. But they were pretty girls. Sexy girls. Perfect prey for a predator. The thought of Robert Medino’s theory about a religious zealot chilled her.
The bell over the door jangled, and she looked up to find Medino standing just inside the door.
“What’s the lead headline?” he asked. The smile that followed was calculated.
“Too early to tell,” she said. “We could have a breaking story before we quit tonight. Where have you been all week? I haven’t seen you at any of the searches.”
“I had to finish up a story in New Orleans.” He shook his head. “Those girls won’t be found. At least not alive.”
“What makes you so sure?” Dixon remembered the way the sheriff had looked at Medino. Not contemptuously, exactly, but close, tempered with suspicion.
“I’ve been tracking this guy since last spring. I’ve devoted months to this story. This statue that he decapitated here, it’s sort of the culmination of his obsession. At least with statuary. Now he’s moved on to flesh.”
“And his obsession is?” Dixon didn’t have time to shoot the breeze with Robert Medino, but she couldn’t help herself. He was smart and articulate, and he had the fire of a good story in his eyes. He had a high opinion of himself, but Dixon found that appealing; confidence was an attractive quality.
“The Virgin Mary.”
His serious expression stopped her from laughing. Medino wasn’t a man who would enjoy being laughed at under any circumstances. “So how do you figure he hooked up with those two girls? Angie Salter, from all I’ve heard, wouldn’t qualify as a virgin.” She thought about Tommy Hayes and Welford’s insinuations.
“If I have this man pegged correctly, he views women as either/or. Either a slut or a virgin. This obsession stems from something in his past, some church-related incident.”
“I didn’t realize you had a degree in psychology.” Dixon took care to keep her needling complimentary.
“I’ve done a lot of reading and a lot of talking to several authorities. Dr. Jonas Brennaman of the Center for Human Wellness, folks like that. That’s one thing about working for Cue: people find the time to talk to me.”
“I can see where it would be a real asset.” Dixon had known national magazine reporters. They had access to people. The rich and famous wanted good press. “And your theory is that this religious fanatic has moved from statuary to flesh?”
“It’s not that simple. I’ve been following him for months. I’ve seen the progression of his anger. That’s what drives him. He’s torn between his belief in the sanctity of the female and her terrible sexual power over him. He wants to be loved and nurtured, yet he wants to screw her. When he first started destroying church property, it was only images of Mary where she was praying. He’d leave the ones of her with an infant or with the saints. As his desire grew, so did his anger.” He shrugged. “He can’t win, and that frustration has grown over the past months. It’s the virgin/whore complex taken to the ultimate extreme. I’d guess his mother figures prominently into this. It was inevitable that he’d move against a woman-child. If the sheriff had listened to me, those girls might still be alive.”
“It isn’t every day that a religious nut case strolls into Chickasaw County. So how does he travel?”
“I’m not certain. Could be a car, or it could be by bus.”
“How did this guy find out about the statue in Jexville?”
“He reads. I’d be willing to bet he’s well educated. Possibly church educated. That statue, because of the blind artist, got a lot of media attention. I believe he’s traveling 1-10 East. My guess is that he’s going to head to St. Augustine, where the Spanish first brought priests into the New World. I expected him to do something dramatic there, but he’s upped the ante here in Jexville.”
Dixon nodded. “It’s an interesting theory.”
“It’s more than a theory.” Robert leaned closer. “This is going to be a big story. Huge. Maybe a movie. Why don’t you help me?”
“Why are you doing this?” National reporters weren’t in the habit of offering a portion of the pie to locals.
“Folks around here don’t like me, except for maybe Ruth Ann. She likes me okay, but she doesn’t know anything. No one will talk to me about these girls. I need a local to bring them to life. You could do that. No byline, but a credit at the end of the story.”
He wanted this story badly. She could almost taste his desire for it. He’d spent months already working on it. She nodded. “Okay. I’ll help you, but not today. I’m on deadline, and I have to get back to work.”
“Later in the week let me take you to lunch. After deadline. I’ve rented a room in a charming B and B, the Magnolia. Do you know it?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he opened the door. “It’s like stepping back in time, a theory of mine about Southerners. You people have managed to cling to the things that are important. Graciousness, good manners, and … trust. I’ll be back later in the week. After deadline.”
He went out the door, turned to look at her once, then walked away.
Linda Moore walked through the saloon door that led to the back shop. She went to the front window and leaned for a last glance at Medino’s disappearing back. “Who the hell was that?”
“The Writer from the East—that’s all caps.”
“That man is trouble. Trouble with a capital T.” Linda swung around to face her. “He’s got a way with words, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he isn
’t the one abducting young girls and making up theories to cover his own tracks.”
J.D. stood at the edge of the river about twenty yards from the landing that marked Eustace’s camp. With the summer rains over, the water level was down. He’d been lucky, weatherwise. For the past seven days there had been no thunderstorms, only the heavy dews that silvered the early mornings. That luck couldn’t hold out long, not in September. A massive low was moving in from the west, and he figured he had one day, maybe two, before Chickasaw County would be drenched.
“Sheriff, are you waiting for Eustace?”
Camille’s voice was soft and cultured, the product of private schooling and summers in Europe. He shook his head. She’d been watching him for a while from her porch, but he hadn’t acknowledged her, and she’d managed to slip up behind him. Camille was an odd duck, on the verge of either brilliance or insanity.
“Eustace has given me all the help he can. We’ve sent divers into every deep hole from here to Cumbest Bluff.” He didn’t look at her, uncomfortable with his half-truth. No matter how he cut it, Eustace came up as a possible suspect. There was no real evidence to link him to it, except proximity and lies. And his peculiarities, one of which was Camille.
“Eustace says I can’t walk in the woods anymore.” Her statement was tentative, not quite a question, not quite a confession.
J.D. turned his back on the river and looked at Camille. He was startled, as always, by her beauty. She was the most delicate human he’d ever seen. Her skin was painfully white, her eyes big and pale green, wide open with innocence—or maybe drugs the doctors had given her for depression, anxiety, and a host of other problems. He knew enough about women with money to know that ordering Camille to stay out of the swamps would be stupid.
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