Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

  “Hurry,” J.D. urged. “Get the hands and feet.”

  Dixon switched the lens and stepped closer. She was breathing through her mouth, avoiding the smell as much as possible. Mosquitoes buzzed around her head, biting at her ears and the part in her hair. The girl’s hands hung at eye level, and she lifted the camera to the face. It was a ruin, but there were a few straggles of dark brown hair. Trisha Webster. She felt the sickness swell and a stinging in her scalp that signaled distress.

  J.D. stepped beside her, his hand touching her shoulder gently. But instead of speaking words of comfort, he slowly lifted the sheet.

  Dixon gagged. The abdomen was a mass of open corruption.

  “Dixon.” J.D.’s voice was sharp.

  She swallowed, lifting the camera again. The lens gave her some distance. The body was naked, the flesh of the legs less damaged. The fire had been concentrated on the head and upper torso.

  J.D.’s hand came into the viewfinder, pointing at the top of the left thigh.

  Dixon saw it then. A cross had been cut into the flesh.

  Eustace stood on the porch of his home, looking in through the leaded window of the door. The fragments of glass showed a river curling lazily between banks of trees. Camille had designed the pattern, had cut the glass and shaped it, giving the river a perfect yellow-mud color and the trees an electric color. Now, though, the hues of the glass were muted by a gray sky. A major storm was brewing. The first drops of rain blew past him and splattered on the glass.

  Eustace remained on the porch as the rain built to a crescendo on the tin roof above his head. Through the glass he could see Camille bend gracefully at the hips as she leaned toward the sink, washing something.

  Eustace pushed the door open. He stood for a moment on the threshold, chilled by his rain-dampened shirt and the air conditioner that hummed from the open bedroom. He went to the refrigerator and, though it was only eight in the morning, took out a six-pack. Popping the top on a beer, he watched her.

  “You’re angry with me,” she said without looking at him.

  “No. I’m not.” He wasn’t. He was terrified for her. Camille had become involved in something that could cost her what she valued most, her freedom. He’d spent the morning trying to figure a way out of it for her. He could kill the Mexican. He could even kill the girls, if they were alive somewhere. But he couldn’t protect Camille from herself.

  The swing of headlights arced through the living room windows. Eustace looked down at the drive, where a brown sheriff’s car lurched into the yard. He felt a tremor of fear.

  “Who is it?” Camille asked.

  “It’s J.D. and the reporter,” Eustace said. He walked outside into the rain, taking the stairs without regard for his leg. Ignoring the patrol car, he went to the fish-cleaning shed. He tossed the remaining beer on the picnic table and sat down facing the river. Drops of water hung in his hair, and his clothes were drenched. He heard the low sound of an ambulance siren. He looked back; J.D. and the reporter were walking toward him, both sheltered by a tattered umbrella. The woman looked pale and sick. J.D., too, looked bad, and both were wet.

  He knew before they spoke. “You found one, didn’t you?”

  J.D. nodded. “The Webster girl.”

  Eustace noted the way the reporter focused on the river. She looked as if she were on the verge of being sick but was fighting it hard. He remembered her mother, Marilyn McVay, a woman so pretty that the boys in high school had been afraid to talk to her. Dixon had that same beauty, but it had been eroded, maybe by grief, he thought.

  “Where’d you find her?” he asked.

  “Up at Hathaway’s Point,” J.D. looked at his dirty hands. “She was moved there in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “And the other one?” Eustace asked, fighting to keep his voice calm. If the Webster girl was dead, the Salter girl probably was too. With luck, that would leave only the Mexican to implicate Camille.

  “No sign of Angie Salter.”

  J.D. didn’t have to add that he believed the girl dead. Eustace could read it on his face. On the reporter’s too. He pushed the beer toward J.D. and the woman. “Help yourself. It’s a little early, but sometimes it’s just time for a beer.”

  Neither of them made a move, and silence fell. “You say the girl was at Hathaway’s Point?” he asked, trying not to show his worry.

  “Right out on the point. Hanging from a tree.” J.D. stopped when the reporter turned away. “Eustace, we need some help. Camille saw this Hispanic guy.”

  “No.” Eustace’s hand tightened on his beer. “I won’t have Camille upset. The answer is no.”

  J.D. looked past Eustace to the house. He stood up, arching his back as if he were stiff and sore. “Eustace, I don’t need to point out to you that Camille’s an adult, and as such, she’s going to have to tell me no herself.”

  Before J.D. could step into the rain, Camille appeared on the porch. Eustace saw her through the gray drops that blended into a grayer sky. The rain wasn’t going to let up. Eustace stood. He willed Camille back into the house. He saw her hesitate, then take three steps down. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  “Eustace,” she called. “Are you still mad at me?”

  He felt something crack inside his chest. “I’m not mad.”

  A smile spread across her face, and she started to run down the stairs.

  Eustace saw it in slow motion. Camille’s feet hit the yard, and then she was running toward him, her long legs flashing beneath her skirt. She was in his arms, laughing and kissing him, not at all concerned that J.D. and the reporter were watching her.

  “Camille, do you think you might be able to describe the man you saw in the sycamore tree to a sketch artist?” J.D. asked her.

  She frowned and grew still in Eustace’s arms. “Why?”

  “If we had a picture of him, we might be able to catch him.”

  She burrowed into Eustace’s neck. He put his hand on her waist and gave the gentlest pressure. He was telling her to hold on. Don’t talk. Don’t say anything.

  “I didn’t see him that well,” she said.

  Eustace patted her back.

  “It would help us a lot if you could remember,” J.D. said.

  “I’ll think about it.” She moved away from Eustace, casting him a sly smile as she did so. “I’ll think about it, won’t I, Eustace?”

  “Camille, this is important.”

  “She said she’d think about it.” Eustace had to figure a way to make Camille understand that she must not talk. Everything depended on her keeping quiet.

  “Are you okay?” J.D. asked Eustace.

  “Never better,” he said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” J.D. said. “Dixon, let’s head back to town. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Reports lay scattered across J.D.’s desk. He stared at them, trying to make sense of the information he’d gathered. It would be some hours before he had the autopsy report from Dr. Howell, and he was finding it difficult to fit together the pieces of Trisha Webster’s death.

  He thought about Dixon. She’d been sick at the body site, but she’d waited until she finished the photos and then gone off into the woods alone. He respected her need for privacy, and he thought for the first time that they might share more than a geographic location.

  His thoughts returned to Trisha Webster. The girl had been dead for some time. He knew that much. She’d been buried and then exhumed so her remains could be hung, gutted, and burned. It was a graphic crime scene.

  Outside J.D.’s office, Waymon was loud on the telephone, as usual. J.D. got his hat and keys and walked out into the hot afternoon. He walked down the street, hung a right at Main, and continued to the red brick newspaper office. Dixon had said she’d develop the photos right away.

  When he walked in, he saw that Linda Moore had been crying. She knew both girls, and he felt a fresh pang for all the suffering to come.

  “Do you know who did thi
s?” she asked. “You have to find him.”

  “We’re still waiting on some evidence.” He wanted to say something reassuring, but he could not allay her fears or reassure her that justice would be done.

  “Angie’s dead, too, isn’t she?” Linda asked.

  “I don’t know for certain.” But he thought he did, based on statistics and experience.

  “Find the sick bastard who did this and kill him,” Linda said, reaching for a tissue to wipe her eyes. “Don’t bring him in. Kill him in the swamp like a rabid dog.”

  “Justice is going to be an empty word for Orie Webster,” he said, “and a lot of other people, too.”

  “Justice may be empty, but revenge will give the families some solace.”

  Linda was wounded and lashing out. He knew that nothing he said would help. “Where’s Dixon?” he asked.

  “She’s in the darkroom.” Linda put a hand over her eyes and rubbed. “She’s been waiting for you.”

  J.D. tapped on the darkroom door and entered a small space lit by a red light. Photographs spun in a tub of constantly circulating water. The eight-by-ten black-and-white images floated to the top and swirled away.

  “I made contact sheets, and I printed the ones I thought you might want,” Dixon said. “I’m not on the county payroll. I just thought I could expedite this one little thing. I want whoever did this to be caught.”

  The darkroom was small, and he stood so close to Dixon that his hip brushed hers whenever he moved. He reached for a photo in the wash and pulled it up dripping. It was a close-up of the cross sliced into Trisha Webster’s leg.

  “Robert Medino was right, wasn’t he?” Dixon asked.

  J.D. looked at the picture. This mutilation was beyond his ability to comprehend. “Whoever did this has some problems with religion. This is a ritual of some type.”

  “Have you talked with Medino?” Dixon asked.

  “I haven’t had any appetite for gloat.” He chanced a quick glance at her but didn’t see any reaction. “I was hoping he’d take his theory and march on down I-10. I guess that was a foolish wish. Have you gotten to know him any better?”

  “Not yet.”

  But she must want to. She’d be interested in another reporter. Journalism, like law enforcement, was a strong bond.

  “When will you have the photos finished?”

  “This evening. They should be dry about seven. Shall I bring them by the sheriff’s department? The color won’t be back until early tomorrow. I FedExed them to a private lab.”

  “If you could bring by what you’ve got, that would be great,” he said.

  “Do you have any leads on this guy?” Dixon asked.

  J.D. reached into his back pocket and brought out an envelope. “I have this. A mug shot of him. His name is Francisco Chavez. Fingerprints on a beer can from the river matched some prints in Eagle Pass, Texas. He’d been picked up on a charge of vandalism at a church six months ago.”

  Dixon examined the photo under the red light. “Will you give this to the Mobile media?” she asked.

  “I have to,” J.D. said. “It’s almost a week until the Independent is printed. I need immediate action. If the guy in the picture is the killer, television could be our best way of getting help from the public.”

  “I understand. But you’ll save an interview for me, right?”

  Her words made him smile. She did understand. “For you and you alone,” he answered.

  Dixon saw the lighted cigarette arcing slowly on the front porch swing. Robert Medino’s rental car was parked beneath the oaks. It had been after eight when she left the sheriff’s office, and Robert’s offer of a trip to the Gulf Coast had slipped her mind until well past the dinner hour. She’d called the B&B, but he’d been gone. Now here he was, on her front porch.

  The cigarette tip brightened, and Dixon found the idea of a cigarette tempting. She got out of her truck and walked to the front steps. “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said. “Things got busy.”

  “So I heard. The sheriff ought to cut out his deputy’s vocal cords. Waymon has been running his mouth.” Robert patted the swing beside him. “Have a seat and tell me all about it.” There was the slosh of liquid in a bottle. “I heard you were partial to Jack Daniel.”

  Dixon remained on the top step. “ ‘Partial to’ is a Southern phrase. Are you quoting someone in particular?” Most likely Ruth Ann, who ferreted out gossip like an armadillo after a grub.

  Robert stopped swing and stood up. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. Maybe I’ve had a little too much whiskey on an empty stomach.”

  He sounded contrite. “If that’s a hint for food, you’ve come to a pitiful place. I’ve got stale bread, corn flakes—no milk—and Diet Coke.”

  “Actually, I came to see what you know about the dead girl and how she died. If you won’t have dinner with me, at least let’s work together as journalists.”

  Dixon was surprised at the surge of disappointment she felt. That, more than anything, made her realize how lonely she’d been. “You need to eat something. Alcohol dissipates in the flames of carbohydrates.”

  “Why would you think I want the alcohol to dissipate?”

  Dixon rolled her eyes and unlocked the front door. “The mosquitoes will eat us alive out here. Come on inside. Keep in mind I wasn’t expecting a personal visit.”

  “I’ve been told I can be quite charming in person.”

  “Do people lie to you a lot?”

  He laughed, so close behind her she could feel his breath in her hair. “I’ll turn on the air conditioners. It’ll cool down pretty quickly.”

  Robert followed her to the kitchen, but when she turned to fill the coffee pot with water, he touched her arm. “No coffee. Nothing. Just talk to me.”

  His eyes were brown flecked with gold. He was very close to her.

  “About what?” she asked, taking a step back.

  “I heard the body of Trisha Webster was in bad shape. Mutilated.”

  Had he come for information? She didn’t think so. J.D. would talk to him, if Waymon hadn’t already.

  “It was bad. Really bad.” She waited until their eyes locked. “How about we swap information? I tell you what I know, and you tell me all about your theory.”

  “Okay.” He went to the cabinet and got two glasses. From the freezer he got ice cubes, and then he poured two shots of Jack. He held a glass out to her. “I’ll make a wild guess and say the Webster girl was kept alive for a while before she was killed. She was sexually assaulted, either before or after she was dead—I’m not sure about that yet—and then some ritualistic symbol or act was committed. Something like burning the body, or hanging—that’s ancient ritual in purest form.”

  Dixon held the glass. It had been five weeks. Five hard weeks. The whiskey smelled warm. She could almost taste it. Almost taste the cigarette that went with it. “You’re right. Waymon is a serious gossip. How much is a guess, and how much do you know?”

  “The body was hung and burned. That’s all I know.”

  “She was gutted, and a cross was cut into her thigh.”

  “What order did it take place?” He knocked back his drink and poured another. “I’m not certain. The forensics aren’t back.”

  “Will you be able to get them from the sheriff?” Dixon felt a wave of apprehension. “J.D. would give you a copy of the report if he thought he could trust you—”

  “He won’t ever trust me.” Robert shook out a cigarette and offered it to her. “Never. But he likes you. I watched him at the river last week. He definitely likes you.”

  Dixon felt her neck redden as she declined the cigarette. “You said this type of killing is ritualistic. What culture? The gruesome nature of Trisha Webster’s body doesn’t lend itself to even a very loose interpretation of the word culture.”

  “Fire for purification. Vikings. American Indians. East Indians. Just about any culture that uses funeral pyres.” He shrugged. “If you really think about it, embalming and p
reservation of mortal remains is far more grotesque than burning. Most purification beliefs spring from the theory that fire frees the spirit. The mortal flesh is reduced to ash, and the spirit is free to ascend.”

  “What about hanging?”

  “Another type of ritual. Not purification, though some American Indian tribes did hang their dead in trees.” He sipped his drink, his eyes on her untouched glass. “Hanging is more symbolic of the executioner. It’s a statement coming from him. He’s putting his handiwork out there on display.”

  Dixon leaned forward on her elbows. She held the bourbon in one hand, catching the light in the amber liquid. “You sound very certain the killer is a male. Could it possibly be a woman?”

  “The Webster girl was about five-seven, a hundred and twenty pounds. The blonde was smaller. I just figured it would take a man’s strength to haul a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight out of a boat and then hang it from a tree. A woman could do it, certainly. But it would take a very strong woman.” His gaze moved over her body. “You could probably do it. If you were really pissed off”

  “Thanks, I think.” Dixon put her glass down. “How did you know the body was taken to the hanging site?”

  “J.D. Horton isn’t a stupid man. If that girl had been along the edge of the river, Horton would have found her long ago. Even if she was buried. They had cadaver dogs that would have found an obvious grave. My guess is that those girls were stashed somewhere and then moved.”

  “And why is this person doing this?” she asked.

  “The man has some intimate connection with the figure of the Virgin Mary. He’s destroyed her image in towns all over the South. It was only a matter of time until his behavior shifted from image to living person. I think he views those girls as the embodiment of the female virgin. I’m not sure exactly how it hooks up, but he ultimately feels he has to destroy them because of what they represent.”

  “That is scary as hell,” Dixon said. “So now that he’s killed once, he’ll likely kill again.”

  “That’s usually the way it works. I wouldn’t give the Salter girl much of a chance.” Robert sat back from the table. “You look beat. That’s not a personal comment but one journalist telling another that some sack time is high on the priority list.”