Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

  “They didn’t win.”

  Oh, but at what cost, he wanted to ask. He closed his eyes against the tears that threatened. He hadn’t cried in forty years, but Camille was so fragile.

  “You went up there where they found that girl, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Hathaway’s Point. When was the last time you were there, Camille?”

  “Not so long ago,” she answered, turning away and wading to the other end of the vat. “I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

  “There’s going to be another hunt tomorrow.”

  Eustace waited.

  “They won’t find her.” Camille hopped to the ledge, swung her legs over, and stood. She lifted her dress, revealing her nakedness beneath, and squeezed the water from the fabric. Come on, she said. “I’m hungry.

  He climbed out with less grace and followed her. When they were inside, she went to the kitchen. He lingered in the bedroom until he heard her banging pots. Easing out her dresser drawer, he felt for the bracelet. It was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The leaves of the oak tree hung limp. Already hot and humid with hardly a breath of breeze, the day would only get worse. J.D. sat beneath the tree in his cruiser, his mind far ahead. He rasped a hand across the growth of beard and regretted that he hadn’t gone home when he got back to Jexville. Instead he’d begun to put together the evidence. Now, sitting at the end of Dixon’s driveway, he wished for a shower, shave, and fresh change of clothes. He also wished that Robert Medino’s rental car weren’t parked on the road in front of Dixon’s house at five-thirty in the morning.

  Waymon had left him a note saying Dixon had called repeatedly and been by the office more than once. She had a bee in her bonnet over something, and J.D. wanted to know what it was.

  If he were honest with himself, though, he’d have to admit that he wanted to see her for other reasons. His physical reaction to her was perfectly normal; it was his emotional response that worried him. Dixon was a survivor, but she had not come through life unscathed. She was searching for something that would make her whole, and J.D. understood that. Women, or men for that matter, who’d never suffered or lost lived on a different plane. Dixon lived where he lived. He wanted to know more about her.

  He almost drove away but instead got out of the cruiser and started down the tree-lined drive. “Fuck it,” he said softly as he walked up on the porch and knocked on the front door.

  To his surprise, Dixon, dressed in jeans and an unironed shirt, answered immediately. She waved him to silence, disappeared, and returned with two cups of coffee, both black. They walked into the shade of the big oaks.

  “Where in the hell have you been?” she asked. There was more weariness than force in her words. “I tried all day yesterday to find you.”

  “Mexico.”

  She wore no make-up and her hair was unbrushed. The shadows beneath her eyes showed that she hadn’t rested well. Was her sleep disturbed by bad dreams or Robert Medino? J.D. would have liked to ask her.

  “Were you tracking Chavez?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “I think the killer is right here in Chickasaw County,” she told him. “He’s right under our noses.”

  He admired that she didn’t beat around the bush. “You got evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s hear it.” He sipped the coffee. It was good, not too strong or old.

  J.D. felt the heat of anger as she started telling him about the sales slip. “You should have told me last week.” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. He went over where she found the slip several times.

  “I am sorry. I only found it yesterday morning. I know you’re mad, and I don’t blame you. But what do you think?” she asked.

  “I think it’ll be the last time I ever take a journalist with me.”

  “I wasn’t after a story,” she said. “Right after I found it, we found that altar in the trees. I put the slip in my pocket and forgot it until I got dressed. Then I tried to call and you were gone. Ask Waymon.”

  “Have you taken it upon yourself to talk to Hayes?” he asked.

  “He won’t talk to me.”

  At least she hadn’t trampled all over that. “He won’t have that luxury with me.” He handed her the coffee cup. “I’m going on a hunt later today. You want to come with me?”

  “And Hayes?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “I’ll send Waymon to pick him up.”

  There was something in her face, something he didn’t understand.

  “You don’t believe Hayes did it,” she said.

  “No, I don’t. Not because he lives here, but because I know him, and I don’t think he’s capable of killing anyone.”

  “Not even a girl who’s going to ruin his career?”

  “Not even her.” J.D. saw someone pull the curtain aside and look out. Medino. He was surprised when anger seared him.

  “I’m going to step out of line here and tell you to watch out for Medino. He’s a slippery guy with a quick tongue. Ruth Ann has told everyone in town that he’s the best thing since sliced bread.”

  “That would be Ruth Ann’s problem, not mine.”

  He saw defiance in her eyes, unwillingness to back down. He admired that about her. “If you get rid of your playmate and want to go with me, I’ll be leaving at noon. If you come, come alone.” He turned and started back down the driveway.

  “J.D.?”

  He couldn’t remember if she’d ever called him by his name. He turned and saw the sun coming up over the tops of the trees in the east. “What?”

  “What does it take to stay an execution?”

  Her hair was blowing around her face, but it didn’t hide the hurt. He walked back to her. He sensed Medino at the window, eavesdropping.

  “It would take some extraordinary evidence and a call from the governor.”

  He could see she anticipated his question.

  “I don’t have any evidence, yet.”

  “You think Jones is innocent?”

  She took a breath. “I don’t know. But one thing for certain, I don’t want an innocent man to die.”

  He tipped his hat toward the sun. “You call me if I can help,” he said.

  He felt her gaze on his back as he walked down to the road. He felt someone else watching, too. Someone who made his back muscles twitch and his hand climb up his hip until it rested on the butt of his gun.

  Dixon was dressed and ready for work when she saw the bicycle flashing through the trees. She walked out on the porch and stood. It had taken some work to get Robert to leave before Zander arrived, but she’d managed it. She warmed thinking about Robert’s insistence on staying. He’d been worried for her, afraid that the young man would get angry. She hadn’t had someone to worry about her like that since her father died.

  The bicycle came into clear view. It had no fenders, the handlebars were rusted, and the seat was gnawed. Zander rode it up to the porch and stopped.

  “Can you help my daddy?”

  Dixon looked at him. He was tall and strong, a born athlete. His posture was good, his clothes neat and clean.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she said. “I also don’t know if I should.”

  “He didn’t kill your daddy.” It was a bald statement.

  “Come inside and we’ll talk. Have you had some breakfast?”

  “Aunt Olena made me some grits. I’m not hungry.”

  She heard him clumping after her and realized he hadn’t yet obtained his full growth. He looked like his father, but with a softer edge. The cheeks were full, only touched with stubble. His eyes, too, were softer.

  She motioned to the kitchen chair where Robert had sat only an hour before and took the chair opposite him.

  “Why do you think I can help Willard?”

  “You’re a reporter. You can get the facts.”

  “Don’t you think if I knew facts, I would have come up with them a long time ago?”

 
He thought about it. “Daddy didn’t kill no one.”

  Zander’s face reflected his need to believe in his father’s innocence.

  “You hardly know your father. He’s been in prison most of your life. Why do you believe he’s innocent?”

  The boy reached into the back pocket of his pants and brought out a bundle of letters. “He says so. He writes me every week. Since I was five. I saved all the letters, but these are the ones where he talks about being innocent.”

  The stack wasn’t large. For a man who’d written close to six hundred letters, he hadn’t spent a lot of time trying to convince his son he was innocent.

  Her hand trembled as she took the letters he held out. To read them would be to know much more than she wanted to know. Willard Jones was almost dead. Would probably die no matter what she believed or did. She didn’t want the grief, but she opened the first one and read the flowing script that talked of a spring day when he had an eleven o’clock meeting with a newspaper publisher named Ray Sinclair.

  Dixon looked up from the letter. “He had an appointment to meet my father?”

  Zander nodded. “He had things to tell him.”

  “What things?” Dixon felt as if the world had tipped on its side.

  Zander shook his head. “He would never say. He never told Mama, and he wouldn’t tell no one. He said it was what got him in the mess he was in, and he wasn’t going to put us in danger.”

  Very convenient, Dixon thought. She leaned back in her chair. “Do you have any idea what it was about?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. Make him say.” There was desperation in Zander’s voice, and Dixon realized that though he was sixteen, he was still very much a child. “My mama is sick. She’s in New Orleans with her sister where she can get the treatments every day. If they kill Daddy, she won’t even try to keep living.”

  It was one thing to feel sorry for a young man pleading for his father. But she simply couldn’t accept all he said at face value. Jones had had an attorney. Not a public defender, but a respected lawyer. None of this had come out at the trial.

  “Did your father ever write that he met with Ray Sinclair?”

  Zander thought for a minute. “He said Mr. Sinclair was interested in doing a story. Then he wouldn’t say any more.”

  Dixon realized that pressing Zander would yield nothing further. The man she had to see, if she pursued this, was Willard Jones. A witness had seen him around the newspaper office. The prosecutor said he’d taken that opportunity to set the bomb. Ray’s appointment book and all of his records had been destroyed in the blast, so there was no way to verify Zander’s story.

  “Will you help him?” Zander asked.

  Dixon returned the letters. She didn’t want to read more. She didn’t want to know what a father who counted the years away behind bars said to his child.

  “I’ll look into it.” She would have to, for her sake as well as Zander’s.

  “Can you help him?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “But you’ll try?”

  He had such hope.

  “I’ll look into it, but I probably can’t do anything.”

  Zander stood up. He reached across the table and offered his hand. “In one of the letters, my father said that he suffered during the trial because Mr. Sinclair’s family thought he was guilty. He said that was worse than going to jail.”

  “Zander, I’ve been to see your father. Why didn’t he say something about this before now?”

  The boy shrugged. “Maybe he thought Mama and me would be better off if he just stayed quiet. Now, though, Mama …” He blinked hard.

  “I’ll look into it. No promises.”

  But she only had to look into the boy’s face to see that nothing short of a miracle would save him from despair.

  School was about to start when J.D. parked the cruiser and walked down the hallway to the biology room where Tommy Hayes taught. J.D. hadn’t bothered to check in with the front office. He saw the principal scurrying toward him and held up a hand.

  “Official police business. Stay out of it.”

  He opened the door and stepped into the classroom, where thirty freshmen turned toward him with excitement and worry.

  “Sheriff?” Hayes looked pale and frightened.

  “Tommy, we have a problem.” He pulled the sales slip out of his pocket. “We should take this outside.”

  They left the classroom amid rising whispers and catcalls. The hallway was dim and quiet. J.D. turned to the teacher and handed him the sales slip.

  “We know you bought the CD player for Angie. Now, I want you to tell me the truth.”

  It looked as if Hayes were melting, but J.D. had no sympathy. “Start talking.”

  “I did buy her the boom box. She said if I didn’t, she’d tell everyone I’d made a pass at her. At first I told her I wouldn’t get sucked into her blackmail scheme. I never made any kind of advance toward her. I’m just not … interested.”

  “But you did buy the boom box.”

  He nodded. “She started in on something else. Something about another man.” He stared down at the floor. “She said she’d start rumors all over the school. I need this teaching job. If I get fired for being gay …”

  J.D. might have pitied Hayes if he hadn’t lied. “Tommy, you’ve just given yourself a motive for murder.”

  “I went down to the coast and talked to a lawyer about what to do about Angie. I went the day she and Trisha disappeared. I wasn’t even around here when it happened.”

  “The sales slip?”

  His pale skin flushed. “I don’t know. I guess it was taped to the box. I just gave her the whole thing. Angie loved presents. She was always showing off something new someone had given her. She thought the expensive gifts made her special. She was wearing a bracelet that had to cost at least five grand.”

  “Where’d she get the bracelet?” J.D. felt a prickle of hope. He’d reluctantly bought into the theory of a Mexican’s destroying church property and then moving on to killing girls; it had been the only bone he had to gnaw. This, though—expensive gifts and a girl who liked blackmail as a tool of her ambition—this was more in line with murder as J.D. knew it.

  “She never said. She hinted. She said something one day that stuck with me.”

  “What was that?”

  “She said the older a man got the easier he was to manage. She said a little flattery worked every time.”

  J.D. snapped, “You could have told me all of this earlier, Tommy. It could have saved a lot of time.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I was scared. I knew if it came out that Angie was blackmailing me, it would give me a reason to kill her.”

  J.D. sighed. “You didn’t see those girls that day?”

  “I swear to you, I never went near them.”

  “And I should believe you now, after you’ve already lied to me?

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Maybe you can help me in another area.”

  Hayes nodded. “Sure.”

  “Where would a girl like Trisha get hold of crystal meth?”

  “Trisha?” He frowned. “Doesn’t seem likely. Now, Angie would do it.”

  “Where would Angie buy it?”

  “Meth is all over the schools. It’s not hard to get or expensive. Angie always had money. Plenty of it.”

  They could hear the din of the students rampaging in the classroom. J.D. also heard footsteps coming down the hall. He looked up to see Big Jim Welford and Calvin Holbert.

  “Where did she get the money?” J.D. asked quickly.

  “From whoever was giving her the jewelry, I’d say. She never said any names. At least not to me. The students haven’t said anything either. They’d be buzzing about it if they knew.”

  Holbert and Welford drew abreast of J.D. and Hayes.

  “What on God’s green earth do you think you’re doing?” Welford spat. “This is a school.”

  “I’m questioni
ng a witness in a murder investigation.” J.D. was tired, and he had a long day in front of him. He wasn’t in the mood for Welford’s blustering or Holbert’s threats.

  “If this is an example of how you do your job, it’s no wonder Angie Salter hasn’t been found.” Holbert’s face was red. “The man who took those girls is right down there at Fitler. Eustace Mills. He’s probably got that poor girl somewhere in the swamp, using her for his sick desires. And you won’t do a thing about it.”

  J.D. stopped himself from swinging, from smashing his fist into Calvin’s smug face. “What makes you so certain Eustace is involved?” he managed to ask calmly.

  “Vivian says he’s all the time running up and down the river in his boat ogling the young girls. She says he’s a pervert. She says he watches her when she’s water skiing. He comes all the way down the river to Plum Bluff so he can do his nasty things without my daughter knowing.” His face had gone even redder. “He’s a vile man, a deviant. I know what he’s doing to her and someone should stop him!” he shouted.

  J.D.’s mouth was dry. “Calvin, I’ve known Eustace for most of my life. He isn’t a pervert, and he isn’t interested in young girls. He loves Camille. That’s something you can’t understand.”

  “Calvin! This isn’t the place for this scene.” Welford was looking up and down the hall. “What kind of example are you setting for the students?”

  Hayes had stepped back against the wall. He looked pleadingly at J.D., who nodded, releasing him.

  “I’m done here,” J.D. said. “Calvin, if I hear one more word about Eustace …”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The bay of a hunting dog wafted through the swamp like the sounds of a far-distant party. Or better yet, a wake. Eustace knew that J.D. would not give up, but this wasn’t the lawman with tracking hounds. More likely it was Boday McKay illegally hunting a young deer.

  He knew that J.D. had called off the dog searches, opening a window of opportunity for Eustace to move after Chavez. The problem was that Chavez had become damn good at hiding. He knew Eustace was stalking him, and he’d become doubly cautious. He’d stopped coming to the camp to steal things, but Eustace felt certain Camille was still meeting him in the woods, giving him food and supplies.