Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

  J.D. was very still. “And what did happen?”

  Eustace cast a sidelong glance at the reporter. “Someone came up or down the river and decided to do the world a favor.”

  “We’ve been friends a long time, Eustace. Most of my life. I thought I knew you, but I was wrong.”

  “We all have two sides, J.D. Even you. You’ve done things that creep out of the darkness and sit on your heart. We all have.”

  “You’re wrong there, Eustace. We all haven’t.”

  Eustace turned at the sound of a car. The Mercedes pulled down the long drive, dodging the mud holes. He wanted to rush out, to wave Camille away. She couldn’t protect herself. But he didn’t move. The car stopped beside the house, and Camille got out. Her smile faded as she took in the scene.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, walking toward them. “Eustace?” She still wore her hair tucked up in her hat and lifted her arm to secure it on her head.

  He saw the bracelet as it slid up her bare arm almost to her elbow. The sun caught the braided gold and shimmered. Eustace felt his face freeze. He glanced at J.D.; the sheriff’s attention was focused on the bracelet. Eustace thought about his skinning bat in the shed.

  “Camille, go in the house,” Eustace said, his voice sharp.

  She looked up, hurt.

  “Go on inside.” He tried to modify his tone but failed.

  She was past hurt and ready to fight. “I don’t take orders from you or anyone else.”

  He regretted his tone, but he had to get her away from J.D. “Go inside. Now.”

  “Fuck you.” She lifted her chin and her hat tipped off her head. Her red curls cascaded down her shoulders and back.

  “Camille, go inside.” He knew the panic in his voice cut her like a razor.

  “You forget who you are, Eustace Mills. I used to have to take it when my father spoke to me like that. I won’t take it from you. Do it one more time and I’m out of here.”

  Eustace saw J.D. watching. He was going to let them hang themselves.

  Eustace let out a cry that tore his throat as he lunged at his friend.

  “Eustace!”

  He heard Camille and the reporter call his name just before he brought his shoulder into J.D.’s solar plexus. He heard the oof of air expelled from J.D.’s lungs, then felt the blow that knocked him to the ground where blackness swirled.

  Dixon drove through the small community of Vesley, wondering where Olena Jones might live. It was rural, with a general store-post office that made her feel as if she’d fallen back fifty years in time. The dirt roads and dilapidated houses reflected tight financial times. The three-car-garage, five-bedroom, four-bath developments mushrooming in nearby Mobile hadn’t crept into Vesley. Modest brick homes were the benchmark of prosperity here. Asbestos shingle and clapboard two-bedrooms were the norm.

  She kept her eyes open for a teenage boy on a bicycle, but her mind was on the scene she’d witnessed at Eustace Mills’s camp.

  J.D. had not arrested Eustace. He’d carried him to the skinning shed, laid him out on the table, then brought him around with a scoop of ice-cold artesian water. Camille had gone into the house. The two men had a terse, whispered conversation, then J.D. had driven Dixon back to town. He’d said little, and she hadn’t pressed the matter. She knew what it felt like to be betrayed.

  When he’d dropped her off, he’d asked her out for dinner on Saturday night. She’d accepted, wondering now what she’d agreed to, exactly. What did Horton want from her? She was curious to know.

  The road curved around a pecan orchard, and she slowed. A boy on a bicycle was coming her way through the orchard. As he drew closer, she recognized Zander.

  He rode toward her, his face hesitant and hopeful, and stopped next to the truck.

  “I’m going to talk to your father,” she told him. “I’ll do that much. I can’t make any promises, though. I want to talk to your aunt first.”

  He nodded. “Follow me home.”

  She nodded.

  Zander straddled the bike and pushed off down the road. He made good time on the sandy path that turned and twisted until Dixon lost all sense of direction. When he jumped off in front of a small wooden house, she parked. She didn’t know if Olena Jones would welcome her, but Dixon wanted to see this family for herself.

  “Aunt Olena isn’t here.” Zander looked around the yard as if his aunt had disappeared from right in front of him. “She was cookin’ supper when I went for a ride.” He frowned. “I’ll be back.”

  He dashed up the steps and into the house, and in a moment he reappeared at the door. “Come on in. I’ll fix you some ice tea.”

  Dixon went inside. There was a sprawl of baby toys on the floor and the smell of cornbread coming from the kitchen. She sat down at the kitchen table while Zander emptied an ice tray and fixed her drink. He was nervous.

  “Sit down, Zander,” she said softly. “I just want to talk to your aunt for a minute or two.”

  They heard her car in the yard, and Zander went to tell his aunt about their visitor.

  Dixon rose, but she remained in the kitchen. It was only right to give Zander a chance to explain things to his aunt. Five minutes later, Olena Jones came into the room, her eyes darting from corner to corner until they settled on Dixon.

  “Ms. Sinclair,” she said softly. “Why are you here?” She was breathing fast.

  “I wondered if you had any documents or anything from your brother, something where he says he’s innocent.”

  Olena patted her hair into place. She was a striking woman with a red hue to her skin and light eyes. She’d regained her composure and took Dixon’s glass and refilled it with tea. “Zander has his letters. I have a few myself.”

  “Could I have them?”

  Olena took her measure. “You’ll keep them safe.” It was a statement.

  “Of course. In fact, if you want to copy them, I’ll be glad to take the copies.”

  She nodded, then brushed her hands down her thighs. She turned to the oven and opened the door to check the cornbread.

  Dixon rose. “I have to get to work. Bring those letters by the newspaper, the sooner the better.”

  “I will,” she said. She glanced past Dixon, and her face changed expressions. She looked fearful.

  Dixon turned, but the doorway was empty. “Are you okay?”

  Olena nodded. “Just a little frazzled. My baby has been sick, and I got to get to Minnie’s house for some help.” She shrugged. “I don’t have insurance. Minnie’s ‘bout as good as any doctor around anyway.”

  “I’ll head home then.” She started toward the front door.

  “Ms. Sinclair, don’t raise Zander’s hopes.”

  She turned back. “I won’t. I told him I would talk to his father. I’m going to do that. Then I’ll talk to the district attorney who prosecuted the case, if I have anything to tell him.” She hesitated. “You asked me an important question, Olena. You asked me who would gain from my father’s death. I’ve been thinking about that a lot.”

  “And have you figured it out?”

  “I’m not sure, but at least I have a lead to pursue.”

  She walked through the house but didn’t see any sign of the sick baby. Outside on the porch a red stain had soaked into the thirsty wood. Its odd shape resembled hands clasped in prayer.

  Dixon got in her truck, maneuvered around the old Ford, and headed back to the newspaper and a long night’s work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  J.D. had suprised himself in asking Dixon to dinner. Thinking about it, he lost his temper twice, regained it, and was on the verge of losing it again as he turned in to the rutted camp road for the second time that day. Camille’s car was still there; he realized then that he’d been afraid she would run.

  He’d concealed the significance of the bracelet from Dixon because he had to ascertain for himself exactly what it meant before he talked about it with anyone else.

  He walked up the camp’s twenty-three step
s and knocked at the stained-glass door. Eustace opened it and turned away.

  Camille, pale, sat at the kitchen bar. A tarot spread was laid out in front of her. She pointed to a card when he drew near. “The Tower,” she said. “A collapse.” A tear drifted down her cheek. “Eustace says I have to tell you about the bracelet.”

  J.D. had done many hard things in his life, but looking into Camille’s face then was one of the worst.

  “Tell me,” he said, taking the seat across the bar from her. Eustace stood at the door.

  She brought the bracelet out of her pocket. It shifted in her hand like something alive. For a long moment she stared at it. “Here,” she said, putting it in his hand.

  “Where did you get it?” J.D. asked.

  Camille looked up at Eustace. J.D. could read the lie beginning to form on her face. “Eustace wants me to tell you I found it on the sandbar. But I didn’t—”

  “Camille!” Her name was a howl.

  J.D. lifted his hand. “Hush up, Eustace. Let her tell me the truth.”

  “I told Eustace it was just a mistake. Mama gave me this bracelet.” She poked it with her finger. “It was one she didn’t want anymore. That’s what she told me.”

  J.D.’s stomach lurched. Vivian Holbert wasn’t the kind of woman to give away an expensive bracelet, not even to her daughter. Especially not while her daughter was living with Eustace.

  “When did she give it to you?” J.D. asked softly.

  “A week or so ago.” Camille’s face registered recognition. “It was the day the girls disappeared.”

  “She didn’t have it then,” Eustace said. “She didn’t, J.D.”

  “Yes, I did,” Camille said. “I hid it from you because I knew it would make you angry.”

  She looked at J.D. “Eustace gets mad when they give me expensive things, because he feels he should be able to get them for me.” She shook her head. “I don’t care about gold bracelets. In fact, you take it if it’ll help you.”

  J.D. got up and walked to the stove, where he picked up a dishcloth. “Would you mind if I took this too?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “To protect the bracelet.”

  “Sure, have it.” She stood up. “I’m going to make fish in court bouillon for dinner. Can you stay?”

  “No, thank you, Camille. I have to get back to town.” He picked up the bracelet with the cloth and put them both in his pocket. On the way out, he asked Eustace to follow him.

  They stood on the landing, the cicadas whirring below them. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How would I know?”

  J.D. pulled the bracelet from his pocket. “You saw the girls on the sandbar. Is this the bracelet Angie Salter was wearing?”

  Eustace stared at it. At last he met his friend’s gaze. “I don’t know. I was too far away. It could be. Then again, it might not be. Look, I tried to get Camille to lie. She was determined to tell the truth—Vivian gave her the bracelet. Why can’t that be true?”

  J.D. put the bracelet back in his pocket. “It can be true. In fact, I’d give a whole lot to make it true.”

  “But you can’t take it at face value.” Eustace was angry.

  J.D.’s hand shot out and grasped Eustace’s shirt. “There’s a young girl out there. I have to find her. Do you get it? I have to find her, and I have to believe she’s still alive.”

  Eustace twisted free. “Angie Salter is dead. You might as well accept it. There’s nothing you can do to save her.” He turned and walked into the house, closing the door and locking it behind him.

  Dixon rubbed the back of her neck and got up to make a fresh pot of coffee. She was laying out ads for the next edition. Layout had never been her strong suit, and now it seemed the space she’d allocated for a florist’s advertisement was completely unmanageable. She threw her ruler down and walked to the front of the office.

  Main Street, silent and dark, stretched out in front of her. It was a weeknight, and not even the high-school kids were out riding around. The town looked as if the sandman had come, sprinkling the entire area except for her. If only she could sleep without dreams or anxiety.

  She was turning to go back to work when she saw the sheriff’s SUV glide down the street. He waved at her, and she waved back. He was a strange man. Intensely focused on his work, wounded somehow. She hadn’t figured it out. It was unfair that he was able to dig out her background but she couldn’t find much more on him than idle gossip. The badge made the difference.

  A sudden movement outside the window made her heart lurch. Robert Medino, smiling like a Cheshire cat, tapped on the glass. He held up a brown paper sack and made eating motions.

  She unlocked the door.

  He held out the sack. “Fried catfish, cole slaw, baked beans, hushpuppies, and iced tea.” He carried the sack to a desk and removed two Styrofoam containers. The delicious smell of fried fish wafted through the room.

  “I have four dozen ads to make up,” she said.

  Her stomach growled loud enough that Robert grinned.

  “How’s about you eat, then I’ll help you with the ads?”

  “Can you make up ads?” she asked doubtfully

  He handed her a container of food and put a hand dramatically on his chest. “She doubts me. Now, that wounds my heart. Of course I can make up ads. I worked for a weekly once. I learned to do everything. It’s just that I was better at investigative reporting than I was at making up ads. But I can help.”

  She took the food; she was starving. And she was glad Robert had shown up.

  They sat across from each other. Dixon ate as much as she could hold. She groaned and closed her container. “Now all I want to do is go to bed.”

  “And I didn’t even have to seduce you,” he said.

  She laughed. “Not what I had in mind.” She rose. “Besides, I am the slave of a weekly newspaper.”

  “I heard you went off with the good sheriff,” Robert said, picking up the remnants of their meal and putting them in the watebasket. “Did you find anything?”

  She shook her head. “It would seem Angie Salter has disappeared into thin air. What did you do today?”

  “I rode upriver this morning with a character named Eustace Mills. He gave me a tour of the Leaf and Chickasawhay. An unusual guy.”

  She nodded. “I’ve met him.”

  “In the line of duty?”

  “Not exactly. His place is close to the sandbar where the girls disappeared.”

  “So he said.” He followed her to the back and moved to the lighted layout tables. When she pointed to the Beckham’s Florist material, he picked up the various elements of the ad. “What size?”

  “Two columns, six inches.”

  He nodded and began to arrange the ad. “What about your father’s murder?” he asked.

  Her reply was terse. “What about it?”

  “Hey, don’t get upset. I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to think about it any more. If there’s something I can do, I’d like to help.”

  “I’m sorry.” She walked up beside him and watched as he dropped the copy into the box he’d made with black tape. He was good at arranging the elements of the ad. A lot better than she was.

  “Are there any copies of your father’s newspapers left?”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he was on to something involving the state politicians, maybe there are some leads in the stories he wrote before his death.”

  She sat down on a stool, her knees rubbery. “The newspaper was totally destroyed, but the library kept copies.” She stared at her shoes.

  “He was your father, Dixon. This isn’t just some case. It’s hard to investigate and protect yourself at the same time.” He put his arms around her and pulled her to him. She could smell Old Spice, a choice of cologne as eccentric as he was. It was comforting, though.

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I’ll tell you what, since you’re tied up here getting the pa
per out, I’ll go up to Jackson and see if there are any bound copies of the newspaper in the library there. If there are, I’ll go through them and make copies of whatever I think would be useful.”

  She’d been alone in this for so long, she was eager to grasp the offered help, the support. Robert could act as a buffer from the pain of what she’d have to see once she started looking.

  “Let’s get those ads finished, then we’ll head to your house, have a drink to unwind, and I’ll give you a massage.”

  Dixon kissed his cheek, then his lips.

  Tommy Hayes stared at the bracelet in J.D.’s hand. In the back yard, two dogs were barking frantically.

  “Well?” J.D. asked.

  Hayes nodded. “It looks like the same bracelet that Angie wore to school.”

  “This is a valuable piece of jewelry. Do you know where Angie got it?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know. Angie was like tar baby. If you brushed against her, you were stuck.” He wiped perspiration off his upper lip.

  J.D. watched the young man. He’d always liked Hayes. Had felt for him, knowing the difficulties of his sexual preference in a town like Jexville. “Is there something else you want to tell me?” J.D. asked.

  “No.” Hayes spoke quickly. “Look, I have papers to grade.”

  J.D. walked back to his Explorer and drove to the other side of town.

  He sat outside the Holbert home and watched the lights go on and off around the house. Calvin’s car wasn’t in the driveway. If the last few days were any indicator, Calvin didn’t spend a lot of time at home. J.D. waited another fifteen minutes and drove slowly away, heading to the bank.

  It was nearly eight o’clock. If Calvin didn’t go home, where did he go? J.D. circled the bank and found no sign of Calvin’s Jaguar. He drove down Main Street. The Hickory Pit was filled to the rafters, but Calvin wasn’t there. He continued past the funeral home, took a right, and headed to a part of town where a lonely guy could sometimes buy a little company. J.D. had seen too much to label the activity morally good or bad. Commerce was the word to describe it, a business transaction. He felt no need to try regulating it. He drove past the two double-wides where Monica and Jasmine conducted their business. If Calvin was there, he hadn’t left his car.