Judas Burning Read online

  Also by Carolyn Haines:

  Hallowed Bones

  Crossed Bones

  Splintered Bones

  Buried Bones

  Them Bones

  Summer of the Redeemers

  Touched

  Nonfiction:

  My Mother’s Witness

  Judas

  Burning

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Newspapering is not a job but a calling. Journalists are the watchdogs of the community, and this book is dedicated to three reporters who aren’t afraid to bark—Pat Sellers, Ronni Patriquin Clark, and Alice Jackson. And to the late JoAnn Sellers, a teacher whose influence will be felt for generations.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgment

  Penumbra

  Also Available

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  His skin is golden against the tangled sheets, his chest moving softly in the rhythm of sleep. Dim air, tinted with gold, slips through a crack in heavy draperies that cover the window beside the door. The room is filled with the cold drone of an air conditioner. Outside, children run, laughing. Their footsteps echo hollowly on the cement front of the motel.

  The man stirs. Beside him a faceless woman reclines on one elbow. She watches him. His left hand is on his chest, and she stares at the gold band that encircles his ring finger. She touches his chest, her long, dark hair sliding across his face as she kisses the hollow of his sternum. Her tears fall onto the sheet that covers his lower body.

  She slides from the bed, her body pale, sunless, her hair a shield for her face as she steps into the bathroom. There is the sound of running water, the clean smell of shampoo. In a moment she returns and picks up her jeans from the floor.

  He is awake now and stands, naked, and wraps his arms around her, murmuring into her ear. Her hair swirls around them, hiding them from view, and she wishes they could step beneath the dark strands and hide forever. She has to leave. The clock beside the bed shows a blinking red 11:45. She must go now, the pressure like a chill grip on her neck. She shivers.

  His kisses move from soft to demanding. “Don’t go. Stay here and play with me.” He speaks without moving his lips. His kisses drop lower, to her breast.

  She has to go, but she can’t. Her body fills and becomes languid. She drops her jeans to the carpeted floor and kisses him back. The bedside clock reads 11:53.

  Thunder echoes far away, above the sound of the air conditioner. Lightning flashes, and she looks toward the window where the shadows of flames leap against the draperies.

  “Something’s wrong,” she whispers, pushing him away.

  “Don’t leave me. “He carries her to the bed. “Don’t leave. You’re safe here.”

  A boom of thunder shakes the building.

  Dixon Sinclair awoke from the dream sweating and gasping for breath, her thin nightgown stuck to her body. She staggered down the hall of the old house and into the bathroom. Leaning against the pedestal sink, she turned on the cold water, splashed some on her sweating face, and lifted her dark hair off her neck. She pulled her nightgown off and dropped it to the polished wood floor.

  She closed her eyes and thought of a glass of ice cubes, the crackle of the bourbon hitting the ice, the sweet fire of the liquor going down her throat. She would give a lot for a drink.

  There was no liquor in the house. She’d made sure of that. The town of Jexville was dry; so was Chickasaw County. She stared into the mirror. Could she make it without drinking? Not unless the dream stopped. She began to shake.

  She went to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and picked up her truck keys. It was just after eleven. The closest liquor store was nineteen miles away. She could make it before the store closed at midnight.

  She was about to walk out the door when the phone rang. She hesitated, then walked back down the hall to answer it. Like it or not, she was in the business of late-night calls. She picked up the receiver and recognized Tucker Barnes’s worried voice.

  “I’ve got a problem with the typesetting machine. The film is stuck.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The marble head of the Virgin Mary lay at the base of the statue’s stone feet, in the glare of the sheriff’s spotlight. Someone had decapitated the statue and splashed blood all over it. Blood soaked the statue, the ground, the zinnias in the flower beds, the church walk. It was a tide of blood.

  Although the early-morning hour was sticky hot, Dixon shivered. The metallic odor clogged her throat, and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She hadn’t made it to the liquor store. The typesetting machine had been fixed quickly, but an anonymous call to the paper had sent her to St. John the Baptist Church.

  She focused on the broad back of the sheriff as he worked the crime scene. For a local yokel, J.D. Horton seemed to know what he was doing. So far, he hadn’t noticed her. She’d been in Jexville for two weeks, and every attempt she’d made to meet the number one lawman in the county had been countered with a cool rebuff. Or if not an actual rebuff, then an excuse. Horton had no use for newspaper reporters, and he made his sentiments clear. At the moment he was absorbed in conversation with Beatrice Smart, the pastor of Jexville’s Methodist church.

  Father Patrick Leahy came out of the church. She saw the way he averted his eyes from the statue. It was a shocking act of vandalism, but the story was in why it had occurred.

  “Father Leahy.” She caught up with him as he moved quickly to his car. “Do you have a moment?”

  His expression said he didn’t. He sighed. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a quote.”

  “So you’re the new publisher.” He nodded. “I’ve heard about you. Big-city reporter come to a small town. Jexville might be a tight fit.”

  “I’m sure I’ll fit in just fine,” she said. She shifted the focus away from herself. “Who would do such a thing to the statue and your church?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “The parishioners were delighted with the statue. It was an amazing gift, not only a work of art but a perfect example of God’s miracles.”

  “Could you explain that?”

  “Alan Arguillo, the Mexican artist who created the statue, was blinded in an accident. He thought his career as a sculptor was over. But he got this piece of stone, and he couldn’t leave it alone. He worked on it by feel, his hands becoming his eyes. And when it was done, his vision was restored by a miracle of God.”

  “How did the st
atue come to be in Jexville?”

  “Dr. Diaz, one of our local physicians, grew up in Zaragoza, Mexico. He knew of this sculptor’s work. When he learned of the blessing of the statue for miracles, he purchased it and brought it here. He has a child who suffers from multiple sclerosis.”

  “Why would the sculptor sell the statue that saved his vision?” Dixon had a healthy cynicism when it came to miracles.

  “Arguillo had his miracle. Why should he hold on to the statue when others might be helped?”

  “How much did Diaz pay for it?” Money was probably a more realistic reason.

  The priest shook his head. “He didn’t tell us. He’s going to be heartsick when he sees what some vandal has done.”

  “Are you sure it was a random act and not someone connected to the church?”

  “Who else but a vandal would do such a stupid, destructive thing? There is no other possibility. No one could hate us so much.”

  But Dixon knew that someone could hate Dr. Diaz or Father Patrick or perhaps just Catholics in general. These were ideas she’d ask Horton about, if he ever deigned to speak with her.

  As the priest drove away, Dixon walked over to the sheriff. “Excuse me, Sheriff Horton. Do you have any idea where all the blood came from?”

  He turned around and assessed her. “You’re Dixon Sinclair.”

  She nodded.

  “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I have one deputy, and we stay pretty busy.” He sighed. “What a shame.”

  “The blood?” she persisted.

  “I can’t say for sure, but my guess is that it’s some kind of animal. A large animal.”

  “Can you test it and tell?”

  He nodded. “Whoever did this put a lot of planning into it.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  “They had to collect the blood, bring a tool that would sever the head, case the church to be sure no one was around. Father Patrick frequently stays at the church. There’s an apartment here for him. Whoever did this watched the place.”

  “So you don’t believe this was the work of simple vandals?” Horton tilted his head slightly as he evaluated her. “It would be premature to speculate.”

  “Is speculation all you have, or do you have evidence?” She saw a professional shield slide into place. “We have evidence,” he said, “but none that I’m going to discuss in the press. You take care, Miss Sinclair.”

  Dixon watched him walk away. He was a powerful man, heavily muscled, fit. “My deadline is ten o’clock tonight,” she called after him. “It would be great if you could let me know the animal the blood came from.” He didn’t turn around.

  The Mississippi sun blazed white-hot, bleeding the color from the midday sky. Angie Salter stretched on the hot sandbar and stared at her friend from beneath the straw brim of her red sun hat. Trisha Webster was afraid of her own shadow.

  Angie tossed her a bottle of suntan lotion. “Your shoulders are getting pink. I don’t know why you won’t take your top off You’re going to have those ugly white stripes. You want some lemon juice to streak your hair? It would look cool.”

  The boom box blared a song with heavy bass, the words muffled against the sandbar that stretched for half a mile down the west side of the Pascagoula River.

  “Thanks.” Trisha slathered her shoulders with the lotion and silently flipped onto her stomach.

  Angie knew that Trisha’s silence indicated anxiety. She pushed her long, blond hair back from her shoulders and held her face to the sun, the movement tumbling her hat to the sand. “The magazines say that sun is bad for you, but all the models are tan. Scarlett Johansen was bronzed at the Oscars.”

  “I don’t want to get burned,” Trisha said. “I don’t want Mama to figure out we skipped school.”

  “Your mom won’t have a clue.” Angie shook out her hair. “I’m too short to be a runway model, but I can make half a grand an hour doing magazine work.” She could see the wind machine blowing her hair, the makeup woman hovering, the photographer telling her how hot she looked, how much he wanted her as he clicked away. Angie knew she had the looks—boys in school fell over themselves when she walked past them in the hall. Now, she had the means to get to New York. It was going to happen. Soon.

  Trisha shifted on her towel. “Don’t all those girls work through one of those modeling agencies?”

  “I’ve checked into it. I need a portfolio.” Angie loved the word, the way it rolled and sounded like magic. And it would be. It would be her ticket out of Jexville. Out of the tiny little shit hole town where her only hope of ever having anything was to claw it away from someone else. Her secret burned hot on her tongue. She was dying to tell Trisha.

  “Where are you going to get the money for those kind of pictures? I read where some of those photographers charge hundreds an hour.”

  Trisha’s skepticism made Angie angry. She could do it. No matter that her mother laughed at her ambitions and mocked her. Her mother was a moron who lived with a man who was a worm. Angie heard them at night, lying in bed, laughing over one of her remarks, making fun. Beth Salter said Angie was putting on airs. Now her best friend didn’t have any faith in her. “I’ll get the fucking pictures, don’t you worry about that.”

  “I didn’t mean that, Angie. I just wondered how. Will Jimmy help you? Or your mom?”

  “Right. If Mama had the money, she’d buy that dickhead Alton a motorcycle or something else he wanted.” She hesitated. “Jimmy doesn’t make enough at the store.”

  “Is that what all of this with Mr. Hayes is about?” Trisha glanced at the boom box.

  Angie reached over and punched a button, shifting from the CD to a Mobile, Alabama, radio station. Jexville, being the hick town that it was, didn’t have anything except an AM gospel station. “Mr. Hayes might help finance my portfolio. We’ll just have to see.”

  Trisha sat up and squinted toward the yellow-brown river. “You want to get in the water? I’m hot.”

  “Sure.” Angie opened the ice chest and drew out two icy beers. “Let’s smoke a joint first.”

  “You got some pot?” Trisha pushed her chin-length brown hair behind her ears. “Man, Angie, how’d you manage that?”

  “I’ve got connections.” She couldn’t help herself. She had to tell. It wasn’t the big secret, only a tiny part of it. “I did some coke the other night.”

  Trisha’s eyes widened. “How was it?”

  “Man, it was wonderful. I mean, I felt like I could do anything. It was like I was on top of the world.” Angie looked at her friend. “You’d love it. Next time maybe I’ll get some for you.

  “Who is the guy who gives you all that jewelry?” She pointed to the intricate gold bracelet on Angle’s arm. “That must have cost at least a thousand dollars.”

  Angie held her arm up, and bright sunlight struck the gold. “A lot more than that.” She lit the joint, inhaled deeply, and passed it to Trisha.

  “This guy who gives you jewelry, does he give you the drugs, too?

  “What are you, writing a book?”

  Trisha dropped the joint into the sand. “Dammit, Angie. I don’t deserve that kind of shit.”

  Angie retrieved the joint and took a hit. “I didn’t mean to be ugly. It’s just that you ask a lot of personal questions.”

  “You can get mad at me, but your mama’s gonna see that bracelet and ask a lot more questions.”

  “Mama’s so stupid she thinks it’s costume. She can’t tell real gold from fake.” Angie passed the joint.

  Trisha hit it hard. “You know, when I think about how we’d be spending this Tuesday morning in school, I get a sick feeling. But then,” she grinned, “I feel the hot sand and listen to the water, and I guess I don’t care.” She looked down, gathered a handful of the white sand, and let it sift through her fingers. “I wish I was going to New York to be a model. Shit, I wish I was going to Mobile to be a clerk in K-Mart.”

  Angie exhaled. “When I make it big, Trisha, I’ll send for you. Th
ere’s lots of jobs in New York. You could be anything you want. How about … on one of the soaps!”

  “That would be terrific.”

  Angie took another hit from the joint. “Man, this shit is good. My head is buzzing. Put it out and save it for later.”

  Trisha checked her watch. “We have to be back before school lets out. Jimmy doesn’t know we took his truck, does he?”

  Angie flopped dramatically on her towel. “Oh, too bad,” she said in a lilting voice, “Jimmy will be very, very angry.” She laughed. “I can manage him.”

  “Listen. There’s a boat coming. You’d better put some clothes on.”

  “Let ‘em come. It’s a free country.” Angie watched her friend frantically stubbing out the joint. “Why should anyone care if I show my tits? If they don’t like what they see, they don’t have to look. Alton loves looking at them. I catch him watching me dress all the time.”

  “Really, put your swimsuit on. It could be anybody.”

  Angie sat up. “Let’s run naked on the sandbar. We can shock the bejesus out of’em.”

  Trisha shook her head. “There’re a lot of old fishermen around here. Some of them look mean.” She reached for her T-shirt and pulled it over her swimsuit.

  Angie laughed. “Come on, Trish. If you don’t loosen up, you’ll never have a good time. Let’s just give ‘em a thrill. Hell, they haven’t seen anything like us in fifty years.”

  Trisha reached for her friend’s hand as Angie stood up, the sun highlighting the golden tones of her skin, her slender, perfect figure. “Sit down!” Trisha tugged at her hand. “Sit down, Angie!” There was real panic in her voice.

  The blonde sank back onto her beach towel. She realized Trisha was about to cry. “Shit. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Daddy’s friends fish up here sometimes. He’d kill me if—”

  “Okay. I’ll see who it is first.” Angie pushed a beer into her friend’s hand. “Then we’ll decide if we can have some fun.”

  The sound of the boat grew louder. It was a big engine. Angie sipped her beer and listened. Hell, it didn’t matter if she had a little fun on the sandbar. She was headed to New York City. In less than five months she’d be sixteen. Once she got a legal driver’s license, there’d be no keeping her in Chickasaw County, where the only choices for a pretty girl with ambition were an old man with money or young boys who thought a joint, a six pack, and two rubbers were the ingredients of a dream date.