Judas Burning Read online

“I parked on the road,” he said. “I wasn’t going to interrupt if you had company. I thought the sheriff might be here.” He walked closer, his cigarette smoke sharp on the soft summer air, and stopped ten feet away. “I heard you wishing.”

  Dixon rattled the ice in her glass. She wasn’t certain what to make of him. He’d hung around town and didn’t seem to be pressed by deadlines. Twice he’d stopped by the newspaper, but both times she’d been gone and Linda had not made him feel welcome. Now, here he was in her front yard, eavesdropping on her private wishes. It was annoying.

  “The larder isn’t any better stocked now than it was the other day.”

  “I didn’t come over to eat. Obviously, you haven’t checked your messages. There should be four calls from me. Mrs. Moore at the paper wouldn’t tell me where you were, and the blond guy didn’t have time to talk with me.”

  Her employees were protecting her. Linda didn’t like the man, and Tucker didn’t trust him. Since she hadn’t checked her messages, she couldn’t blame all of it on Medino.

  “I had to go to Mobile and check some things out.”

  “Would it be a breach of southern manners to ask for a drink?” he asked, putting a foot on the first porch step.

  Dixon thought of the Jack. She’d put it under the sink. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “Sure,” she said. She was going to have to learn to deny herself alcohol while others drank. The whole world wouldn’t stop drinking just because she couldn’t handle it. “Come on in.”

  She led the way down the hall and into the kitchen. He took a seat at the old wooden table. The cabinets, with their leaded glass panes, were painted white. The original butcher-block counters had been covered with dark red Corian, and the beaded lumber walls were painted to match. Dixon had added white curtains.

  “My great-great-grandmother painted this table,” Dixon said as she handed him a drink. She’d replenished her iced tea. “She was a troublemaker, according to the town of Jexville.”

  “You’re pensive tonight,” he commented. “What’s on your mind?”

  She waved a hand around her. “My mother’s family has owned this house for better than eighty years. My mother used to come here when she was a little girl and swim in the creek out back.” She looked at the amber drink he held in his hand. “My mother always said that I took after JoHanna McVay, the troublemaker. JoHanna wouldn’t dance to a man’s tune. Mama said that JoHanna liked to wear the pants. That’s how she put it.”

  “And your mother wasn’t like that?”

  “No, my mother gave up her career to be a wife and mother, but I’m beginning to wonder if she doesn’t regret that choice.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to be a woman back then.” Robert’s smile was disarming. “In fact, no matter how men disclaim the rights of being a man, it’s true. I wouldn’t want to be a woman now. The white male has it made.”

  “I’ve never heard another man admit that.”

  “If they admitted it, they’d have to change the system, wouldn’t they? All of this ballyhoo about equality and democracy and no glass ceiling.”

  “You’re willing to say it.”

  “I’m not part of the system, and I have no economic interest at stake. I’m a fringe dweller. I live in New York, but I’m certainly not a New Yorker. I know more about Spanish culture than American. I like music that no one plays any more, and I can eat any cuisine except McDonald’s. I speak four languages, two fluently. I can take the heat or endure the cold. I’ve perfected the art of cultural chameleon. Since I don’t fit anywhere, I understand the status of ‘less than.’ “

  “There’s something I want to know about you. Why is this story about the statues and the girls so important to you? You’ve been in Jexville a while and don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.”

  “Maybe you should have a drink on this one,” he suggested.

  She swallowed. “No, I’ll take my answer straight.”

  “This town is in a time warp. Folks here are naïve about evil. They expect to be safe, and it’s that trust that makes them a target.”

  “And you think that’s worthy of a story?”

  “The Salter/Webster story has broader implications about the way religion has gone askew. I’m looking at how religion has made bombers out of antiabortionists and terrorists out of others. Here we have a guy so obsessed with religion that he’s killed two girls in a small town where religion is like a car—everybody has one. That makes it very personal. It’ll be a powerful story.”

  “I can see that.” She could also see that with a certain slant, Jexville could look primitive and backwards. “How bad are you going to make us look?”

  “I’m a journalist, and a damn good one. I spent six months in Guatemala talking to government officials, shooting the breeze, drinking with them. Ultimately, my goal was to implicate them in the genocide of the native Indian tribes. I did it. Did I feel badly that I had to act friendly to get the story? Hell no. Those guys weren’t even human. They deserved everything they got. Were my tactics unfair? I didn’t put a gun to their heads to make them brag about the mass executions they’d instituted. Do I feel sorry for them? Not one damn bit. And I refuse to feel sorry for the folks around here who’d close down a day care to exert power.”

  He finished his drink and got up to make himself another. She watched as he found a second glass and made a drink for her. He handed it to her and then took a breath. “The other reason I’m hanging around town is you.”

  “Me?” Dixon stared at him over the rim of the glass. Her mouth was watering. She could taste the smoky bite of the Jack, and she wanted it.

  “You intrigue me. You gave up a big-time career to come run a weekly. Your dad ran a weekly. He’s well known in journalism circles. Some of his stories are taught at universities.”

  Dixon felt the familiar tug of loss. “He had fire in the belly for a good story.”

  “And so you’ve come to prove that you do too.”

  The glass was sweating in her hand. The ice cubes floated and tinkled against it, a party sound. She took a sip. It was as wonderful as she remembered.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’ve come to do.”

  “Because of what happened to your father?”

  “You know about that?”

  He nodded. His gaze held hers. “It was tragic.”

  She thought how meaningless those words were. Tragic. Terrible. The word loss didn’t need a modifier. “Then you probably know that I spent the last year or so pretty drunk.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “This is the first drink I’ve had in almost six weeks.” She sipped it again. “So tell me again why you’re here in Jexville.”

  “I believe in what I do.” Though his voice was quiet, there was passion in it.

  “For just a moment there, you reminded me of my father.” She sipped the bourbon and fought back emotion.

  “I take it that’s a compliment.”

  “Your story on Trisha and Angie won’t be popular around here. This town takes its religion very seriously.”

  “If we wrote only what the folks wanted us to write, there’d be no reason for newspapers or magazines.”

  “My father used to say that, too.”

  “I couldn’t help but hear the wish you made, about your father’s murder. I’m sorry, Dixon. That’s a terrible thing to live through. My older brother was struck by a hit-and-run driver. My mother never got over it.” He reached across the table and touched her hand. “I guess I didn’t either. I think about the things he taught me. Gary wanted to be a professional baseball player.”

  “How old were you?” It was such a relief to talk to someone who understood, someone who had been there. She finished her drink, got up, and made them another round.

  “I was fourteen. Gary was my idol.”

  She didn’t say anything. There were no words to help.

  “For a long time I was furious. I stopped doing everything I used to do with Gary.
By the time I realized that punishing myself wouldn’t bring him back, it was too late to return to sports. So I became a writer.”

  “The professional outsider.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. We become the watchers. It isn’t our responsibility to act, just to document.”

  “There’s a man on death row. Willard Jones. He’s scheduled to be executed in less than a month.” She swallowed. “I’m not certain he’s guilty.”

  Robert stared at her. “If you’re not certain …”

  “I’m meeting with his son tomorrow. Zander wants to talk to me. I don’t think he understands there’s nothing I can do. Without evidence, the state will carry out the sentence.”

  “Does he have evidence?” Robert leaned forward and caught her hand. “Is there something I can help with?”

  She shook her head. “No, but thank you. I’ll speak with Zander, and then I’ll make a decision. The evidence against Jones was pretty convincing. My family just wants me to let it all go. They want Jones executed, and then they want to move on with their lives. If only it were that simple.”

  Killing Willard Jones wasn’t the end of the pain. It wouldn’t be the end of anything, except a man’s life.

  “Why do you think Jones might be innocent?” Robert asked.

  She hesitated. She’d told the prosecutor, but he’d told her to forget it. Her mother had told her to forget it, and her brother. But she couldn’t.

  “The night before my father was killed, he called me. He was excited about something he’d discovered, a story. I was to pick him up for lunch the next day so he could tell me all about it.” She felt her temples tighten. “I was late picking him up. If I’d been there on time, Dad wouldn’t have been there to be killed.”

  “You were his heir in the profession. It makes sense he’d want to share his story with you. Any idea what it was?”

  Robert’s face was eager. She’d wanted so much for someone to share this with, someone who would see the importance of it and help her follow through. After Jones was arrested and convicted, no one had wanted to hear any of this. No one.

  “It was about dumping waste chemicals in Mississippi. My father believed that it was happening and that some state legislators had taken a payoff to allow the chemical companies to slip into the state and dump the stuff.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Ask the folks around Eula Springs. The incidence of cancer there is six hundred percent higher than anywhere else.”

  Robert reached into his back pocket and drew out a map. “I have to carry this because I don’t know the area. Where is Eula Springs? I’ve never heard of it.”

  Dixon put her hand on his. “It’s north of Hattiesburg. Look, none of this was ever proven. I looked for signs of a dump site. I hired a private investigator, but he could never find anyone who knew anything about chemical waste. The police arrested Willard Jones on another charge, and when they searched his home they found hundreds of clippings from my father’s newspaper. He’d written things on them, saying my father was a racist because of the coverage Dad did on a black politician.”

  “And when they found that, they also found materials to make the bomb.”

  “Yes.” Dixon could hear her pulse thudding. “You see it, too, don’t you?”

  “Clearly.”

  “Willard Jones may have been set up.”

  “I’d say there’s a strong chance.”

  He picked up her hand and held it. “Dixon, you said you were late picking up your father and that he’d be alive if you’d been on time.” He shook his head when she started to speak. “Listen to me. It might just be possible that the bomb was intended to kill both of you.”

  “No—”

  “Folks knew you and your dad were close. If he told anyone, it would be you, right?”

  She nodded. “But—”

  “Just hear me out. If there was a tap on your father’s phone—and there easily could have been, especially if he was poking sticks at the big dogs in the legislature—they would have known he talked to you that night. They would have known he intended to tell you about everything that day at lunch.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “The fact that someone made you late may be the thing that saved your life. Do you think you were detained deliberately?”

  She knew her face showed the pain she felt. Mark Barrett. The man she’d been in love with. Could he have known about the bomb? Was he protecting her while her father was being killed?

  Robert put his arms around her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  The word was barely a whisper. Even with the passing of eleven years, it hurt like a fresh cut. She closed her eyes. “I’d like another drink, please.”

  He released her and went to the counter to make the drinks. When he put the glass in her hand, he touched her face, stroking her hair. “You’re an intriguing woman. Maybe too smart for your own good.”

  She stood up, the drink in her hand. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  The symphony of night had settled around the cabin by the time Eustace returned from upriver. He’d learned too much at Hathaway’s Point. He could still hear the buzz of bottle flies swarming the ground where the body had oozed.

  His right hand held the tiller, but his left was clenched around something else, a shard of pottery he’d found embedded in the riverbank. The clay, a bluish green, could only be found closer to the coast. He knew, because he’d helped Camille extract it.

  He went over the scene again and again, circling his boat in the river until long past his normal time to go home.

  When he pulled up to the landing, he was surprised to find the grounds completely lit. He’d installed fairy lights around the trunks of the old oaks and landscape lights around the paths and minnow vats. Camille sat with her legs dangling in the large cement vat. Her pale yellow summer dress was pulled high on her thighs, and her long hair tumbled, unbrushed, down her back. She flinched and giggled softly as darting minnows nibbled at her toes. Eustace stopped and stared. Camille’s hair was infused with the twinkling lights, and her soft laughter was as artless as a child’s.

  He shifted the weight off his bad leg. Camille’s enjoyment of the water and the minnows was total. It was a rare moment when her past didn’t haunt her, and he chose not to intrude. Camille’s remarkable gift of not judging allowed him into her life. She’d asked nothing about his past, told nothing of her own. But Eustace knew he was not so free of judgment.

  From her dreams, salted with tears, he had figured out some of her past. She had been badly hurt, emotionally damaged. He’d known it from the beginning but hadn’t feared the extent of the damage until now. In her heart, she was a sweet and loving child. Anything else was a result of what had been done to her.

  A fast boat passed on the river, and Eustace followed the sound of its motor for a moment. It was a big boat, probably Jimmy Vinter’s. Headed to Fitler.

  He heard Camille’s sharp gasp and had started forward before he realized that she’d slid into the chest-high water. After the initial shock of cold, she cried out with pleasure.

  Eustace walked to the vats. He’d urged Camille not to leave the area around the house unless she was going into Jexville. She didn’t always obey him, and he wasn’t certain that Jexville was safer than the swamps anyway, even with a killer on the loose. He never attempted to stop her visits to her family, though he would have preferred that she avoid Calvin and Vivian. They had nearly destroyed her. They were evil, careless people. They did not deserve even the lingering concern that she held for them. But he knew better than to interfere.

  “Eustace!” She held out her arms. “Come in.” She jumped and giggled. “The minnows are … devilish.”

  Eustace felt himself smile. Before Camille, there had been days when his expression had never changed. Even now the muscles sometimes reminded him of their long neglect.

  “It’s wonderful!” Camille insisted. “Perfect. Better than a shower.”

  Eustace
sat on the wall, his feet on the ground. He leaned down to feel the icy water. “I might have a heart attack if I jumped in there,” he said.

  Camille waded toward him. “Okay, I’ll get out.”

  “I was kidding,” he said, starting to unbutton his shirt. She often took him literally. He bent to unlace his shoes.

  Camille wiped a drop of water from her eye. “Where have you been? You didn’t leave a note. Mama says she’s going to sell the houseboat. She asked me to tell you.”

  He paused with three buttons undone. “Why tell me?”

  “She said you’d know someone who wanted to buy it. She’s tired of it. She says she only wants ten thousand for it. She just wants to be done with it.”

  Vivian was spoiled rotten. She’d bought the houseboat three years before at maximum price. Now she was practically giving it away. “What’s the rush?”

  “She said people were tearing it up when she wasn’t there to see about it.”

  “I’ll put the word out,” he said, easing into the water.

  He watched her, choosing his moment. “The man they’re looking for is Francisco Chavez.” He waited for her reaction.

  Camille leaned against the wall. Her skin was translucent, almost blue. Beneath her sundress, her nipples were hard. “I don’t think Francisco did anything wrong. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Eustace’s heart was leaden. She knew him. She called him by his first name. He gently lifted her head and stared into her green eyes.

  “Camille, what do you know about this man? You have to tell me.”

  Her eyes dropped, and she tried to pull her chin to her chest. “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

  “I have to know. If you’re involved in the disappearance of those girls, it’s serious.” So serious he was willing to kill a man, even the other girl. “Tell me, Camille.”

  Camille put her arms around him; her flesh was cold. He held her tightly.

  “Let’s get out of the water.”

  “You hate Mother, don’t you?”

  He sighed. He’d never lied to Camille, and he didn’t intend to start.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. I hate both of them, for what they’ve done to you.”