Judas Burning Read online

  “Lydia will be fit to be tied.”

  “That’s actually the least of your problems. Don’t leave Chickasaw County. And don’t make me lock you up.”

  Welford thrust out his chin. “You’re kidding me. You wouldn’t put me in jail.”

  “Try me. Where’s Calvin?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Don’t call him. If you do, I swear to you I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

  J.D. walked out of the bedroom and through the expensively appointed house. When he got out into the night, he took a deep breath.

  Once the storm of emotion had passed and Camille had fallen asleep on the sofa, Eustace thought about calling J.D.

  From the tidbits Camille had told him, Eustace had put together a disturbing picture, with Vivian Holbert squarely in the middle of it. Vivian had been on the river when the girls disappeared. She’d lured the girls into her boat, killed them, and carried the bodies downriver to her houseboat, where she’d stored them until she could bury them. He hadn’t figured out how she’d managed to haul the two bodies out of her boat. Maybe they’d only been unconscious.

  Certainly there were holes in his theory, but he was convinced that Angie Salter and Trisha Webster had died at the hands of Vivian Holbert, not Francisco Chavez.

  Placing his hand on Camille’s cheek, Eustace noticed that her skin was cool. He got a blanket and covered her. If he were right about Vivian, then Camille might soon be free of her mother forever. On the other hand, such a trauma could push her over the edge.

  He was torn. He’d given her a mild sleeping pill, crushed in the orange juice he’d insisted she drink. He had to take action, and he needed to know she was out of danger.

  He tried to call J.D., but there was no dial tone. He depressed the switch rapidly several times. Still no dial tone. The phone sometimes went out during storms if a tree fell on the line somewhere down the road, but there had been no storms. He tried again.

  Night had fallen dark and quiet, and he stepped out on the landing to listen. The air conditioner made it impossible to hear inside the house. Even when he was standing outside, it hindered his hearing. He went back in, cut it off, and stepped outside again. The sound of low voices drifted through the darkness. He tensed. Someone was at the boat landing.

  He moved silently down the stairs, taking care not to let his bad leg drag. Even with his disability, he could move quickly. He used the pilings of the house for cover as he moved toward the men’s voices. When he was at the skinning shed, he could see them. There were two of them, and they stood on the bluff by the landing, smoking cigarettes and talking. He picked up the baseball bat that he used to kill the fish and began to move stealthily down the slope.

  He was almost there when he felt something cold and hard press into his back.

  “Where you goin’ old man?”

  He heard the cock of the rifle.

  “Who are you?” Eustace asked.

  “We’re folks who want some justice for those two dead girls.”

  “So what are you doing here?” Eustace started to turn around, but the barrel of the rifle poked harder into his back.

  “Don’t move, old man. I don’t need a reason to blow your spine all over the river.”

  “What do you want?” Eustace asked.

  “I hear you were involved in what happened to those two girls,” the man said, jabbing the barrel hard. “I want to see you suffer.”

  “I didn’t hurt those girls,” Eustace said calmly.

  “That’s not the way I hear it.” The man pushed his shoulder. “Get down to the river.”

  Eustace knew that if he got in a boat with the men, he would be killed. He stumbled deliberately, falling to the ground. If they got him, they were going to have to carry him.

  “Get up,” the man said.

  Eustace could see him in the light of the skinning shed. A young man, probably no older than twenty. He didn’t recognize him.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Eustace said. “Vivian Holbert’s daughter, Camille, is asleep in the house. I’m not leaving her.”

  The man kicked him hard in the ribs. “You’re gonna do what you’re told.” He kicked him again.

  Eustace didn’t try to fight back. He could only hope that Camille would not hear what was happening and that she would sleep, safely, until everything was finished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Dixon thought her heart was going to stop. The man who had abducted and murdered two girls stood not five feet from her. She was alone in a strange house with him, far removed from any help.

  When he staggered, she realized something was wrong. He took a step toward her but fell back against the wall. He was seriously injured. Scrambling to her feet, she backed to the door. Chavez did not try to follow her. Instead, he sank to his knees.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I was shot.” His voice was feverish.

  Dixon hesitated. She could run to her truck and drive away. In his condition, she doubted he could follow her.

  “Where are Olena and Zander?”

  “She went for medicine. The boy left on his bicycle. He was crying.” Chavez spoke excellent English. He sounded well educated.

  “Why did you take those girls?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer for a long moment. “To save them,” he said. “Sanctify the flesh.”

  “They were just girls. You didn’t have to kill them.”

  “I did not kill them.”

  “If you didn’t, who did?”

  “The woman with the red hair.”

  “Camille Holbert?” Dixon didn’t try to hide her incredulity.

  “Not the girl. The woman.”

  Dixon stepped forward. “Vivian?”

  “I do not know her name.”

  “Why would Vivian Holbert kill two teenage girls?”

  Chavez shook his head, and she saw sweat on his forehead. “I don’t know,” he answered. “She had them in her boat.”

  “Who shot you?” Dixon asked.

  “The old man who lives on the river.” He began to slide down the wall. “He is afraid.”

  Dixon heard a car pull into the yard. She glanced out the door and recognized Olena’s old clunker. She heard a baby crying as Olena hurried up the steps, the infant in her arms.

  “Francisco!” Olena called.

  “He’s in here,” Dixon said, pushing the door open. “Could we have some lights?”

  Olena hit the switch and looked around. “Francisco! Where’s Zander?”

  “That’s what I came to find out. He called me and said his father had attempted suicide.”

  Olena thrust the baby into Dixon’s arms. “Hold him. I need to see to Francisco.” She went to the wounded man, who struggled to his feet and then collapsed against her. Holding him up, she got him to a chair and sat him down. In a moment she had his shirt pulled open to reveal the bullet hole in his shoulder. It was an ugly mass of savaged muscle.

  “Can you help me?” Olena asked Dixon.

  “He needs to go to the hospital.”

  “Don’t be a fool. If he goes to the hospital for treatment, someone will turn him in to the sheriff. Or worse.”

  Dixon jostled the baby on her hip to keep him quiet. “I have to call J.D. You can’t keep Chavez here. He’s wanted for two murders.”

  Olena swung around on her. “And he didn’t do either of them. He’s innocent. If you take him to that jail, there’s a good chance the rednecks around here will kill him before he has a trial.”

  “What if he isn’t innocent? What if he hurt those girls?”

  “Like my brother killed your father?”

  Dixon had no answer. “J.D. won’t let anything happen to him.”

  “The sheriff is one man. Don’t you think a mob would run over him to get to Francisco?”

  “How did Chavez get here?”

  “I gave him a ride. He was hitchhiking on the highway, and I pic
ked him up. He didn’t seem to have a destination, so I brought him here and fed him, then took him down to Fitler. He’s been in the swamps since then. When he got hurt, he made it back here. I guess I was the only person he had to turn to.”

  “Olena, you have to call the sheriff. You can’t harbor a wanted criminal.”

  “Girl, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not in the business of seeing another innocent man get punished for a crime he didn’t commit. I can do what I damn well please as long as I believe it’s the right thing.” She stood up. “Now, I need some hot water. Are you going to help me or not?”

  Vivian Holbert opened the door to J.D.’s knock. She tilted her head and smiled. “You’re beginning to make a habit of stopping by when I’m home all alone. Is that deliberate, Sheriff?”

  “Where’s Calvin?”

  “The bank, maybe. Or he’s holed up with Big Jim, drinking.” She frowned and looked up, feigning deep concentration. “Or, maybe he’s fucking his mistress.” She smiled. “You didn’t think I knew? That bitch.”

  “Who are you talking about?” J.D. asked.

  “Oh, play innocent, that’s okay. I know she’s a friend of yours.”

  For the life of him, he couldn’t begin to imagine who Vivian was referring to. “Dixon?”

  She laughed again, this time the sound was brittle. “Don’t play me for a fool, J.D. You know Beatrice Smart and Calvin are having an affair.”

  “I know no such thing,” J.D. said. “I need to see Calvin. Now.”

  “Check at the parsonage. I think it’s rather kinky, don’t you? Having sex in the church.”

  “I can’t speak for Calvin, but Beatrice is happily married. I can’t believe she’d cheat on her husband.”

  “You are such a pussy, J.D. You are. Get out of here.” She slammed the door hard.

  J.D. stood for a moment, wondering if the entire scene had been a ploy to protect Calvin. No. Vivian was far too self-centered to expend that much energy on saving anyone except herself.

  He went down the walk to the patrol car. He would try the bank and the school board office.

  Eustace came to and felt a sharp pain in his side. He knew his ribs were broken. His hands were bound behind his back, and he was seated against the base of one of the oaks in his yard.

  Three men wearing camouflage were milling about, drinking beer, laughing, and joking. They intended to take justice into their own hands.

  The most important thing was to avoid waking Camille. He could endure anything they did to him as long as Camille was safe. If she stayed in the camp, he didn’t believe they would bother her. These men were Vivian’s agents. But Vivian didn’t understand that no one governed a mob. If Camille came outside and the men were drunk enough and aroused enough, they would punish her, too.

  “He’s awake,” one of them said. They started toward him.

  He looked down at the ground, forcing his body into total relaxation.

  “Are we gonna hang him first or burn him?” one of the men asked.

  “We’ll do it at the same time, like he did those girls.”

  “I don’t know what Vivian told you, but I didn’t hurt those girls. If you do anything to me, J.D. will see to it that you spend the rest of your lives in jail. Vivian can’t protect you from that.”

  “Old man, the sheriff won’t touch us.”

  Eustace kept his gaze on the ground. He didn’t want to provoke the men. “Boys, you don’t want to sacrifice the rest of your lives. I didn’t hurt those girls.”

  “Let’s do it,” one said.

  “You can kill me, but you’ll pay a terrible price.”

  “He’s just trying to bluff you.” The man who’d been talking stepped forward. He put his boot on Eustace’s shin. “I could snap that crippled leg of his.”

  In the light from the shed Eustace could see the man’s tucked-in camouflaged pants and his combat boots. He wasn’t a soldier; he was a hunter, a man who was used to killing things that couldn’t fight back. More than anything, Eustace wanted to hit him. If he were going to die, he wanted to do it while he was trying to kill his opponent. To make that attempt might endanger Camille, though, so he would sit in the dirt like a tied dog.

  “What’s the matter, old man? You afraid.”

  “Yeah,” Eustace said.

  The man pressed harder on his leg. Eustace wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He’d failed to turn the air conditioner back on in the camp. It would be getting hot in there. Camille didn’t sleep well in the heat. The least noise might awaken her.

  “I didn’t hurt those girls,” he repeated.

  “Stop saying that.” The man with his boot on Eustace’s leg pressed harder. “If you say that one more time I’m going to snap this bone.”

  Eustace sat silent.

  “Get the rope and the gasoline,” the man said.

  Eustace could hear the river. It had been his life for a long time. Things were changing. Pollution from the Leaf had begun to affect the harvest offish. Folks were moving onto the banks, pouring sewage and filth into it. Boats were churning back and forth, filled with drunken teenagers who had more money than sense. Maybe it wasn’t a bad time to leave. His only regret was Camille. God, he didn’t want to leave her. And he wanted to see Vivian punished. She’d hurt those girls. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. But he knew she’d done it. And now she’d set him up so that he would die for what she’d done. He had to hand it to her. It was a masterful plan.

  The man returned with a can of gasoline. Eustace felt the rope jerked around his neck, and he closed his eyes in preparation for the gas.

  “What do you men think you’re doing?” Camille’s question came from the edge of the darkness.

  Eustace opened his eyes to see her not fifty feet away, in a long white nightgown that billowed around her thin frame.

  “Grab her!” one of the men ordered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  J.D. had scouted all of Holbert’s usual haunts. No luck. The bank president didn’t seem to be anywhere in town. J.D. wondered if Big Jim Welford had telephoned him and warned him off. If so, Big Jim would pay for it.

  On the off-chance that Holbert had been injured, J.D. swung by the hospital. Nothing. Back in the patrol car, he drove to Main Street and turned toward the newspaper. In his several passes, he hadn’t seen Dixon Sinclair’s truck, either.

  When he pulled past the newspaper, he saw Tucker sitting at one of the front desks. Pulling into a parking space, he got out and walked to the front door. It was locked, but when he tapped on the glass, Tucker rose and let him in.

  “Where’s Dixon?” J.D. asked.

  “She got a call. That black kid, Zander, called to say his father had tried to commit suicide. Dixon took off about two hours ago, and I haven’t heard from her.”

  “She has a cell phone?”

  “I’ve called. Four times. No answer.”

  J.D. slowly inhaled. He remembered her asking him about a stay of execution. “She really believes Jones is innocent?”

  “She doesn’t confide in me, but I’d have to say she’s got serious doubts.”

  “I’m going to check on her.” J.D. started toward the door. He felt Tucker’s hand on his arm and turned around.

  “I’m going, too.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “I am. I can either ride with you and entertain you, or I’ll follow in my own car. If something’s going on, I’m going to be there. Dixon is not only my boss, she’s my friend.”

  J.D. had no doubt the reporter would follow him. He’d best keep the young man under his thumb. “Come on.” He stepped out the door so Tucker could lock it. “Have you seen Calvin this evening?”

  “I saw him downtown about an hour ago.”

  That stopped J.D. “Where?”

  “He was in the Hickory Pit. With Beatrice Smart.”

  The dots connected in J.D.’s brain. “I’ve got to go.” He bolted toward his patrol car, Tucker right behind him. As J.D
. got behind the wheel, Tucker hurled himself into the passenger seat.

  “Get out. This could be dangerous.”

  “All the more reason I’m not going to budge.”

  J.D. put the car in drive. “When this is over, I’m going to charge you with something.”

  Tucker’s grin was self-assured. “I always wanted to be one of those journalists who gave their all for a good story.”

  “This isn’t a joke.” J.D. coasted past the Hickory Pit. Only two tables were filled, neither by Holbert or Beatrice. He took a right and floored it, doing seventy down Providence Street toward the Smart residence.

  “Is it Beatrice or Calvin you’re worried about?” Tucker asked.

  “Both of them.”

  “And Dixon?”

  “I have a lot more faith that Dixon can take care of herself.”

  When he stopped the car at Beatrice’s home, J.D. grasped Tucker’s shoulder. “Stay in the car. If you don’t, I’ll pick you up and throw you in the back. Then you won’t have a choice.”

  Tucker leaned against the seat. “I’ll stay here. You have my word.”

  J.D. got out and walked around the house, skirting the front porch, where a light burned. He checked the garage and saw John Smart’s vehicle, but there was no sign of Beatrice’s. Slipping past the hedge that surrounded the old clapboard house, he peered through the back window into the kitchen. John Smart was pouring a glass of red wine. His shoulders sagged and he checked his watch twice while J.D. watched.

  J.D. knocked at the back door.

  “Sheriff,” John said as he opened the door. “Is something wrong?”

  “Where’s Beatrice?”

  “She got a call from a member of the congregation. An emergency. She was supposed to be home an hour ago.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “She wouldn’t say.” John’s worry was obvious. “I tried her cell phone, but there wasn’t an answer.”

  J.D. thought about Dixon and hoped that his assessment of her was correct. “You don’t know who called?”

  John shook his head. “Beatrice has this confidentiality thing. If the person requests secrecy, she obliges. Even from me. It used to be one of the things I admired about her.”