Judas Burning Read online

“Solid enough to reopen the case. Willard Jones is telling the truth.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Eustace watched the sun climb over the oaks in the courthouse yard. He hadn’t slept all night. J.D. had been out of the office, but he was on his way back now.

  J.D. pulled into the yard. He helped Tommy Hayes, handcuffed, out of the cruiser. Eustace rose and followed them. At the door to the jail, Eustace touched J.D.’s arm. “I have to tell you something. It’s about Chavez. About his wound.”

  J.D. led Hayes to a cell in the back. He locked him in and turned to face Eustace.

  “J.D., I have to tell you the truth. I stopped by the room where you put Chavez. He’s going to be okay, isn’t he? What’s going to happen to him?”

  J.D. led the way to his office. He closed the door. “You look like hell.”

  “I shot him. I meant to kill him, but I didn’t get a clean shot.”

  J.D. poured two cups of black coffee and handed one to Eustace. “Frank Pierce is the surviving vigilante who came to your house. He confessed that he and the other two men had been paid by Vivian to kill you. Camille’s actions were self-defense.”

  “I’m trying to tell you that I tried to kill Chavez.”

  J.D. sipped his coffee. “Is that so? It’s an odd thing, but Chavez said it was Vivian Holbert who shot him. He said he saw her clearly.”

  “Are you making this up?”

  “You know me better than that. When I talked to Chavez at the hospital, he told me Vivian shot him. He signed a statement to that effect. Want to see it?”

  Eustace shook his head.

  J.D. put his hand on Eustace’s shoulder and moved him through the office and into the hall. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on here, but take my advice and leave. Take this gift and go.”

  Eustace looked at his old friend. “Come see me and Camille. Come have dinner with us.”

  “You bet.”

  Dixon woke up with a pounding headache. The sun was full up and glaring through the window. She moaned and covered her eyes. The night before, she’d had several drinks in rapid succession without eating. Now she was paying for it. Beside her, Robert slept on his back.

  She slipped from the bed and made coffee, leaning against the counter as she waited for it to drip. When she had a cup in her hand she went in the bathroom, found the aspirin bottle, and tapped three into her hand. She closed the medicine cabinet door and met her reflection. Age touched the skin around her eyes, but there was something new in her reflection, a hint of the twenty-two-year-old woman she’d once been. In the years since her father’s death, she’d lost so much, and now she was beginning to find herself again.

  “Dixon?”

  Robert was awake. “I’ll bring you some coffee,” she called out. She poured a cup and took it to him. He propped himself against the headboard.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “What a tragic night.”

  “This is going to be a dynamite story,” he said.

  “Are you going to interview Camille?”

  “Not that. Willard Jones,” he said. “We have a direct link between three state senators and a chemical company that’s been run out of five other states. Those senators had given the chemical company the right to dump toxic waste, and your dad was going to blow them out of the water. This is going to be a Pulitzer for me.”

  “You’re going to write the story of my father’s murder?”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t know who she was. “Why do you think I’ve hung around here all this time? This is the story I came to do.”

  “What—”

  “The missing-girl story is a good one, but it’s really just about a crazy woman who killed her competition. Your story is about a great journalist who was silenced by political forces. Surely you can see the difference.”

  She stood up. “Did you ever intend to do a story on Chavez and the missing girls?”

  “I had some interest in it. If Chavez had been the killer, it would be a better story. Now it’s just a psycho wife who killed her husband’s lover and some innocent people who got in the way.”

  Dixon retrieved her jeans from the floor. Still holding her coffee cup, she took her pants into the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned against it. Robert had betrayed her. Whether he realized it or not, he had.

  She slid into her jeans, grabbed a T-shirt from a hook on the door and replaced it with her nightshirt. She brushed her teeth and got the taste of last night’s cigarettes out of her mouth.

  She could hear Robert dressing. She walked into the bedroom. He was tying his shoes.

  “Do you think Olena Jones and Zander will talk to me today?” Robert asked.

  “Robert, you sought me out because of my father’s murder, didn’t you?”

  “I knew about you when I came to Jexville, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Would you have come here if Chavez hadn’t?”

  “Eventually. It was fortuitous that both threads drew us together.”

  “You slept with me, knowing your primary interest was a story?” She resisted a strong urge to throw her coffee cup at his head. “Do you have any idea how unethical that is?”

  “One doesn’t have anything to do with the other. I slept with you because I desire you.”

  “Somewhere in journalism school, didn’t they teach you not to sleep with a source?”

  He stood up abruptly. “You can turn this into something ugly if you want to, but that’s not how it is.”

  “From my side of the bed, that’s exactly how it is. I can’t stop you from doing a story about my father’s murder, but I won’t help you. Get out of my house.” She was trembling, and she didn’t care.

  “You need help,” he said, stalking past her.

  “And you need ethics.”

  He turned back to face her. “Mark Barrett used you. He knew those men were going to hurt your father, and he detained you. Is that what you’re afraid to find out?”

  “If Mark betrayed me, he certainly wasn’t the last. Get out.”

  The rolling farmland of Simpson and Hinds Counties had given way to congestion that marked the fringes of the Jackson growth district. Eighteen-wheelers and trailers full of pigs vied with a long line of SUVs for highway space as Dixon crept through the town of Richland. Not so long ago, this stretch of highway had been more rural, less congested, and there had been a stables where Dixon had taken horseback riding lessons as a child. Marilyn had complained that it was on the backside of nowhere. Now, it was part of the city. All of it had changed. And it was changing yet again, more asphalt, more growth. Traffic wasn’t moving at all, so she pushed her air conditioner higher.

  Mid-October had arrived with slightly cooler temperatures, but south Mississippi was still waiting for fall. Jexville had fallen back into small-town rhythms, with a few notable exceptions. Beatrice Smart was launching a recall campaign against Big Jim Welford. Camille and Eustace were back in the swamp, and Robert Medino had checked out of his room at the Magnolia. He was gone from Jexville, but one of her old friends at the Clarion Ledger had called and told her he was asking questions around Jackson.

  The radio played a country tune, but Dixon beat a different rhythm on the steering wheel as she waited for a light to change. Traffic finally moved, and in fifteen minutes she was on the Interstate sweeping around the city. She exited at High Street and aimed toward the state capitol. A powerful state senator now, Mark Barrett had set his sights on the governor’s office. He’d never pretended to be less than compulsively ambitious. She’d driven to Jackson to find out if his ambitions were stronger than his loyalty.

  She parked on the square and hurried up the broad steps to the capitol building, where he had a second-floor office.

  As her heels clicked across the marble floor, she realized how much she’d changed. She was no longer a young woman swept away by her feelings. Nor was she broken by her grief.

  She pushed the elevator button and rode up. When she got off, she
was calm and composed. The secretary asked her to take a seat, but she stood. In a moment, his office door opened, and Mark greeted her with a wide smile. He stepped across the carpet and drew her into his arms, hugging her tightly.

  “Dixon Sinclair,” he said. “I was afraid it was going to be an imposter” He hugged her tightly again.

  It had been a long time since she’d loved Mark. She had loved him with the foolish abandon of youth.

  When he released her, she stepped back. His face was more weathered, his hair sprinkled with gray, but his mouth was still firm and sensual. There seemed to be real warmth in his brown eyes.

  “Come into my office,” he said, ushering her past the curious secretary and closing the door. He stepped closer and took her hand. “What is it, Dixon?”

  She’d thought she might ease into the subject, but she didn’t have the reserve. “The day my father was killed She had to take a breath. “I was late meeting him. We were in bed, remember?”

  “How could I forget? It was the last time you spoke to me.

  Dixon saw the hurt in his eyes.

  “Did you know what was going to happen to him? Did you detain me deliberately?”

  He turned away and walked to the window. She couldn’t tell if she’d wounded him or if he was preparing a lie.

  “I loved you, Dixon. You were almost killed. If you’d been there on time, you’d be dead now.”

  “Either that, or my father would be alive, too.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “Willard Jones’s execution date is coming up. Is that what’s brought all of this

  Up?

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “Willard Jones is innocent, and I need your help proving it. I’ve spent the last eleven years lying to myself. I never wanted to admit that I loved you. You were married, and I had no right to care about you. That lie cost me a lot, because I did love you.”

  He grasped her shoulders. “I wanted to marry you.”

  The future that could have been danced in front of her, then vanished.

  “After the bombing, I was afraid you might have known that someone meant to hurt my father.” She waited. “Did you?

  Mark’s hands slid from her shoulder, and he walked to his impressive desk.

  “Mark, if you ever cared for me, tell me the truth now. Willard Jones tried to hang himself. He’s going to die for a crime he didn’t commit. His family is suffering. If you know the truth, I’m asking you to tell me now.”

  He picked up a paperweight and examined it. “I didn’t know for certain. I suspected. I got a phone call. Anonymous. The man told me to keep you away from the paper.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “If I’d mentioned anything to you, you would have driven straight to the newspaper. You would have died, too.”

  Dixon had expected to feel anger. Instead, she was completely numb. For eleven years she’d suspected the worst, and now that she knew it, she could feel nothing. “Who did it?”

  “I’m not certain. If I’d known who was behind it, I would have told you, and I would have called the authorities. I would have. I didn’t really believe anything would happen. Keeping you with me was a precaution.”

  “They killed my father, and they let an innocent man rot in jail for eleven years.” The words scalded her mouth. “Tell me who made that phone call.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to find out. And I’m going to make them pay.” She opened the door and saw the secretary staring at her.

  “What are you going to do, Dixon?” he asked.

  “Exactly what my father would have wanted. I’m going to burn some people. In print.”

  “Wait. We may be able to get the phone records from that date. I’ll make a few calls.” He took a step toward her. “Dixon—”

  She closed the door behind her and walked out of the building and into the sunshine.

  She’d just gotten into her truck when her cell phone rang.

  “I heard you went to Jackson,” J.D. said. “Find anything?”

  She hesitated. Confirmation of Mark’s betrayal felt harsher after Robert’s.

  “Yeah. I found a lot more than I wanted to know.”

  J.D.’s question was cautious. “Good or bad?”

  Dixon started her truck. She looked up at the capitol building. She’d come of age in this town, walking thoughtlessly through buildings where powerful men made decisions that affected every citizen of the state.

  “Both. There was definitely a conspiracy to kill my father. It’s going to take some digging, but I’ll get the evidence.”

  “And the bad?”

  “Betrayal is a bitter feast, J.D.”

  “You don’t have to eat all the courses, you know.”

  His gentle tone made her smile, and she was glad he hadn’t said “I told you so” about Robert.

  “So you’re a philosopher with a badge. You never cease to surprise me.”

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I think you already have enough evidence to get a stay of execution for Willard Jones. That’ll buy you some time to find the rest of it, and I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “Thank you.” She gripped the phone tighter. “Just so you know, when I get the evidence, I’m going to burn them.”

  “I don’t doubt that for an instant. Telling the truth can be a thankless task, but you know that. In a lot of ways, Dixon, we’re both in the business of giving people what they deserve.”

  She pulled out of the parking lot and threaded her way toward the Interstate, toward Jexville and the new life she’d carved out for herself. “I’ll be home in about three hours.”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “You bet.” She punched off the cell phone and gripped the wheel with both hands. She had a lot of work ahead of her, but for the first time in a long while, she knew she could handle it.

  Her father was dead, and the men who’d had him killed were living free while an innocent man remained in prison. Nothing could change what had already happened, but the truth would be told. That was what Ray Sinclair had taught her. That was her legacy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Sometimes a book takes many years and much effort on the part of both the writer and editor. Special thanks go to Ashley Gordon, my editor, and to Gail Waller and Carolyn Newman at River City Publishing. I owe them all a great deal.

  As always, the road was less lonely with Marian Young to guide me.

  Thanks and credit are due to my friends and fellow writers of the Deep South Writers Salon: Susan Tanner, Renee Paul, Stephanie Chisholm, Aleta Boudreaux, and Thomas Lakeman—who gave so generously of their time, energy, and talent.

  Thank you all.

  If you liked Judas Burning check out:

  Penumbra

  1

  The black Cadillac convertible churned down the dirt road, whipping whirls of dust behind it. The car, low-slung and fast, disappeared behind a stand of dark pines, leaving the landscape unexplainably barren. In a pasture beside the road an old mule grazed on grass burned dry by a merciless sun. From the shadow of a leaning barn came the low of a cow. The car sped by them, almost a vision, leaving only the settling dust and the taste of scorched dirt.

  Behind the wheel, Marlena Bramlett pushed dark sunglasses higher on a perfect nose. A white scarf protected her hair, except for her bangs, which bobbed in hair-sprayed curls on her forehead. The red-and-white-striped shirt she wore hugged her breasts; darts emphasized her narrow waist. She drove as if her profile were the masthead on a ship.

  Beside Marlena, standing in the middle of the seat, a six-year-old girl faced the wind. Brown pigtails, tipped with white bows, fluttered wildly behind the child.

  “I see him!” Suzanna pointed up the road, her childish voice rising in excitement. “He’s there. He’s waiting for us.”

  “Sit down,” Marlena told her daughter. “You act like a heathen.”

  “Will he have olives? The ones wi
th the red things inside?” Suzanna bounced up and down on the seat.

  “I don’t know.” Marlena passed the back of her hand over her forehead, smoothing the blond curls that, only half an hour before, had been pinned to lie just so.

  “Big Johnny lives on a red dirt road, and he tastes like chocolate,” Suzanna said.

  “He gives you chocolate,” Marlena corrected. “And he thinks you’re very smart. But that’s our secret, remember? If you tell anyone, I mean anyone, you can never come with me again.” The car fell into shadow as it entered a thick grove of pines. The road narrowed, and sand grabbed at the wheels.

  “I won’t tell.” Suzanna glanced at her mother, hurt. “I’d never tell on you.”

  Marlena slowed the car, finally stopping. She pulled her daughter to her side. “I know you won’t tell. You’re the one who loves me best.” She kissed Suzanna’s cheek, then quickly brushed the fine dust from her daughter’s skin. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t bring you. Now let’s make sure we look good.” She turned the rearview mirror so she could check her ruby lipstick.

  “Does Big Johnny really think I’m smart?” Suzanna twisted both pigtails in front of her chest. “He says I’m pretty, like you.”

  “Does he really?” Marlena’s attention focused on the man half-hidden in the shadow of the car. She drove slowly abreast of the two-toned Chevy and stopped. The man sitting behind the wheel was tall, his black hair Bryllcremed back, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The ringless hand on the window was long and tanned, the nails neat. One finger thumped a rhythm.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “I couldn’t get away. Lucas brought someone home for lunch.”

  Suzanna felt the tension between the two adults. Big Johnny was angry. He looked hot, inside and out. His olive skin was slick with heat, his black eyes burning. If Johnny acted ugly to her mother, Marlena would be upset for days.

  “I can count to a hundred,” Suzanna said.

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” Marlena said. “I came as quickly as I could.”