Judas Burning
Authors: Carolyn Haines
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.
C
HAPTER
O
NE
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.”
HAPTER
T
WO
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 statue 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.
