Judas Burning (13 page)

“Calvin, you have to keep Vivian away from here.”

“I try, damn it. She’s completely obsessed with the idea that I’m screwing some cheerleader.”

Big Jim’s voice was low and firm. “Keep her away from me. She came in here last week acting like a shrew. She was calling you all sorts of names and threatening to go to the newspaper with her accusations. She’s a loose cannon.”

There was a pause. “I can’t control her any longer.”

“You’d better. Now, I don’t care what you do or who you do it to, but if you were involved, in any way, with that Salter girl, you’d best clean up after yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Calvin sounded worried.

“Pay off the mother. Pay her well and quickly. She’s not as stupid as she acts. On his salary, Hayes can’t afford cubic zirconium, and that girl was wearing some expensive stuff.”

There was another pause. Big Jim spoke again: “Look, the girl was a slut. Just don’t let this shit get all over you, because I don’t want it spreading to me.”

A chair scraped across the floor, and Dixon hurried from behind the secretary’s desk. She passed Attie and gave her a nod of thanks as she went down the hall and outside to her truck, her heart hammering.

Three minutes passed before Calvin Holbert hurried out of the superintendent’s office and headed across the porch.

From her vantage point, Dixon assessed the man who controlled the county school board and the only bank in town, and who had enough discretionary funds to offer a reward that was larger than the base income of many Chickasaw County families. A man who had a penchant for young girls.

Holbert was in his early fifties and had never been handsome, but he exuded confidence. Head up, bright tie, dark suit, he was the big fish in a small pond. Mr. Brisk-walking Success.

She got out of the truck and was gratified to see his smile fall away.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“A while.” She thought of her father and felt a surge of confidence. It was a heady sensation. “I’m having a little trouble finding the minutes from the school board meetings. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

Holbert started walking away, but not before Dixon noticed sweat on his forehead. “Mr. Holbert!”

“Jim’s in charge of the minutes.” He kept walking.

“Mr. Welford is too busy to see me. I thought perhaps you could give me a brief summary of that meeting. The readers of the
Independent
are very interested in what’s going on with their public schools. And their school officials.”

Calvin Holbert stopped. “The residents of Chickasaw County wouldn’t know we held school board meetings if you didn’t make such a stink about it.” He flushed. “You’ll get the action of the board when we get ready to give it to you.”

“I shouldn’t have to quote state law to you.” Dixon fell into step beside him.

Calvin swung around to face her. Sweat trickled into his neatly trimmed sideburns. The corners of his mouth were hard indentions. “You obviously know your statutes, but I know banking. As I remember, you don’t have a cushion on your loan, Miss Sinclair. I took a risk on you when I agreed to it. There’s not any room for you to mess up. Keep in mind that a bank can be lenient on a loan, or very rigid.”

Calvin hadn’t bothered with a subtle threat; he’d gone for her spine. “My financial status, though interesting, isn’t part of my story. Did the board fire Tommy Hayes? Yes or no.”

“You’ll have to check the minutes. I don’t trust my memory for such details.” He turned away.

Dixon stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop or push her into Finley Street. “There are no minutes. None. I get the impression the school board hopes to pretend that meeting never occurred. My question is why. Is there something about Tommy Hayes and his alleged relationship with Angie Salter that troubles you?”

He blanched at Angle’s name. “If you were truly concerned with this community, as you stated in your editorial, you would understand that two young girls are missing. Pursuing this matter won’t do their families any good. Now step aside.” He used his shoulder to brush past her. He stepped into the street, ignoring the car that braked and swerved to avoid hitting him.

“Sorry, Mr. Holbert, I didn’t see you,” the driver called, waving him on across the street.

Dixon watched him disappear beneath the oaks, swallowed by the shadows cast by the trees. The scent of his cologne lingered after him.

The yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. Eustace paused, looking at the cascading bullace vines. He was alone in the woods. Camille had gone into town, another trip to placate Vivian and Calvin, to show them that she was whole and free to do as she pleased. But it wouldn’t matter to the Holberts. They couldn’t think of Camille with him except in the context of prisoner. In some ways, they were right. He had cast a spell on their daughter, a simple spell of acceptance. Camille had nothing to live up to with him. That was what bound her to him. He loved her unconditionally, just as she was.

The crime scene tape fluttered again, beckoning him closer. Eustace lifted it and stepped under. J.D. had finished his work, but no one had bothered to remove the tape. The vines were thick and laden with wild grapes. Some had fallen to the ground and begun to ferment. When he’d been a young man and his leg was whole and strong, he’d gone to the woods with Peggy and picked grapes for her father to make wine. Eustace could hear their laughter, echoing back to him across the years. It had taken so little to make the two of them laugh. Simple things, the joy of the sun and the prospect of a bit of skinny dipping in the river were enough. Peggy had loved life. At seventeen, she’d tasted none of the bitterness. Perhaps her drowning had been a blessing. She’d been spared a lot of hurt.

Eustace sighed and stepped into the vines. He didn’t like to think of the past. It was all such a long time ago. There were times he wasn’t certain any of it had really happened.

He let his eyes adjust to the dim, vine-shrouded space. He didn’t fully understand his reason for coming here, to a place sacred to a man accused of abducting the two girls. Eustace had no quarrel with the man just because he worshipped in the woods. Formal religion had left Eustace cold. The high-dollar beliefs of the folks in town were of no use to him. His leanings were simple and in conflict with what he knew of the Protestants. He drank without shame or remorse. Making love with Camille was one of the rare joys of his life, and no amount of religious rhetoric could ever make him believe it was a sin. What he felt for Camille was holy and pure. She was like the river, always in motion, secrets held deep, sometimes hot and sometimes cold. If Eustace worshipped anything, it was nature, and Camille was the closest thing to nature he’d ever found in a human being.

He had only to look into her eyes to see the work of a greater being. He had accepted the task of protecting her, and he thought that was why he’d come to the shrine in the woods.

He’d seen Camille and the Mexican in a tableau that made his chest ache whenever he thought of it. He’d seen them only that morning at the kiln site, when he’d followed her. She hadn’t known he was watching. Camille had touched the man with a gesture so tentative and gentle it was as if she were trying to tame a beast.

He’d hidden in the bushes, ashamed, listening with the intensity that had kept him alive in an environment that didn’t allow for carelessness. Camille’s voice had drifted back to him. He couldn’t distinguish what she was saying, just the lilting comfort in her tone. Camille put her hand on the man’s chest. She made a noise that communicated sorrow. The man had touched her hair, lifting it up as if he’d never seen anything so flame-colored and precious. Camille had knelt and looked up at him, her hand still on his chest. Eustace had felt a rage so consuming that only the boiling sound in his head was audible.

Unable to bear anymore, Eustace had fled, knowing he would never ask Camille about the meeting. Knowing he was too afraid of the answer. But he’d come to this sanctuary to find answers. What could this man, this possible murderer, offer Camille? It must have something to do with this place. Camille lived in a world where spirits were as real as the people around her. Somehow, this man shared something with Camille.

The idea terrified Eustace because of the web of implications. Where were the girls? What had the man done with them? What would he do with Camille? Eustace couldn’t help wondering exactly what Camille knew about the disappearance of Angie Salter and Trisha Webster. She knew something. He was sure of it. He’d seen her hiding something in her underwear drawer the day after the girls disappeared, and when he’d asked, she’d lied to him. Later, he’d looked and found an expensive gold bracelet. One he’d never seen. But he had remembered the glint of gold on Angie Salter’s arm as she’d taunted him from the sandbar.

Eustace stepped into the gloom of the trees, caught in the scent of grapes. He closed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts and calm his fears. He’d lied to J.D., on more than one occasion now. His latest lie was serious. Eustace had been tailing the Mexican, following him through some of the thickest swamp, sighting him from a distance. But he had made no effort to capture him. Instinct told him not to, and Eustace relied on his gut rather than rules and bargains. Even with his friend J.D.

If the Mexican were responsible for taking the two girls, he needed to be apprehended. But not if it jeopardized Camille in any way. Vivian and Calvin would jump at any chance to take Camille away, even if it meant putting her in a mental institution or prison.

Getting justice in Jexville could be difficult. Emotions were at a fever pitch over the missing girls. Camille could easily be dragged into the fray. The Mexican, a stranger, might end up on the end of a lynch rope, and there would be no sympathy for anyone who’d befriended him. Such things had happened in Chickasaw County, and not so far in the distant past.

The musky scent of grapes filled Eustace’s nostrils as he stared at the rough wooden plank that served as an altar. Fresh flowers were on it. The blooms were droopy but not dead. Eustace picked up a carving of a deer. There were an opossum and a raccoon, too. The carvings were finely crafted, detailed. The man was bold. He’d come back to his sacred place as soon as the authorities were gone.

Eustace sensed someone behind him. He turned.

The man, bare-chested, stood twenty feet away. Eustace, who could hear a squirrel climb a tree fifty yards away, had not heard him approach. In the man’s right hand was the sharp skinning knife that had gone missing from Eustace’s shed. On his hairless chest were marks, scars. The skin was ugly and welted, as if it had been burned. Eustace swallowed. He stepped closer. The marks were crosses of all sizes, and they were burned into his chest. Eustace couldn’t take his eyes off them. Then he saw the pewter cross, hanging from a chain around the man’s neck. Camille’s cross. The one she always wore. He felt sick when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. He felt her slipping away from him.

Eustace knew there came times when a judgment had to be made. That was what life was about—making a choice, then sticking by it without complaint. He’d crippled himself because he made a choice one cool fall night. He had been hauling a load of moonshine when a deputy pulled behind him, blue lights flashing. Instead of stopping, Eustace had floored the accelerator. Every day of his life he’d paid for that decision, but he’d never complained. Not once. Not to anyone.

Eustace knew he could try to kill the man. He was close enough, and even though he was at least thirty years older, he could take him if he could get his arms around him. It was the getting to him that troubled Eustace. His bad leg would slow him. But one question held him back.

Where were the girls? Eustace had seen them when he’d come back down the river. After docking, he had gone up to Leslie’s Grocery for some beer and had helped Otis Hobby fix his truck, lingering in the shade of the store to drink a cold beer and listen to Otis tell a few jokes. When he’d come home, Camille had been gone in one of the boats. He hadn’t given it a thought then. Hadn’t even wondered where she was. Freedom was the breath of life to her, and though he sometimes worried for her safety, he never tried to hold her back from wandering the woods and river on her own. But Camille had come home an hour later, splattered with mud, her dress torn. She’d been dazed and withdrawn, and since then her sleep had been troubled. When he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d said, “Death is of the spirits. A gift.”

He thought of that now. “Death is of the spirits.” Now he faced the man who may have introduced Camille to death.

The light was poor, but when he looked up into the man’s eyes he saw satisfaction. Eustace decided to capture him and make him tell where the girls were. Then he would kill him. If Camille were implicated in the girls’ disappearance, the man would never live to tell it.

Eustace lunged. Just as he reached out for the man, his foot hung in a vine. He hit hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

He struggled in the carpet of leaves, thrashing. He knew he had to keep moving or the man would stab him. Rolling quickly, he looked up.