Judas Burning (25 page)

He chanced a glance at Dixon. She rode with her eyes closed, the air blowing so hard on her face that it lifted her hair off her forehead. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheeks, which showed the faintest trace of freckles.

“Why are you staring at me?” She opened her eyes.

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

He liked that she didn’t deny it.

She looked past him to the river. “Will they really replace this bridge?”

He shrugged. “Probably. In ten or twenty years.”

“Good. I like it this way. If the bridge were easy to cross, folks would start building across the river.”

He knew what she meant, and he was unreasonably pleased. “One of the reasons I came home to Chickasaw County was because of the woods and the isolation. I spent some time working in the Atlanta police department. Too many people. Too many cars.” He laughed. “Just too much of everything. I wanted to be somewhere with lots of trees and dirt roads and country people.”

She faced him as he drove slowly off the bridge. “I came here because I had to prove something to myself. And I was becoming an alcoholic.”

He didn’t protest. “How’s it coming?” he asked.

“Better than I thought in some ways, not so good in others.”

He turned down the drive to Eustace’s camp. The Mercedes wasn’t there. “You sure put a kink in Big Jim’s tail.”

“He needs to have it snatched out.”

J.D. laughed. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“You do?”

“He’s a pompous ass who runs the county with an iron fist. As long as he has Calvin Holbert at his side, he has power. Calvin controls the bank, which controls the loans. And right now Big Jim controls Calvin. It’s an ugly combination.”

“Thanks for telling me that.”

“As if you didn’t know.” He smiled at her as he parked the Explorer. “You’re smart, Dixon Sinclair. I’m going to treat you like I understand that.”

“You’re not the average lawman,” she said.

“God, I hope not.” He got out and went around to open her door.

She stepped into the shade of a big oak and looked around. “I don’t think they’re home.”

“Eustace keeps beer cold in the minnow vats. We could pop a top and take a dip in the artesian water. I need to wait until he or Camille comes back, and we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

He could see the idea appealed to her.

“I didn’t bring a swim suit,” she said.

“Good. Neither did I,” he said. “We can swim in our clothes.”

Tormented, Eustace kicked the throttle of the boat wide open as he drew close to home. Finding Angie Salter wouldn’t conclude the investigation. J.D. was like a snapping turtle that had caught hold of a hand. He’d hang on until he gnawed through the flesh, or until someone bashed him in the head. He would not stop until Chavez and Angie had been found. Killing Chavez—if indeed he had—had only delayed the inevitable.

Once he got back home, he’d talk to Camille. For the last few days, he’d felt as if she were slipping away from him. He would take her somewhere. Whatever she’d done, he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. He’d take her some place where he could watch over her.

He didn’t know what Camille’s involvement with Chavez was. Camille was tender. She wasn’t cruel. But she drew a line between creatures and humans, and her compassion often didn’t extend to her fellow man. She sometimes seemed trapped between dreams and reality. In a dream state she could do almost anything, especially if she were being led by someone she viewed as a spiritual leader, a man who communed with the natural world.

It wasn’t right for her to hurt someone. Eustace understood that. He could never allow her to do it again. And he would watch her. He would be vigilant. It would be okay.

He tried to convince himself that, somehow, he could make it all work out right as he sped toward home. Nearing the camp, he slowed the boat and listened. Silence. He coasted into the landing and saw the sheriff sitting at a picnic table. The reporter was in the minnow vat, her hair slicked back with water. Eustace swore. He needed time to convince Camille to let him lead her.

Eustace tied the boat and walked up the steep bank to J.D. The reporter jumped to the side of the vat and pulled herself out, water sluicing off her. He noted that she was wearing her clothes, and he couldn’t help but think that J.D. was slipping. Four empty beer bottles sat on the table.

“What brings you here?” Eustace asked. It wasn’t a friendly greeting.

“I came to ask a question.” J.D. squinted against the sun.

“I remember the days when you’d come here to visit, not to ask questions.”

J.D. slowly stood up. “And I remember when I used to feel welcome.”

“Ask what you came to ask.” Eustace felt the sun on his back. His feet were slightly apart. He’d deliberately left the rifle in the boat, but now he wished for it. The reporter, still by the vat, wrung out her shirt. She was watching the scene unfold.

“Is it possible Camille took Chavez out of here?”

Eustace considered it, trying not to show the terror that momentarily overtook him. Camille had not helped Chavez escape, but if J.D. could not produce the man, then Camille might get the blame for that. He decided on a simple answer. “No.”

“Look, Eustace, I know Camille’s had so many labels applied to her that she might not give credence to what folks are saying about Chavez. If she helped him, it would be without full knowledge. If he’s gone from here, I need to know it.”

Eustace’s voice rose. “She hasn’t done anything. Why would she? Why would she help a stranger?” His heart was thumping. He tried unsuccessfully to calm himself.

“Where is Camille?” J.D. asked.

“She’s gone in to town. She
sees
her folks a good bit. I don’t know why they want to act like I keep her prisoner down here. She’s free to go anywhere, anytime.”

“Eustace, there’s a girl missing who could still be alive. God knows what she might have been through, but if she’s alive, we have to find her.”

“Angie Salter isn’t alive.”

“You know this?”

“I haven’t seen the body, but she’s dead. I’d be willing to bet she died when the other one did.”

J. D. exploded. “I’m not willing to
bet
one way or the other. This is a girl’s life we’re talking about.”

“No, it isn’t. She’s dead, J.D., and you might as well give up the hope that you’re gonna find her alive. She’s dead and you won’t ever find that Mexican.”

“How are you so certain she’s dead?”

It wasn’t a question but an accusation. Eustace had to divert J.D.’s suspicions away from Camille. It would be better if J.D. suspected him.

“I lied to you about the girls. I saw them the day they disappeared. The Salter girl was just a slut. She was carrying on with her tits uncovered. Whatever happened to her, she brought it on herself.”

J.D. was very still. “And what did happen?”

Eustace cast a sidelong glance at the reporter. “Someone came up or down the river and decided to do the world a favor.”

“We’ve been friends a long time, Eustace. Most of my life. I thought I knew you, but I was wrong.”

“We all have two sides, J.D. Even you. You’ve done things that creep out of the darkness and sit on your heart. We all have.”

“You’re wrong there, Eustace. We all haven’t.”

Eustace turned at the sound of a car. The Mercedes pulled down the long drive, dodging the mud holes. He wanted to rush out, to wave Camille away. She couldn’t protect herself. But he didn’t move. The car stopped beside the house, and Camille got out. Her smile faded as she took in the scene.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, walking toward them. “Eustace?” She still wore her hair tucked up in her hat and lifted her arm to secure it on her head.

He saw the bracelet as it slid up her bare arm almost to her elbow. The sun caught the braided gold and shimmered. Eustace felt his face freeze. He glanced at J.D.; the sheriff’s attention was focused on the bracelet. Eustace thought about his skinning bat in the shed.

“Camille, go in the house,” Eustace said, his voice sharp.

She looked up, hurt.

“Go on inside.” He tried to modify his tone but failed.

She was past hurt and ready to fight. “I don’t take orders from you or anyone else.”

He regretted his tone, but he had to get her away from J.D. “Go inside. Now.”

“Fuck you.” She lifted her chin and her hat tipped off her head. Her red curls cascaded down her shoulders and back.

“Camille, go inside.” He knew the panic in his voice cut her like a razor.

“You forget who you are, Eustace Mills. I used to have to take it when my father spoke to me like that. I won’t take it from you. Do it one more time and I’m out of here.”

Eustace saw J.D. watching. He was going to let them hang themselves.

Eustace let out a cry that tore his throat as he lunged at his friend.

“Eustace!”

He heard Camille and the reporter call his name just before he brought his shoulder into J.D.’s solar plexus. He heard the
oof
of air expelled from J.D.’s lungs, then felt the blow that knocked him to the ground where blackness swirled.

Dixon drove through the small community of Vesley, wondering where Olena Jones might live. It was rural, with a general store-post office that made her feel as if she’d fallen back fifty years in time. The dirt roads and dilapidated houses reflected tight financial times. The three-car-garage, five-bedroom, four-bath developments mushrooming in nearby Mobile hadn’t crept into Vesley. Modest brick homes were the benchmark of prosperity here. Asbestos shingle and clapboard two-bedrooms were the norm.

She kept her eyes open for a teenage boy on a bicycle, but her mind was on the scene she’d witnessed at Eustace Mills’s camp.

J.D. had not arrested Eustace. He’d carried him to the skinning shed, laid him out on the table, then brought him around with a scoop of ice-cold artesian water. Camille had gone into the house. The two men had a terse, whispered conversation, then J.D. had driven Dixon back to town. He’d said little, and she hadn’t pressed the matter. She knew what it felt like to be betrayed.

When he’d dropped her off, he’d asked her out for dinner on Saturday night. She’d accepted, wondering now what she’d agreed to, exactly. What did Horton want from her? She was curious to know.

The road curved around a pecan orchard, and she slowed. A boy on a bicycle was coming her way through the orchard. As he drew closer, she recognized Zander.

He rode toward her, his face hesitant and hopeful, and stopped next to the truck.

“I’m going to talk to your father,” she told him. “I’ll do that much. I can’t make any promises, though. I want to talk to your aunt first.”

He nodded. “Follow me home.”

She nodded.

Zander straddled the bike and pushed off down the road. He made good time on the sandy path that turned and twisted until Dixon lost all sense of direction. When he jumped off in front of a small wooden house, she parked. She didn’t know if Olena Jones would welcome her, but Dixon wanted to see this family for herself.

“Aunt Olena isn’t here.” Zander looked around the yard as if his aunt had disappeared from right in front of him. “She was cookin’ supper when I went for a ride.” He frowned. “I’ll be back.”

He dashed up the steps and into the house, and in a moment he reappeared at the door. “Come on in. I’ll fix you some ice tea.”

Dixon went inside. There was a sprawl of baby toys on the floor and the smell of cornbread coming from the kitchen. She sat down at the kitchen table while Zander emptied an ice tray and fixed her drink. He was nervous.

“Sit down, Zander,” she said softly. “I just want to talk to your aunt for a minute or two.”

They heard her car in the yard, and Zander went to tell his aunt about their visitor.

Dixon rose, but she remained in the kitchen. It was only right to give Zander a chance to explain things to his aunt. Five minutes later, Olena Jones came into the room, her eyes darting from corner to corner until they settled on Dixon.

“Ms. Sinclair,” she said softly. “Why are you here?” She was breathing fast.

“I wondered if you had any documents or anything from your brother, something where he says he’s innocent.”

Olena patted her hair into place. She was a striking woman with a red hue to her skin and light eyes. She’d regained her composure and took Dixon’s glass and refilled it with tea. “Zander has his letters. I have a few myself.”

“Could I have them?”

Olena took her measure. “You’ll keep them safe.” It was a statement.

“Of course. In fact, if you want to copy them, I’ll be glad to take the copies.”

She nodded, then brushed her hands down her thighs. She turned to the oven and opened the door to check the cornbread.

Dixon rose. “I have to get to work. Bring those letters by the newspaper, the sooner the better.”

“I will,” she said. She glanced past Dixon, and her face changed expressions. She looked fearful.

Dixon turned, but the doorway was empty. “Are you okay?”

Olena nodded. “Just a little frazzled. My baby has been sick, and I got to get to Minnie’s house for some help.” She shrugged. “I don’t have insurance. Minnie’s ‘bout as good as any doctor around anyway.”