Judas Burning (12 page)

“I hope to make Jexville my home,” Dixon said.

Vivian smiled. “It’ll be a shock for the good-ole-boy system, to have a female publisher chewing their butts.”

Beatrice asked, “What do you do for fun, Dixon? Vivian is a champion water skier.”

Dixon was relieved at the shift in the conversation, but she hadn’t thought about a hobby since she was in high school. “I don’t think drinking qualifies, so I guess I don’t have any.”

“Vivian worked for several summers in Florida. Cornelia Wallace skied there, but it was before Vivian’s time, I think.”

“That’s right,” Vivian said. “I learned to ski when I was five. I always swam like a fish, and I loved skiing. I kept up the practice,” Vivian said. “Believe it or not, it’s quite a workout, and it beats the hell out of step aerobics or a NordicTrack. You’ll have to come with me sometime.”

“Do you work, Vivian?” Dixon asked.

“I was trained as a surgical nurse, and I was very good at my job. But when I married Calvin and we came here, to Jexville, this town made it impossible for me to continue with my career.”

“How, exactly, did that happen?”

Vivian smiled. “You don’t understand how a woman could be forced to give up a career, do you? You’re thinking that nobody could force you out of your job. This was twenty-five years ago, Ms. Sinclair. Calvin took over the bank, and as the bank president, he became an important local figure. For his career to advance, he needed a wife. This day and age, a woman can be a wife and have a job, but not the kind of wife that Calvin required.” She lifted one eyebrow. “I’m a hard worker in civic areas. I’m president of the garden club, publicity chairman of the arts organization. I’m a Girl Scout leader, organizer of the Christmas parade, head of Room Mothers for Better Schools.” She laughed softly. “I haven’t been inside a hospital since I had my tubes tied.”

“Do you miss working?” Dixon asked.

“I made the choices allowed me as Calvin’s wife. I don’t regret a single one. My life has been fulfilled, except where my daughter is concerned. And that’s the bottom line. I’ve suffered because of Camille. I’ve lost her as surely as the Salters and Webster’s have lost their daughters. Except there’s a chance Angie and Trisha will come home. I don’t have that hope for Camille.” Her voice hardened. “At least not until that old man dies.”

The telephone in the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Office rang constantly. The lure often thousand dollars had loosened the tongues of close to fifty callers, almost all of them crackpots or crackheads. J.D. had returned every call and sent Waymon to talk to three of the callers, though the leads they offered were mostly imagination. One caller claimed to have seen the girls at the high school hiding in the bathroom. Another saw them hitchhiking on Highway 98. Those had been a waste of time and effort. Another call, though, had set him thinking, especially with the forensics report he’d just received. An anonymous caller, a soft-spoken black woman, had said she’d picked up a hitchhiker and given him a lift up Highway 98 West. She said the man was Mexican but spoke a little English. He’d gotten out at a beer joint near Fitler, on the Greene County line. The man hadn’t talked much, but he’d been intense, according to the woman, and he’d never said his name. But J.D. thought he knew it. He just had to make sure he didn’t rush to any conclusions.

He picked up a copy of the
Independent
, refolded it, and put it on his desk. He couldn’t help glancing out the window at the superintendent of education’s office. He could only imagine the conniptions Big Jim was having over the editorial in the paper. Dixon Sinclair had verbally kicked him in the balls. At long last, the superintendent had gotten into a pissing match with someone who wouldn’t back down.

J.D. found Dixon an interesting woman. He wasn’t certain about her motivation, but he knew that she’d come to Jexville to prove something, at least to herself. J.D. never trusted delicate snooping to Waymon, and he’d checked out Dixon’s past himself. He’d read the files on her father’s murder and on the conviction of Willard Jones, a man who still professed his innocence. Jones had an appointment in the gas chamber in less than three weeks, and if his execution were carried out, his guilt or innocence would soon be a moot issue. After the explosion that killed her father and destroyed his newspaper, Dixon had been hospitalized for several weeks. She’d left the hospital and moved to Nashville, then to Charlotte, and finally to Memphis. Her reputation was solid, if not exciting. Then she’d dropped out of journalism for a year and resurfaced in Jexville.

Dixon’s mother, Marilyn McVay Sinclair, had been a local beauty queen turned photographer. When Marilyn married Ray Sinclair and left Jexville, her parents had moved to Jackson, too. They had been a well-respected but aloof family. Dixon was living in the old McVay family home on Peterson Lane, an isolated place, but probably a good location for a writer. No one would interrupt her.

J.D. remembered the way Dixon’s cotton shirt had clung to her breasts at the river. Her long hair, curled with humidity, had been dampened on her forehead. He could see in her eyes that she was haunted by something. But it wasn’t his problem, and he wasn’t taking on the role of rescuer. He’d learned that he couldn’t save anyone, maybe not even himself.

He put aside thoughts of Dixon and picked up a manila folder. The forensics report on the beer can he’d found beneath the sycamore tree had come back. There were three sets of prints. Eustace Mills’s, some that didn’t match to any in the system, and those of Francesco Chavez, which had been a lucky hit. The Mexican native had been arrested six months ago in the small Texas border town of Eagle Pass for vandalism. The charges had been dropped, but the fingerprints had remained on file. That, coupled with the anonymous call reporting the hitchhiker and Camille’s description of the man in the tree, couldn’t be ignored.

It galled J.D. to admit it, but it was beginning to look as if Medino’s theory had some teeth. Chavez was in the area, or at least a beer can with his prints was. Not just in the area, but where the girls had disappeared.

From the Texas file, J.D. had learned that Chavez was a native of Zaragoza, Mexico. He was an only child, and other than the arrest for vandalism, he’d never been in any trouble. But how did he get to Chickasaw County, and why had he come?

J.D. rose slowly. His back ached, and his feet were tired. He’d been in the swamps every day for a week, searching, hunting, praying that he’d find something that would lead him to the girls, and that—miracle of miracles—they would be okay. Death sat on his heart, but he clung to the slim chance they were alive. He’d hunt until that chance didn’t exist any longer.

He needed to talk to Camille and Eustace. His old friend hadn’t been honest with him, and that cut J.D. Eustace was a loner and a man who operated by his own code of conduct. It was a strict code, but it didn’t include telling the truth to figures of authority, and J.D. knew he had to keep that in mind. Eustace had lied to the badge, not the man.

He’d just picked up his keys to the patrol car when he heard a tap on his office door. “Come in,” he called.

Beatrice Smart stepped into his office and closed the door softly behind her. “I’m concerned for Vivian,” she said, her face a mirror of her feelings. “She’s obsessed with the idea that Eustace has taken those girls. She has a gun. She told me so. As unstable as she is, I’m afraid she might go down to the swamps and try to kill him.”

Dealing with Vivian was low on the list of things he needed to do. “I’ll go and talk with her,” he said. “Thanks for telling me.

“I’m not trying to tell you your business, J.D., but I’d talk to Calvin. Get him to turn in the gun. If she only has her mouth, she can’t do real damage. The gun worries me.”

“You’re positive she has one?” It was possible that Vivian had lied just to sound dangerous.

Beatrice nodded. “I saw it. She had it in her purse at lunch today. Looked like a .38.”

J.D. picked up his keys. He would swing by the bank before he went to Eustace’s. “Thanks, Beatrice. I’ll take care of it now.”

Beatrice hesitated in front of his desk. He put his keys down and softened his posture. “Is there something else?” Beatrice had had a rough time in Jexville. Though the Methodist church was the most liberal in town, the congregation had been affronted at the idea of a female minister. They had adjusted slowly, but there had been ugly scenes, and her car had been egged and her house pelted with rotten tomatoes. She had hung tough, though, and finally worn down the resistance. Or so he hoped.

“I know you have a full plate, J.D., but I’ve been getting phone calls.”

He felt his muscles tighten. “What kind of phone calls?”

“I can’t distinguish the caller, whether it’s even a man or a woman. They just say that I’m a godless bitch and that I’m going to pay.”

“Have you tape recorded any of these?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

“No. If the answering machine picks up, the caller hangs up. There have been a number of hang-up calls.” She bit her bottom lip and kept her gaze on the floor. “I thought all of this was over.”

“I did, too,” J.D. said. He came around the desk and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I doubt it’s serious. Just another person who doesn’t have the grit to confront you face to face, but to be on the safe side, have you thought about a dog? A big dog.”

She looked up and smiled. “You’re teasing.”

He shook his head. “Not in the least. I have a friend whose dog had a litter about two months ago. They’re a chow-shepherd mix, and he says they’re smart as a whip. It wouldn’t hurt to have something in the house that barks.”

She studied his face. “You’re serious.”

“Two girls are missing. I have a reporter here from out of town who says they’ve been abducted by some religious zealot. The statue at the Catholic church was decapitated. There are a lot of things going on around Chickasaw County that indicate trouble afoot. I’d feel better if you had some protection.”

“I’ll speak to John about it.”

“I know your husband is trained in firearms. Do you have a gun?” John Smart’s army record was impressive. Two purple hearts and bronze and silver stars for action in Desert Storm. He was a quiet, steady man who spent his days as a woodworker. Beneath that quiet was a man who could defend his home and family if the need arose.

“We don’t believe in violence,” Beatrice said. “We—”

“I don’t either, Beatrice, but if someone tries to hurt you, I’d rather see John take action.”

“You’re scaring me, J.D.”

“That’s not my intention, but it might not be a bad thing. I’ll talk to Waymon about setting up a tap on your phone line at home and at the church. One way or the other, we’ll take care of it. Now, I’d better go see about Vivian. Just answer me this, Reverend. Why is it that the only people who own guns are the idiots who shouldn’t?”

J.D. was rewarded with a smile as he ushered Beatrice out of his office.

With the newspapers labeled, sacked, and hauled to the post office by deadline, Dixon had given Tucker and Linda the rest of Wednesday afternoon off. The rhythm of the weekly was like a great wave, building gradually on Thursday and Friday, towering to a peak on Monday, and crashing to shore on Tuesday. By Wednesday, everyone was exhausted.

As much as Dixon was tempted by the thought of her cottage on Peterson Lane, she forced herself to trudge to the board of education offices. Jim Welford was going to be furious, but she wanted him to know right up front that his fury didn’t intimidate her. The secret meetings were a serious issue, and she wasn’t about to let it drop.

Attie Wilson, a perfectly manicured woman in her early sixties, informed Dixon that Jim Welford was in an urgent meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. She feigned complete indifference when Dixon asked for the minutes. She got the folder, handed it over, and resumed typing.

Dixon flipped through the neatly typed pages, then closed the heavy folder. “Ms. Wilson, I need to speak with Mr. Welford.”

Attie didn’t look up as she continued typing. “What is it?”

“There aren’t any minutes for the two secret meetings. The last minutes recorded are for August 28.”

Attie’s fingers slowed, then stopped. “No action was taken at the last meeting. I only record the official action.”

“But Mr. Welford told me they fired a teacher. He said the minutes would be recorded. There’s not even a notice that the meeting was held.”

Attie glanced at the door that led to Jim Welford’s private office. “If official action was taken, it would be recorded in that book. Unless it’s in the minutes, it didn’t happen.” Attie pushed back her chair. “Excuse me, I have to see if Mr. Welford and Mr. Holbert would like some coffee.” She tapped lightly at the door before she disappeared inside. When she came back out, she left the door cracked open. She walked past Dixon without looking at her. “I’ll be gone about fifteen minutes.”

Dixon stared at the secretary’s retreating back, then turned to the open door, where Holbert’s voice could be clearly heard. Whatever her reasons, Attie was giving her an opportunity. Dixon stepped closer to the door.