Judas Burning (19 page)

“If he isn’t too tired, I’d greatly appreciate his help.”

“Come in,” she said, stepping back and leaving him to follow her as she walked through the dim, cool recesses of the house. She stopped at a closed door and knocked.

“Alan, there’s a law officer here to see you. He’s from the States.”

“Come in.” The voice was deep and rich.

J.D. stepped around the woman after she opened the door and withdrew into the hallway.

“Don’t tire him,” she whispered before she walked away. “I will prepare some refreshments. Some wine and cheese.”

J.D. stepped into a room furnished in southwestern colors, a man’s room with a tooled leather saddle on a rack, the bridle with silver workings hanging beside it.

“A lawman from the States?” Arguillo said as he came forward and extended his hand. “How can I help you?”

J.D. shook hands, feeling the strength in the sculptor’s fingers. He was an old man, in his seventies if his face didn’t lie, but he was virile and strong.
“Señor
Arguillo, do you know a man named Francisco Chavez?”

Friendliness dropped out of the wrinkles around the man’s mouth. “I have nothing to do with Chavez.”

“I’m sorry to bring up a topic that upsets you, but this is a matter of life and death. A girl is already dead. Another is missing. You may be able to tell me something.”

“Chavez is a devil.” Arguillo’s sea blue eyes didn’t blink.

“Tell me about him.”

Arguillo walked to a grouping of chairs. “Please, sit.” He took a seat and waited for J.D. to take one. “Francisco worked for me for a year. He wanted to learn to sculpt wood. Not stone but wood. I taught him every day. He was an apt student.”

When Arguillo didn’t go on, J.D. spoke. “Surely that isn’t the end of the story.”

“One day I heard Selmacita screaming. It was after I lost my vision. Francisco was gone, but he had destroyed all of his creations. He burned them, and then he ran away. He had talent and ability, but he is not a creator. He is a force of destruction. He is filled with
el Diablo.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I knew enough. His mother became a whore. She had little choice. She became pregnant with Francisco, and she would not tell the name of his father. Her family cast her out. She had no way to make a living.” The sunlight coming through the window deepened the lines of the old man’s wrinkles. “The life of a single mother is not easy, especially in a town where religion is the ruling force. Maria was a remarkable girl. She posed for me once, for a painting. She had a luminous quality, like a saint. It was very hard for her, and one reason I took on Francisco was for her sake. She was ashamed.” He fell silent and sat in the sun. “I am an old man now. I should have done more. We all should have.”

“What more could you have done?”

“Hired Maria to work here, given her employment so that she didn’t have to sell herself. Her shame marks us all, because no one lifted a finger to help.”

“Why do you suppose that was?”

He chuckled, a sound of remorse. “God made her too beautiful. She was a threat to the women and a temptation to the men. When her family turned her out, no one else would help her. She was cursed by her beauty.”

The door opened and Selmacita entered with a tray. She assessed her husband and then J.D.

“Some wine and cheese,” she said. “Refreshments, but no more serious conversation. My husband is tired.”

Eustace sat in the boat and waited, his eyes hooded. Across the sandbar, the woods were a dense blur of foliage. The past, or the future, could be hidden in the there. It was a place of secrets.

He’d chosen the boat for speed. If he saw the Mexican, he was going to kill him and then do his best to get away before he was discovered. He’d weighed it out. Killing the man would destroy the last hope of finding the Salter girl. Letting him live and be captured could end up costing Camille her freedom.

Eustace replayed the Tuesday morning when he’d seen the two girls on the sandbar. They’d been drinking, and one of them, the blonde, was looking for trouble. He saw her young, firm body and the way the sand stuck to her thighs and glistened in the sun. He could still hear her taunts. She was not worth the tip of Camille’s little finger.

The sound of a boat motor sputtered in the distance, and he sat up and turned his head to hear better. It was large, not just a tin-boat fisherman. Something serious. It was time to go. He didn’t want to be seen anywhere near the place he’d trap the Mexican.

Eustace used the paddle to move the skiff around the sandbar, out into the river. He slapped angrily at a mosquito on his neck. As the speedboat cleared the curve, he recognized Corley Mizelle, but he didn’t know the tall, dark-haired stranger who stood like the captain of a man-of-war.

The two men exchanged some words, then Mizelle headed toward Eustace at a clip that wasn’t safe.

“Hold up, Eustace,” Mizelle said, swinging the boat just before they collided. Eustace’s skiff bobbled in the speedboat’s wake.

Eustace ignored Mizelle and asked the man, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“My name is Robert Medino. I’m looking for Eustace Mills.”

“You’ve found him,” Eustace said, aware that Mizelle, never one to keep his mouth shut, was silent.

“I want to hire you to guide me into the swamps,” Medino said. “I believe the man who killed those young girls is still in the swamp, and I think, with your help, we can find him and bring him to justice. We might even save the second girl.”

“You think we can accomplish what the sheriff can’t?” Eustace was irritated at the man’s arrogance.

“The sheriff is bound by his lack of imagination. I’m not. I hear you know this swamp better than anyone else around these parts.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Five hundred a day.”

It was a lot of money. More than he’d earned since the market for moonshine had dried up. “I’ll think about it.”

“Where can I reach you?” Medino asked.

“I’ll be in touch with you.” Eustace pushed clear of the speedboat and headed downriver toward the bridge. Employment by Robert Medino might be the perfect cover for finding the Mexican.

Dixon waited in her truck outside the courthouse. J.D.’s patrol car wasn’t at the sheriff’s office; it was parked at his house on Ratliff Street. His Explorer was gone. She’d called his office four times, but Waymon was either dumb as a post or a superb actor. He had no clue where J.D. might be.

The truck’s air conditioner began dripping condensation, and Dixon put the truck in gear and slowly drove away. She wanted to talk to J.D. Tommy Hayes had lied—about buying a boom box for Angie Salter and about being in the woods on the day the girls disappeared. She’d verified that he was in Gulfport that afternoon, but it hadn’t occurred to her to check on his whereabouts that morning. Hayes, for all his fresh-faced innocent look, was slick.

She knew better than to try and get information from the high-school office, so she sent Tucker to talk to students. He would find out a lot more, and faster than she could. Besides, there was something else Dixon needed to do, something she’d put off.

She picked up the thin phone book and looked up Jones. There were only three dozen names, and she began calling, asking for Willard. She was on the eighteenth name, Olena Jones, when the young woman who answered asked, “What do you want with Willard?”

Dixon noted the address in a small community north of Jexville, close to the river. “I want to be certain that he’s guilty of killing my father,” she said.

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Willard is my brother. His son, Zander, is here for the summer. He said he was going to see you, but I thought it was just foolishness.”

“I’d like to talk with him.”

She considered this. “Zander doesn’t feel kindly toward you or your family.”

“I could say that I had a lot more reason to be angry than Zander. My father has been dead a long time. His is still alive.”

“And in prison. Zander hardly knows him.” Her voice was gentle, sad. “He thinks he knows his father, based on a few visits and some letters. To be truthful, I don’t know Willard well myself, but the little I do know runs counter to his being a murderer.”

“My father was a good man.” Dixon felt the tears threaten to close her throat. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“I have no words to comfort you,” Olena said. “Zander has ridden his bicycle into town. When he returns, I’ll tell him you called.”

“It’s six miles to town from Vesley.”

“I know. He rides it often. He rides by the newspaper and looks at you. I think he’s trying to decide if you’re the saint who will save his father or the devil who will execute him.”

“It’s out of my hands.”

“Zander doesn’t understand that. He’s sixteen.”

He would have been five when his father was sent to Parchman.

“Would you ask him to call me?”

“I will, but I don’t make any promises.”

“Thank you—”

“Wait. Would you answer a question for me?”

Dixon knew what she would ask. “I don’t know if Willard Jones is guilty or not. I have doubts.”

“Who else would profit from your father’s death?”

Dixon’s hand grew clammy on the phone. “My father pissed a lot of people off. It was part of his job.”

“Did you ever think one of those men might have killed your father?”

Dixon had thought of it, more than once. She’d gone back through some of the old issues of her father’s newspaper, reading, making lists, taking down names. There were people who were glad Ray Sinclair was dead, but would they have killed him? It was possible.

“I haven’t stopped looking,” Dixon admitted.

“Look fast, Ms. Sinclair. Willard only has nineteen days left. I’ll tell Zander you called.”

Heat devils undulated on the hood of the white Explorer. J.D. sat in the broiling interior, waiting. Sweat had saturated his clothes, even running down his legs into his shoes. He sat motionless, left arm out the open window, his gaze on the church. A lone dog, weathered as a cedar fence post, trotted across the dusty street and disappeared behind a vintage truck. The Church of the Immaculate Conception was a modest adobe building as old-looking as the land around it. J.D. had come to an appreciation of age in Zaragoza. Everyone, and almost everything, from the dog in the street to the donkey tied in front of a vendor’s stall, seemed ancient. He’d begun to feel the dust of age settling into his bones.

A heavyset woman, a black mantilla covering her face, hurried out of the church. She faltered once, as if she couldn’t see well, then disappeared around a corner. J.D. got out of the Explorer and walked into the church. The woman had been the last of the penitents, if he’d calculated correctly. The church was a busy place, frequented mostly by women who came and went, their faces covered by lacy cloth or masked in pain and worry. They didn’t stay long, but when they came out, most seemed lighter, relieved.

Religion had never been of much use to J.D., but he understood the value of dropping a heavy burden. If only he believed that responsibility and regret could be dropped, he would be in the church seven days a week. Any church. He thought of the makeshift altar in the woods. Religion, like anything else, could be a dangerous thing. When belief became twisted, it was dangerous. The Spanish Inquisition. The Salem witch trials. The list was endless, and economic gain was usually behind all of it. How would a person gain economically from the murder of Trisha Webster? Or Angie Salter? Of course, a serial killer wouldn’t care about money. His gain was more visceral.

The church was dark and cool. J.D.’s perspiration-soaked shirt chilled his back. It took a moment for his vision to adjust. The church lacked the ornate décor of the wealthy American churches. Money. There it was again. He surveyed the stand of candles. Several dozen were burning, and the smell of the hot wax was close. If the priest was present, he was in the confessional booth. J.D. walked forward and hesitated. He tapped the confessional booth’s door.

“Father?”

“Como está?”

“I don’t speak Spanish, Father.”

“I speak a little English.”

The priest sounded young, more savvy than J.D. had anticipated. He’d expected an old priest, stooped by time and troubles, wearing a black cassock—a stock character.

“I need your help,” J.D. said.

The confessional door opened and a thin, very young man stepped out. “I am Father Joseph.”

J.D. offered his hand. “I was hoping to talk to the old priest.” There had to be an old priest. Father Joseph was still wet behind the ears.

“Father Diego is not here. Perhaps I can be of service.”

He saw the earnest desire to help on the young father’s face. “It’s about a man named Chavez. Francisco Chavez.”

The priests eyes reflected worry. “What has Francisco done now:

“I’m not certain. He may have murdered a girl and kidnapped another. In Mississippi. One girl may still be alive.” He felt the pressure of time in a place where it seemed time had no relevance. “I might still be able to save one.”