Judas Burning (2 page)

“Thanks.” Trisha slathered her shoulders with the lotion and silently flipped onto her stomach.

Angie knew that Trisha’s silence indicated anxiety. She pushed her long, blond hair back from her shoulders and held her face to the sun, the movement tumbling her hat to the sand. “The magazines say that sun is bad for you, but all the models are tan. Scarlett Johansen was bronzed at the Oscars.”

“I don’t want to get burned,” Trisha said. “I don’t want Mama to figure out we skipped school.”

“Your mom won’t have a clue.” Angie shook out her hair. “I’m too short to be a runway model, but I can make half a grand an hour doing magazine work.” She could see the wind machine blowing her hair, the makeup woman hovering, the photographer telling her how hot she looked, how much he wanted her as he clicked away. Angie knew she had the looks—boys in school fell over themselves when she walked past them in the hall. Now, she had the means to get to New York. It was going to happen. Soon.

Trisha shifted on her towel. “Don’t all those girls work through one of those modeling agencies?”

“I’ve checked into it. I need a portfolio.” Angie loved the word, the way it rolled and sounded like magic. And it would be. It would be her ticket out of Jexville. Out of the tiny little shit hole town where her only hope of ever having anything was to claw it away from someone else. Her secret burned hot on her tongue. She was dying to tell Trisha.

“Where are you going to get the money for those kind of pictures? I read where some of those photographers charge hundreds an hour.”

Trisha’s skepticism made Angie angry. She could do it. No matter that her mother laughed at her ambitions and mocked her. Her mother was a moron who lived with a man who was a worm. Angie heard them at night, lying in bed, laughing over one of her remarks, making fun. Beth Salter said Angie was putting on airs. Now her best friend didn’t have any faith in her. “I’ll get the fucking pictures, don’t you worry about that.”

“I didn’t mean that, Angie. I just wondered how. Will Jimmy help you? Or your mom?”

“Right. If Mama had the money, she’d buy that dickhead Alton a motorcycle or something else he wanted.” She hesitated. “Jimmy doesn’t make enough at the store.”

“Is that what all of this with Mr. Hayes is about?” Trisha glanced at the boom box.

Angie reached over and punched a button, shifting from the CD to a Mobile, Alabama, radio station. Jexville, being the hick town that it was, didn’t have anything except an AM gospel station. “Mr. Hayes might help finance my portfolio. We’ll just have to see.”

Trisha sat up and squinted toward the yellow-brown river. “You want to get in the water? I’m hot.”

“Sure.” Angie opened the ice chest and drew out two icy beers. “Let’s smoke a joint first.”

“You got some pot?” Trisha pushed her chin-length brown hair behind her ears. “Man, Angie, how’d you manage that?”

“I’ve got connections.” She couldn’t help herself. She had to tell. It wasn’t the big secret, only a tiny part of it. “I did some coke the other night.”

Trisha’s
eyes
widened. “How was it?”

“Man, it was wonderful. I mean, I felt like I could do anything. It was like I was on top of the world.” Angie looked at her friend. “You’d love it. Next time maybe I’ll get some for you.

“Who is the guy who gives you all that jewelry?” She pointed to the intricate gold bracelet on Angle’s arm. “That must have cost at least a thousand dollars.”

Angie held her arm up, and bright sunlight struck the gold. “A lot more than that.” She lit the joint, inhaled deeply, and passed it to Trisha.

“This guy who gives you jewelry, does he give you the drugs, too?

“What are you, writing a book?”

Trisha dropped the joint into the sand. “Dammit, Angie. I don’t deserve that kind of shit.”

Angie retrieved the joint and took a hit. “I didn’t mean to be ugly. It’s just that you ask a lot of personal questions.”

“You can get mad at me, but your mama’s gonna see that bracelet and ask a lot more questions.”

“Mama’s so stupid she thinks it’s costume. She can’t tell real gold from fake.” Angie passed the joint.

Trisha hit it hard. “You know, when I think about how we’d be spending this Tuesday morning in school, I get a sick feeling. But then,” she grinned, “I feel the hot sand and listen to the water, and I guess I don’t care.” She looked down, gathered a handful of the white sand, and let it sift through her fingers. “I wish I was going to New York to be a model. Shit, I wish I was going to Mobile to be a clerk in K-Mart.”

Angie exhaled. “When I make it big, Trisha, I’ll send for you. There’s lots of jobs in New York. You could be anything you want. How about … on one of the soaps!”

“That would be terrific.”

Angie took another hit from the joint. “Man, this shit is good. My head is buzzing. Put it out and save it for later.”

Trisha checked her watch. “We have to be back before school lets out. Jimmy doesn’t know we took his truck, does he?”

Angie flopped dramatically on her towel. “Oh, too bad,” she said in a lilting voice, “Jimmy will be very, very angry.” She laughed. “I can manage him.”

“Listen. There’s a boat coming. You’d better put some clothes on.”

“Let ‘em come. It’s a free country.” Angie watched her friend frantically stubbing out the joint. “Why should anyone care if I show my tits? If they don’t like what they see, they don’t have to look. Alton loves looking at them. I catch him watching me dress all the time.”

“Really, put your swimsuit on. It could be anybody.”

Angie sat up. “Let’s run naked on the sandbar. We can shock the bejesus out of’em.”

Trisha shook her head. “There’re a lot of old fishermen around here. Some of them look mean.” She reached for her T-shirt and pulled it over her swimsuit.

Angie laughed. “Come on, Trish. If you don’t loosen up, you’ll never have a good time. Let’s just give ‘em a thrill. Hell, they haven’t seen anything like us in fifty years.”

Trisha reached for her friend’s hand as Angie stood up, the sun highlighting the golden tones of her skin, her slender, perfect figure. “Sit down!” Trisha tugged at her hand. “Sit down, Angie!” There was real panic in her voice.

The blonde sank back onto her beach towel. She realized Trisha was about to cry. “Shit. What’s wrong with you?”

“Daddy’s friends fish up here sometimes. He’d kill me if—”

“Okay. I’ll see who it is first.” Angie pushed a beer into her friend’s hand. “Then we’ll decide if we can have some fun.”

The sound of the boat grew louder. It was a big engine. Angie sipped her beer and listened. Hell, it didn’t matter if she had a little fun on the sandbar. She was headed to New York City. In less than five months she’d be sixteen. Once she got a legal driver’s license, there’d be no keeping her in Chickasaw County, where the only choices for a pretty girl with ambition were an old man with money or young boys who thought a joint, a six pack, and two rubbers were the ingredients of a dream date.

The boat drew closer, the engine whine blocking out the sound of the radio. Angie glanced at her friend, who’d turned her back to the water. Trisha was her best friend. Her only friend. But sometimes she acted like an old maid. When she looked back at the water, her smile was big and eager. What would it hurt to have some fun?

It was almost noon and hot as hell. After a near-sleepless night, Dixon wondered if she’d died and was suffering her punishment—running a weekly newspaper in a small Mississippi town split by religion, gender, and poverty.

She sat in her truck gathering herself for the fray. The unexpected closure of the Jexville Canaan Baptist Church Wee Care—the second big story in less than twelve hours involving a church—had thrown the town into an uproar. Thirty-seven working women had no one to care for their young children. Religion was big business in Chickasaw County.

Several men carrying hastily made signs supporting the closure were lined up on the east side of the church lawn. On the west side were angry women. Screaming, whining, running-wild children ping-ponged between them.

Dixon sat in the blast of the truck’s air conditioner, examining her notes and watching the bedlam. Rev. James Farrell stood, arms linked with a dozen women, guarding the front door of the church. Three television camera crews were set up on the church lawn. Someone had been giving the good minister lessons in staging a media event.

Dixon scanned the crowd, making certain Tucker Barnes was photographing the fracas. Her gaze stopped on a tall, dark-haired man who was staring at her. She hadn’t seen him in her two weeks in Jexville. The man made no effort to hide his interest. He looked as if he didn’t belong in Jexville any more than she did.

Tucker’s actions caught her gaze.

He was getting dangerously close to a big, beefy man with a high-blood-pressure red face. Tucker was young and ambitious, and in the brief time he’d worked at the
Independent
, he’d come a long way. He reminded her of the reasons she’d once loved journalism. He had yet to learn that reporting could be a dangerous profession.

Dixon got out of her truck and crossed the well-maintained lawn. The minister and his forces guarded the church steps. On one side were the angry women; on the other were the men with signs and placards.

“Go back to God’s way!” one sign read. The picket line was marching, and the men were chanting, “God’s plan—obey your man! God’s plan—obey your man!”

Dixon saw a brown sheriff’s car pull to the curb half a block down the street. J.D. got out. He had the look of a man who’d spent his youth in the military. Good posture, a casual self-confidence. He looked at her and nodded, then shifted his gaze to the dark-haired man, who was still staring at Dixon.

Whoever he was, he was a bold one. The intensity of his stare sent a ripple of anticipation down her arms. The impulse to go over and ask him, point blank, why he was gawking at her was strong. She didn’t act, though. She had a paper to put to bed, and strange men, no matter how compelling, would have to wait until Thursday, when the edition was on the streets.

The general bedlam on the church lawn increased, and Dixon was reminded of traffic accidents she’d worked long ago as a photographer. She realized anew how many years had passed since she’d actually been a good journalist. She’d had plenty of opportunities to show that she was her father’s daughter, but drinking had been safer and more satisfying, until the last year when she’d finally felt her spirit eroding. Buying the
Independent
was her last-ditch stand. Jexville was her mound of ashes. If her phoenix was going to rise, it would have to be here, despite the naysayers who’d urged her not to make the move.

Her misgivings resurfaced. This wasn’t going to be anything like journalism as she’d known it. This was grassroots, right in the middle of a town where everyone knew everyone else. This was the kind of newspapering her father had loved—the paper as the watchdog of the community. She took a breath, fighting for calm. By god, she’d made it through the night without a drink, but she needed one now.

She walked up the stone steps. Into the teeth of angels, she thought as she faced the minister.

“I’m Dixon Sinclair, publisher of the
Independent
. Could you tell me why Canaan Baptist has decided to close its day care facility?”

Reverend Farrell’s face was flushed. His blue eyes radiated a glow. Some would call it angelic, but Dixon had a feeling that he was mad as a March hare.

“I know who you are.” Farrell disengaged his hand from the grasp of a thin young woman who held a toddler on her hip. “I’ve heard all about you.” His tone was insulting.

“I understand you’re closing the day care facility. Is there a reason for this action, maybe a structural problem?”

“The building is sound as a dollar. I’m closing it because God commanded me to do so.” Several of the women whispered, “Amen.”

“Is that a joke?” she asked, hesitating.

“I don’t make jokes about God’s will.”

“You realize you’re leaving forty-two youngsters with no day care?” Maybe it was just a media event, a platform so he could air his views.

“Last night, God spoke to me. He said our family units are disintegrating. He said our womenfolk have laid down the burden of tending their children, giving their own flesh and blood into the hands of strangers to raise and mold. He said that Canaan Baptist Church had played a role in that desecration and that I was to put a stop to it.”

“That was a rather lengthy conversation. God must have been in a talkative mood,” Dixon observed.

“Blasphemer,” the thin woman whispered.

Farrell ignored Dixon’s sarcasm. He lifted his blue gaze toward the sky. “I am blessed that God chooses to speak with me. I am blessed, as is the entire congregation of the church. We are obedient to God’s will. The vandalism at the Catholic church shows how far we’ve fallen from God’s graces. No place is sacred any more, not even God’s house of worship. Look toward the Catholics, if you must. Wayward young people desecrated God’s house, destroyed a statue of the mother of Jesus. No matter what we think about the Catholics and their papist ways, that tells us how far our children have strayed.”

“Amen!” the women chorused.

Farrell’s smile was tolerant. “Our children are growing up wild. Without the love and security of a home where their mothers cook and care for them, they are falling to the Beast.”

“Reverend, some of those women,” Dixon pointed across the lawn, “don’t have a choice. They work because they have to. And while they work, someone has to care for their children. It would seem to me that the church is a safe setting for children.”

“Women must stay at home and keep the family unit intact.”

“What if the mother is the only provider for the family?”

“God will provide. He never closes a door unless he opens a window.”

Dixon looked across the lawn. Spectators were cheering the picketers and the women on. If someone didn’t break it up soon, there would be some dramatic photo opportunities, complete with blood. She looked for the sheriff and saw him walking, unhurriedly, toward the church. His gaze was on the minister. He did not look happy.