Judas Burning (30 page)

Dixon sat on the edge of the bed with the packet of letters beside her. She held one page of lined, three-holed notebook paper and read the words written in pencil. The date was November 18, 1995.

Dixon picked up the second letter, written the following week, on Thanksgiving Day. It went into great detail about the prison holiday meal. Dixon could read between the lines. Jones did not want to leave a legacy of grief to his only child.

She read several more letters, then put them aside to think about her visit with Willard Jones. She’d gone to Parchman after a three-day drunk. She hadn’t shown up for work or even called in. She’d driven from Memphis across the flat landscape of the Delta, thinking about the sheer physical labor that had been required to remove all the trees for those vast stretches of farmland. Topsoil eight feet deep. But not since the river had been controlled by the levee.

When she’d arrived at the prison, only her credentials as a reporter had gotten her onto death row to see Jones. Even then, an assistant warden had stayed at her side. He’d probably thought she was going to try and assassinate the prisoner. Hardly.

She’d talked to Jones in a small room, the one used by lawyers and priests. Prison had aged him. The years behind bars had turned him gray, both hair and skin. He’d said nothing about the smell of bourbon on her.

“Did you kill my father?” she’d asked. She could remember her rage.

“Go home, Miss Sinclair.”

It was the only thing he’d said to her. He’d refused to say another word, and she had left the prison angrier than before. It had been a lovely excuse to turn into the first bar she came to on the outskirts of Memphis and drink until she’d passed out. She’d come to in a clinic where some of her coworkers had taken her.

And from there, she’d gone on to drink harder, just to show them she could. But Jones had remained in her thoughts. Present every day. Now she heard his voice, and she understood why his son wanted so desperately to save him.

The air conditioner fluttered the pages of the letter. She stood up and went outside, taking the letters to the front porch swing. She began to read again. A year in prison had passed before Jones mentioned the murder.

Dixon put the letters aside. She didn’t have to read any further. She had the answer, and now she needed the proof. She needed to go to Jackson and research her father’s newspaper articles. But, she couldn’t. She had a paper to put together, and she’d shoved far too much responsibility on Linda and Tucker in the past few days. She was grateful to Robert for volunteering to go for her.

She dialed the Magnolia and asked to speak to Robert.

“Darlin’, he’s out on the front porch in the swing. Is it important enough that I disturb him?”

“Ruth Ann, if you don’t put him on the phone right now, I’m going to drive over there and snatch you bald-headed.”

“Well, there’s no call to talk to me thataway.”

Dixon didn’t respond. She heard Ruth Ann’s tread and the screech of the screened door. Then, “You have a call from a very rude person.”

Robert’s voice was warm and easy. “What’s happening, Dixon?”

She was amused. “You knew the rude person was me.”

He laughed. “It had to be a woman, and since you’re the only woman in town who would telephone me, it was easy to figure out.”

It had been such a long time since she’d trusted anyone. Especially with something this important. “Could you go to Jackson and look up those newspaper articles right away?”

She heard his feet hit the floor and realized he’d been reclining in the swing.

“I can leave in the next ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

“No thanks necessary. Did you find out something?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when you get back. Look in particular for stories about the Mississippi salt domes.”

Easterling Jewelry was a narrow store between Main Street Drugs and a cheap furniture store. J.D. had known the owner since first grade. Clive had been a thin child with a too-big head and glasses with thick black frames. He’d collected stamps and coins and knew the pantheon of Greek gods by heart. Even the teachers were afraid of him.

J.D. was thinking about Clive’s first-grade show-and-tell as he entered the jewelry store. Clive came out of the back with a jeweler’s magnification device on his head.

“I kept telling everyone you’d get a girlfriend,” Clive said. “At last you’re here to buy her a gift. Gold or silver?”

J.D. shook his head. “Wishful thinking. No girl, yet.”

“Then what brings you to the store?” Clive asked.

“Is anyone else here?”

Clive shook his head. “Lydia went down to the Hickory Pit to pick up some lunches. She just left.”

J.D. probably had half an hour. He reached into his pocket and brought out the bracelet. Clive’s eyes brightened.

“That’s some beautiful work.”

“Not yours then?”

Clive picked up the gold and let it ripple through his fingers. “No. I wish it were. This is exquisite. Gold is malleable, but the person working this knew the exact limit. See how the interlocking links make it look alive as it bends?” Clive examined the bracelet in silence. “So who does it belong to?”

“A dead girl.”

Clive examined the gold more closely. “And you want to know where she got it?”

“You’re as smart as ever.”

Clive picked up the bracelet. “I’ve seen work like this.” He hesitated. “Most retail jewelers don’t design any longer. They carry national or international designers. A piece of this quality shouldn’t be hard to trace. If you can give me a few hours, I’ll photograph it, get on the Internet, and I’ll bet I can find the jeweler who sold it.”

“Thanks, Clive.”

“You could do this yourself, but I probably know where to start quicker than you.”

“Could you put a monetary value on the piece?”

Clive thought about it. “I’d say that if the buyer paid full price, it had to be around seven thousand dollars.”

It was a very expensive gift for a fifteen-year-old girl.

Clive sighed. “I heard they found the Salter girl. There was talk in the Hickory Pit this morning. Folks are riled.”

“I know.”

“I heard more than one man say folks should get their rifles and go hunting in the swamps for the man who killed those girls.” Clive frowned. “Folks seem to believe it’s a Mexican man.”

J.D. nodded. “I’m looking for a man who defaced some property at the Catholic church. There’s reason to believe he might be involved in the disappearance of the girls.”

“You think he kidnapped them and killed them?”

That was the crux of it. J.D. wasn’t sure what he believed. The idea of a man coming to destroy a statue and ending up killing two girls was hard to swallow.

“J.D.?” Clive touched his shoulder. “You look haunted, man. Can I get you come coffee?”

J.D. nodded. “That would be good.”

Clive went to the back and returned with a paper cup of black coffee. “I know this business with those girls is tearing you up. Most folks don’t know how hard this is for you.”

J.D. sipped the coffee. It was hot and bitter.

“You joined the service after Karen was killed in the accident. Right after the funeral. You never wanted folks to see you hurt.”

“Most folks don’t care to show their pain in public.”

“It’s more than that with you. You left everything. Your folks, the farm. You just let it all go. I never thought you’d come back here.”

J.D. shrugged. It wasn’t that he didn’t have regrets; he’d just accepted that the past couldn’t be undone. He’d run away from the pain of his sister’s death. It had cost him everything, but he hadn’t known what else to do. Going into the marines had given him a focus away from the loss that had destroyed his parents.

“How long have you been sheriff now?” Clive asked.

“Five years,” J.D. said. “I’m into my second term.”

“Amazing.” Clive smiled. “Maybe if you run again, I’ll vote for you.”

“Maybe it won’t be too long before I’m back to buy a present for a … woman.”

“You’ll get a twenty-percent discount on anything in the store,” Clive said.

“Thanks. I’ll stop by again before you close.”

“How about I give you a call the minute I find something?” Clive asked.

“That’s even better.”

Dixon spent the afternoon at a meeting of the board of aldermen, who were discussing renovation of the town’s sewage system. A handful of citizens protested the location of the new sewage treatment plant, and one person complained about garbage pickup. Not exactly a meeting of global significance, but Dixon felt good about covering local governing bodies. Once the stories appeared in the paper, more citizens might get involved. Ray Sinclair had been a big advocate of such coverage.

Her father was much on her mind as she walked from city hall back to the newspaper. Willard Jones’s letters to his son had brought back memories. Jones and her father had been leading diverse lives that had collided one day in May, a day that changed both families forever.

She checked her cell phone for messages. It was hard waiting to hear from Robert, but she had to stay in Jexville. There were stories to write and photos to print—for her newspaper. The
Independent
was her chance to prove herself to her father. It was also an excuse to hide from a past she didn’t want to confront. She was lucky to have Robert, a man who cared enough—and had the skills—to help her.

Tucker was waiting for her at the newspaper office.

“What about the preliminaries for the Junior Miss pageant?” he asked. “Will we cover the pageant? It’s tonight.”

“Why don’t you do it? I should think the least you get out of it would be a date.”

“Right. Those girls are underage,” he said.

“My grandmother used to tell me that looking and getting are two different things.” She patted his shoulder.

“I’ll cover the talent competition,” Tucker said, pretending to be miffed. “What about Angie Salter’s funeral? It’s tomorrow afternoon.”

Dixon considered. “You can cover it for the paper, but I think we should both go. For Linda’s sake.” The typesetter had gone home, too upset to work.

“Right. We should do that.” He hesitated. “Dixon, there were men up at the Hickory Pit at lunchtime. They were talking, saying they were going to hunt down the guy who killed Angie and shoot him in the woods.”