Judas Burning (32 page)

“Be still,” he whispered, his accent Spanish.

Dixon stopped all movement. “Francisco,” she said.

“
Si
,” he answered. “Do not move.”

Big Jim Welford. Hollywood Hog. Mr. Religion. All were popular nicknames for the Chickasaw County superintendent of education.

J.D. drove the twelve miles to the Welfords’ place on Lolly Road at ninety-five miles an hour. He’d never thought about Welford’s being involved in the girls’ disappearance. He should have, though. If Welford were sexually involved with Angie, he would have a lot to lose.

J.D. berated himself as he made a ninety-degree curve, his right wheels sliding off the shoulder as he pressed the gas harder to correct the car. Calvin had been the suspect. J.D.’s absolute dislike of Vivian had affected his logic. He’d sympathized with Calvin, married to such a paranoid bitch. Calvin’s taking up with a mistress would be understandable. Angie had been far advanced for her age. She was the kind of girl who would set her cap for someone like Calvin, a man who could buy her things and pave her way. A man with power and influence.

But Big Jim? The man was a deacon in the Baptist church. He was a pillar of the community, the man who set the moral tone for the school system. If Welford was screwing and murdering girls, the entire county would be in a crisis of faith.

And what of Chavez? Robert Medino, with his theories and suppositions, had planted a seed that had grown into a fearsome briar. J.D. felt as if he’d been played.

He turned down the drive, lined with balsa cedars, and sped up to the house. He was gratified to see lights in the cedar-shake house. It must have cost at least half a million. Welford’s political connections had served him well. J.D. had heard that Calvin financed Welford’s hundred-acre spread and six-thousand-square-foot home at an interest rate of 3 percent. That had never been J.D.’s business—before.

Lydia Welford answered his knock. She was a petite blonde who normally hid her curvaceous figure in jumpers and sack dresses. This evening she wore Capri pants and a halter top that revealed plenty.

“What are you doing here, J.D.? We’re just about to walk out the door.”

“Montana,” he said.

“Right. We’re—”

“Where’s Big Jim?”

She frowned at his rudeness. “Packing. As I was saying, we’re running late for our flight.”

“I need to talk to him.” J.D. moved past her into the house.

She put her hands on her hips. “Can’t this wait?”

“No. Where is he?” He didn’t wait for an answer but stepped onto the expensive Persian carpet and headed for the interior of the house. Lydia was following at his heels, yipping like a Chihuahua.

“You can’t come barging in here like this. We don’t have time for—”

He moved through a study and down a hallway to a ground-floor bedroom. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped into the room. Welford was folding a sweater into his suitcase. He looked up, confused.

“What are you doing here, J.D.?”

The sheriff brought the bracelet out of his pocket. He saw a flash of recognition.

“What’s that?” Welford asked

“You should recognize it since you paid for it,” J.D. said.

“What?” Lydia made a grab for the bracelet, but J.D. moved it out of her reach.

“He bought that? For whom?” She was almost hopping in her high heels, trying to grab the bracelet.

“Shut up, Lydia,” Welford snapped. “J.D. has made a serious mistake.”

“No, I haven’t,” J.D. said. “I have a copy of the credit card transaction from Zimball’s Jewelry in Mobile.”

Welford pointed at his wife. “Go put some coffee on.”

“I’m not leaving here until I find out where that bracelet came from and why you bought it. You told me I couldn’t have expensive jewelry. You said the people in Chickasaw County would resent us if I wore things like that.” Her words were becoming more heated.

“Lydia, go put on a pot of coffee. Then you’re going to wait in the kitchen until I come in there.”

“What about our flight?”

“Fuck our flight!” Big Jim thundered.

Lydia turned on her heel and left the room. Welford closed the door behind her.

“I did buy the bracelet.”

J.D. waited.

“I picked it up at Zimball’s a few weeks ago. For Calvin. He wanted a present for someone he was seeing, and he didn’t want it to come back on his credit card because of Vivian.”

J.D. couldn’t be sure, but he thought Welford was telling the truth. “So you were an accessory to Calvin’s extramarital affair?”

Welford waved his hand in the air. “Could you imagine being married to Vivian? She had Calvin’s balls in a vice so tight he was almost emasculated. When he told me he was seeing someone on the side, I thought ‘good for him.’ “

“Except who he was seeing was a fifteen-year-old girl who is now dead.”

Welford didn’t fake surprise. “I know. He told me just after Angie disappeared that he’d been seeing her. He’d arranged with a photographer in Mobile to do some pictures of her for a modeling portfolio. He was terrified.”

“And you didn’t come to me.”

“Calvin didn’t kill that girl. He didn’t. He begged me not to tell anyone because he knew how it would look.”

“You’re an accessory to his crimes, whatever they are, Big Jim. I just want you to understand that right now. If he killed those girls, you’re an accessory to kidnapping and murder.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I never—”

“You’ve got to cancel your vacation.”

“Lydia will be fit to be tied.”

“That’s actually the least of your problems. Don’t leave Chickasaw County. And don’t make me lock you up.”

Welford thrust out his chin. “You’re kidding me. You wouldn’t put me in jail.”

“Try me. Where’s Calvin?”

“How should I know?”

“Don’t call him. If you do, I swear to you I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

J.D. walked out of the bedroom and through the expensively appointed house. When he got out into the night, he took a deep breath.

Once the storm of emotion had passed and Camille had fallen asleep on the sofa, Eustace thought about calling J.D.

From the tidbits Camille had told him, Eustace had put together a disturbing picture, with Vivian Holbert squarely in the middle of it. Vivian had been on the river when the girls disappeared. She’d lured the girls into her boat, killed them, and carried the bodies downriver to her houseboat, where she’d stored them until she could bury them. He hadn’t figured out how she’d managed to haul the two bodies out of her boat. Maybe they’d only been unconscious.

Certainly there were holes in his theory, but he was convinced that Angie Salter and Trisha Webster had died at the hands of Vivian Holbert, not Francisco Chavez.

Placing his hand on Camille’s cheek, Eustace noticed that her skin was cool. He got a blanket and covered her. If he were right about Vivian, then Camille might soon be free of her mother forever. On the other hand, such a trauma could push her over the edge.

He was torn. He’d given her a mild sleeping pill, crushed in the orange juice he’d insisted she drink. He had to take action, and he needed to know she was out of danger.

He tried to call J.D., but there was no dial tone. He depressed the switch rapidly several times. Still no dial tone. The phone sometimes went out during storms if a tree fell on the line somewhere down the road, but there had been no storms. He tried again.

Night had fallen dark and quiet, and he stepped out on the landing to listen. The air conditioner made it impossible to hear inside the house. Even when he was standing outside, it hindered his hearing. He went back in, cut it off, and stepped outside again. The sound of low voices drifted through the darkness. He tensed. Someone was at the boat landing.

He moved silently down the stairs, taking care not to let his bad leg drag. Even with his disability, he could move quickly. He used the pilings of the house for cover as he moved toward the men’s voices. When he was at the skinning shed, he could see them. There were two of them, and they stood on the bluff by the landing, smoking cigarettes and talking. He picked up the baseball bat that he used to kill the fish and began to move stealthily down the slope.

He was almost there when he felt something cold and hard press into his back.

“Where you goin’ old man?”

He heard the cock of the rifle.

“Who are you?” Eustace asked.

“We’re folks who want some justice for those two dead girls.”

“So what are you doing here?” Eustace started to turn around, but the barrel of the rifle poked harder into his back.

“Don’t move, old man. I don’t need a reason to blow your spine all over the river.”

“What do you want?” Eustace asked.

“I hear you were involved in what happened to those two girls,” the man said, jabbing the barrel hard. “I want to see you suffer.”

“I didn’t hurt those girls,” Eustace said calmly.

“That’s not the way I hear it.” The man pushed his shoulder. “Get down to the river.”

Eustace knew that if he got in a boat with the men, he would be killed. He stumbled deliberately, falling to the ground. If they got him, they were going to have to carry him.

“Get up,” the man said.

Eustace could see him in the light of the skinning shed. A young man, probably no older than twenty. He didn’t recognize him.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Eustace said. “Vivian Holbert’s daughter, Camille, is asleep in the house. I’m not leaving her.”

The man kicked him hard in the ribs. “You’re gonna do what you’re told.” He kicked him again.

Eustace didn’t try to fight back. He could only hope that Camille would not hear what was happening and that she would sleep, safely, until everything was finished.

Dixon thought her heart was going to stop. The man who had abducted and murdered two girls stood not five feet from her. She was alone in a strange house with him, far removed from any help.

When he staggered, she realized something was wrong. He took a step toward her but fell back against the wall. He was seriously injured. Scrambling to her feet, she backed to the door. Chavez did not try to follow her. Instead, he sank to his knees.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I was shot.” His voice was feverish.

Dixon hesitated. She could run to her truck and drive away. In his condition, she doubted he could follow her.

“Where are Olena and Zander?”

“She went for medicine. The boy left on his bicycle. He was crying.” Chavez spoke excellent English. He sounded well educated.

“Why did you take those girls?” she asked.

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “To save them,” he said. “Sanctify the flesh.”

“They were just girls. You didn’t have to kill them.”

“I did not kill them.”

“If you didn’t, who did?”

“The woman with the red hair.”

“Camille Holbert?” Dixon didn’t try to hide her incredulity.

“Not the girl. The woman.”

Dixon stepped forward. “Vivian?”

“I do not know her name.”

“Why would Vivian Holbert kill two teenage girls?”

Chavez shook his head, and she saw sweat on his forehead. “I don’t know,” he answered. “She had them in her boat.”

“Who shot you?” Dixon asked.

“The old man who lives on the river.” He began to slide down the wall. “He is afraid.”

Dixon heard a car pull into the yard. She glanced out the door and recognized Olena’s old clunker. She heard a baby crying as Olena hurried up the steps, the infant in her arms.

“Francisco!” Olena called.

“He’s in here,” Dixon said, pushing the door open. “Could we have some lights?”

Olena hit the switch and looked around. “Francisco! Where’s Zander?”

“That’s what I came to find out. He called me and said his father had attempted suicide.”

Olena thrust the baby into Dixon’s arms. “Hold him. I need to see to Francisco.” She went to the wounded man, who struggled to his feet and then collapsed against her. Holding him up, she got him to a chair and sat him down. In a moment she had his shirt pulled open to reveal the bullet hole in his shoulder. It was an ugly mass of savaged muscle.

“Can you help me?” Olena asked Dixon.

“He needs to go to the hospital.”

“Don’t be a fool. If he goes to the hospital for treatment, someone will turn him in to the sheriff. Or worse.”

Dixon jostled the baby on her hip to keep him quiet. “I have to call J.D. You can’t keep Chavez here. He’s wanted for two murders.”

Olena swung around on her. “And he didn’t do either of them. He’s innocent. If you take him to that jail, there’s a good chance the rednecks around here will kill him before he has a trial.”

“What if he isn’t innocent? What if he hurt those girls?”

“Like my brother killed your father?”

Dixon had no answer. “J.D. won’t let anything happen to him.”

“The sheriff is one man. Don’t you think a mob would run over him to get to Francisco?”

“How did Chavez get here?”

“I gave him a ride. He was hitchhiking on the highway, and I picked him up. He didn’t seem to have a destination, so I brought him here and fed him, then took him down to Fitler. He’s been in the swamps since then. When he got hurt, he made it back here. I guess I was the only person he had to turn to.”