Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

  “Eustace wants to keep you safe. I’d listen to him, Camille. Once we find those girls, this will all be over with and things will get back to normal.”

  She hesitated, staring at the ground. “I saw someone in the woods this morning.”

  J.D. kept his tone quiet. “What did you see?”

  She searched his face, and J.D. knew she was hunting for a sign that he intended to tell Eustace she’d been in the swamps. “I drove over the bridge. There’s a place across the river that’s special to me.” She looked at her bare toes digging into the sand. “Usually I just take the skiff across the river, but Eustace has been locking the boats up lately.” She looked up at him. “You can’t tell Eustace I went over there. I promised him I wouldn’t go to my place until this whole mess was finished. You promise you won’t tell?”

  “I won’t tell him unless I have to, Camille. But it’s important that you tell me. Those girls may be alive somewhere in the swamp. If someone has them, what you saw could make a difference.” He looked up at the sound of Eustace’s old truck coming through the oaks.

  Camille heard it too. She swallowed. “I saw a man. He was in a tree, looking down at me. At first I thought I’d imagined him, but I didn’t. He’s real. He’s been in the area for a week or so.

  “What did he do?” J.D. wasn’t certain whether to believe her or not. Camille’s mental problems were legendary in Jexville, but the townspeople had a way of blowing everything out of proportion, especially when it was vicious and cruel.

  “He looked at me.” She shrugged. “He watched everything I did.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Hiding.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Listening to the spirits. They want me to make water designs in my pottery, to show the flow of the river. The river is … what it means to be free.”

  “Free?”

  “Of obligation, of guilt, of remorse, or thought, or regard for the future. The things that drive humans insane.” She smiled. “I’m an expert on the things that make a person insane.”

  J.D. nodded. She might be crazy, but he understood her. In fact, she was more lucid than most people he talked to. “This man you saw, what did he look like?”

  “He was crouched in a big sycamore, so it was hard to get an idea of his size, but he had the darkest eyes. They were like black pebbles washed by a strong current. And he had dark hair, very straight but not cut neatly. Hispanic. Youngish. Maybe thirty, maybe older or younger; it’s hard to tell with an olive complexion. They don’t age the way I will.” She touched her cheek as if she suddenly felt a wrinkle. “I’ll be old by the time I’m forty, unless I develop a relationship with Mama’s plastic surgeon.”

  “Stay out of the sun,” J.D. offered, trying not to appear too eager. “When he was watching, did he do anything that frightened you?”

  She shook her head. “No. That’s what I wanted to tell you. He isn’t dangerous. I mean, he isn’t here to hurt anyone. I would have felt danger from him if he meant to hurt me. He just watched. He never moved at all, except his eyes. I’ve never seen a human hold still for so long.”

  “Where was he?”

  She hesitated. “My place is secret. I’ve seen all those men hunting for the girls, stomping through the woods. They don’t respect the land or the river.”

  “How about if I promise to go myself? Alone.” J.D. looked at the camp. Eustace had finished unloading and was heading their way. After seven days of coming up empty-handed, Camille was giving him something solid—if he could get her to tell him. “Camille, please.”

  “I’ll show you,” she said, then turned away and ran toward Eustace.

  J.D. watched the flash of her long, slender legs. Young-girl legs that showed muscle and bone. She was an elfin creature with a hint of something untamed in the way she moved. When she got a couple of feet from Eustace, she launched herself at him, hitting him solidly enough that he staggered under the impact but caught her and whirled her around.

  “What’s the latest?” Eustace asked J.D. as he walked over. He lowered Camille to the ground and hugged her against his side.

  “Nothing new since Orie Webster identified the bikini bottom and top as Trisha’s.” Eustace knew the rest. Dale’s bloodhounds had tracked back and forth from the sandbar through the woods and all the way to the county line without finding a trail. Cadaver dogs from Pensacola had sniffed the river from a mile up both forks and halfway down to Cumbest Bluff. The highly trained shepherds had never even caught a scent. It looked as if the girls had left the sandbar by water but were no longer in or on the river.

  “Come up to the shed and have a beer,” Eustace said. “You look done in.”

  “I thought we might take J.D. to my secret place,” Camille said. “He knows the swamps. He can say if it will flood or not.”

  Eustace stared hard at Camille. “I know it doesn’t flood there, Camille. I told you that. J.D. doesn’t know—”

  Camille pulled away from him. “Please.”

  Eustace stared at the river, then looked suspiciously at J.D. “Sure. Let’s go. We can take my truck.”

  Eustace and Camille got in the cab, and J.D. climbed over the tailgate and took a seat on a wheel cover against one side. He wasn’t disappointed in Eustace’s driving, which was too fast for the bad roads. Eustace had a reputation for vehicular recklessness, and not even the wreck that ruined his leg had slowed him down. J.D. braced with his hands and tried to avoid taking the punishing ride with his spine.

  They crossed the river at a dangerous clip, then Eustace spun the truck to the left, barely missing a tree. In the cab Camille began flailing at him with her fists, forcing him to slow so he could defend himself.

  J.D. could hear the force of her blows as they rained on Eustace’s shoulder and head, and he wondered at the strength contained in her lithe body.

  “I don’t have to take this shit from you or anybody else,” she yelled. “Damn you to hell and back. I’ve lived with abuse, and I don’t have to anymore. If I want to be bruised up and terrorized I can go back home.” She was crying as well as yelling. “I can go live on Mama’s houseboat at Cumbest Bluff!”

  Eustace slowed and stopped the truck. He caught her wind-milling arms and pulled her against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. She struggled, but he held her tightly, whispering.

  J.D. looked past the tailgate. It had been a mistake to push Camille into this. She might have made the entire thing up. She had a big imagination. This lead was probably just a waste of time and an imposition on an old friendship already under strain.

  The truck started forward, this time slowly, and J.D. forced his body to relax. He’d see this through and have a talk with Eustace later. The trail dead-ended, and they got out and walked. After ten minutes of pushing through thick undergrowth, Camille stopped.

  “That’s a magnificent tree, isn’t it?” She pointed to a sycamore that seemed to touch the clouds. “Eustace said someone planted it at least a hundred years ago.”

  J.D. looked at the big tree. It was an old one. Small privets and brush had grown up around the base, and deep in the tangle of green was the brown of fallen leaves. He walked around the tree, looking for signs that someone had scaled it. The bark was slick and silvery and showed no marks of disturbance. As he came around it for the second time, sunlight glinted off something deep in the undergrowth.

  J.D. walked over and carefully picked up the beer can with his handkerchief. Old Milwaukee. It was the brand Eustace drank, and it was new. He backed up and stared at the tree, feeling both Eustace and Camille watching him.

  “The kiln will be over here,” Eustace said, indicating that J.D. was to follow.

  “Just a minute.” He stared at the tree, wondering if Camille had actually seen anyone in it. It was a perfect place to hide and watch. No one would think to look up in the trees. He could have moved from tree to tree and outfoxed the dogs.

  “You got something?” Eustace finally a
sked.

  “I’m hoping this is one of the beers stolen from your camp, and I’m hoping I can get a set of prints off it.” J.D. held the can out to Eustace. “Do you mind waiting a minute?” He was climbing the tree before he even finished the question. As he got higher, he felt a cooling breeze from off the river. Peering through the lush leaves, he could see the opposite bank of the river and, almost out of sight, the landing where Eustace’s boats floated, easy pickings for anyone with larceny in his heart.

  J.D. started down the tree. When he got close to the ground, he grabbed a branch and swung down. He felt his old friend’s gaze leveled at him.

  “Have you seen what you really came to see?” Eustace asked.

  J.D. hesitated. “I’d like to see where you’re going to build the kiln.”

  Eustace nodded once but didn’t move. “What will you do if you don’t find any prints on that can but mine?”

  “Keep looking.” J.D. wanted to tell his friend that he didn’t suspect him, but Eustace would know he was lying. J.D. suspected everyone; that was the curse of his life. That was what life had taught him.

  “Folks in town won’t forget that I tore up my leg runnin moonshine. They already know I sell beer and whiskey and that you don’t do anything about it. They figure I’m doin’ something bad out here with Camille.” Eustace’s look asked Camille if she, too, suspected him.

  “Honey, I was showing J.D. the tree because there was a man in it earlier today.” Camille went to Eustace and put a hand on each side of his face. “Look at me, Eustace honey. I didn’t want you to know I’d been over here. I didn’t want to worry you.” She was talking fast, the words tumbling and jarring into each other. “He was up in that sycamore, watching me, but I know he isn’t a bad man. I wasn’t afraid of him at all. But I knew you’d worry. That’s why I pretended to show J.D. the kiln. Don’t be angry, Eustace. Please.” She withdrew her hands from his face and covered her ears, hugging her head down to her chest. “Please, I can’t stand feeling like I’ve done something to hurt you. Please.”

  Camille’s need for Eustace was so open, and the only thing she could do to protect herself was hunker over and hide in her own arms. Living that raw and open, it was no wonder she had to go off for treatment. Camille had never learned to develop the protective shields that everyone else put up. Her pain was palpable, and J.D. wanted to turn away from it.

  Eustace put his arm around Camille and drew her close, kissing the top of her head. “It’s okay. No harm’s been done. Don’t fret over it, girl.” He shielded her against his chest as he turned to J.D. “You ready to go?”

  J.D. nodded. He held the can lightly as he fell in behind Eustace and Camille. He looked back at the tree once. Had Camille really seen someone, or had she made up the entire thing to protect Eustace?

  The mercury vapor lights that lined Main Street had just buzzed into life when the front door of the newspaper office opened. Two women Dixon had seen but never met came in. One was Calvin Holbert’s wife, Vivian. The other was Reverend Beatrice Smart.

  “What can I do for you ladies?” she asked, standing up at her desk. She had seven more headlines to write and five cutlines for the photographs Tucker was printing.

  “I’m Beatrice Smart,” the brunette said. “This is Vivian Holbert. She wants to offer a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the return of the missing girls.”

  Dixon nodded. “That’s a very generous thing to do.”

  “I don’t know these girls,” Vivian said, her sun-pinkened face flushing darker. “I just feel that someone should help. Money is what I can do.”

  “A reward is a good idea. The families of the girls aren’t in a position to offer anything. This is a wonderful gesture.”

  “No, it’s just that I have a daughter.” She looked down at the floor. “I’d give anything to make her safe.”

  Beatrice put a steadying hand on Vivian’s shoulder. “I’m the pastor at the Methodist church, and what I’d like to do is take up a special collection at the Wednesday service to add to the reward. I’m going to ask all the churches in the county to participate.”

  “Another good idea,” Dixon said. “This will be a real community effort.”

  “Would it be okay if the reward is anonymous?” Vivian asked. “Calvin and I don’t want our names attached. We’re lucky to be able to do this, but some folks might think we’re trying to show off.”

  Dixon looked up from her notebook. “I think it’s kind and generous and you deserve credit, but if you want it anonymous, that’s fine by me.”

  “Good. Don’t use our names. The money is already deposited in a special account. Anyone with information should call the sheriff’s office. If you could put a story in the paper, then people would know.”

  “Front page, top of the fold,” Dixon said. She caught a hint of sadness in Vivian’s penetrating eyes. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough for Dixon to recognize that the woman suffered.

  “I saw you the other night, and I’ve meant to get by here and introduce myself,” Beatrice said. “Life is just too busy. Would you like to have some coffee tomorrow, after the paper has gone to the post office?”

  “Sure,” Dixon said. “That would be nice.” The minister knew about the newspaper’s deadlines and schedules. “Where?”

  “How about the Hickory Pit? Good coffee and even better lemon meringue pies.”

  “My second favorite,” Dixon said. She liked the minister. She had an openness that Dixon didn’t normally associate with persons of the cloth.

  “And apple would be your first?” Beatrice asked.

  “You must have a little bit of the psychic in you,” Dixon said, surprised.

  “Just a good ear for gossip,” Beatrice acknowledged with a wry smile. “You’ve had apple pie three times in a row. Folks take notice of attractive publishers.”

  Dixon felt the first flush she’d experienced in a long time. “Folks pay attention to strangers.”

  Beatrice’s smile faded. “Obviously not enough attention, or those two young ladies would be home by now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Walking down Main Street, Dixon passed the plate glass windows of the Hickory Pit and noticed that the diner was almost empty. The businessmen and farmers had gone back to their chores, leaving the three waitresses in their bright red shirts to sit for a moment at the counter to gossip and rest their tired feet.

  Dixon entered, slid into an orange vinyl booth, and asked for a glass of iced tea. The minister had called at noon, setting a late luncheon meeting for one-thirty. She’d also said that Vivian would be accompanying her.

  She wondered about Vivian. Dixon had obtained the loan to buy the newspaper from the president of Pine Trust Bank. Approving the loan, Calvin Holbert had mentioned that Vivian had no use for muckraking journalists. Dixon wasn’t in Vivian’s social circle, and neither was Beatrice Smart. So what was Vivian’s purpose in joining them for lunch?

  The waitress brought her tea. Dixon had just finished stirring when Beatrice and Vivian walked into the diner. Vivian was stunning in a white pantsuit that hugged her body. She had to be at least fifty, but she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. She was a woman who invested in her body, and the dividends were high.

  “I hope you don’t mind my horning in on your lunch,” Vivian said as she slid across the vinyl seat. “I spoke with the sheriff this morning. He’s had twenty-seven calls from the story about the reward in the paper.”

  “That’s wonderful.” The moment lunch was over Dixon would check with J.D. “Did he say if any calls seemed promising?”

  “J.D. doesn’t share information with me,” Vivian said, her full mouth tightening. Now she looked her age. “You could say that J.D. and I have issues. He rather despises me.”

  “Vivian—” Beatrice said.

  “Oh, don’t try to hush me. Ms. Sinclair should have an idea what kind of man J.D. Horton is. He comes across so proper and law-abiding, so determined to do
the right thing. There are two types of law in Chickasaw County, Ms. Sinclair. One for most folks and one for J.D.’s friends.”

  Dixon put more sugar in her tea. Whatever was eating at Vivian had hold of her good. “What did Horton do to you?” Dixon asked.

  “It’s more like what he didn’t do. My daughter has been abducted.” Vivian’s voice rose. “That swamp creature has taken her and cast a spell on her.”

  “Vivian,” Beatrice said, “you sound unbalanced when you talk like that. People won’t take you seriously if you exaggerate.”

  Dixon noticed that the waitresses had stopped talking and were looking at them.

  “Eustace Mills is a swamp creature, and—” Vivian began.

  “This isn’t the time,” Beatrice interrupted.

  “No, no.” Vivian held up a cautionary hand to the minister. “It’s okay, Beatrice. Ms. Sinclair needs to hear this. She might decide to do a story on Eustace and force the sheriff’s hand for me.” Vivian turned to Dixon. “Eustace Mills, a former bootlegger and criminal, has lured my daughter into the swamp to live with him in sin. I can’t say that the man has taken her against her will; she went on her own. But Camille is young and not stable. She’s fallen in with a man who supplies her with liquor and God knows what else.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Our daughter’s innocence has been stolen. There’s nothing we can do to bring her home. J.D. Horton absolutely refuses to lift a finger. He says Camille is old enough to make her own decisions. That man, Eustace Mills, has taken a restraining order out against me so that I can’t even step foot on his property to see if my daughter is eating properly. She has emotional problems, and he’s keeping her there.”

  “If he isn’t holding her against her will, I don’t know what Sheriff Horton can do,” Dixon said. She picked up her tea and took a long sip. “Do you ever talk to your daughter?”

  “She refuses to listen to a word I say.”

  Dixon caught a glance from the minister. “I know it must be hard to have to sit back and watch a child choose her own path.”