“You’ll have to check the minutes. I don’t trust my memory for such details.” He turned away.
Dixon stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop or push her into Finley Street. “There are no minutes. None. I get the impression the school board hopes to pretend that meeting never occurred. My question is why. Is there something about Tommy Hayes and his alleged relationship with Angie Salter that troubles you?”
He blanched at Angle’s name. “If you were truly concerned with this community, as you stated in your editorial, you would understand that two young girls are missing. Pursuing this matter won’t do their families any good. Now step aside.” He used his shoulder to brush past her. He stepped into the street, ignoring the car that braked and swerved to avoid hitting him.
“Sorry, Mr. Holbert, I didn’t see you,” the driver called, waving him on across the street.
Dixon watched him disappear beneath the oaks, swallowed by the shadows cast by the trees. The scent of his cologne lingered after him.
The yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. Eustace paused, looking at the cascading bullace vines. He was alone in the woods. Camille had gone into town, another trip to placate Vivian and Calvin, to show them that she was whole and free to do as she pleased. But it wouldn’t matter to the Holberts. They couldn’t think of Camille with him except in the context of prisoner. In some ways, they were right. He had cast a spell on their daughter, a simple spell of acceptance. Camille had nothing to live up to with him. That was what bound her to him. He loved her unconditionally, just as she was.
The crime scene tape fluttered again, beckoning him closer. Eustace lifted it and stepped under. J.D. had finished his work, but no one had bothered to remove the tape. The vines were thick and laden with wild grapes. Some had fallen to the ground and begun to ferment. When he’d been a young man and his leg was whole and strong, he’d gone to the woods with Peggy and picked grapes for her father to make wine. Eustace could hear their laughter, echoing back to him across the years. It had taken so little to make the two of them laugh. Simple things, the joy of the sun and the prospect of a bit of skinny dipping in the river were enough. Peggy had loved life. At seventeen, she’d tasted none of the bitterness. Perhaps her drowning had been a blessing. She’d been spared a lot of hurt.
Eustace sighed and stepped into the vines. He didn’t like to think of the past. It was all such a long time ago. There were times he wasn’t certain any of it had really happened.
He let his eyes adjust to the dim, vine-shrouded space. He didn’t fully understand his reason for coming here, to a place sacred to a man accused of abducting the two girls. Eustace had no quarrel with the man just because he worshipped in the woods. Formal religion had left Eustace cold. The high-dollar beliefs of the folks in town were of no use to him. His leanings were simple and in conflict with what he knew of the Protestants. He drank without shame or remorse. Making love with Camille was one of the rare joys of his life, and no amount of religious rhetoric could ever make him believe it was a sin. What he felt for Camille was holy and pure. She was like the river, always in motion, secrets held deep, sometimes hot and sometimes cold. If Eustace worshipped anything, it was nature, and Camille was the closest thing to nature he’d ever found in a human being.
He had only to look into her eyes to see the work of a greater being. He had accepted the task of protecting her, and he thought that was why he’d come to the shrine in the woods.
He’d seen Camille and the Mexican in a tableau that made his chest ache whenever he thought of it. He’d seen them only that morning at the kiln site, when he’d followed her. She hadn’t known he was watching. Camille had touched the man with a gesture so tentative and gentle it was as if she were trying to tame a beast.
He’d hidden in the bushes, ashamed, listening with the intensity that had kept him alive in an environment that didn’t allow for carelessness. Camille’s voice had drifted back to him. He couldn’t distinguish what she was saying, just the lilting comfort in her tone. Camille put her hand on the man’s chest. She made a noise that communicated sorrow. The man had touched her hair, lifting it up as if he’d never seen anything so flame-colored and precious. Camille had knelt and looked up at him, her hand still on his chest. Eustace had felt a rage so consuming that only the boiling sound in his head was audible.
Unable to bear anymore, Eustace had fled, knowing he would never ask Camille about the meeting. Knowing he was too afraid of the answer. But he’d come to this sanctuary to find answers. What could this man, this possible murderer, offer Camille? It must have something to do with this place. Camille lived in a world where spirits were as real as the people around her. Somehow, this man shared something with Camille.
The idea terrified Eustace because of the web of implications. Where were the girls? What had the man done with them? What would he do with Camille? Eustace couldn’t help wondering exactly what Camille knew about the disappearance of Angie Salter and Trisha Webster. She knew something. He was sure of it. He’d seen her hiding something in her underwear drawer the day after the girls disappeared, and when he’d asked, she’d lied to him. Later, he’d looked and found an expensive gold bracelet. One he’d never seen. But he had remembered the glint of gold on Angie Salter’s arm as she’d taunted him from the sandbar.
Eustace stepped into the gloom of the trees, caught in the scent of grapes. He closed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts and calm his fears. He’d lied to J.D., on more than one occasion now. His latest lie was serious. Eustace had been tailing the Mexican, following him through some of the thickest swamp, sighting him from a distance. But he had made no effort to capture him. Instinct told him not to, and Eustace relied on his gut rather than rules and bargains. Even with his friend J.D.
If the Mexican were responsible for taking the two girls, he needed to be apprehended. But not if it jeopardized Camille in any way. Vivian and Calvin would jump at any chance to take Camille away, even if it meant putting her in a mental institution or prison.
Getting justice in Jexville could be difficult. Emotions were at a fever pitch over the missing girls. Camille could easily be dragged into the fray. The Mexican, a stranger, might end up on the end of a lynch rope, and there would be no sympathy for anyone who’d befriended him. Such things had happened in Chickasaw County, and not so far in the distant past.
The musky scent of grapes filled Eustace’s nostrils as he stared at the rough wooden plank that served as an altar. Fresh flowers were on it. The blooms were droopy but not dead. Eustace picked up a carving of a deer. There were an opossum and a raccoon, too. The carvings were finely crafted, detailed. The man was bold. He’d come back to his sacred place as soon as the authorities were gone.
Eustace sensed someone behind him. He turned.
The man, bare-chested, stood twenty feet away. Eustace, who could hear a squirrel climb a tree fifty yards away, had not heard him approach. In the man’s right hand was the sharp skinning knife that had gone missing from Eustace’s shed. On his hairless chest were marks, scars. The skin was ugly and welted, as if it had been burned. Eustace swallowed. He stepped closer. The marks were crosses of all sizes, and they were burned into his chest. Eustace couldn’t take his eyes off them. Then he saw the pewter cross, hanging from a chain around the man’s neck. Camille’s cross. The one she always wore. He felt sick when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. He felt her slipping away from him.
Eustace knew there came times when a judgment had to be made. That was what life was about—making a choice, then sticking by it without complaint. He’d crippled himself because he made a choice one cool fall night. He had been hauling a load of moonshine when a deputy pulled behind him, blue lights flashing. Instead of stopping, Eustace had floored the accelerator. Every day of his life he’d paid for that decision, but he’d never complained. Not once. Not to anyone.
Eustace knew he could try to kill the man. He was close enough, and even though he was at least thirty y
ears older, he could take him if he could get his arms around him. It was the getting to him that troubled Eustace. His bad leg would slow him. But one question held him back.
Where were the girls? Eustace had seen them when he’d come back down the river. After docking, he had gone up to Leslie’s Grocery for some beer and had helped Otis Hobby fix his truck, lingering in the shade of the store to drink a cold beer and listen to Otis tell a few jokes. When he’d come home, Camille had been gone in one of the boats. He hadn’t given it a thought then. Hadn’t even wondered where she was. Freedom was the breath of life to her, and though he sometimes worried for her safety, he never tried to hold her back from wandering the woods and river on her own. But Camille had come home an hour later, splattered with mud, her dress torn. She’d been dazed and withdrawn, and since then her sleep had been troubled. When he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d said, “Death is of the spirits. A gift.”
He thought of that now. “Death is of the spirits.” Now he faced the man who may have introduced Camille to death.
The light was poor, but when he looked up into the man’s eyes he saw satisfaction. Eustace decided to capture him and make him tell where the girls were. Then he would kill him. If Camille were implicated in the girls’ disappearance, the man would never live to tell it.
Eustace lunged. Just as he reached out for the man, his foot hung in a vine. He hit hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
He struggled in the carpet of leaves, thrashing. He knew he had to keep moving or the man would stab him. Rolling quickly, he looked up.
The man was gone.
He rose, frantic. The vines wouldn’t turn him loose, and he clawed at them, memories of Camille’s hand touching the hideous scars fluttering in his brain.
At last Eustace broke free. The woods were empty. He ran to the river, where he’d tied off his boat. The bank was empty. Only the river lazed by, so calm on the surface and so turbulent beneath.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chickasaw County High was a long, low building that reminded Dixon of a place where poultry was imprisoned until fat enough for market. A straggle of rose bushes, surrounded by hundreds of cigarette butts clung to life at the front door. She stepped inside and made her way down the silent hallway. The place smelled like bad plumbing, dirty gym socks, and sweat, a mix that brought back a rush of memories and a vague sense of anxiety. She didn’t have permission to be on school property and figured she couldn’t get it. But Tommy Hayes had given her the dodge for over a week, and she was determined to talk to him, especially in light of what she’d learned from Calvin and Big Jim.
She looked through the small glass window of each door as she made her way down the hallway lined with metal lockers. At the end of the hall, she found the biology class. Hayes sat on a stool as he addressed his students.
Dixon tapped lightly on the door. When she opened the door and walked into the classroom, he froze. The dark circles under his eyes, his pallor, and the trembling hands he shoved in his pockets were at odds with the freckled, open freshness of his face.
Hayes looked toward the door, panic on his face.
Dixon didn’t give him a chance to run. She closed the door and glanced around the room. “Mr. Hayes, I need to talk to you.”
Before Dixon could say anything else, the bell rang and the students rushed out. Dixon and Hayes were left facing each other.
“You had no right to come in here.” The teacher was angry. “Those kids are having a tough enough time. They’re children.”
“I’ve been trying for a week to talk with you. You have a connection to the missing girls. Angie Salter almost cost you your job.”
“I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t have to.” Hayes walked to the open door.
“What’s going on with the school board? First they vote to fire you, and then no action is taken. It’s as if I never had a conversation with Jim Welford where he as much as said you were corrupting your students.”
Hayes turned away. He went to his desk and lifted a sheaf of paper. “I have quizzes to grade. I’d like you to leave.”
“Why didn’t they fire you? Does it have to do with Angie Salter’s disappearance?”
His chair tumbled to the floor with a loud echo as he whirled to confront her. “I don’t know. I’ve never been told I was fired. Look, I need this job. This is my first contract, and if I’m dismissed, it’s going to be hell to get on at another system, especially if there’s the taint of inappropriate behavior hanging over me. If I can complete this year, I’ll gladly pack my things and get out of this sick, God-forsaken place.”
“Tell me about Angie.” Around them the school had grown silent. The students had fled like escapees. “Tell me about her,” Dixon insisted.
He slammed his palm on his desk top. “She wanted an A. She made an F. I wouldn’t change her grade, but I told her I’d help her, you know, if she really wanted to learn. She wasn’t stupid, but she was lazy. She thought she could get anything she wanted by shaking her ass. She got really mad when she realized I meant for her to study and told me she’d fix it where I wouldn’t ever be able to bother her again. Well, she almost has.”
Dixon heard footsteps. They stopped outside the biology room and a man’s face peered in.
Hayes strode to the door. “Get out of here,” he said. “It’s the reporter.”
“I’m not leaving.” The man stepped into the room.
Dixon had never seen him, but she knew he had to be the man she’d spoken with on the phone.
He looked from Hayes to her. “My name is Craig Baggett. This is about Angie, isn’t it?” Anger tightened his mouth. “Tell her, Tommy. Tell her the truth.” When the teacher remained silent, the other man turned to Dixon. “Angie was trying to blackmail him for a good grade.”
“She seems a little young for such a ploy,” Dixon said.
Baggett snorted. “Right, she was such a baby that the same tactic worked on the principal at the middle school. That’s how she finally passed the eighth grade, or at least that’s what she said. She’d sit on the tailgate of Jimmy’s truck while she was waiting for him and brag about the guys she’d done and how she could get anything she wanted. How good she was. You can ask any of the students.” He wiped his hand across his mouth as if to rid himself of a bitter taste.
Baggett had been at Hayes’s home, and now he was defending him. She was curious about their relationship, but she was more curious about Hayes’s connection with Angie Salter. Whether Baggett knew it or not, he was talking motive for murder. “Was Angie still seeing the principal?”
The young man shook his head. “Not from the gossip. She’d met some guy with money. She had this expensive gold watch. It was a …”
“Cartier,” Hayes supplied.
“And diamond earrings,” Baggett added. “Big ones. She said they were a carat each. She had other jewelry, too. Tommy couldn’t afford that kind of stuff even if he wanted to give it to her. Which he didn’t.” He looked out the window at a gang of boys dressed in football uniforms jogging toward a practice field.
Hayes nodded. “Someone was giving her expensive gifts. When I wouldn’t give her a better grade, she said she’d settle for a boom box.” He pointed out the window. “I wasn’t in a position to give her either. Now, Craig has to go to work and so do I.”
Baggett glanced at Hayes. “You might want to check out who was beating Angie. I saw her after school last week, and she had bruises on her.”
“Who was hitting her?”
Baggett shook his head. “I don’t know. Ask her boyfriend, Jimmy Franklin.”
Hayes picked up his papers. “We’re leaving.”
“One more question. Were you at the river the day Angie disappeared?”
Hayes held her gaze. “I drove down to Biloxi and hired Johnny Grelot as my attorney.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, retrieved a card, and handed it to her. “Call him. He’ll verify I was there.”
J.D. sat on th
e edge of the Victorian sofa and held the dainty coffee cup in a hand almost twice as large as the china. Steam rose from the hot coffee.
“I was hoping Calvin would be home from the bank,” he said.
“Not for a while.” Vivian crossed her legs in the chair beside him. “You look worn out, J.D. I just wonder how you can come here considering all the times you’ve refused to help us get Camille back.”
J.D. put the untouched cup on the table. Vivian had insisted on the coffee, even though he’d declined. She was watching him now, enjoying his discomfort. “I do need to talk to Calvin about something that pertains to this family,” he said.
“Don’t tell me! You’ve finally come to your senses, and you’re going to physically remove Camille from those swamps.”
J.D. shook his head. He bitterly regretted coming to the Holbert house without calling first to make sure Calvin was home. “No, I came to talk about keeping Camille safe. Camille and the other folks in town.”
“Oh, goody!” Vivian clapped her hands. “Please tell me how you’re going to accomplish that. I guess it’s a little late for the Webster and Salter girls.”
J.D. looked out the window at the expanse of immaculate lawn and the road beyond that. There was no sign of Calvin’s car, even though it was after six o’clock in the evening.
“All sarcasm aside, Sheriff, how do you propose to keep us all safe when that maniac swamp man is on the loose and two girls are missing, probably dead? Tell me the truth, have you even questioned him? Does he have an alibi?”
“Do you honestly believe Eustace would harm those girls?” J.D. had never believed Vivian’s complaints that Eustace was dangerous, or that he practiced mind control on Camille, or that he still ran moonshine. Vivian lied to achieve the result she wanted—in this case, getting Camille away from Eustace.
“I believe it with every bone in my body,” Vivian said. She uncrossed her legs, the silk of her pantsuit making a noise like a soft zipper. “I believe it because it’s true.”
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