Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

  “Thanks for coming.” He reached out to touch her shoulder and stopped himself, suddenly self-conscious.

  Dixon lifted the camera and went to work. She repeated the sequence of photos she’d done on Trisha Webster, and when J.D. lifted the sheet to show the carving in Angie’s thigh, he saw that Dixon’s face was covered in sweat. Her hands trembled as she clicked the camera, but she didn’t complain, and she worked with quick efficiency, shooting both color and black-and-white.

  She was finished in fifteen minutes. J.D. waved to the coroner, who’d remained in the shade of an oak, drinking orange sodas, one after another. J.D. touched Dixon’s back and guided her away. She flinched at the zip of the body bag and the rattle of the stretcher wheels against the rocks.

  The macabre humor that sometimes accompanied body collection was missing. The only sound was the rough intake of air as they struggled against the odor and the growing volume of discontent at the road.

  “My God,” Dixon said as the coroner rolled the body toward an old ambulance. “Who found her?”

  “Camille.”

  Dixon looked at him. “Is she okay?”

  “Beatrice Smart is with her,” J.D. answered.

  Her expression changed, and he knew she’d noticed Eustace. She watched him for a long moment.

  “What are you going to do about the crowd?” She tilted her head toward the road, where the mob was growing louder and angrier.

  “Send Beth Salter home with an escort and wait for the others to disband.”

  “What about Chavez?” Dixon asked.

  “Two national guard units are on the way. The roads are blocked, and men are posted at every timber trail and path that comes out of the swamps. We’ll bring him in.”

  “Dead or alive?” Dixon asked.

  He nodded. “Dead or alive.”

  “I heard the men at the roadblock. They intend to kill him in the swamps,” she said.

  He knew that the men who’d volunteered to help him might attempt to take justice into their own hands. “Not if I can help it,” he said.

  “What does Eustace say?” she asked.

  J.D. looked over at his friend. “Nothing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eustace waited until J.D. left. He watched the lawman stop on the driveway, pull out his cell phone, and begin to talk. The reporter kept going. She walked as if she were in a daze. Eustace just wanted all of them gone—everyone off his property so that he could talk to Camille. The preacher woman was in the camp now, but he knew that Beatrice Smart had no words that could reach Camille. He’d seen Camille’s face as she’d watched the body burn, twisting at the end of the rope. A rope from the boat Chavez had stolen, now floating gently among the others.

  Chavez had returned the boat and the body, as if he were fulfilling a pact, a connection he’d made with Camille. But Eustace realized that he’d been wrong in what he thought about Camille’s involvement. He’d been wrong about a lot.

  He looked up and caught a brief glimpse of Vivian, rabble-rousing and demanding blood. His blood. He almost wished that one of the deputies would shoot him and put him out of his misery. He’d believed that Camille was capable of terrible things. But in the end, he was the one who’d done them. He’d shot the Mexican. He’d been willing to let Angie Salter die in the woods. He’d lost all trace of humanity because he could not live without Camille.

  There were things he should have told J.D. but hadn’t. Someone had picked up Chavez after he’d brought the body to the camp. Someone was helping him, but it wasn’t Camille.

  Eustace knew the man’s route away from the camp because he’d erased the trail to the road, where it had ended. The man had bled into the sand. The compulsion to hang and burn Angie Salter must have outweighed even the pain of his gunshot wound.

  Eustace looked down at the fish. All of his life he’d viewed them as a means to an end. He harvested them for survival. He’d never considered it from their side. Now, though, he understood something of what they must feel as they rushed from one end of the vat to the other. The cement wall blocked them. They were trapped, waiting for fate to net them and pull them into death.

  If he managed to survive with Camille still at his side, he was going to free the fish. All of them. He would never kill another living creature.

  He got up and walked to the house. The steps seemed insurmountable. Camille was up there, waiting for him. Maybe needing him. He started up, his bad leg dragging. When he entered the house, Camille was in a rocker, holding a mug of tea. The minister sat across from her, leaning forward. “Sometimes we can’t understand the workings of God,” she told Camille.

  Camille stared at her. “What kind of god is that then?”

  The minister slowly shook her head. “Faith is the ability to believe, even when there’s no rational explanation, Camille.”

  “I believe,” Camille answered. “I believe in the trees and the animals. I believe in the wind and the river, and that love can heal.”

  “Even the animals commit acts of violence.”

  Camille shook her head. “Not like this. Not so … sick.” The last word was a whisper.

  Eustace went to her. He took the mug of tea and put it on the table, then pulled her into his arms. At first she resisted, but then she fell against him. He felt her shaking. When the sobs came, they sounded as if her throat were being torn out.

  The minister picked up the mugs and went to the kitchen. Eustace could hear her running water and putting things away while he patted Camille’s back and made soothing sounds.

  Camille gradually stopped crying, then pushed back from him and wiped her face with her shirt sleeve.

  “He was my friend,” she said. “He was my friend, and he did this terrible thing again. Even after he promised he wouldn’t.”

  Eustace froze. He stared into the minister’s eyes across the kitchen counter. She looked as horrified as he felt. He wanted to beg her not to say anything. But that would only give more weight to Camille’s words. He had to minimize the damage.

  “Camille, why don’t you lie down and rest,” he said, angling her toward the bedroom. He looked over his shoulder. “Reverend, could you put on a pot of coffee? I think J.D. could use a cup. Everything is right there on the counter.” He closed the bedroom door behind him and helped Camille to the bed.

  “Just rest,” he said. “Once all these folks are gone, we’ll drive over to the kiln site. I think we should start on it right away. This afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?” Her eyes questioned him.

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “I was thinking that after this mess with those girls, it would be good to create your pottery in the woods. I’m no expert on nature or the spirits, but it seems to me that would please them.”

  “Eustace,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You surprise me sometimes. And all along I thought that you thought I was crazy.”

  His chest ached. “No, Camille. I never thought that. Not ever.

  He covered her with a light spread and turned the air conditioner on high. The drone blocked the noise from outside. When the blinds were adjusted to darken the room he left her, closing the door behind him.

  He walked toward the minister, waiting in the kitchen.

  “Camille is resting. She’s been under such pressure.”

  “She said she was friends with that man, Chavez.”

  He shook his head. “Reverend Smart, I have to be honest with you. This business with those girls has troubled Camille greatly. It’s been on her mind, waking and sleeping. She’s … absorbed it, for want of a better word, and in her own mind she’s woven herself into the story. See what I mean?”

  “Are you saying she’s hallucinated herself into the murders?”

  “That’s taking it a little too far. She wanted to help. She wanted to save Angie. In her mind, she believes she talked to Chavez. That doesn’t mean it happened in reality.”

  The coffeepot hissed and sputtered. Eustace went to the cabinet an
d got a large Styrofoam cup. He poured it full. “I’ll take this to J.D.”

  “Is it possible Camille actually talked to Chavez?” the minister asked.

  He waited, not wanting to seem to rush into an answer. “Anything is possible, Reverend, but I don’t see how she could have. I’ve locked up the boats. The only way she could talk to him would be on the road to Jexville or here at the camp.”

  The minister leaned against the counter. “Yes, and we know that Chavez knows how to find his way here.”

  Eustace looked down to hide his anger. She was aptly named. Nothing much got past the Reverend Smart.

  “Vivian has spoken to me about having Camille committed. She feels her daughter isn’t capable of making decisions about her own safety. I have to say, Mr. Mills, if Camille is running around with a man who may be a double murderer, Vivian has a point.”

  Eustace felt as if he were balanced on a narrow ledge far above pavement. “If Vivian and Calvin had been as interested in raising a healthy daughter as they are in controlling Camille, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  To his surprise, the minister smiled. “Well put.”

  “Vivian doesn’t care whether Camille is happy or not. She only cares that she has the ultimate say-so. I love Camille. I would do anything for her, even let her go.”

  The minister walked up to him and held out her hand for the coffee. “Your love for Camille has never been in question. I’ll take that to J.D. I need to talk to him anyway.”

  Dixon walked up the long, twisting drive toward the main road. The sun had come on strong, bouncing through the oak limbs to create lacy patterns of shadow on the white sandy path. She could hear shouting. J.D. had a volatile situation, and Vivian Holbert was doing everything she could to push the spectators into a mob.

  Dixon pictured Angie Salter, an overly made-up girl with naked ambition in her blue eyes. She’d dreamt of becoming a model, but she died instead. And she’d taken Trisha Webster with her. Orie Webster had set up a college fund for her daughter. Trisha had wanted to be an elementary teacher. She had followed Angie to the river for a day of mischief and had paid with her life.

  But something about the disappearance and murders didn’t ring true as two innocent girls’ simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Angie was not an innocent. At her instigation, serious charges had been brought against a teacher. Conveniently, on the day that official action was taken, Angie had disappeared. How could Francisco Chavez have shown up at exactly the right time to abduct Angie and Trisha? The timing troubled her.

  That and Tommy Hayes. Angie had been blackmailing him. Dixon didn’t have evidence, but she knew it. The biology teacher had delivered a bribe in the form of a boom box, and he could have been on the river when the girls were taken. Angle’s web had caught not only herself and Trisha but a number of others too.

  Why had the killer brought Angie’s body to Eustace Mills’s yard for the final ritual? She could see that it troubled J.D., too. She wanted to talk with him, but several things held her back, not the least of which was Robert Medino. The animosity between the sheriff and Medino was deeper than a professional or personality aversion. Looking at it too closely would require her to examine her own thoughts, and she wasn’t ready for that.

  In fact, if she could have anything in the world right now, it would be a shady spot, a cold beer, and a cigarette. At least she had cigarettes in her truck.

  The mob, held back by Waymon and two volunteer deputies, was growing in number and intensity. Another injustice would become fact if J.D. didn’t get them under control. If he could. As she drew closer, she felt revulsion. They’d breakfasted on blood lust and fear, and they wanted their pound of flesh. God help anyone who got in their way. Dixon spotted Vivian’s bright red suit at the front of the mob.

  “Those girls cry out for justice,” Vivian was yelling into the crowd. “Their murderer will go free unless you do something about it. Sheriff Horton won’t do anything because Eustace Mills is his friend. Well, I’m going to do something.” She ducked under the tape, her high heels sinking in the sandy roadbed.

  “Hey! Hey! Mrs. Holbert!” Waymon’s voice rose. He maneuvered in front of her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t go down there.”

  “I want my daughter, and I’m going to get her.” She brushed past him and continued walking.

  Waymon put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Take your hands off me or you and your department will be sued.” Her threat was echoed by Beth Salter, who took a swing at Waymon.

  J.D. stepped out from the shadow of an oak. “Escort Mrs. Holbert back behind the tape and turn her loose. Then escort Mrs. Salter home.” Ignoring Vivian, he pointed across the river, giving directions to a group of fifteen men, all armed with rifles. He ignored the media, who photographed him with telephoto lenses and a certain wariness.

  The men climbed into pickup trucks. With a blast of white exhaust, they took off. They bucked over the potholes in the road and spun gravel as they headed for the bridge and the west side of the river. Dixon felt queasy. If they saw Chavez, they’d kill him on the spot. Trisha and Angie were dead. There was no reason not to kill Chavez. He was an outsider who’d come into their county and violated two young girls. He would pay a severe price.

  She was almost at her truck when she saw Zander pumping his bicycle hard as he churned through the sand of the road.

  “Zander!” she called out, but he didn’t slow.

  She opened the door of her truck and saw the bundle of Willard’s letters, tied with a dirty white string. She looked up again at the man-child. He’d stopped and turned back to look over his shoulder.

  She held the letters up and started to call out his name again. Before she could say anything, he turned and disappeared around a curve.

  Dixon stood holding the letters. For someone who wanted her help, he certainly acted peculiar.

  Vivian was raising holy hell, but it wasn’t anything less than J.D. expected. He wanted to slap her into next Sunday but had restrained himself. He needed to ask her something important.

  He watched as she made another run at Waymon. The deputy caught her around the waist, picked her up, and carried her back outside the crime scene tape. Vivian was spluttering threats.

  Sighing, J.D. stepped forward. When the mob saw him, they roared, swelling into the crime scene tape Waymon had hurriedly strung. J.D. held up a hand.

  “There’s nothing else to be done here. Go on home.”

  “Those girls are dead!” a woman shouted. “Are you gonna catch the killer?”

  J.D. stared at her until she closed her mouth and stepped back. “Angie and Trisha are dead. There’s nothing we can do for them. The worst thing that can happen is for you people to rush to take justice into your own hands.”

  “The killer is sitting up there!” Vivian screamed.

  J.D. ignored her. “We’ll find the person who killed these girls. He, or she, will be punished according to the law. Now you people go home and tend to your own children.”

  “Eustace Mills killed those girls!” Vivian lunged at J.D., but Waymon deflected her.

  “If I believed Eustace killed those girls, I’d arrest him,” J.D. said, addressing the crowd. “No man is above the law.”

  Vivian was beside herself. “Liar! You goddamn liar!”

  J.D. turned to Waymon and spoke softly. “Put her in the back of the patrol car. Lock it up. Then get Beth Salter out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Waymon said. Waymon lifted a thrashing and writhing Vivian up and walked her to the patrol car.

  “Go home,” J.D. told the crowd, his patience wearing thin. “Go home or I swear I’ll have you all arrested and put in jail where you can wait for me to bring in the killer.”

  “Let’s go,” one of the men said. “We’ll meet up at the Stop-N-Shop.”

  J.D. didn’t care for the sound of that, but he couldn’t stop them. With any luck they’d gather at the store, drink a few beers, talk b
ig, and go home to grumble away the afternoon. With any luck.

  He went to the patrol car. If he thought it would do any good, he would lock Vivian up. But Calvin would post her bail. Arrest would only serve to further incense her.

  He got in the back with her. Vivian looked like a cornered cat. Her eyes were large, her lips drawn back.

  “I’ll have your fucking head,” she hissed.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I need your help, Vivian.”

  That stopped her cold.

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Why not? What do you have to lose?” He would counter question for question. Vivian never listened to answers anyway.

  “I wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.”

  “But you want me to catch the killer, right?”

  “And what do you think I can do to help?” she asked.

  “You and Calvin have been very generous with Camille, haven’t you?”

  The switch in conversation seemed to confuse her. She didn’t answer right away.

  “We’ve been more than generous. She’s had every opportunity. The best doctors, the best medical care. Therapists!” She threw up her hands. “To what end? So she can waste her youth with that swamp creature you insist on defending.”

  “Camille is a lovely young woman with a lot of artistic talent. You’ve encouraged that, haven’t you?”

  Vivian was wary. “Why are you so interested in Camille?”

  “You’ve given her expensive things. The car, her clothes, jewelry.”

  Vivian bit her bottom lip. “What of it?”

  “Could you put a monetary figure on the luxuries you’ve given her?”

  “Don’t be an ass. A mother doesn’t put monetary amounts on the things she gives her daughter.”

  “Really, Vivian.” J.D. looked at her. “Of course they do. Look, the car had to be an easy forty grand.”

  “So what?”

  “And her medical care, what? Sixty thousand?” He paused. “And another twenty for those clothes she wears around the swamps like she bought them off a Goodwill rack.” He had her attention. “And the jewelry?”