In the beginning it had been daredevil kid stuff. Diving off bridges into the river, climbing water towers to spray-paint initials, driving too fast, drinking. All normal teenage pranks; all anxiety-provoking incidents for parents. When Dixon had gone into journalism, Marilyn had been unreasonably angry. At last, Dixon understood why. Sitting back on the sidelines was the worst job in the world, especially for the parent of a child who seemed determined to self-destruct.
“Zander.” She called to him as she walked up to the front steps. She’d left the headlights of the truck on so she could see.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, with a hint of accusation in his voice.
“I know. I went to your aunt’s house looking for you.”
“Is my father dead?”
Dixon didn’t have an answer. “We can call the prison. We can ask.” She unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. She didn’t wait for him to follow but went to the telephone. She dialed, and as she was explaining who she was and why she’d called, she heard Zander coming down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen doorway, uncertain what to do.
After a two-minute conversation she hung up. She wasn’t going to get any information, but she knew someone who could.
“We’ll get the sheriff to call,” she said, picking up her keys from the table. “They’ll tell J.D. what they won’t tell us.”
On the way to the sheriff’s office, Eustace saw the J.D.s cruiser parked three blocks from the Holberts’ house. It looked as if J.D. were a step ahead of him. He wondered, though, if J.D. knew what he was dealing with. Beside him, Camille seemed to have slipped beneath the weight of her own thoughts.
“I want you to stay here,” he told her as he pulled behind the patrol car.
Camille stared out the window, and he wondered if she saw the man’s face disintegrating from the blast of the shotgun. Violence was like a leech, hooking into the brain and sucking out everything else.
“Camille.” He touched her thigh.
She didn’t respond, and he felt a desperate need to put the car in drive and rush out of town. To just keep driving until he found a place with warm sun and a gentle breeze and moving water. The past couldn’t be undone, though. And J.D. was in danger because of Eustace’s lies. He had to get to Vivian before she got to J.D.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said and leaned over to kiss her cool cheek. He got out and walked around to her side, holding the sight of her deep in his mind. He opened the trunk of the Mercedes and took out the shotgun. He’d also brought a hunting rifle, two .38-caliber pistols, and the weapons he’d taken from the vigilantes. More firepower than he’d ever need, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the guns at the camp. They were evidence.
He closed the trunk, hefted the shotgun, and began walking. Tonight it would be finished, one way or the other.
Dixon ran up the courthouse steps, trusting that Zander would follow. Her footsteps echoed hollowly. When she burst into the sheriff’s office, Waymon looked up and frowned.
“Is J.D. still at the Holberts’?” she asked.
Waymon nodded, and looked past Dixon as Zander entered. He was worried and didn’t care who knew it. “I can’t raise him on the radio, and he’s turned his cell phone off.”
“Waymon, I need you to do something for me,” Dixon said. “This is Zander Jones. His father is an inmate in Parchman. There was an accident this evening. Could you call and check on Willard Jones for me?”
“I’m a little busy.”
Dixon reached across the desk and touched his hand. “This is a personal favor for me. J.D. would want you to do it. Like I did the photographs at the crime scene for him,” she said. “One phone call. It won’t take long.”
Waymon got a pencil from the desk drawer. “Okay, tell me the name again.”
Thirty seconds later Dixon was out the door and headed for her truck and the Holberts’ house. Zander had remained behind with Waymon.
Her throat constricted when she saw J.D.’s cruiser and Camille’s Mercedes. She pulled behind them and got out. The Mercedes was unlocked and empty. If Camille were visiting her parents, she could become a hostage. Had she come here after she and Eustace were attacked?
Dixon hesitated. She had to find Tucker without putting herself in a position where she might have to be rescued.
She started down the sidewalk at a run. As she drew closer to the house, she slowed. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or in anyway thwart J.D.’s plans. She stopped at the next-door-neighbor’s driveway. The Holberts’ house was dark.
She stepped off the walk and behind a thick oak. She felt an arm circle her throat and tried to scream, but a hand was clamped over her mouth.
“Hush!” J.D. whispered fiercely into her ear.
She nodded, and he released her. It took her a moment to get her heart rate down.
“Where’s Tucker?” She kept her voice to a soft whisper.
“Watching the back.” He tapped her shoulder softly. “Vivian is inside. We don’t know if she has hostages or not, so we’re trying not to spook her.”
“What are you going to do?”
J.D. shifted slightly. “I want you to get out of here and call Waymon. Tell him to call Cooney, Ray, Mark, Graham, and Justin. No one else. Tell them to come and park down the street. Bring weapons and move in quietly. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” Dixon said.
“If Calvin or Beatrice is in there injured, I can’t wait much longer. I was hoping Vivian would come out on her own.”
“As soon as I get out of hearing, I’ll call.” Dixon said. She had begun to back out of the foliage when she felt J.D.’s fingers grip her arm. She froze and looked toward the house. Eustace Mills was coming around from the far side of the house toward the front porch, a shotgun in his hand.
“Shit!” J.D. said as he drew his own weapon.
Eustace didn’t bother with the doorbell. He pounded on the door with his fist. “Open up, Vivian.”
He knew J.D. was somewhere close and would try to intervene. Eustace had to do what he was going to do fast. When no one answered the door, he used his good foot to kick it. The wood splintered around the lock, and the door flew back, slamming the wall so hard it almost bounced shut. He caught it with his free hand and flung it wide.
“Vivian! You can come out, or I’m coming to get you. I know you killed those girls.”
He sensed movement behind him. It would be J.D. or one of his deputies. Eustace didn’t bother to look. “Vivian, I’m coming in to get you. This is what you always wanted. Kill me if you can.”
“Eustace.”
Eustace ignored J.D.’s voice. He stepped into the darkened house. Vivian wasn’t making a sound. He took two steps and stopped to listen. He heard something scraping or tapping against the hardwood floor, but he didn’t know where it was coming from. He’d never been in the Holbert home. Had never been invited and wouldn’t have gone if he had been. He’d always suspected the worst of Vivian and Calvin, and now he knew it was true. They’d used their own child, their own flesh and blood, in ways that were incomprehensible.
He pushed a door open with the gun barrel. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, but even so, he couldn’t see into some of the corners. Vivian might be standing fifteen feet away and he wouldn’t know it.
The scraping sound came again and he took another few steps into the room, trying to locate where it was coming from and what was.
“Vivian?”
He never saw her or the knife. The blade arced through the air and struck his arm with so much force it penetrated to the bone. Wrenching away, he swung at her with the barrel of the gun and struck only air. The force of his swing threw him off balance, and he stumbled. She was on him then. She leapt on his back and brought the knife down toward his chest, but the angle of the blow deflected the blade. Using all of his strength, he threw himself backwards. He and Vivian struck the wall together.
The air went out of her lungs in one big whoof, and she
fell to the floor. Eustace swung the gun like a club. When it made contact with her body, it shuddered in his hand, and he had the satisfaction of hearing what he hoped was a bone snap.
He took a minute to catch his breath. J.D.’s voice calling his name drifted to him, muted by the closed windows. With any luck at all, Vivian was dead. When he reached down to touch her, there was nothing there but bare floor. It was impossible. He’d hit her hard. Really hard. Where had she gone?
A sound like material ripping came from his right. He didn’t even recognize it as a sound that could be made by a human, but it was Vivian. He shifted just enough to miss the full force of her attack and was able to spin away from her, pushing her against a sofa. She was completely insane. She had the strength of ten women, and she meant to kill him.
Eustace made for the hall. He’d almost reached the front door when he heard her. She was running after him, breathing so harshly she sounded like a freight train. When she was almost on him, he fell to the front porch, half in the house and half out.
J.D. was on the front walk, his attention focused on the house. He held his gun at the ready. Dixon realized he didn’t know that Camille had come up behind him. She wore a long, white nightgown, and her red hair hung in loose waves down her back. She looked as much a child as a woman, and she was in a state of shock. Dixon started toward her. She didn’t want to startle Camille or give Vivian warning that her daughter was in the yard.
“Camille,” Dixon said gently. “Camille.”
If J.D. heard, he ignored it. He was fully focused on the house. Dixon took a step closer to Camille.
“Come over here with me,” Dixon said in a voice she might have used on a stray dog. “It’s okay. Just come with me.” She had almost reached Camille when Eustace burst through the open front door and fell to the porch.
Vivian followed and stood over Eustace. She had a butcher knife, and her face was a mask of hatred. A guttural noise came from her throat, and she raised the knife.
“Vivian!” J.D. pointed his gun at her. “Vivian!”
The shot was so loud that Dixon had no idea where it came from. She looked at J.D., who still held his gun pointed. Vivian looked at him, too, surprise on her face. Red began to seep across her blouse. She sank to her knees and dropped the knife. She fell, face forward, across Eustace.
Dixon saw J.D. turn, his gun still at the ready. The barrel swung past Dixon and pointed at Camille, who held a pistol. Slowly she lowered it and let it fall to the sidewalk. Ignoring everyone, she ran up the porch steps. She pushed her mother’s body aside and knelt beside Eustace.
Eustace pushed himself up to a sitting position. One side of his shirt was soaked in blood. He put his arm around Camille and held her, rocking as he whispered into her ear.
J.D. walked forward, and Dixon galvanized herself to stay beside him. He stepped around Eustace and Camille and entered the house, snapping on lights as he went.
Dixon heard thumping, and she followed J.D. into the back, where he kicked open a locked door and found Beatrice Smart in the laundry room, tied hand and foot and gagged.
J.D. removed the gag. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
J.D. cut her bonds to release her hands and then her legs. She looked toward the doorway. “Where’s Vivian?”
“She’s dead,” J.D. said. “Where’s Calvin?”
“In the bathroom. She killed him. She thought we were having an affair. She said she was going to kill me, too.”
“Dixon, can you give her a hand?” J.D. stepped out of the room and called Waymon.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dixon helped Beatrice to her feet.
“I’m okay. Vivian wouldn’t listen to reason. She said she’d sacrificed everything to have this marriage with Calvin, and she wasn’t going to let me or any slutty teenager take it away from her. Calvin was having an affair with Angie Salter.” Beatrice swallowed. “I’ve counseled Vivian for the past year. She was always accusing Calvin of philandering, but I never believed her. I never believed her.”
“She killed Angie and Trisha,” Dixon said. “Then Camille killed her.”
Beatrice started out of the room. “Is Camille hurt?”
Dixon restrained her. “She’s outside with Eustace. I think we should leave them alone.”
Dixon could hear an ambulance in the distance. She watched Beatrice walk down the hall and into the night, then she turned to follow J.D.
Calvin had been stabbed in the neck. Blood, already turning dark, covered the black and white tiles where he lay beside the bathtub.
“Damn it all to hell,” J.D. said tiredly.
“At least she didn’t kill Beatrice,” Dixon said.
“If I’d listened to you about Tommy Hayes—”
“Nothing would have changed. It would have ended like this.”
“If I’d put more heat on Hayes, he would have folded. He was involved from the moment those girls disappeared. Someone had to help Vivian bury those girls, and my money is on him. Whatever his reasons.”
“Knowing that wouldn’t have changed anything,” Eustace said from the doorway. He held a towel to his shoulder. “Vivian and Calvin would still be dead. I intended to kill both of them.” He came into the room and closed the door. “They both deserved to die for what they did to Camille. When you hear it, you’ll agree.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dixon lingered in the sheriff’s office, writing down the events of the night as she sat at Waymon’s desk. Waymon had been unable to get any information from the prison, but J.D. was calling. Across the room Olena and Zander sat on plastic chairs and watched the minute hand notch down the face of the big clock.
“What will they do with Francisco?” Olena asked.
“Once he’s released from the hospital, he’ll be taken to a mental institution. Someone from Mexico, a priest, is coming to take charge of him.”
“A priest?” Olena hadn’t missed the irony.
“A friend.”
Dixon shifted on her chair and called Tucker at the newspaper. He was writing the story, and she was more than glad to let him. It would probably catapult him out of Jexville. Some big newspaper would offer him five times what she could pay, and she would lose her only reporter. Nevertheless, she couldn’t stand in his way.
“Will you get a quote from J.D. for me?” Tucker asked.
Tucker had it bad. He was a newshound, and he would never go back to the safe life of academia. “I’ll have him call you.
“Thanks, Dixon.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want to write this story?”
“Go for it, Tucker.”
Voices came from J.D.’s office. Waymon was huddled in the back with him.
“Will the prison call Sheriff Horton back?” Zander asked her.
“I think so. It just takes time for things to happen in institutions. If J.D. didn’t think they’d call back, he’d send all of us home.”
The telephone rang.
J.D. answered, and Waymon closed the door to his office. Olena had begun to cry, her hands wringing a tissue. Zander put his arm around her.
The door opened, and J.D. stepped out of his office. He nodded at Dixon and spoke to Olena and Zander. “It was touch-and-go for a few hours, but Mr. Jones is going to make a full recovery.”
Zander’s head dropped to his chest, and he covered his eyes to hide his tears.
Olena stood up and held out her hand to the sheriff. “Thank you.
“Someone from the prison will call you tomorrow and explain the details to you.” J.D. put his hand on Zander’s shoulder. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and see if there’s anything I can do. I feel certain we can arrange a visit.”
“Thank you,” Zander said. He put his arm around Olena as they left.
For a long moment, Dixon didn’t say anything. She blinked back tears. “I don’t think he killed my father.”
“Are you hanging out here because you’re a masochist, or are you afraid of the dark?” J.D. t
ook her elbow and maneuvered her out the door of the sheriff’s office.
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. Listen, I’m pretty done in. Would you care for a drink? I promise not to salt my booze with tears.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “You’ve been through hell tonight. Are you sure it’s a wise thing to drink?”
“I’ve never been accused of being wise. Look, I’m going to drink with or without your company, and I’d like your company. And I might need your help.”
“Then I accept your offer.”
“We can go to the house. Why don’t you follow me?”
“You’ve got it,” J.D. said, and he squeezed her arm lightly before he took a right to get his SUV.
Dixon eased the truck toward Peterson Lane. J.D. fell in behind her, his lights reflecting in her rearview mirror.
It was midnight in Jexville, and the streets were empty. On the surface it appeared to be a picture book town, all snuggled down for the night, children in bed with their prayers said, parents sleeping side by side. Dixon knew better but decided she didn’t want to try to reason her way through the events of the last six hours.
She stopped short in her driveway. Robert Medino’s rental car was parked under the oak trees.
J.D. pulled up behind her and rolled down his window. “You’re home safely, Dixon. Call me if you need me.”
“Thanks, J.D.” She walked up to the porch, where Robert was sitting on the swing.
“You’re mighty late,” he said.
“It’s been a long, bloody night. Calvin and Vivian are dead. Vivian is the one who killed Angie and Trisha.”
Robert frowned. “What about the hangings and burnings?”
“That was Chavez. It was some sort of protest or ritual. I didn’t understand everything he said.” She started to walk past him.
“I found some interesting stuff in Jackson.”
As tired as she was, Dixon felt her heart beat faster. “Something solid?”
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