Judas Burning (17 page)

“So I heard. The sheriff ought to cut out his deputy’s vocal cords. Waymon has been running his mouth.” Robert patted the swing beside him. “Have a seat and tell me all about it.” There was the slosh of liquid in a bottle. “I heard you were partial to Jack Daniel.”

Dixon remained on the top step. “ ‘Partial to’ is a Southern phrase. Are you quoting someone in particular?” Most likely Ruth Ann, who ferreted out gossip like an armadillo after a grub.

Robert stopped swing and stood up. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. Maybe I’ve had a little too much whiskey on an empty stomach.”

He sounded contrite. “If that’s a hint for food, you’ve come to a pitiful place. I’ve got stale bread, corn flakes—no milk—and Diet Coke.”

“Actually, I came to see what you know about the dead girl and how she died. If you won’t have dinner with me, at least let’s work together as journalists.”

Dixon was surprised at the surge of disappointment she felt. That, more than anything, made her realize how lonely she’d been. “You need to eat something. Alcohol dissipates in the flames of carbohydrates.”

“Why would you think I want the alcohol to dissipate?”

Dixon rolled her eyes and unlocked the front door. “The mosquitoes will eat us alive out here. Come on inside. Keep in mind I wasn’t expecting a personal visit.”

“I’ve been told I can be quite charming in person.”

“Do people lie to you a lot?”

He laughed, so close behind her she could feel his breath in her hair. “I’ll turn on the air conditioners. It’ll cool down pretty quickly.”

Robert followed her to the kitchen, but when she turned to fill the coffee pot with water, he touched her arm. “No coffee. Nothing. Just talk to me.”

His eyes were brown flecked with gold. He was very close to her.

“About what?” she asked, taking a step back.

“I heard the body of Trisha Webster was in bad shape. Mutilated.”

Had he come for information? She didn’t think so. J.D. would talk to him, if Waymon hadn’t already.

“It was bad. Really bad.” She waited until their eyes locked. “How about we swap information? I tell you what I know, and you tell me all about your theory.”

“Okay.” He went to the cabinet and got two glasses. From the freezer he got ice cubes, and then he poured two shots of Jack. He held a glass out to her. “I’ll make a wild guess and say the Webster girl was kept alive for a while before she was killed. She was sexually assaulted, either before or after she was dead—I’m not sure about that yet—and then some ritualistic symbol or act was committed. Something like burning the body, or hanging—that’s ancient ritual in purest form.”

Dixon held the glass. It had been five weeks. Five hard weeks. The whiskey smelled warm. She could almost taste it. Almost taste the cigarette that went with it. “You’re right. Waymon is a serious gossip. How much is a guess, and how much do you know?”

“The body was hung and burned. That’s all I know.”

“She was gutted, and a cross was cut into her thigh.”

“What order did it take place?” He knocked back his drink and poured another. “I’m not certain. The forensics aren’t back.”

“Will you be able to get them from the sheriff?” Dixon felt a wave of apprehension. “J.D. would give you a copy of the report if he thought he could trust you—”

“He won’t ever trust me.” Robert shook out a cigarette and offered it to her. “Never. But he likes you. I watched him at the river last week. He definitely likes you.”

Dixon felt her neck redden as she declined the cigarette. “You said this type of killing is ritualistic. What culture? The gruesome nature of Trisha Webster’s body doesn’t lend itself to even a very loose interpretation of the word
culture.”

“Fire for purification. Vikings. American Indians. East Indians. Just about any culture that uses funeral pyres.” He shrugged. “If you really think about it, embalming and preservation of mortal remains is far more grotesque than burning. Most purification beliefs spring from the theory that fire frees the spirit. The mortal flesh is reduced to ash, and the spirit is free to ascend.”

“What about hanging?”

“Another type of ritual. Not purification, though some American Indian tribes did hang their dead in trees.” He sipped his drink, his eyes on her untouched glass. “Hanging is more symbolic of the executioner. It’s a statement coming from him. He’s putting his handiwork out there on display.”

Dixon leaned forward on her elbows. She held the bourbon in one hand, catching the light in the amber liquid. “You sound very certain the killer is a male. Could it possibly be a woman?”

“The Webster girl was about five-seven, a hundred and twenty pounds. The blonde was smaller. I just figured it would take a man’s strength to haul a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight out of a boat and then hang it from a tree. A woman could do it, certainly. But it would take a very strong woman.” His gaze moved over her body. “You could probably do it. If you were really pissed off”

“Thanks, I think.” Dixon put her glass down. “How did you know the body was taken to the hanging site?”

“J.D. Horton isn’t a stupid man. If that girl had been along the edge of the river, Horton would have found her long ago. Even if she was buried. They had cadaver dogs that would have found an obvious grave. My guess is that those girls were stashed somewhere and then moved.”

“And why is this person doing this?” she asked.

“The man has some intimate connection with the figure of the Virgin Mary. He’s destroyed her image in towns all over the South. It was only a matter of time until his behavior shifted from image to living person. I think he views those girls as the embodiment of the female virgin. I’m not sure exactly how it hooks up, but he ultimately feels he has to destroy them because of what they represent.”

“That is scary as hell,” Dixon said. “So now that he’s killed once, he’ll likely kill again.”

“That’s usually the way it works. I wouldn’t give the Salter girl much of a chance.” Robert sat back from the table. “You look beat. That’s not a personal comment but one journalist telling another that some sack time is high on the priority list.”

“I feel as if my arms and legs are filled with cement.”

“I’ll be heading to my magnificently decorated room. I have more pillows than Cleopatra in her palanquin.” He hesitated. “Will you be okay?”

Dixon nodded. “I’m too tough for the stew pot, so I guess the cannibals will leave me alone.”

He shoved the bottle to her. “Keep it. For next time.”

Dixon snatched the telephone on the sixth ring, almost falling out of bed.

“Who is this?” Her body was tangled in the sheets, and she’d dreamt that she was tied to a chair while people watched her through a small window.

“Hello,” she said again. She held the phone tightly as she scanned the room where nothing was familiar and a scraping sound came from the window.

“Dixon?” Her mother’s voice was threaded with worry. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“I was asleep.” Dixon swung her legs out of bed and snapped on the light. The night had been an inferno of hellish images and suffocating anxiety. She had not been asleep but in a state of helpless limbo where the demons of her subconscious jumped from their cells and ran wild.

She walked to the window and flipped the blinds to reveal a morning shrouded in fog. The scraping noise was an azalea rasping the screen.

“I’m worried about you.” Marilyn said.

“I’m fine,” Dixon said automatically. She felt naked, talking to her mother as she stood in her underwear at the window. She picked up a pair of dirty jeans.

“The newspaper looks good. Teasie brought a copy of the
Independent
to me yesterday. She had a doctor’s appointment here in Jackson with Dr. Winguard. She said she was worried half to death for you. I can see why, too. You’re right in the middle of everything, just like your father. Teasie said half the town thinks you’re marvelous and the other half wants to tar and feather you.”

Dixon held the telephone against her shoulder, pulling on the jeans while she listened. As she tucked in the pockets, her fingers found a crisp slip of paper. When she pulled it out, she realized it was the sales slip she’d found on the river more than a week before.

“That’s probably the most accurate statement Teasie ever made,” she said, trying to refocus on the conversation. “But I would have said twenty-eighty.” She forced lightness into her voice. “My approval rating’s higher than I thought.”

Her mother’s laughter reminded Dixon of summer afternoons.

“I love it when you laugh, Mom,” Dixon said.

“I’d laugh more if you sold that paper. You could teach, Dixon. It isn’t big money, but neither is a weekly paper. You could work on a campus for twenty hours a week instead of putting in a hundred and twenty.”

“If I worked on a campus, I might also find Prince Charming, someone brilliant and dedicated, and settle down to give you those grandchildren you want.” Dixon didn’t really mind her mother’s nagging.

“I want you to be happy, Dixon.” She hesitated. “Are you drinking?”

Dixon sagged. Her mother had called to see if she woke up drunk. “Not yet,” she said with a bite. “If that’s why you called, you can hang up now.”

“Lana’s pregnant. She’s due in April.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dixon faltered. “I guess Raymond’s delighted. I know how much he wanted a child.”

“They’re both very happy.” There was caution in her mother’s tone.

“Me, too, Mom. I can’t wait to have a baby niece or nephew. It’s about time one of the Sinclairs kept the line going.”

“Raymond and Lana haven’t been getting along all that well. Sometimes a child makes matters worse.” Her mother spoke carefully. Her primary focus in life, since her husband’s death, was her children. Raymond was the son who never disappointed.

“Sometimes a child makes things better.” Perhaps a child would make Raymond grow up. He was devoted to his engineering career—and his ski vacations and mountain climbing, his boats and travels. A child would center him or sink the marriage. Lana, too, would have to shift her focus from her legal career.

“I was never happier than when you two were little and your father was working as the political columnist for the
Charlotte Observer
. Those were the best days.”

Dixon heard the longing in her mother’s voice. Marilyn McVay had been a photographer. A good one. She’d given up her career to raise her family. But she’d never whined about that decision.

“Look, Mom, I’m doing something important, and I haven’t felt that way for a long, long time. Moving to Jexville has been good for me. I just want you to know that.”

“Life isn’t all about career, Dixon.” Her mother sighed. “I wanted you to have a girl’s name, but your father was so proud of you. He insisted on giving you a family name.”

Dixon glanced at the clock. It was 6:48. Her mother hadn’t called at daybreak simply to tell her about the baby. “Mom, is anything wrong?”

Another hesitation.

Dixon felt her heart rate increase. “Mom, what’s happened?”

“I got a telephone call Sunday night, Dixon.” There was silence. “The man asked a lot of questions. About the past. About the execution. He wanted to know if I planned on attending.”

“Who was it?”

“He wouldn’t give his name.”

“Mom, don’t answer any more questions. If anyone calls, give them the number of the paper here.”

“Dixon, I know you think your father’s death was some type of conspiracy.” When Dixon didn’t answer, she continued. “I figure you’ve been poking around again and you’ve managed to stir up a hornet’s nest. I haven’t forgotten that you went to Parchman to visit that man. I’ve told you, when you stir the nest, someone gets stung.”

“I don’t know who called you, but I’ll find out. I’m calling the phone company and ordering caller I.D. for you. Promise me you’ll let them hook it up.”

There was a long pause. “I hate those gizmos. There’ll be wires running all over the house. Something else to dust.”

“Promise.”

“Okay. Only because I’m curious.”

Dixon smiled and felt her heart rate slowing. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too. Dixon, don’t keep poking. I’m begging you.”

“I love you, Mama.” Dixon replaced the phone. She sat on the side of the bed in her jeans and bare feet and thought about the bottle of Jack in the kitchen. Her hands were shaking. She stood up and started to remove her jeans. The receipt she’d found fell to the floor.

It was only a short drive to the Circuit City in Mobile.

J.D. dropped Visine in his eyes and closed them against the burn. The night had faded, yielding to a gray dawn that could bring only more bad news. Dr. Jose Diaz had been expected back in town last night, but he’d been detained in Rwanda, where he was doing volunteer work for children. J.D. needed to talk to him.

The good news was that the mug shot of Francisco Chavez had made the ten o’clock news on three television stations in Mobile, and calls had begun to come in. None useful. Yet. A lead would eventually pan out, but eventually might be too late for Angie Salter, if it weren’t too late already.