Judas Burning (5 page)

Dixon saw no reason to beat around the bush. “I understand the board was entertaining bids on sixteenth section timber land. Were bids opened?” Bid openings were prime opportunities for graft and corruption, which was why she’d waited two hours on a deadline day.

“Actually, no.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Today’s meeting involved personnel.”

“Hiring or firing?”

“The latter. We have a touchy situation. A young man’s career hangs in the balance. We’d like for this teacher to leave without besmirching his name. No real harm has been done, and we simply want him to move along.”

“What did he do?” Dixon lowered her pen.

“As far as we can determine, the teacher has become … involved with a young girl. For the sake of the student and the teacher, it will be best to nip this thing in the bud.”

“The girl has made a charge?”

Welford’s hands tensed and then flexed. “No official charges have been made.”

She raised her eyebrows. “A complaint then?”

“Not in so many words.”

For a moment neither said anything. “You’re firing the guy, and a complaint hasn’t been filed? How can he defend himself? Does he know you’re firing him?”

Welford looked at his watch. “He will shortly.”

Dixon stepped back. “It seems to me you don’t really have enough evidence to dismiss a teacher. No charges, no complaint. Where’s the cause for action?”

“I know you’re used to big-city ways.” He frowned slightly. “In a place like Memphis, there’s a degree of anonymity. Governing bodies meet and discuss personnel, decisions are made, folks resign or get fired. Here in Jexville, it’s a bit more delicate. If we can prevent this problem from getting to the stages of a formal complaint, then we’ll have saved a young man’s career and a young girl’s reputation. This man can go on to teach and perhaps profit by the mistake he made here. But the girl has to remain. She can’t leave. This is her home. Ultimately, it’s the needs of the schoolchild that I base my decision on.”

“What if this man is innocent?”

“Innocent? He’s not innocent.” Welford flushed, openly contemptuous. “Tommy Hayes was in that classroom with those young girls talking about reproduction and sex. He’s leading them on, getting them thinking about sex, working them up. He’s using his youth and knowledge to stir a hornet’s nest. And even if he hasn’t actually made advances toward the girl, then he’s stupid for putting himself in a vulnerable position, staying after school with her, tutoring her. Next time Tommy Hayes will know to behave in an appropriate fashion. We don’t need his kind of teacher here in Chickasaw County.”

Dixon wondered if Welford’s use of the teacher’s name was a slip or a deliberate plant. She was developing a distinct dislike for the superintendent. “Does he have an attorney?”

“Look, I know how it might seem to an outsider. The truth is, the fat’s in the fire. The best thing for the teacher is to cut his losses and move on.”

As Dixon bent to make a notation on her pad, she saw movement in the dark hallway behind Welford. The woman was slender, with red hair. Dixon couldn’t be positive, but she looked like Vivian Holbert, the bank president’s elegant wife. Whoever she was, she disappeared through the door like a wraith. Dixon looked into Welford’s flushed face. “Thanks for your time.”

He patted her back. “I haven’t had a chance to welcome you to Jexville.” He patted her back again and leaned closer. “Actually, I find the story of the week to be that Pine Trust Bank made such a large loan to a single woman. Calvin is generally more conservative.”

Dixon met his gaze. “There’re no secrets in a small town. Everybody’s dirty laundry eventually gets hung out.”

The sun had set as Dixon walked down the empty streets to the paper. She heard the sound of a sputtering car engine behind her. When she turned, she saw Tucker in his ancient Toyota. She noted the high color on his peach-fuzz cheeks, the eagerness in his face.

“Linda sent me after you,” he said as he leaned out the window. “Her friend called back. They think those two missing girls might have drowned in the river. I want to follow the story.”

“You’ve already got one big front-page story this week with the chancery clerk charged with embezzlement. Blood lust is unattractive in a young reporter.” She gave a lopsided smile to take the sting out of her words. “How long have they been gone:

“They skipped school after first period, so probably since nine A.M. Someone saw a vehicle they might have been driving parked near a sandbar. Linda knows the part of the river they went to. It’s up at Fitler where the Leaf and Chickasawhay join to form the Pascagoula. She said the currents are treacherous. Kids drown there a lot.”

Dixon checked her watch. The front page had to be put to bed soon. She had decisions to make. She could go to the paper, or she could track down Tommy Hayes, the high school teacher who had just been fired for alleged misconduct. Perhaps Hayes would make a statement. Maybe he had a side to his story that needed to be printed.

“Go over to the sheriff’s office and see what you can find out. See if they’re getting search parties up or what. Could be the girls just decided to drive over to Mobile or down to the beach.”

“You think?”

Dixon saw his sudden deflation. Tucker had been working on his master’s degree in journalism at the University of Southern Mississippi when his money ran out. It had taken a sub-subhuman salary and the promise of many front-page bylines to draw him out of the USM library and into the newspaper office. She had appealed, cold-bloodedly and without remorse, to Tucker’s pale blond ambition. Beneath the bookworm exterior beat the heart of a newshound.

“Check it out with the sheriff.” She hesitated. “Don’t let Horton send you down a rabbit hole.”

“Okay. So what happened at the school board meeting?” Tucker pushed his hair out of his eyes, a gesture he made at least a thousand times a day and one he’d obviously studied in the mirror. Dixon could only hope he never went bald; he would have no defining action.

“They moved the meeting, and as my daddy always told me, secret meetings are held for one purpose: to conduct secret business …” She faltered, hearing the echo of an explosion. She shook her head and checked her watch again. “Make it fast, Tucker. I’m going to give a teacher a call. Time is running out. We’ve got to get the paper ready to take to the printer.”

As she walked briskly toward the newspaper, she pondered Big Jim Welford’s agenda. She was tempted to slam him with a story that would spin his head around on his neck. Public business needed to be conducted in public to give all sides a chance to have their say. If she went after Welford the way he deserved, a young girl and a teacher could suffer. It was also possible that Welford had set her up to do his dirty work for him.

The street was empty, and as she walked she listened to the sounds of a small town settling in for the night. A child laughed in a backyard. The smell of barbecue wafted through the oaks. She stopped and looked around. She could be in a small town anywhere in the south—the early September heat, the trees, the sense of day ending and evening—for families—beginning. The quiet street, lined with oaks whose gnarled roots bumped up the sidewalk, embodied the charm and beauty of the old south.

She started walking again. Only time would tell what course she should take. But the problem with hindsight was that it only pointed out that no choice was without penalty, no action without consequence.

J.D. sat at his desk, a sense of impending doom weighing him down. First he’d been visited by Robert Medino. That conversation stuck in his craw, but he’d attributed it to a simple dislike of a smartass—until he’d gotten a phone call an hour ago from Beth Salter. She’d been out of control, demanding that he form a search party for her daughter Angie and another teen, Trisha Webster. The two girls had left school in the morning and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Angie had a record as a runaway, but Trisha, from all accounts, was a quiet, well-behaved girl.

From his window he could see the Chickasaw County board of education building. He watched Dixon Sinclair’s conversation with Big Jim and knew trouble was brewing there. He’d made it his business to learn about Dixon, and what he’d discovered was that she wouldn’t be intimidated by the good ole boys who ran Chickasaw County. She had a reputation as a drunk, but he hadn’t seen any signs of it. Her eyes had been clear, her questions sharp. Dixon was a harbinger of change. He felt it in his bones.

He made another call to the Webster house, and Trisha’s mother answered.

“I don’t want to speak poorly of anyone, but I believe Angie is a bad influence on Trish. My daughter would never skip school unless she got talked into it. I feel sorry for Angie. She’s a lost child, but I don’t want her taking Trish down that road with her.”

“You still haven’t heard from your daughter?” J.B. asked, his sense of trouble deepening.

“Not a word. When she does get home, she’s going to be grounded for the rest of the year. Are you organizing a search party?”

“Let’s give them a little bit longer to show up,” he said. He replaced the phone, thinking about the treacherous current of the river, especially at Fitler where the two rivers joined. He looked up when Tucker Barnes walked into his office. Tucker looked as if he were fourteen, but behind the John Lennon glasses was a quick mind.

“Sheriff, have you had a report on some missing girls?”

“We don’t have an official report yet. Mrs. Salter called and said Angie didn’t come home from school.” He hesitated, then continued. “Mrs. Webster hasn’t seen them, either.” Perhaps that would prevent the reporter from calling and upsetting Mrs. Webster further. “So far, they aren’t considered missing, just late.”

“Are you launching a search?” Tucker asked.

J.D. considered. “It’s just getting dark. I hope the girls show up before bedtime.” He didn’t tell Tucker about Angle’s record as a troubled teen.

“If they don’t come home, what’ll you do?”

“Let’s not get the cart before the horse,” he said.

“I got some photographs of the girls from the school annual,” Tucker said. He pulled two small photos from his pocket. “Is this Angie Salter?” he held out one photo.

J.D. looked at the image of the girl. She had on make-up so heavy she looked twenty-one instead of fifteen. “That’s her.”

“And this is Trisha Webster?”

The girl was timid. He could see it in the way her gaze didn’t quite make it to the camera. Her brown hair was thick. She had the look of a follower. “That’s the Webster girl.” He hesitated. “If you play this story up, those girls are going to have to live with it when they come home.”

“If they come home,” Tucker said. “Folks are saying they might have drowned in the river.”

“Folks aren’t the most reliable source, Mr. Barnes. I hope you keep that in mind.”

His office door opened again, and Vivian Holbert stood in the doorway, looking annoyed at Tucker. “Sorry, Sheriff Horton. I didn’t realize you had someone in here.”

“Mr. Barnes was just leaving, Vivian. Is there something I can do for you?”

She entered, her pale face pink from exposure to the sun. “I want to speak to you alone.”

J.D. nodded at Tucker.

“I have to get back to the paper,” Tucker said, closing the door behind him.

J.D. turned his attention to Vivian. He knew more about the Holberts than he cared to know. Vivian and Calvin’s daughter, Camille, lived on the river with Eustace Mills, a fisherman and retired bootlegger who was nearly forty years her senior. Calvin had repeatedly tried to force J.D. to go to the river and physically remove Camille. J.D. had consistently refused, pointing out that Camille was a grown woman and could live with whomever she chose. Such logic cut no ice with Calvin. Now, here was Vivian, ready to launch a fresh assault when he had two missing girls to worry about.

“I was over at the board of education.” She paused, her pale green eyes steady. “I heard that two girls are missing. I was there when Beth Salter showed up. She made an ass of herself, trying to blame the school because her daughter cut class. She says she’s going to sue.”

J.D. was silent. In his dealings with Vivian, he’d learned to neither confirm nor deny.

“I think Eustace did it. I think he took those girls and hurt them.” She lifted her chin, daring him to deny it.

“Vivian, there’s no indication that anyone took those girls. I believe they’re just working out a wild hair. They’ll be back by suppertime.”

“And if they aren’t?” Her tone was cool. “That man is a deviant. I will never understand why you protect him. He has my daughter, and Camille may be twenty-three, but she isn’t capable of making that kind of decision.”

“Until Camille is legally ruled incompetent, I have to allow her to behave as an adult.” J.D. wanted to tell Vivian that Eustace would never hurt Camille or any other young woman, but that would just fuel the fire.

“You defend him when his actions are indefensible.” She stood up. “One day, and not too far away, you’ll have to admit that you’re wrong about him.” She marched out of the office, her high heels tapping on the floor.

J.D. leaned back in his chair. It was time to go home. If anything happened, the dispatcher would call him.