Skin Dancer (10 page)

“Will do.” Lulu patted Rachel's dark curls. “Be careful. I hear what you're talking about and it worries me.”

“I will.” She blew Lulu a kiss and waited until she went back behind the counter. “I think it's a dead end.”

“A charge of accomplice to murder might rattle some information loose.” Jake's blue eyes were hard.

She nodded. It wasn't that she hadn't thought of that approach. She just didn't think it was worth the effort. A bunch of upper class white kids would lawyer up and never give up anything.

“I need to talk to Adam Standing Bear. I gather he's the official spokesman for the faction of Sioux who are vocal about the four–lane going through.” She cut a bite of her pie and lifted it to her mouth. “Mmmmmm. That is if I can still fit into my pants. I'm definitely going to have to work out tonight.”

“Want me to go with you to talk to Ad—”

The ring of her cell phone cut through his question. It was a good excuse not to answer him. Jake had worked hard to develop a rapport with several of the local factions of Sioux, including the more militant ones. But she wanted to talk to Adam without Jake. If she was going to work Criss County, Adam was someone she needed to develop her own relationship with.

“Deputy Redmond. Can I help you?”

The woman on the other end sounded breathless. “This is Hannah Bellows. My husband should've been home today before dark, but I haven't heard from him.”

Rachel checked her watch. “The bad weather may have delayed him. Where does he work?” She'd have to talk to Gladys about giving out her cell phone number to anyone who called in, especially anyone with a straying husband.

“He and Burl Mascotti went up to plant some…I mean to check out some camping sites. They spent the night up in the woods last night, but he said he'd be home this evening by five. With the storm and all, he should've been home by now.”

Rachel's gaze met Jake's as she answered. She tried to keep a cool expression but her heart had begun to race. “He's only an hour late, Mrs. Bellows. I'm sure he'll be home before long.” 

“Mullet never misses the NASCAR races. Never.”

“Mullet Bellows?” She knew him. He hung out in Bud's most evenings, strutting like a rooster with his outdated hair cut and an abundant supply of what he thought was charm but she viewed as obnoxiousness.

“Mullet
never
misses the NASCAR. I'm telling you, something bad has happened.”

Outside the café another burst of wind blew rain slashing against the plate glass window. “Do you know where the campsite was located?” Rachel pushed her half–eaten pie back as she focused on the conversation. She had a bad feeling.

“Mullet didn't talk about it much. He said women didn't belong in a hunting party, so I never took much notice of what he and Burl carried on about.”

The woman at least sounded calmer. “Does he have a cell phone?” Rachel asked.

“He does.” She gave the number. “There's no reception up there, though.”

“I'll notify the deputies on the roads tonight and let them know to call you if they see him.”

“You're going to look for him, aren't you?”

Rachel watched the rain lash the window on another gust of wind. The helicopter out of Rapid City couldn't fly in these winds. Searching on foot would be a waste of manpower until daylight. Between the darkness and the storm, a rescuer could walk right by a victim.

Victim.

She focused on gaining control of her own anxiety and the conversation. “We'll do what we can, Mrs. Bellows. Someone isn't considered missing until he's gone for twenty–four hours. Although it's raining, the temperature is mild. He isn't in any danger of freezing.”

“What if he's hurt up there? What if that killer has him?” Hysteria made her voice shrill.

“I know Mullet, and he's a competent guy. Chances are he's just hunkered down for the night.” She stared into Jake's eyes and saw his concern grow. “If he isn't home by morning, we'll launch a full–scale search. There's just not much we can do in this storm. If you had some idea where he was camping, we could check that.”

“Well that's a stupid damn answer. My husband is missing up in the woods where two people were murdered, and you can't look for him because you might get wet.”

Rachel slowly inhaled. There wasn't any point in explaining to Mrs. Bellows that if she and Scott and Jake and all the volunteers went up to search right now, without a specific location to begin, it would be futile.

“I'm calling the sheriff. He'll make you do your job.”

“We'll do what we can, Mrs. Bellows. I'll let you know if I find him. And you call the S.O. if he shows up, okay?”

Mrs. Bellows slammed the phone down and disconnected.

Rachel put her cell phone on the table. People didn't understand that deputies and volunteers for search and rescue didn't automatically get special powers with the job title. They couldn't see in the dark or fly in gale–force winds.

“Mullet gone astray?” Jake asked, deliberately keeping it light.

“Yeah. Maybe Burl Mascotti, too. Mrs. Bellows said they went up into the wilderness to check out campsites and haven't come back.” She bit her lip, then stopped herself. It was an old habit she'd worked hard to break. She knew it made her look about fourteen.

 “Those two are probably up to a little illegal hunting.” Jake nodded toward the window. “Nothing you can do about it tonight.”

“Not with the storm. The winds are too high to call out the rescue helicopter. I'll stop by the office and give Gordon a heads–up on this. Call the state troopers just in case he's on the road to Rapid City instead of up in the woods.”

Jake nodded. “Mullet isn't known for his fidelity. He and Burl will probably show up home when they run out of beer.”

It was the logical assessment of the situation, but Rachel couldn't shake the disquiet that had settled at the table with them. “I saw the storm coming this afternoon about three. What would make an idiot stay out until it hit?”

“You've answered your own question.” Jake placed a twenty on the table. “They're idiots. Mullet and Burl are two–thirds of the three stooges and neither of them are half as smart as Moe.”

# # #

The candles lit the table with a glowing luminescence. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain pounded the windows, but at Frankie's dinner table, conversation softened the sounds of the storm. It was a select gathering, one more step on the yellow brick road to the Emerald City of Paradise. She rolled one shoulder, then the other. She'd had a busy few days with lots of physical exertion.

“Frankie, are you going to be able to keep the four–lane on track?” Harvey Dilson's question cracked like a whip amidst the genteel murmur of her guests.

She met his gaze. Her family had known him since his first election to the state house. Power had coarsened his features and sharpened his tongue. Harvey was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it.

She gave him a cool smile. “Let's save that for later, Harvey, and talk about more pleasant things.” Several of the multi–million dollar investors in the Paradise project—and in Dilson's political future–were at the table, yet Harvey didn't have sense enough to keep his mouth shut. “How is your re–election campaign shaping up?” she asked.

His blue eyes were flinty, but he nodded his head, the candlelight catching in his silver mane. “I never underestimate an opponent, but I don't see any serious problems ahead.”

“You have the advantage of incumbency,” Frankie noted. “The people of this region have come to rely on you to look out for their best interests.”

“Senator Dilson, is it true that the new highway is your idea?” The woman who spoke was young and beautiful, her thick auburn hair pulled back from her face by exquisite pearl barrettes. Her tone was sharp. “I hear you stand to sell a good bit of property for the right of way.”

“Young lady, are you an investor in Paradise?” Harvey leveled his gaze at her.

Frankie arched an eyebrow. “Harvey, Justine's parents are the cardiac specialists in the valley. She graduated early and returned to the area after finishing her master's at Yale. Business, wasn't it, Justine?”

“Accounting.” Her gaze never left the senator. “My parents supported your campaign last election, and we have some concerns about this four–lane. So I ask you again, was the new roadway your idea?”

Conversation at the table stalled. Frankie considered taking action to put the dinner party back on foot, but she rather enjoyed the discomfort that now marred Harvey's features. He wasn't used to being confronted, especially by someone young, passionate, idealistic and female, which was exactly why she'd invited Justine. A successful dinner party depended on the proper mix of guests. Justine's youth and brains balanced Harvey's political power. If Harvey couldn't handle her, it would at least provide for a bit of entertainment.

“Young lady, the road is necessary for future development in our area. Paradise is a dream, a pollution free industry that will grow our economy in ways you can't begin to comprehend. Folks won't live in a place where access is difficult.”

Justine speared a tender asparagus tip and daintily ate it. “You make several points, Senator, which are completely inaccurate. First of all, any development that requires miles and miles of asphalt to prepare for thousands of polluting automobiles is not what I'd call pollution free. Secondly, we already live in paradise; we don't need a high–tech city. Why change perfection? Tell me, why do politicians equate growth and development with progress?”

Frankie watched the reactions of her guests with casual alertness. Richard Jones, the man with the Midas touch when it came to computer technology, had stopped eating completely. Paradise was his dream, his concept, his existence. And he was riveted by Justine. He was a shy man to begin with, and Justine's passion had unsettled him even further.

The sheriff, another big investor in Paradise, put down his fork. She'd noticed his discomfort from his hip surgery, but he'd maintained a stoic front. His wife, though, was flushed, whether from embarrassment or too much wine, Frankie couldn't say for certain. The only one who seemed to enjoy the moment was Douglas Sparks, an investor from Omaha. The party was designed to introduce him to some of the people backing the Paradise project.

“The dinner table isn't the place to debate politics.” Harvey picked up his knife and cut the prime rib. “Not when this delicious repast is growing cold while we talk.”

“I'd like to hear your answer,” Douglas said quietly. “Since I'm thinking of investing, I'm interested in hearing how the…locals view Richard's project. I mean ‘the Emerald City of technology' will affect everyone in the area. Is this what the population wants? Do the residents want Oz in their backyard?”

Harvey's cheeks, already pink from the wine, colored more deeply. He'd been caught off–guard at a dinner where he expected only praise and the closing of a deal that would feather his nest for the rest of his life. Frankie knew for a fact that he'd invested close to a million dollars of his own money in Paradise.

“Senator Dilson, we're all very interested in this question,” Justine said. “As our elected representative, I'm sure you're well versed in the public's desires.”

“You know damn good and well–” He looked at the shocked faces at the table. “We haven't consulted the locals, as you so quaintly put it. But we will. Once we have the architectural renderings for Paradise and figures on the potential employment and payroll this technology center will generate, you can bet we'll let the constituency know. We'll put it on the ballot for a vote. We certainly don't intend to ram anything down the throats of the community and I resent–.”

“So far you've managed to ram the four–lane down our throats.” Justine folded her napkin. Frankie noticed she'd eaten the vegetables on her plate but the meat was untouched. Frankie studied the beautiful young woman. Had she come home to join up with WAR?

“This great country was built on the ability of the population to move westward, and this highway is no exception. We need access to Bisonville and Criss County if

Paradise is to become a reality. This development will bring thousands of high–paying jobs to an area that's been economically depressed since the 1800s. It's a good thing, young woman, so don't try to paint it as something bad.”

“Do the Native Americans feel this way?” Justine was completely unruffled by Harvey's bravado.

Frankie signaled the servant to refill the wine glasses. Justine was a ballsy little thing to sit at her table with such cool aplomb. She had no doubts now. Justine was a member of WAR. Frankie sipped the crisp shiraz. Life was about passion. Even misplaced passion was better than none. Justine was enchanting, as long as she didn't become too much of a thorn.

Harvey was almost spitting. “The Indians have no say whatsoever in this matter.”

“Except that the Black Hills were deeded to them in the Fort Laramie Treaty. I believe the wording reads that the lands are granted ‘in perpetuity' to the Sioux.” Justine licked her lips.

Silence filled the room, and Frankie saw that now Douglas, as well as Richard, was enraptured with Justine. Not exactly what she'd planned. She rose. “Let's have an after–dinner drink in the parlor.”

She left the room, wanting only to corner Justine somewhere private. If WAR was planning another raid on the road project, she needed to be one step ahead of them.

# # #

The dance studio/dojang looked abandoned, except for Rachel's truck in front. Frankie cruised to a stop in the parking lot and considered her next move. Her body hummed with tension. Justine had given very little away, but enough for Frankie to believe she was involved with WAR. The question was what to do with the information. She thought she knew, but she'd have to be careful how she went about it.