Skin Dancer (11 page)

During her years at Lida Jane's Preparatory School for Young Women, Frankie had played field hockey, soccer and danced. It was the discipline, both mental and physical, of ballet that had won her heart. Lithe and quick, she'd been a natural. In fact, she enjoyed any intense workout that demanded all she had to give. Living in that moment of total concentration and focus on a goal was one of her biggest thrills. She smiled to herself at the thought of such pleasures and rolled the tension out of her shoulders. Right now she needed a workout as much as she wanted to talk to Rachel.

The front door of the building opened easily with the key Rachel had helped arrange for her, and she stepped into an anteroom where a reception desk filled one corner. The smell of sawdust and sweat brought back a memory from high school. She'd danced the lead in
Swan Lake
and been told repeatedly of her “potential.” She hadn't been interested in pursuing a career on stage. Dance wasn't her destiny, and though she loved it, it was an aside.

Beyond the reception area she could hear the sounds of someone breathing heavily. Rachel. She walked in that direction, her slippers soundless on the polished oak of the floor. When she entered, she was struck by the serene emptiness of the room. The lone figure executing a series of side kicks showed practice, skill, determination and speed.

Frankie watched silently. Rachel was good. Very good. The black belt that tied her dobok held four white stripes that represented long years of hard work. While the movements Rachel executed were as precise and beautiful as ballet, they could also be deadly.

She continued to watch as Rachel leapt into the air and kicked with such force that her body shifted horizontal to the floor. She landed on the balls of her feet with a soft thud.

Frankie applauded, causing Rachel to whirl. “Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”

“I didn't hear you come in.”

“You were absorbed in the movement. I think that's the point.”

Rachel wiped her sweaty forehead with her sleeve. “I figured I'd be the only Criss County resident working out at two in the morning.”

Frankie heard the message beneath Rachel's words. “I saw your truck here and presumed too much. I'll see you later.” She turned to leave.

“Wait up!” Rachel walked toward her. “It's okay. I don't mean to act like I own the space. The exercise…helps me sleep.”

Frankie nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. When I can't sleep…I just thought…” she shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Obviously I didn't think at all.”

“Stay.”

Frankie considered. “Are you sure?”

“I'm positive. I'm almost finished anyway. If I don't get home and get at least a few hours sleep I won't be able to work tomorrow.”

Frankie saw the doubt in her face. “Has something else happened?” 

“Probably not. A couple of local hunters are missing.”

“Who?”

“Mullet Bellows and Burl Mascotti.”

Frankie nodded. “Mullet works on the road crew. When he feels like it. But you sure can't start a search party tonight. It's pouring and the winds are hitting gale force at times.”

 As if to emphasize her words, a gust of wind howled against the front door causing it to knock against the jamb.

“I alerted the troopers who'll pass the info on to the road and power crews. I've got a search party lined up for first light, and Gordon talked to Mrs. Bellows. Mullet apparently has a history of staying out overnight. It's just that–”

“The murders. I know. But no point jumping to conclusions. If you need some help looking for them in the morning, I'd be glad to lend a hand. I'm a pretty fair tracker. My dad taught me. He was a great man.” She felt Rachel's assessing gaze. The deputy was green, but at times she could be a little disconcerting. Frankie enjoyed that. Most people were so easily manipulated. Rachel was difficult to manage.

“Jake told me you moved down South just before you hit your teen years. Alabama, I think.”

Frankie wondered how much Jake had told her. “I spent most of my life in Montgomery, but my early childhood was here. On a ranch.” Frankie hesitated. “Because of a head injury, I don't have many memories of those early years. I can't remember birthday parties or playing with friends. But I never forgot how to do certain things. Like tracking or riding a horse. Setting up a camp or building a fire. I remember the skills, but not the emotional aspects.”

“What kind of injury?” Rachel motioned to a wall where several folding chairs had been stored. “Let's sit for a minute.”       

Frankie followed more slowly. When they were seated and facing each other, she answered. “I was shot in the head when I was twelve.”

Rachel's face registered concern, and Frankie felt her gaze searching for the bullet wound. Everyone did it. “Was it a hunting accident?”

“Sort of.” Frankie shrugged. “I don't really remember what happened exactly, but my mother said my father went up in the hills looking for some cattle that had strayed. He told me to stay home, but I waited until he had a lead and then I saddled Dolly and went after him. He had a head start, but I was a good tracker.” Her voice grew husky with emotion. “I don't remember anything else. I was shot. No one really knows what happened.”

She could almost see Rachel's thoughts. “If you're thinking illegal hunters shot me, you may be right. My personal theory is that my dad caught some poachers and they panicked and killed him. I rode up on them and they shot me and left me for dead.”

“Your father was shot, too?”

“I can't answer that. His body was never found. Some folks think he abandoned the family because he was losing our ranch. Cattle prices had bottomed out and things were bad economically. It was a tough time, or at least that's what Mother always told me. So the gossip was that he couldn't face it and left.”

“But you were shot. He wouldn't have left you.”

“They found horse tracks that led to the main road and then some tracks from a horse trailer pulled by a dually.” 

“That could indicate foul play to me.” Rachel took a deep breath trying to contain her frustration. “Did they question any witnesses or find any evidence? Your father wouldn't have left you wounded in the wilderness.”

Frankie tried not to show the strange elation she felt. Rachel understood. She was smart, and she saw the obvious.

“Gordon was a deputy then, and he and Mel Ortiz, who was the head of the state parks, figured Dad was too far ahead of me to know what had happened. He said Dad had probably loaded up his horse and was down the highway before I was even shot. Had he known, he wouldn't have left.”

“That makes a certain kind of sense, I guess.” Rachel rubbed at the deep furrow between her eyebrows. “But—”

Frankie wanted to hug her. She was a stranger, but she saw the stupidity of thinking Dub would abandon his family.

“They did put out a missing person's report and they got a couple of calls. Someone saw Dad working the rodeo circuit in Amarillo and Houston. Then there was an airline ticket purchased in his name in Missoula. I was really sick then and my mother didn't pursue any of it. She said if Dad would abandon us, she wasn't going to track him down and force him to take care of his family.”

“But you never believed that?” Rachel asked.

 Frankie shook her head. “I think the same people who shot me shot him.”

“But a body just doesn't disappear.”

Frankie nodded. “I was shot on state land. Gordon and Mel worked it together, sort of like the way you and Jake are working this double murder. Anyway, they found where I'd been shot, and what looked like a practice target deeper in a clearing in the woods. There was no trace of my father or any sign of a struggle.” She met Rachel's gaze squarely. “The official version was that I was shot accidentally and that Dad left. I think Dad was killed and they took his horse and his body. I don't believe the shooters even knew they'd hit me.”

Outside a gust of wind whipped a branch into the building. Both women looked toward the front door.

“How long ago was this?”

“Sixteen years.”

“You never saw who shot you?”

“The bullet went in here.” Frankie pulled her hair back to show her scalp just above her forehead. “It came out over here.” She knew the scar was faint and it was unlikely Rachel could see it. “Small caliber, the same that matched the holes in the target.”

“So Mel and Gordon figured that someone was practice shooting and a stray round got you?”

“That's right. The damage from the bullet and resulting swelling affected the part of my brain that controlled motor skills and memory. I don't remember anything. When I came to, I didn't know my own mother. I lost my father in more ways than death.”

“How did you get home?” Rachel stared at the towel in her hands.

“I can't say. All I know is that Mother told me everyone was looking for Dad and me. Gordon and the search and rescue were out. Mel had mobilized all the volunteers to comb the state lands. She said she looked out the kitchen window and saw Dolly, my horse, slowly walking toward the house. I'd somehow managed to get up in the saddle and hang on to the horn. Dolly brought me home. Dad's horse was never found. Never a trace of him anywhere, except for those tracks leading to a horse trailer.”

“Jesus, Frankie.” Rachel wiped her forehead with her palm.

“Hey, it's not as bad as it could be. I don't remember any of it. Everything I told you is only what my mother told me. My childhood, except for an occasional flash or a splinter of memory or emotion, is simply gone.” She tapped her head. “I started life at twelve with a clean slate.”

“And your dad? Nothing ever turned up?”

Frankie inhaled slowly. “I have this one picture of him. I don't even know if it's real or if it's something I saw on TV and incorporated as my own.” She swallowed. “It's hard not to have memories like other kids. But in this image, I see my dad. His name was Dub. I see him lifting me into a saddle on a horse. His eyes are blue like the South Dakota sky, and he's laughing and telling me I'm going to be the best cowgirl ever born. Mother said I was really good. Dad preferred working the cattle with me over the ranch hands because I was so adept at cutting.”

Rachel pushed her hair back. “I feel like I'm playing forty questions with your life, but why did your mom move down to Alabama?”

“I want you to know this, because in some ways we share a lot. We've both lost our parents. We've both grown up and made something of ourselves. We both had to learn to be tough. And I'd rather you hear it from me. That way I know you got the straight story—or at least as straight as my mother's version can be. When they got me down off Dolly, I couldn't walk or talk. The local doctor wanted to send me to a brain center in Omaha, but Mother had family in Montgomery. We went there so her sister could help. The therapy was intensive and it took a lot of physical work. I had to learn to sit up, to crawl, to stand. I was like a baby.”

Frankie realized her tone had gotten harsher. “I hate to think of those years. It's humiliating not being able to go to the toilet without help. I was deaf at first. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even ask for water. It took months of intensive therapy. My mother and aunt devoted their lives to helping me heal, and in the end I think the stress of it all took a toll. Mom died of a heart attack.”

Rachel put a hand on her arm. “To look at you, no one would ever think you'd been through anything worse than a bad hair day. Frankie, I'm amazed at you.”

“Survival is the strongest primal instinct, Rachel. I didn't do anything spectacular. I merely did what we're all biologically programmed to do. I survived.”

“A lot of biologically programmed humans would've given up. You're a superb athlete. You didn't just learn to walk again, you're an advertisement for fitness.”

Frankie stood abruptly, fueled by a surge of impatient energy. Whenever she inched too close to emotion, her body demanded action. She paced the area. “I made a promise to myself that I'd never feel helpless again. I won't.” She faced Rachel. “I won't.”

Rachel rose also. “I don't know what I could do, Frankie, but if you want me to look at the old case files on your dad's disappearance, I will.”

Frankie stopped. “No one has ever offered to do that. After the initial investigation and the fake leads that never panned out, folks assumed that Dad had abandoned the family. It was hard times. Like a lot of other ranchers, Dad was overextended, and the bank was going to foreclose. We moved south, and folks let it slide into the past.”

“It's hard to let go of something until you know the truth. Once we find Welford's killer, I'll look into your dad's disappearance.” Rachel picked up her towel. “It's late. I need to get some sleep. I'm going to be out in the wilderness looking for Mullet and Burl.”

“If he shows at the job site, I'll give you a holler, but Mullet doesn't work regular. In fact, best I can tell, he prefers not to work at all.”

Frankie followed Rachel to the front door. “If it's okay, I'm going to stay another half hour and do some stretches. I'll lock up.”

“Enjoy yourself.” Rachel opened the door and was almost pulled into the street by a gust of wind.

She ran to her truck and was backing out of the lot when Frankie waved her to a halt and ran to the driver's window. “Rachel, I had another dinner party tonight. Investors for Paradise. Justine Morgan, the cardiologists' daughter, I could be wrong, but she might be a place to start with WAR.”

“Justine Morgan? She graduated from Yale or some Ivy League school and came back home, right?”

Frankie nodded. “I'm not trying to interfere—”

“It's okay. Why would Justine be messing with WAR?”