Skin Dancer (14 page)

“How are you going to make Jones change his mind?”

“My parents are investors in the concept, too, and I've learned one thing from listening to my father's boring dissertations on wealth and investments.”

“What?” Derek hadn't even bothered to listen to his mother's attempts to involve him in business strategies.

“Timing is everything, Derek. I may not be able to stop the development forever, but if I can distract Jones long enough, I may be able to change the entire time table and therefore everything.”

“I don't think this is a good plan.”

“It's perfect.”

“It sounds like you're willing to prostitute yourself to distract this guy.”

Justine's laughter was rich and amused. “People should be willing to sacrifice for a cause. I can work them from the inside. I'll know what they're planning before they know themselves, and we can throw a few monkey wrenches into the works.”

He had a sudden picture of her dressed to kill and on the arm of Richard Jones at some D.C. function. Spying only sounded glamorous when it was him playing James Bond. “Whatever their plans, Justine, they'll have to announce them publicly. Knowing them a few days in advance won't be of any real use.”

The look she gave him made him shut up. “How did you hurt your leg?” she asked.

It was another of her unnerving tactics. She switched topics suddenly, but never without a purpose. He reached for the water and took another swallow. He wasn't about to admit that he'd been caught in a man snare. She already thought he was inept. “I fell into a ravine last night. In the woods, when I was coming back down.”

“You never told me why you were in the woods,” she said. “What were you doing up there by yourself?”

“I'd followed Adam Standing Bear. Remember? It was your idea that I follow him and see what he was up to.”

“And?”

Derek shrugged. “It's possible the Indians are behind the killings.”

Justine's answer was another enigmatic smile. “Do you really think the Native Americans are finally killing the men who've slaughtered their animals since the 1800s?” she asked.

“If we could join forces…” He didn't finish. Justine was distracted by the ringing of her cell phone.

“Shit, it's my mother. If I don't answer, she'll send the posse over here to check on me.” She flipped open the phone with a curt hello. She listened for a moment, and Derek could see the impatience in her face.

“I have plans—” She broke off and sighed. “I'll be there in half an hour.”

After she put the phone down, she gave it the finger. “Fuck her. I have to go to her office and work. The receptionist isn't coming in, and the regular floater is on vacation. The patients are complaining.”

Derek had to admit that he took a tiny bit of pleasure in seeing someone pull Justine's strings. “Hey, it's only for a day. My mother's trying to get me to take a full–time job. She said if I don't find gainful employment pronto, she'll quit sending money.”

Justine picked up her car keys, her expression amused and secretive. “I have to go. I have no idea why Hannah stays married to that moron Mullet. She's okay, but he's always doing something stupid and making her miss work. He's AWOL again and she's crying and whining. I told Mom the last time this happened that she should fire her.”

“Can I stay here a while? Until my head stops hurting?”

She walked to him and turned his head so she could see the knot. “Okay. There's some bread and cheese in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

“If the phone rings, don't answer it. I'm expecting Richard to call, and I don't need the complication.”

She was gone before he could even frame a reply.

# # #

The entire mannequin had been dusted for prints. Nothing. Marston had gone down to Zimlich's Dry Goods to see if any of his mannequins were missing and had learned that Louis Zimlich had disposed of three unwanted mannequins—two female and one male—two nights before. He'd put them out in the back of the store for garbage pickup. All three dummies had gone missing before the trash truck could arrive. Louis hadn't given it another thought, assuming kids had taken the dummies for a practical joke.

Rachel shuffled the stack of papers in front of her. The tracks at the crime scene, if the hanging of a dummy could be considered a crime, had been muddled by the rain. Except for the one tire print. She'd made an impression on her way down the mountain. Now the lab guys were trying to match the tread with a brand.

The photos Frankie had taken were in a stack to Rachel's left, and she picked them up to study them again. True to her word, Frankie had e–mailed them as soon as she got to her computer. The Criss County Sheriff's Department wasn't loaded with technology, but Rachel had been able to make prints to better examine them. In the morning light, the crime scene looked laughable, and Rachel had to wonder if WAR had set the whole thing up as a publicity stunt.

The phone on her desk rang, and she picked it up. “Deputy Redmond.”

“It's Hannah Bellows. My husband is
still
missing. Why aren't you looking for him? Why are you sitting on your ass doing nothing? I've been up all night worried sick while you sat on your hands. I want–”

Rachel pulled a pad toward her. “Didn't Deputy Amos stop by and talk with you?” Scott had said he was going to the Bellows home to tell Hannah the reported body was only a mannequin.

“He came and told me that the dead body was a hoax. That may be well and good for you, but my husband is still missing. If you'd quit playing with dummies and look for my husband, you might earn your paycheck.”

Rachel held the phone away from her ear and shot Gladys a black look. The dispatcher lifted a hand in denial.

“We have two search parties up in the woods.” Rachel had been on her way to join the searchers when she'd gotten trapped by several reporters. Gordon should have stayed to handle the press, but against his doctor's orders, he'd gone to the wilderness. It was too much physical activity after serious surgery. “And the helicopter from Rapid City is en route. Once they arrive, they can cover more ground at a quicker pace. If you could give us some idea where your husband and Burl might have been camping…”

“If I knew where they were, I'd drive up there myself and see what happened to them. Do you understand plain English? Mullet didn't discuss his hunting trips with me.”

Another line rang. Gladys looked up at her, signaling that she needed to take the call.

Mrs. Bellows kept talking. “They generally went up around Dixon Point, but I can't be sure this time. Mullet likes to keep his camping spots to himself so he won't be bothered.”

“Dixon Point?” That was where Hank Welford and Trussell had been found. She had to find the search parties.

“Yes, that's the place. I remembered it this morning,” Mrs. Bellows continued. “I—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bellows. We'll be in touch.” Rachel disconnected. Gladys was waving at her like she was on fire. “What?”

“It's for you. The guy is pretty upset, and he said he wouldn't talk to anyone but you.”

She punched the second line, standing to check her weapon and find her keys as she spoke. “Deputy Redmond.”

“Rachel, it's John Henry.” His voice was shaking. “I walked down to one of the summer cabins, and the folks let me use the phone. You need to get up here.”

“What's going on?” Rachel asked. John Henry sounded drunk, or worse.

“I found something,” he whispered.

He sounded frightened, and Rachel spoke calmly. “What did you find, John Henry? Just tell me.”

“It's best if you come right away.” His voice cracked.

“Look, I've got a couple of missing men and the sheriff left me here in the office. Tell me what you found.” She kept her tone patient. John Henry wasn't the kind of person to call a law officer on a whim.

“Maybe I found one of them missing men. Or at least a part of one of them. I found a foot.” 

 

Pure white light streamed into Mullet's eyes. For a minute he thought he was in heaven, the illumination was so intense, so…holy. Then he realized he was on the bare floor of a cabin and he was cold. His clothes were wet, and he'd been dragged through a fetid bog. In places the mud had begun to dry and cake. It wasn't until he tried to move that he realized he was seriously injured. His right arm functioned, but his left didn't respond to his commands.

And his neck was throbbing. His throat and tongue were swollen to the point he could only make grunting noises. He traced the fingers of his right hand under his chin and felt something sticky and wet. When he held his hand up, it was covered in blood. He remembered then. And with the return of memory came terror.

He'd discovered the empty cage and had been flying down the mountain on the four–wheeler when he'd found Burl's boot with a foot and leg bone still in it, gnawed off at the shin. Gnawed! Someone had opened the panther's cage. He'd thought the old cat was beyond any real violence. He'd considered giving her a sedative, but he was afraid as old as she was that she'd keel over before the hunters got a chance to shoot her, so he hadn't given it to her.

Someone had let the hungry, unsedated cat loose on Burl.

As his body woke to full consciousness, Mullet could hardly contain his fear. The events of the night before were almost unbearable to recall.

He'd put the four–wheeler in high gear and headed back to his truck at full speed. That's when he'd hit the trip wire or vine or whatever some maniac had strung across the path.

He felt his throat again and wondered if the intention had been to decapitate him. It had almost worked. The wire had been put at the perfect level. He'd been pulled off the four–wheeler by his neck, and that was the last thing he remembered, until now.

He turned his head to take in the rough wood of the floor. He was in a cabin, most likely one of the old hunting camps. He saw a table and chair legs. Close to a dead fireplace, a cheerful rag rug covered the cold floor. When he looked in the other direction, he could see curtains pulled over dark windows. A couple of rocking chairs were set side–by–side, an oil lamp on a table between them. The cabin spoke of intimacy shared between two adults.

Though he racked his brain, Mullet couldn't think of a single cabin that fit this description, and he'd certainly broken into plenty of the lodges that were scattered across this wilderness. He tried not to panic, fought to console himself with facts that led to something other than abject fear. Someone had found him. Someone had brought him here. Surely if they'd meant to kill him they would have done so in the woods. Surely…

His chest tightened, and he had to do something. Using his right foot to push, he maneuvered across the floor until he came to one of the chairs. Grasping the seat and edge of the table, he pulled himself into a sitting position. He got a better look at the cabin, noticing that it was fairly clean. If he could get to his feet, he'd feel better, safer. Sprawled on the floor, he felt like a helpless baby.

He used the chair as a brace and managed to sit taller, but he couldn't stand. His left arm was useless, and his left leg wasn't behaving either. When he pulled up into the chair, he felt the first full force of the pain–a knife cutting through his body. Because of the damage to his throat, he couldn't even scream properly.

Gripping the table edge, he held himself upright. If he fell back to the floor, he'd never get up again. It took a moment for his vision to clear, and then he saw the tape recorder sitting in the center of the table. It looked harmless enough, but he knew better.

For the first time he considered that he'd been specifically targeted for the events that had unfolded. He wasn't a random victim. 

He dragged the machine toward him and looked at it. It was older, a cassette player instead of a new digital model. When his finger reached out to hit the play button he realized he was shivering.

He didn't want to listen, but he knew he had to. If there was a way out of this alive, he'd have to figure it out himself. Listening to the tape was the first step. The button was cool to his touch, and he punched it hard.

At first he heard only the static of an old tape, then a voice came through that turned his stomach upside down. It was inhuman, electronically altered, a voice filled with anger.

“You're a bad man, Mullet. I've been watching you. I know what you're doing out in the woods. How does it feel to be the prey, to be trapped by a hunter? In the hours you have left, you have much to atone for. There's paper and a pen on the table. Write down your confession of sin. Perhaps I'll be lenient.”

The tape whirred on, empty of the voice.

Mullet found he couldn't press the stop button. He couldn't make his fingers work at all anymore. Urine dribbled off the edge of his chair.

He put his head on the table and sobbed.

# # #

The backdrop of the small cabin with the worried elderly couple, arms about each other's waists, was in stark contrast to the gruesome body part that Jake held by a shoe string as she bagged it. John Henry glanced at it, then looked away. Rachel didn't tell John Henry that he shouldn't have touched the foot. He'd helpfully picked it up and brought it all the way down from Dixon Point.

Scott walked over and whistled. “Looks like something big got real hungry.” He nodded toward the couple on the porch. “They're shook up, but they're okay. They're packing up today to leave. Say they're going to be at their daughter's in Sioux Falls if we need to contact them.”

“Good. I'd feel better if we could clear out the whole area.” Rachel looked around at the beauty. This was normally a quiet, serene summer paradise. But not with a killer on the loose. Even a four–legged killer. What kind of animal could bite through a human leg bone? A bear was most likely. A wolf, possibly. Or a panther.