Skin Dancer (17 page)

The truck moved up the last incline and leveled out at the top of the butte. Frankie drove another half mile and stopped. Some twenty yards ahead, a tall, muscular man rose to his feet from the ground where he'd been sitting. Framed with the sun behind him, he looked like an ancient god.

# # #

Mullet sat at the table and watched the light change from the zenith of high noon to mid–afternoon. Time was creeping by. Soon it would be dark again, and he knew that wouldn't be a good thing. He'd managed to hop to the kitchen area and tear the tinfoil from the windows, which had been hammered shut from the outside. Cast iron security bars prevented escape.

The door, too, was locked from the outside and the front windows, though unboarded, were secured with bars. If he had the use of both legs and arms, he might have been able to claw his way out, but his left side was dead weight. Well, not exactly dead. His knee hurt like an abscessed tooth, shooting white hot flames into the backs of his eyes. And his left wrist was broken in at least one place. He'd managed to stabilize the pain a little by tearing his shirt into strips and binding it as tightly as he could with his right hand and his teeth.

His gaze drifted around the room for the millionth time. There had to be some clue that he was missing. Who had done this to him? And why? He looked at the tape recorder. There was no need to play the tape again. He remembered it, word for word. He'd been ordered to confess his sins. Jesus, he had no idea where to begin.

Each person had a different definition of sin. He'd gotten Wanda Pyle pregnant and then denied it. Was that a sin? His buddies thought it was self–preservation. He stole tools and equipment from every worksite. He sold drugs. Those weren't sins in his book. They were economic necessities. Take for instance the way he killed animals. Some folks thought that was sinful, while others figured it was the natural order. Man was put on Earth to wield dominion over animals. They were there to be used. Some folks had told him he should take into account what it might feel like to be trapped or kept in a cage or… His gaze moved back to the barred windows and lingered.

A chill of precognition brushed sweat across his forehead. The person who'd captured him meant to make a point about the animals. He couldn't deny that he'd been trapped like a wild animal and caged. And Burl. Shit. Burl had been eaten! His gut twisted with a sharp pain. Mullet knew there would be no mercy for him if he didn't escape.

Fear gave him strength, and he hopped to the door. Using everything he had, he yanked at the knob. Nothing. Swallowing a curse, he hopped to the cabinets. He flung them open to reveal bare shelves. The drawers he pulled out and threw to the floor were empty. He opened the refrigerator door on a sour smell, but the interior was bare. The refrigerator was running, though.

Why? 

He paused with his hand on the door to the top freezer compartment. Maybe there was something there he could use as a tool. Still, he hesitated. He swallowed twice and pulled the door open.

The frosted eyes of Hank Welford stared into his. Welford's moustache bristled white, and what looked to be one crystalline tear was frozen to his cheek. The pool of blood beneath the head was frozen black.

“Shit! Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit!” Mullet stumbled away from the refrigerator. The door remained open, as if Hank were waiting for an invitation to enter the room.

 “No!” Mullet yelled at the head. “No! Leave me alone!”

He wept without shame, standing on one leg and balancing against the kitchen cabinets. He pointed a finger at Hank's head. “You stay away from me, you hear!”

Hopping forward he slammed the freezer door and hobbled back to the table, gasping for breath and control. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to keep his shit together. Burl was dead. Hannah had no idea where he'd planned to camp. He never told her anything because she couldn't keep her mouth shut. She blabbed all over that doctor's office, telling his business, her business, her drunken step–father's business. She never stopped talking. He beat the butt of his hand against his forehead trying to knock out the image of her mouth, opening and shutting, ugly words spilling out in a tirade.

“Shut up!” he roared, almost falling out of the chair.

His arm swept over the table, knocking the recorder and the pen and paper to the floor. He wasn't confessing to anything. Whatever he might have done in the past was done. He'd gotten away with it. He'd lived in fear the first couple of years afterward, but now it seemed like it was another person who'd done it. He shouldn't have to pay now, years later, when he'd moved on with his life and made something of himself. And he damn sure wasn't going to apologize for killing some old animals.

“I'm not writing a fucking thing!” He shook his fist at the empty room. “You aren't gonna break me!”

But even as he shouted the words, he looked on the floor for the pen. It had rolled under the table, out of his reach. He tried to get it with his good foot, but he couldn't manage to touch it.

Cursing and weeping, he slowly slid under the table and crawled toward the pen.

 

A yellow dog came out from behind a rock and barked at the truck as Frankie pulled up. Rachel opened her door but stopped as the dog bared his teeth at her.

“Finder.” Adam Standing Bear spoke the word softly, but the dog hurried back to his side where it stood at the ready.

Rachel got out of the truck, her gaze on Adam. He was tall, handsome in a weathered way. He wore jeans, cowboy boots that had seen a few miles, and a plaid shirt. Though his clothes were ordinary, his eyes were striking. He took her measure slowly, not caring that she knew exactly what he was doing.

“Adam!” Frankie jumped to the ground and threw her arms around him. “It's good to see you.” She hugged him tightly again. “And Finder, too.” The dog sat at her feet, waiting for another word. Frankie didn't disappoint. She knelt and ruffled the dog's ears, whispering something that sent Finder into a barking, jumping frenzy.

Frankie signaled Rachel over. “Adam, this is Deputy Rachel Redmond. And this is Adam Standing Bear.”

Rachel took his hand in a firm grip. She could feel the calluses on his palm, and she noticed his fingers were long, artistic, the nails worn but clean. A wound cut across his entire palm, as if a rope or wire had been pulled through the flesh. The image of the wire in the woods where Mullet Bellows had disappeared flitted through her mind.

“This is a beautiful place,” she said, walking to the edge of the butte. Below her five horses wheeled and ran. So many of the mustangs had been killed, were still being killed by those who viewed their existence as a threat.

“I wouldn't use the word beautiful,” Adam said. “Savage describes it better.”

Frankie put her arm around his waist and walked him toward Rachel. “Savage can also be beautiful, can't it?”

Adam looked at Rachel, then into the distance, following the horses. “Only if you don't intend to tame it. Like those horses. They're magnificent in the wild, running and living free. They could be tamed, but in the process, that savage thing is lost.”

Talk of losing the wilderness was a perfect opening, and Rachel took it. “That's what I came to talk to you about, Mr. Standing Bear. We have two bodies, a foot and a missing man.”

“I know.” Adam signaled them to the place he'd been sitting. Rachel approached and saw a notebook filled with writing. Before she could read anything, he closed it. “I take notes on the natural life here. I'm documenting it before it all changes.”

“And the road will change all of this?”

Adam looked her dead in the eye. “Yes, it will. Asphalt always brings big changes to the wilderness. Erosion, pollution, tourists, commerce, all of the things that make capitalism the form of government for the profiteer.”

“Are you a socialist, Mr. Standing Bear?”

Rachel was unprepared for the power of his smile. “No, Deputy Redmond, I'm not a socialist. I think anarchist might be more apt. A non–practicing anarchist, in the mode of Thoreau or Emerson.”

Rachel was at a loss. She'd heard of both writers, but her high school days hadn't been focused on American literature. At the time, she'd been specializing in partying.

“Adam, you're baiting Rachel, and she doesn't like it, nor do I.” Frankie took his arm. “We came to hear about the Skin Dancer. If you keep acting like a jerk, Rachel and I will leave.”

Adam's dark gaze held Rachel's. “My apologies. I thought I was answering your question. But have a seat. Frankie has this idea that I'm the tribal shaman and historian. It isn't true, but I do enjoy the old stories.”

Rachel settled into the lotus position in a small circle with Frankie and Adam. The sun heated her shoulders through the fabric of her uniform. In a bit, it would be uncomfortable, but at the moment it felt good.

“The Sioux believe that the buffalo are a gift to us. During a time of starvation, the Great Spirit sent them to feed us. Because of that, we honor the buffalo. In Sioux tradition, we honor all living things that die to provide for us. When an animal is sacrificed, we dance and sing to honor its spirit, and to assist it in passing into the next life.”

Rachel nodded. She'd learned the very basics of Sioux belief when she first came to Criss County, but that was about the extent of her knowledge.

Adam gazed past her into the distance before he spoke. “There was a warrior named Running Elk, a talented young Oglala with the gift of speed and accuracy with his bow and arrows. He never went hunting without bringing food back to his people. It was said that the Great Spirit led him to the game and then gave him magic to affect the kill.”

In the warm afternoon sun that colored the world around them in reddish earth tones, Rachel found that she was leaning forward, listening intently as Adam spoke. His voice had a mesmerizing quality. He was an excellent story teller, as Frankie had promised.

“As sometimes happens with the young when they're very talented, Running Elk became vain and arrogant about his abilities. He refused to participate in the ceremonies honoring the sacrificed game. He told the other members of his tribe that he honored only his own skill. No animal could escape him once he decided to kill it.”

Frankie touched Adam's knee. “You should explain that in the Sioux tradition, such prideful conduct is generally punished by the gods.”

Adam nodded. “The Sioux believe in the order of the earth, Deputy Redmond. In balance. When the balance is unsettled, it must be put back right.”

Rachel nodded. “Our justice system is about balance. The scales of justice. The guilty are punished.”

Adam looked at Frankie before he spoke. “Except that man is the judge in your system. With the Sioux, it is the Great Spirit, the cycle of life.”

Frankie leaned back. “I'm sorry I interrupted, Adam. Please tell the rest.”

Rachel had already begun to draw interesting parallels between the part of the legend she'd heard and what was happening in Criss County.

“Running Elk became so arrogant and prideful that he refused to sit at council with the elders. Each day he proved his skill by killing something new, until the bodies of the dead animals began to rot, the hides unused, the meat uneaten. Running Elk's father, the chief, ordered him to stop killing. He told his son that the waste was shameful, and that his actions would bring sorrow down upon the Sioux. But Running Elk cared only for the adoration of the young warriors who lived to hear the adventures of his last kill.”

Hank, Mullet, Burl and the plastic surgeon were all men who had no regard for the animals they killed. Rachel could almost taste the connection she sought. Adam Standing Bear held her riveted.

“Running Elk's last great hunt involved the most scared of all animals to the Sioux. He'd bragged that he could kill twelve buffalo on foot, without the help of a horse or another warrior.”

Adam's attention shifted toward the distant mountains, which had changed to a golden dun in the afternoon light. Rachel thought it was almost as if he watched the story play out against the sky.

“When Running Elk's father, Spotted Eagle, rode to the grasslands and saw the dead buffalo there with the buzzards feasting on the meat that no one had harvested, he knew what his son had done. He knew the Great Spirit could no longer avoid punishing Running Elk, no matter how much Spotted Eagle prayed.

“He turned his horse back to the camp and rode home singing a song of mourning for the young warrior, because he knew his son was as good as dead.”

“Did Running Elk die?” Rachel asked the question before she could stop herself. She hadn't meant to interrupt.

“His punishment was more severe. As he stood among the dead buffalo, taking stock of the death he'd delivered and his prowess as a hunter, he felt a terrible burning sensation all over his body. To his horror, the skin on his arms began to fall away. The rays of the sun were horribly painful, and he ran in circles screaming as the skin from his legs and back and stomach sloughed off, revealing raw muscle and nerve.”

Adam brushed a strand of dark hair from his face. “Running Elk hurriedly skinned one of the buffalo and used the hide to shelter from the sun, which was cooking him alive. He waited for night, until he could slip away from the plains and into the forests of the Black Hills where the dark shade of the trees protected him. To this day, he lingers there, waiting to find another skin, a human skin, to replace the one the Great Spirit took from him.”

In the stillness left by the absence of Adam's voice, Rachel tried to ignore the chill bumps that had formed on her arms despite the sun's heat.

“Remember this morning when we found the mannequin?” Frankie asked. “I had the creepiest sense that someone was watching us.”

Adam picked up his notebook. “My grandfather would say that the road going through the hills has stirred up the ancient and angry spirits of the dead.”