Skin Dancer (19 page)

# # #

She caught the scent of barbecue before she even opened the door to the coroner's office. Charlie's desk was empty, but the remains of a pulled pork sandwich lay on his blotter.

“Be there in a minute,” he called from a back room.

When he came in, he was drying his hands. “I guess they called you from Rapid City. They finally got the results back from the wounds on Hank's neck. Machete–like weapon, very sharp blade.”

Rachel leaned against the wall. “Anything else?”

“The blows, at least three of them, were delivered with a good amount of strength at an upward angle, which indicates the body was hanging when the head was removed. Oh, yeah, and he was dead by then.”

“Thank god for small favors. What a gruesome way to die, Charlie.”

“What the hell did the killer do with the heads?” Charlie mused. “Have you checked at Zell's Taxidermy? He does all the illegal mounting and stuffing for those boys. Maybe he's got Hank's and that doctor's head.”

Rachel knew she shouldn't encourage Charlie with a grin, but she'd had the same thought earlier. “Zell Havers is a moron, but even he isn't stupid enough to mount a human head.”

Charlie's eyebrows rose. “I'll betcha a slice of Lulu's apple pie that he'd consider it if someone offered enough money.”

Rachel held out her hand for the copy of the official report. Gordon and Jake would want to read it for themselves. “I'll give you the pie, Charlie, and I'll keep that in mind next time I drive past Zell's. It might not hurt to check his freezers out.”

# # #

Rachel pushed the last thumbtack into the peg–board she'd set up in her living room. Maybe it was insecurity, but she'd felt foolish trying to create one in the sheriff's office. Gordon was a lawman from the old days, and he would view charts and boards as television ho–hah.

After Jake had brought the last of the search–and–rescue volunteers back from the hills with no results, she'd gone home to set up a time line of the murders, Mullet's disappearance and Burl's death. The clues were there—she just had to look at the evidence differently.

Four men, all involved in poaching, were dead or missing. Two had been skinned, one eaten, and one had simply vanished. And then there was the hanging of the mannequin. Beneath all the facts she'd neatly organized was Adam Standing Bear's voice telling the story of the Skin Dancer.

The first murder scene had an element of ritual. The second scene, not exactly criminal, but certainly worthy of inclusion, involved a decapitated mannequin. Had the dummy been a mere distraction, or was there a message that she'd overlooked, pushed aside by the discovery of Burl's foot? Whoever had set up the mannequin had been familiar with the Welford/Trussell crime scene. Did that familiarity come from first–hand experience or from newspaper accounts? 

She moved down the board. The third event was John Henry's discovery of the foot, which led to the realization that Burl Mascotti was dead and Mullet Bellows was missing and likely dead.

In all, the entire sequence of events had taken under seventy–two hours. It was as if one small pebble had fallen and started a gruesome rockslide.

But what was the initial pebble? The road? That was a possibility, but poachers weren't really linked with the road project, despite the glory–grabbing confession made by WAR's spokesperson.

Speaking of which, she found the notes she'd made and clipped them to the board. Frankie had mentioned that Justine Morgan was a good place to start with WAR, especially in light of the hair clip found at the mannequin scene. Rachel looked up her number and dialed. When the answering machine picked up, Rachel left a message telling the young woman to call her.

Rachel glanced at the old frying pan clock. The Paradise development meeting was getting started. She pushed the board against the wall and went to grab a shower and slip into some slacks and a blazer.

When she flipped on the light, she realized for the first time how austere her bedroom was. The only surface with any clutter was the bedside table where a stack of books towered precariously. Not a single feminine item was in evidence. Her mother's bedroom had been so different, with lamp shades fringed with silk, porcelain figurines of shepardesses and belles. Perfume bottles and cheap jewelry had been scattered across the surface of Junie's dresser, and the room had always smelled of Taboo.

Rachel hurried into the bathroom and turned on the shower. What were these sudden trips down memory lane? Every time she was home long enough to draw a breath, she found herself slipping back into the past. It wasn't healthy, and she'd be damned if she was going to let the quagmire of memory creep around her feet, grab her knees and bring her down.

Junie Redmond was dead. Rachel had no room in her stark apartment for ghosts or memories. She was an officer of the law, a deputy who dealt in facts and evidence. She was logical, not emotional.

She stepped beneath the stinging spray. Her body was slightly sore from her workout the evening before, but it was a good kind of ache. One that normally would lead to a blissful night's sleep.

She turned off the water, dried herself, and dressed. Jake had offered to pick her up, and she'd agreed. She was applying lipstick when she noticed something in the mirror. The tube slipped from her fingers, falling to the top of her dresser with a clatter. She turned and walked to the bedside table. On top of the stack of books was a small Dresden shepardess, her mother's favorite figurine.

Transfixed, she picked it up. The detail was exquisite. The china blue eyes met her gaze with a hint of mockery. Rachel swallowed. She'd left the delicate statuette and all of her mother's belongings in the trailer. She'd simply abandoned them, unable to carry the weight of her memories on top of the physical reality of her mother's harsh death.

Mel had packed up the trailer when he'd rescued her, and the boxes of her past life were still in his garage, as far as she knew.

But how had the collectible gotten on her bedside table? She looked around the room, reacting too late to the possibility that someone had been in her cottage. Someone had entered her bedroom, had violated her home and her past. Mel never locked his garage, so anyone
could
have found the figurine. But not everyone would know the significance of it.

She pulled her gun from the holster and kicked open the bedroom closet. Nothing. Room by room, she searched the entire house. There was no sign of breaking and entering, only a few scratches at her front door lock—the mark of a professional.

Her breathing had settled and her grip on the gun was loose but ready when she saw a small gift box in the center of the dining table.

The package looked so innocent, pale blue with a darker bow. Expertly wrapped. A present. She found her kitchen gloves and put them on before she picked up the box. Whatever was inside was light. She shook it then lifted the top off. For a moment, she didn't register what she held. When she did, she almost dropped the box.

A photograph of her mother, smiling like a movie star, and wearing the dress she'd died in, fluttered to the table. She was standing against a wall paneled in heart pine, a mounted rack of antlers partially visible in the upper right hand corner of the photo.

Rachel's hand began to tremble. The photograph had been taken by someone who saw Junie after Rachel and before she overdosed. Someone who may have seen her mother die.

The whirring movement of the old clock's hands seemed to fill the cottage. Rachel tried to think. Someone who knew her past, who had access to her past, had been in her home.

Before she could decide what to do, she heard Jake's knock at the door. She covered the box and stuck it in a kitchen drawer and tossed the gloves under the sink.

“Coming.” She grabbed her purse.

Jake and his father had packed her things when they'd moved her into their home. They were the last people to touch Junie's whatnots and, as far as Rachel knew, still had possession of them

And the photograph? Where had it come from? It couldn't have been in the things Mel removed from the trailer, because she'd never seen it. Couldn't have seen it–it was taken after Junie left Rachel in the trailer and before her body was found. It was likely taken at the hunting club where Junie had gone to entertain some men. It was possible that it was taken by Junie's killer.

Her heart was racing, and she stuck her gun inside her purse, squared her shoulders and opened the door. 

“We're late.” Jake was annoyed. He started in the door and she stepped in front of him.

“I'm ready.”

He didn't say anything as he stepped back and held the door for her. As she walked past him, she noticed the tell–tale scratches around her lock. Someone had picked it, but someone who was very good at that kind of work. Not Jake. He had a key. She'd given him one after she'd accidentally locked herself out of the cottage. And Mel? She swallowed with difficulty.

Jake gently caught her arm. “Hey, are you okay? You look sick.”

“I'm fine,” she lied. She saw the worry in his eyes and she looked away.

“You don't look fine. You need to stay home and get some sleep.”

“Really, Jake, I want to talk to Mel. This is work for me. It isn't something I can simply skip.”

“What do you want to talk to Dad about?”

She considered her answer as he opened the vehicle door for her. “Mama's things that he moved from the trailer. Does he still have them in the garage?”

Jake frowned. “As far as I know they're still there. Why?”

“Does he lock the garage?”

“Rachel, nobody in Bisonville locks their garages. What's this about?”

“I was just thinking about Mother's things.”

Jake walked around and got in behind the wheel. “There wasn't much, as I recall. A few pictures, some what–nots, and a couple of your mom's dresses that you wanted to keep. I'm sure they're boxed up some place safe. If you want, we can stop by there tomorrow and get whatever you need.”

“Thanks, Jake.” She let it drop for the moment. She had to. Someone was screwing with her head, and until she found out why, she meant to keep the information to herself.  

 

Mullet's hand shook as he held the piece of paper in the cabin's near darkness. He'd finished writing by the light of the oil lantern, the only source of illumination he could find. His stomach was painfully empty, and his throat raw from lack of moisture. He had a taste in his mouth like something had crawled in and died, and the repeated bouts of anxiety had resulted in body odor that even he could smell. 

He re–read what he'd written. Once his captor had the confession, he'd have no reason to let Mullet live. The best Mullet could hope for was a quick, clean death. Not like Burl. Dear God, not like Burl.

His lips moved in a mumbled prayer, something he hadn't tried since childhood when he begged an unresponsive God to keep him safe from his father's strap. Mullet had no real hope that God or even Satan would intervene and save him now. He thought of the panther in the cage, watching him, waiting for any chance of escape. In the long run, the cat had more courage than he, because he'd given up. He only wanted the end to be quick and clean. He didn't want to be hung upside down and skinned.

Tears leaked down his face at the thought. If he could find a fucking knife in the cabin, he'd cut his own wrists. At the thought of his ultimate helplessness, he cried harder.

“Mullet Bellows.”

The voice outside the front door was mechanical, altered by some device into an eerie, futuristic sound that held not a scrap of humanity.

“Mullet Bellows, have you written your confession?”

Mullet took a ragged breath. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Slide it under the door.”

Mullet stumbled from the table, the paper shaking in his hand. Balancing as best he could, he leaned down and pushed the page under the crack at the bottom of the door.

An eternity passed before he heard the voice again.

“Move back from the door.”

“Are you going to let me go?” He sounded weak and foolish, but he didn't care. He only wanted the door to open and for him to have a shot at freedom.

“Move away from the door.”

“I did everything you said. I wrote it all down.” He'd thought he'd given up the hope to live, but he hadn't. He only wanted a chance. Just one.

“You think confessing is punishment enough?”

The word punishment was like a jolt of electricity. Mullet backed away from the door. He'd been a moron to write anything down. Now his captor was going to kill him and still have the confession. Had he not been in such a hurry to write down his list of sins, he might have had something left to bargain with. He slammed his head against the wall where he braced himself.

The door opened very slowly, letting the night into the cabin. A darker shape separated itself from the dense blackness and stepped inside the living room. Mullet couldn't make out any of the person's features. His captor was dressed in what looked like garbage bags, the shiny black kind strong enough to hold leaves. The implication hit him and he cried out.

“I wrote it down, like you asked. I did just what you said.”

“Are you sorry for your sins, Mullet?”

He could see that the person held a voice distorter box to his throat to create the androgynous voice of a zombie. His face was covered with a ski mask.

Hope rocked his gut. “Yes! I'm sorry!”

“I don't think you're sorry enough.”

“I am!”

“This is an interesting confession. You're a bigger piece of shit than I thought, but you forgot to write down the names of the others who were involved.”

Mullet slid along the wall. The door was wide open. It was his only chance. He had to try. “You know who was with me. Welford is already dead. And Burl, too. Burl didn't have anything to do with any of it, but you turned that panther loose on him.”