Skin Dancer (20 page)

“Burl was a miscreant. He had no compassion for any of the animals he drugged and killed. The lesson here, Mullet, is compassion.”

He pressed his hands against the wall. His only chance was to push himself forward and hope he could stay upright on one good leg. If he could get out into the darkness, maybe he could hide.

“You're going to write down the names of all the others involved. Before I'm done with you, you'll be glad to write them down.”

He pushed off the wall with all he had, shrieking as loudly as he could. He made it past the table and was almost at the door when he tripped. He went down hard, crying out as he fell onto his already broken wrist. Before he could untangle himself, he felt a rope tighten around his ankles.

As he rolled and thrashed, the dark–clad figure pulled the rope taunt and walked outside. Before he could regain his feet, he heard the sound of a motor. He was jerked through the doorway, across the porch and onto the ground.

Bits of rock and sticks tore the skin of his palms as he tried to find something to hang on to. Dirt filled his mouth, and a stone smacked into his front teeth. The one place he didn't want to go was into the woods, but he couldn't stop it from happening. He couldn't hang on to anything. Finally the pain was too much and he surrendered to the darkness. 

# # #

Rachel accepted the diet cola Jake brought her with a nod. The presentation was over, and now the real meeting had begun as different groups of people talked about Paradise and what the development could do for each of them. Half the county was there. 

A beautiful diorama of the proposed city had been placed on the Civic Center stage so that everyone could walk by and look at it. The building lines were clean and green space had been included in the downtown area as well as the urban living zones that featured mass transit. The model showed a city built on one industry and filled with people who were educated.

Richard Jones, computer czar, was pressing the flesh, along with Senator Dilson, the sheriff, and other local dignitaries. Mel Ortiz was talking with Jones, and she headed in that direction. Jake fell into step beside her.

“Dad says this is a great opportunity to get in on the ground floor of Paradise.”

“The sheriff obviously thinks so.” Rachel nodded at Gordon and his wife as they sipped wine and talked with Senator Dilson and two out–of–town investors. Gordon didn't look well, and there was tension between him and the senator. No doubt Dilson, who was a big backer of Paradise, was displeased that a killer was still on the loose. A killer who could be anyone in the room with a bone to pick about Paradise.

Watching the crowd of well–dressed men and women, Rachel realized for the first time that Paradise was a done deal. It didn't matter what the average Criss County citizen wanted. The road was going through, and Paradise would be developed. Billions of dollars were at stake.

Mel Ortiz, his gray hair shining like polished chrome, drew Rachel into the group. “This is Rachel Redmond, the Criss County deputy in charge of the wilderness murders.” He put his hand on Rachel's shoulder. To Richard, he added, “She's like a daughter to me, Mr. Jones.”

“Frankie Jackson has sung your praises,” Richard said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You're also investigating the vandalism to the heavy equipment on the road project, I hope.”

“Yes.” Rachel had studied Jones during his presentation. He was tall and thin with bright blue eyes. Her impression was that while he might play the absent–minded professor, he was also plenty capable. Even more interesting was his date—Justine Morgan—who was currently bringing him another glass of wine. 

“Any headway on the vandals?” Jones asked Rachel. He was watching her intently.

“We're steadily making progress. Mr. Jones, do you know anyone who wants to halt this project?”

He hesitated, and in that time Justine returned and handed him his wine with a glint of amusement in her eyes. Rachel watched the way he took the glass, his fingertips brushing hers in a deliberate way.

“Paradise will bring high–paying, pollution free jobs to the area. There are people who are opposed to change, but change is inevitable. Criss County can bring in a dirty industry or a clean one. Paradise is the lesser of two evils.”

““Ms. Morgan,” Rachel said, “we haven't been introduced, but I was wondering how you felt about that.”

“I don't feel much about Paradise, but I know that four–lane through the wilderness isn't necessary.” Justine looked around the civic center where the crowd of at least two hundred potential investors had gathered. “That road benefits no one except Harvey Dilson and his cronies.”

“Justine!” Richard put a gentle hand on her arm.

She stepped away from him. “He's using your idea for his own purposes. He's a…user.”

Mel chuckled. “Welcome to the world of politics, Ms. Morgan.”

A flush ran up her neck and face, and Rachel realized she wasn't a woman who tolerated condescension. She was off balance now. It was the perfect time to ask her about WAR. “Are you affiliated with any animal rights groups?” She thought she saw a flicker of surprise, but Justine covered it well.

“If I were, would be I stupid enough to admit it?”

Rachel started to mention the barrette, but she held off. The DNA would be back, and a positive match was much better than a stab in the dark.

“Is that all, deputy?” Justine put on a brilliant smile. “Whatever I can do to help, I'll be glad to.”

“I'll give you a call.” Rachel took note of Justine's auburn hair. Lush and thick, it would look beautiful in the clip Frankie had found at the mannequin site. “I appreciate your…candidness, Ms. Morgan.”

A brash voice interrupted them. “Exactly who are you helping?”

They all turned to the young man who'd pushed into their circle. Rachel noted the expensive suit, the polish. She'd never seen him before, but Justine had. She'd gained control of her expression, but not before annoyance and anger marched across her features.

“What are you doing here, Derek?” she asked.

“Looking for investment opportunities.” He ignored everyone except Richard Jones. “Mr. Jones, I'm Derek Baxter. I was hoping to talk to you about the possibility of employment.”

Jones looked from Derek to Justine. “Now isn't an appropriate time, Mr. Baxter.” He turned to Justine. “Are you ready to go?” When she nodded, he said his goodbyes and they moved away.

Rachel saw the dark cloud of anger settle on Derek Baxter's features. Justine Morgan was one point in a very interesting triangle. Rachel also noticed a cut and a large bruise on Derek's temple. Someone had been playing rough.

“Mr. Baxter,” she said, “would you stop by the sheriff's office tomorrow at eight.”

“Why?”

He was hostile and confrontational. Good. Justine Morgan was cool as a moon rock. “You might be able to help me with an investigation.”

“What would I know about some investigation?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe nothing. Eight o'clock. Then you can get on with your regular day.”

Derek walked away, and Rachel watched him thread a path across the room and out the front door.

Mel was talking with Able Davis, owner of the local hardware store, when Rachel approached him.

“Do you have a minute, Mel?” she asked.

“All the time you need, Rachel. What's up?”

They moved to a private corner and Mel waited patiently. Rachel found that her chest was tight as she started to speak.

“Do you know if Mother's things are still in your garage?”

“Those two boxes we took from the trailer?” Mel looked completely startled. “Why are you asking?”

Rachel swallowed. “I've been thinking about Mom a lot. I thought I might like to get her things.” She tried for a laugh that came out shaky. “She had a few collectibles that were special to her.”

“Whenever you want them, I'll be glad to bring them by.”

“Thanks, Mel, but I can pick them up.”

“Rachel, take my advice and put the past behind you. You've got an exciting new life that you've worked hard to build. You can't change what happened to your mom. Best to let it go.”

“I know.” She nodded. “I do know. Have you looked into those boxes lately?”

He frowned. “No. Why?”

“Has anybody asked about me or my mom?”

His brow furrowed more deeply. “You're beginning to worry me. Why are you asking about that stuff now?

She almost told him, but Mel would worry. He was already worried. She could see it. “It's not important,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Rachel, is something wrong?”

He could see her distress. Someone had broken into her home, dragging the past. Sending a message. “I'm just tired,” she said.

I'll bring those things over on Saturday, okay?”

“Don't bother. I'll stop by and pick them up. Maybe have dinner.”

“That would be great.” He kissed her cheek and returned to a group of potential investors.

She wandered back to the bar, accepting a cola from the bartender. Jones had dropped a good amount of cash setting up the presentation with refreshments for the entire crowd. The prominent citizens of Criss County were yucking it up as they sipped wine and let the daydreams of dollar signs pile up in their minds. Mel was probably right. She needed to care more about these kinds of things but she didn't.

She caught a glimpse of a startlingly attractive woman in a red dress, dark curls brushing her shoulders. Frankie was working the room, too. Rachel had looked for her during the evening but figured she was busy backstage. She considered going over, but Frankie was doing her job. Rachel could see her fine hand in all of the décor, the wine, the smooth way the entire operation had turned from a selling venue into a community support gathering.

She caught Jake's eye and signaled that she was ready to go.

“Had enough hobnobbing?”

“Plenty.”

“You still look pale, Rachel. Are you sure you're okay.”

She nodded. “I'll get some sleep and be fine.” Her words were a lie. A plan of action had already formed.

 

In her dream, Rachel stood in the forest, aware that someone lurked at the edge of the shadows. She heard soft chanting, the low tones of what might be a prayer. She couldn't pinpoint the place where the sound came from—it swept around her on the breeze. She could smell the fresh scent of the fir trees, and it didn't matter that she was alone near Dixon Point where so much violence had been discovered. Instead of fear, she felt safe. The forest was a place of beauty and serenity.

She walked through the trees, caught up in the wonder of the wilderness. The first drop of blood that touched her arm stopped her cold. All color drained from the forest. There was only the red splotch against the white of her skin.

A second drop plopped onto her arm. And a third, fourth and fifth, falling faster and faster. When she looked up, she saw the bloody stump of Mullet Bellow's neck as he dangled above her, his body skinned so that the muscle glistened wet and open.

Rachel sat up in bed, her heart pounding. It took a moment for her to recognize the sheer curtains that softly undulated at the open window. She was at the Grand Falls, a renovated hotel in the heart of Rapid City. She'd delivered the figurine and photograph to the crime lab for fingerprinting and then, unwilling to go back to a home that was no longer safe, she'd taken a room in the hotel.

Outside, two cats yowled, either in passion or anger. She lifted her hair, clammy with sweat, from the back of her neck, giving herself a moment to wake up. The dream was like quicksand; it didn't want to let her go.

She tossed back the sheets and went to the bathroom for a drink of water. The bedside clock showed four a.m. She needed more sleep, but it was useless. Instead, she turned on the lights and the small coffee pot and focused on the time line for the murders that she'd brought with her. She hadn't wanted to leave it in her cottage for anyone to see. She felt violated and vulnerable, and that sensation reawakened every bad memory and pissed her off.

But she couldn't afford the luxury of misdirected anger. It was Friday morning. In less than a week, three men were dead and one missing. So much had transpired, and so suddenly. Focus. That was what she had to achieve.

Why? Why had these events happened now? If she could understand what had prompted the killings, she might be able to find the evidence that would lead to an arrest.

She'd made copies of all the interviews and crime scene reports that had come in, and she sat down and read through them. The killer was clever and well versed in police procedure. 

He'd left almost no clues. No physical evidence that he hadn't wanted them to find. This was a calculated killer, or what a profiler would call organized. A smart person of above–average intelligence. Most serial killers were white males in their thirties. And, it was someone who knew the area.

She got a sheet of paper and began to make a list of the things she knew about the murderer. He knew the wilderness well. He had access to an ATV, a four–wheel drive, some type of winch to hoist the bodies up to hang them, a knowledge of skinning and Native American folklore, enough strength to sever a human head with three blows of a machete, and he was watching his victims. He knew where Hank Welford and the doctor and Mullet and Burl would be.

She stood up abruptly and walked to the open window. She was on the eighth floor with a view of a city park and the rapids that had given the city its name. So much beauty in such close proximity to evil. She'd known that most of her life, though. After all, her mother's body had been found in a dumpster near the park she could see from the window. Junie had died an ugly death in the midst of this beauty.

She went back to her notes. The killer was an outdoorsman. Maybe a poacher—a competitor who wanted to eliminate his rivals. Poacher–on–poacher crime, as Jake had insisted all along. She'd gone over the list of suspected poachers that Jake had given her, and Scott Amos had run each one down. Most had solid alibis for the times of the murders.