Skin Dancer (21 page)

She got a cup of coffee and looked at the reports. Hank, Mullet and possibly Burl were the intended targets. Burl had been fed to a wild creature, which was a statement of his worth to the killer. He was meat—inconsequential. And Trussell had been killed before he was skinned, as if the killer dispatched him to get him out of the way. So Burl and Trussell were collateral damage. But where the hell was Mullet Bellows? And why did the killer mutilate his victims in such a gruesome way?

She had no answers.

Flipping through the photographs, she stopped at the totem with the owl feather. If the pole and feather weren't part of a Sioux tradition, they held special meaning for the killer. Or maybe the killer was clouding the water, trying to frame the Sioux.

She logged onto her laptop and went to the Internet, surfing through various sites on Native American lore. The only information she found confirmed what Adam Standing Bear had told her–the feather of an owl was associated with a prophecy of death. Did the feather foretell Hank's death, or was it the prophecy of Mullet's death?

She returned to the stack of photographs, studying the way the feather had been tied with fishing line so that it could be attached to the bamboo pole. She was dealing with symbolism, as Adam Standing Bear had mentioned, but the clues were vague, personal to the killer.

Continuing through the photographs, she stopped at a close up of the boot guard. It was a beautiful piece, the whorls of silver elegant. Another clue she couldn't decipher.

She poured the last of the coffee in her cup and picked up the photograph of the hair clamp found at the mannequin site. The DNA report would come in eventually. Would Justine claim the clamp as hers? Would she consent to a DNA sample?

What was going on between Derek Baxter and Justine? And how did that impact Richard Jones? Justine was twenty years younger than he was, but that didn't appear to concern either of them.

She paced the room, aware of the loneliness that followed her like a shadow, and she knew she was avoiding thinking about the dream that had awakened her. Because she knew Mullet was dead. The dream wasn't prophetic, but it represented the message her subconscious was sending. Dixon Point—that tiny little finger of county land that stretched deep into the national forest. Though they'd searched the area thoroughly, Rachel had to give it another try.

She checked out of the hotel and headed back to Bisonville. It was several hours until dawn, and right now she couldn't stand her own company or the feeling of being hamstrung. She needed a shower and a clean uniform.

# # #

Bisonville was a ghost town as Rachel drove through the empty streets. Even the neon in front of Bud's Bar had been turned off. There were only darkened store fronts, and in the starlight Rachel could easily imagine the town as the gathering spot for prospectors and speculators. A bit farther north was Deadwood, which had captured the imagination of a television show, but Bisonville had a colorful past, too. A bloody past.

She pulled in at the courthouse and got out. The pre–dawn was soft, gentle, a kiss of summer. The winters were cold with deep snows. Her mother had often talked of spending the snowy months in the Southwest. Junie had loved the idea of San Antonio. She never made it there, but that Texas town, home of the Alamo, had represented heaven to Junie. Rachel, though, was happy in Bisonville. Or she had been until the murders occurred and a man she'd known most of her life had been tainted as a possible murderer.

In the office she wrote a full report on Derek Baxter and what she hoped to glean from interviewing him. She left the report on Scott's desk, along with a request for Scott to interview the young man when he came in at eight. She had other things to do, but she wasn't about to tell anyone that she was following dream images back up into the mountains.

“Gladys, I've got to check something up at Dixon Point. Be sure Scott reads this first thing, okay? I'll be back by nine. And send a locksmith out to my house. I want all the locks changed. He can leave the bill and the keys here at the office.”

“You betcha.” Gladys never looked up from her paperback.

Rachel picked up the keys to the ATV and the four–wheel drive pickup. Outside, she loaded the all terrain vehicle into the back of the truck. The streets had come alive while she was inside. Even though her stomach growled a demand for breakfast, she sped through town and headed to Dixon Point.

She made one stop and picked up some canned goods to leave at the trailhead for John Henry when she passed Piker Road.

She pressed harder on the accelerator, pushing her past behind her. Driving up to Dixon Point at daybreak wasn't logical. It wasn't even smart. Sometimes, though, it didn't matter what anyone else thought. The dream had been so vivid. She had to listen to her instincts.

# # #

Derek walked into the sheriff's office and looked around for Deputy Redmond, but he only saw a middle–aged dispatcher and a male deputy. The bitch who'd ordered him to appear was late.

The deputy stood and motioned him over. “I'm Scott Amos,” he said. “If you're Derek Baxter, take a seat.”

Derek started to argue, but the sooner this was over the better for him. He sat.

“Are you involved with WAR?” the deputy asked.

The question came so hard and fast that Derek was unprepared. “What makes you think I am?”

“Answer the question, Mr. Baxter.”

“I don't have to say a damn thing. I came in here voluntarily to help you out and now you're accusing me of being part of an organization.”

“No,” Scott said, “I'm just asking if you're a member. Are you?”

“What if I am?”

Scott picked up the telephone. He pressed a button. “Sheriff, I think we've got our first member of WAR. Yes, sir, he's sitting right here.”

Derek started to stand but Scott waved him back into his seat. He put a hand over the phone. “I wouldn't leave just yet, son, the sheriff wants to talk to you.”

“I've got to go.” Derek actually gained his feet this time. He was walking toward the door when a large hand caught his shoulder. He turned to face the sheriff.

“I've got some questions for you, Mr. Baxter.”

“I have to go. I've got a job interview.”

The sheriff tightened his grip. “I think you need to know your rights, Mr. Baxter, since we're arresting you for vandalism of road equipment. Scott, would you tell them to him?”

The deputy came to his other side. “You have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney…”

Derek looked around the sad little office. He felt he was slipping beneath the surface of something much bigger than he was. He'd come in expecting to answer a few questions about his whereabouts. He'd alibied himself with the other members of WAR so that each one would tell the same story.

“What are you charging me with?” he demanded.

“Well, I have a list of things, Mr. Baxter. Come on into my office and I'll go over them with you.”

Derek hated the good–ole–boy tone the sheriff used. He hated that he was powerless to resist his orders. He squared his shoulders and followed the sheriff into his office. When the door closed behind him, he knew he was in serious trouble.

# # #

Rachel throttled the ATV and roared up the steep incline. Loose shale rattled behind her as she increased the gas with a flip of her wrist. If she stopped now, she'd fall backward. Hunkering down over the handle bars, she gave the machine all she had and kept her gaze on the top of the ridge. When at last she reached a plateau, she stopped and surveyed the area around her. ATVs normally weren't allowed in this part of the wilderness. Only law enforcement and state game wardens could use them.

As soon as she switched the engine off, she was surrounded by silence. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wondering how the interview with Baxter was going. She was more than likely a fool to push that off on Scott. Not that he wouldn't do a good job, but she knew what she was looking for in Derek Baxter, and Scott and Gordon would have him sitting in a jail cell, waiting for her to return.

She left Razor Ridge, where the outcropping of granite formed what looked like a sheer, slick razor blade. Dixon Point was over the next ridge. She'd come in from the east, hoping to see something new, something she'd missed before. The dream had been so damn real.

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she gave the machine more fuel and took off. The sooner she checked Dixon Point the sooner she could get back to the office.

As she approached the area where Hank's and the doctor's bodies had been hung, she slowed. Near a small puddle, there were fresh ATV tracks. It was possible they'd been made by the volunteer searchers, but she'd understood most of the search had been conducted on foot so that the ravines and slopes could be thoroughly examined.

Her hand reached for the gas again, but she hesitated, yielding to the distinct sense that someone was watching her. She whirled, her hand going to the weapon at her waist. Nothing moved. Tense and anxious, she searched the area around her.

When the large bird flapped out of the thick cover of a tree, she instinctively pulled her gun and took aim. She recognized the wingspan and grace of the eagle before she shot. As she reholstered her pistol, she realized her heart was thumping painfully in her chest. The violation of her home, on top of the old Sioux stories, had gotten to her.

Skin dancers. Sure.

She headed on up the trail, but she hadn't gone more than twenty yards when she stopped in shock.

The blank eye sockets of Ashton Trussell were fixed in her direction. A small hole centered his forehead. Next to Trussell was what remained of Burl Mascotti's mauled head. Both had been carefully placed so that they greeted her as she slowly entered the place where Hank and Trussell had been found.

She saw the body hanging from the same limb. Mullet Bellows, or what remained of him, swung in the gentle wind. There was no way for her to identify him, but she knew it was Mullet. His body had been skinned and his head removed. A silver ornament was skewered to his chest with a porcupine quill, and beside the remains was a bamboo pole, this one containing two owl feathers.

Rachel had an urge to flee, to get on the ATV and ride as fast as she could toward town, but she couldn't. She had to secure the crime scene, and hopefully unearth some evidence that would point her to the killer.

 

The body bag zipped shut over what remained of Mullet Bellows. The technician fixed the zipper tab and stood.

“We'll get some prints to positively identify the body. He hasn't been dead more than fourteen, eighteen hours,” Gus Langstrom said. Around Rachel the crime scene techs finished working the site. Rachel had had time to study the scene in depth.

“He was dragged a good distance, but based on the blood, I think he was still alive when he was skinned. We'll be able to give a more exact time of death once we get the body to the lab. No sign of Mullet's head, huh?” Gus asked.

“Nothing.” Rachel nodded toward the place where the heads of Burl and Trussell had already been bagged and removed. “The killer brought two heads back and took Mullet's.”

“This one is a real sicko,” Gus said. “Tell Gordon they might be able to turn this around as some kind of tourist attraction, though. Some folks like to visit the site where serial killers did their worst. And this killer is obviously fixated on Dixon Point.”

“Mullet was alive most of the time he was missing, and we couldn't find a single lead.” Rachel looked down at the ground saturated with blood.

If she'd been smarter, faster, more competent, she might have saved Mullet's life. If Gus's time line was correct, Mullet, and she knew it was Mullet, was being skinned while she was at the Paradise meeting.”

“Are you okay?” Jake asked as he walked up beside her. “You're pale and you've been acting strange since last night.”

“Lack of sleep.” She turned away from Jake's probing gaze. “Mullet's wrist and knee were broken.” Bones didn't grow like that naturally.

“This isn't your fault, Rachel. None of us have been able to get ahead of this killer.” Jake knelt, searching the ground. “He wants these men to suffer. I think he's as motivated by suffering as he is by killing.”

“This is extremely personal, and whoever is doing it has left us plenty of clues. We just don't know how to read them.” She held up the bag with the second silver toe guard. Gus had pulled it from the body but allowed her to hold on to it. “This one is exactly like the other one, or as exact as a hand–crafted item can be.”

“I've never known Mullet or Hank to wear fancy toe guards. That's more of a gentleman rancher thing to wear, for show. But you're right. It has some meaning. Something significant to those two men.”

“And to the killer.” Rachel tucked the evidence bag into her pocket. If she could find the person who made the toe guards, then he or she might be able to tell her how Mullet and Hank were tied to the piece of silver. She dug her fingers into her hair and pushed it back from her face.

Jake touched her arm. “Even Frankie says you're taking the case too personally.”

“I am taking it personally. I'm supposed to catch the person doing this, and instead, I keep finding bodies strung up all over the damn woods. It is damn personal, and Frankie doesn't know me or anything about me.” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn't help it. She was a deputy, and it was her job to solve this case. She didn't need to be molly–coddled or pampered.

Jake looked surprised. “She really likes you, Rachel. She says the two of you are like kindred spirits.”

“Jake, I've been in her company three times. Four at the most. She doesn't know a thing about me.”

“But I've known you half your life, and you look like you haven't slept in a week.”