Skin Dancer (23 page)

 

Derek slumped against the cold wall of the cell. He was hamstrung. He couldn't call his mom, and he wouldn't call Justine or any WAR members. Anyone he contacted would immediately be arrested. He knew how the pigs worked. They'd arrested him for the sole purpose of constructing a trap, hoping to draw more WAR activists into the web. He was too smart for them, though.

The best he could wish for would be a news story that alerted WAR's national headquarters. He didn't have their number and wouldn't call if he did, for obvious reasons, so he had to wait and hope that someone would see his predicament and make the necessary contact.

He thought back over his morning of interrogation. Christ. While the deputies were out stumbling over body parts all over the wilderness, they still had time to question him for several hours. He'd developed a real antagonism with Scott Amos, and couldn't believe his luck when the deputy got the call that his wife was in labor and needed him at the hospital. At last he'd been left in peace.

Now, though, the hours were growing long. He'd described being attacked and hung upside down. He'd admitted to discovering the mannequin and claiming it for WAR. Nothing else. He didn't have a lawyer, but on TV they always advised their client not to say anything. Keeping mum was a talent of his.

He jumped to his feet when the door to the jail opened. The old bat who was the dispatcher came in with a tray of coffee and some pie. It smacked of a setup to him.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Coffee and blueberry pie.”

“I can see that.” He was exasperated with the low IQ level of the sheriff's office employees. Deputy Amos hadn't been a rocket scientist, either. He'd kept asking the same questions again and again. “Why are you giving me pie?”

She grinned at him. “Because it's there. Actually, the sheriff told me to do this.” She shoved the tray under the cell door. “The sheriff thinks you're involved in those terrible murders. I told him that couldn't be. You look just like my nephew. He's a good boy, and I think you are, too. I think once you have a chance to work it through, you're going to help Sheriff Gray catch the person that's done those awful killings. My advice to you, son, is to help yourself by telling the truth. By the way, Deputy Redmond found your girlfriend's hair clamp at the scene where the mannequin was hung. Wonder what Miss Morgan was doing there?” She left, closing the door behind her.

“Fuck.” How had Justine's clamp gotten there? He'd had plenty of time to think about Justine and the role she might have played in all of this. Sure, she'd encouraged him to follow Adam Standing Bear. And now her barrette had been found at the site where the mannequin was hung. And he had come really close to doubting her. But he remembered her passion. Justine might have climbed into bed with Richard Jones, literally, but beneath all of that, she truly hated hunters and the men who would destroy a natural paradise without regard for any living creatures.

Justine wasn't perfect, but she was dedicated to that cause. Whatever she was up to, the bottom line was that the land rapists and wilderness debauchers would pay a heavy price. She would see to that. And he would help her. This one time in his life, he would hang onto a cause. He wouldn't give up. On himself or Justine. In all likelihood the sheriff and his minions were lying about a lot of things, including Justine's barrette. Cops lied all the time to scare people into talking. Well, it wasn't going to work on him.

Derek realized he was ravenous. He glanced at the pie suspiciously, but his hunger got the better of him. He ate the cobbler in thirty seconds and chased it with the hot, strong coffee. He had to admit, the pie was some of the best he'd ever eaten.

He'd just wiped his mouth with the napkin when the door opened again. The sheriff walked toward his cell. Derek thought for the hundredth time how much like an Old West jail this one was, including Sheriff Gray with his rugged looks and silver moustache. He wore his badge on the pocket of a gray western shirt, and his boots, traditional cowboy fare, made crisp echoes as he crossed the cement floor. He even limped, putting a bit of the ‘Chester' in his Matt Dillon posturing.

Looking out the barred windows, Derek could see the back street of the town. In an old movie, his compadres would ride up, rope the bars and pull them out so he could make an escape. Unfortunately, the street was empty, so he turned to face the sheriff.

“Baxter, I want to ask you a few questions. Like where were you Friday night?”

He rolled his eyes. “At the Paradise development meeting asking Richard Jones for a job. I told the deputy that.”

“What's your involvement with WAR?”

“I'm sympathetic to their stated goals, which are to preserve the wilderness and protect all living creatures against man's abuse.”

Gordon walked right up to Derek's cell and put his hands on the bars. “You've got a lot of attitude, don't you?”

“You don't have any evidence to hold me on. I suggest you let me go before I have grounds for a civil suit against you and the county.”

Gordon's eyebrows arched. “Since you don't have gainful employment, I've been wondering how you make ends meet. You rent the back half of the old Nyman house. Your ride is a new four–wheel–drive truck. You own an ATV, which we can't seem to find anywhere. I wonder why that is and how you pay for all your toys?”

Derek's heart began to beat faster. His mother had financed some of those things, but WAR had provided the ATV. It was a financial record that could possibly be linked back to them. “None of that is illegal, and it also isn't any of your business. I have a legitimate source of income.”

“You still sucking on your mama's tit, boy?” Gordon asked.

“My source of income is none of your business.” He kept a sneer in his voice, but he couldn't help the red that crept into his cheeks.

“We've found some tire tracks, a few careless fingerprints left here and there. Now we've got your prints on file. Is there anything you'd like to tell me before we put it together? Once we get the goods on you, there won't be any negotiating. Right now, if you were to help us out, I'd talk to the district attorney about cutting you some slack.”

“I don't need any slack. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“We know you destroyed that road equipment. And we're going to prove it.” Gordon pulled some keys from his pocket and opened the cell door.

Derek's confidence soared. “You only think you're going to prove it. If you had evidence, you'd charge me now.”

“Maybe.” Gordon grinned wide. “Maybe not. While we were trying to find a body that didn't exist, two other men were killed. I'm not sure what the D.A. will say about that, Mr. Baxter, but if I have my way, you're going to be charged as an accessory to the murder of Burl Mascotti and Mullet Bellows.”

Derek sighed. “Yeah, right. I'm worried.”

“You should be, son. While we were busy with your bullshit, those men died. A jury of twelve citizens might not have a hard time seeing how one is related to the other. Don't try to leave Criss County.”

Beneath his ribs, his heart plunged. He had to get out of there. They were playing him like a cheap fiddle. Especially that old bat bringing him pie while she tried to manipulate him into turning against Justine.

He met the sheriff's intense scrutiny with calm. “When you make the charges,” Derek said, “I'm sure you'll be in touch. ‘Til then, you have a nice day.” He walked out of the cell block and was halfway through the office when the sheriff called his name.

All he wanted was to escape the building, but he couldn't show weakness. He turned around, a sneer firmly in place.

The sheriff tossed something at him, a plastic bag. He caught it deftly and looked down at it. One of Justine's gold–and–pearl hair clamps was inside. She had a pair she used to pull her hair back on the sides. He could even see a beautiful auburn hair still caught in the clamp. He couldn't trust his voice, so he tossed the bag back to the sheriff, continued across the office, down the hall, and, at last, into the twilight.

# # #

Frankie poured another healthy dose of single malt into Jake's glass. The lights in her small, private den were low, casting most of the room into shadow. But the two chairs where she and Jake sat facing each other were adequately lit.

“I tried to call Rachel, but I couldn't get in touch with her.” Frankie knew where Rachel was. She'd made it a point to know, but she didn't mention it.

“She was exhausted. Gordon sent her home.”

“This case may be too much for Rachel,” Frankie said.

“That's a big jump to make, Frankie. I thought you thought she was smart.”

“Oh, she is. But she's young and inexperienced, and this is a tough case.” Frankie put a hand on his knee. “I didn't mean to imply she wasn't capable. I respect Rachel and all she's overcome.”

“She's going to be a great law officer.”

Frankie leaned back in her chair. “I had a bit of a conversation with Mel last night. He told me that you're running for sheriff.”

“That's right.”

She noticed that Jake kept his gaze on his drink. “Is that your dream, Jake, or Mel's?”

Jake's gaze finally met hers. “You're perceptive, Frankie. Dad said you'd helped Senator Dilson with his campaigns, that you were kind of a PR wunderkind.”

“I wouldn't go that far, but I've consulted with Harvey on some things. It's worked to my benefit at times.”

“With the coming of Paradise, Criss County will change. Dad feels, and I agree with him, that I could accomplish a lot more as sheriff. Gordon has agreed to throw his support behind me.”

Frankie inhaled. “Then you've got it pretty much sewn up. Gordon carries the county. If he retires and names you as his successor, then you'll go in with a landslide.”

“A game warden isn't the most popular person around the area.”

“Most of the people you've arrested don't bother to vote, Jake. I wouldn't give it a thought.” She hesitated. “But these Skin Dancer killings have to be cleared. And soon. You've attached yourself to the case, which was a smart move and one that Gordon supported. But if the killer isn't caught, the stink will rub off on you, too.”

“I know,” Jake said.

“I could talk to Harvey for you. Ask him to swing his influence behind you.”

“Would you? I don't agree with everything Dilson's done, but he's been good for South Dakota as a whole.” Jake finished his drink and put the glass carefully on a coaster.

“I'll set up a meeting? Maybe tomorrow. I think you'd be great for Criss County. You should announce soon. Maybe at the press conference Harvey's holding about Paradise. That would be perfect. Let folks start talking. If Harvey will endorse you…” she lifted one shoulder, “that's huge.”

“Let's set up the meeting.” Jake rose quickly to his feet.

She stood also. “The sooner the better. We need to feel him out.”

Jake gave her hand squeeze. “I'm so glad we became friends, Frankie. I hope once the road project is finished you'll hang around Criss County.”

“That's not likely, but we'll see what happens.”

She walked him to the door. As soon as he was gone she went to the telephone. The number she dialed rang several times before someone answered.

“This is Frankie Jackson. Would you ask the senator to give me a callback tomorrow? Early. Tell him politics are heating up in Criss County, and I need him on the ground floor.”

At the bar she made herself another drink, returned to the phone, looked up Justine Morgan's number and called. It was late evening, and she wondered if the young woman was putting the moves on Richard Jones. She'd seen a lot of ambitious young women launch a frontal attack on Richard, hoping to get married and stay that way long enough to get a hefty alimony check.

Justine didn't seem to be motivated by money. It was Jones's power she wanted. The power to change a community, to bring in development and progress. Or to stop it dead in its tracks. Justine was a woman with an agenda. Frankie appreciated that. All was fair in the arena of politics. Justine answered, an annoyed tone in her voice.

“Justine, Frankie Jackson here. Just wanted to remind you of Senator Dilson's press conference.”

“Why are you doing this?” Justine asked. “You're practically in his pocket.”

“Harvey won't agree with me, but I feel it's best to get your questions out in the open now. I'm counting on you to express yourself.” Frankie was imagining Justine's confusion—and smiling–when she hung up.

 

The last vivid hues of sunset had fled, and a violent blue had taken over the east. Slowly it would shift across the sky, claiming it for the night. Rachel watched Adam Standing Bear drive south at the fork in the road. She headed north, back toward Bisonville. Instead of taking the two–lane into town, she took County Road 12 west following the directions Adam had given her.

She was tired and her legs and thighs were already sending up warning signals of what she could expect in the morning. Somehow, because she worked out and stayed in shape, she'd assumed she'd escape the legendary soreness that came from riding. Not so. She would barely be able to hobble in the morning. She could already hear the ribald jokes.

The terrain she entered was isolated and rugged. According to the directions Adam gave her, she was close. She slowed, hunting for the trail that would lead to his place. She saw the square boulder, just as Adam had described, and she turned down the lane that was barely distinguishable. Each bump made her shift in an effort to ease her sore backside, but as she drew close to a rough–hewn building, her attention was captured by the flutter of feathers and the glitter of colored glass hung from the branches of a stunted tree. The headlights of her truck struck bottles of red, blue, green and yellow, a rattling rainbow collection.