Skin Dancer (28 page)

She shook her head. She wasn't certain how Derek figured into the whole scene, but she didn't think he'd hurt Justine and tied her up or taken Richard Jones.

“Did Jake go out to the Senator's with Gordon?” It was odd that Jake hadn't shown up at this scene.

“I don't think so.”

“What about Frankie—” She didn't get to finish the question. The radio on Scott's shoulder crackled, and Gladys's voice came through.

“Scott, just got a call about a wreck on Custer Lane. Doesn't sound too serious, but Mrs. McAdams was upset. Someone hit her new Buick and kept going. She got a partial tag number. I ran it and it could be Derek Baxter's vehicle.”

“I'll take care of it, Scott. That's close to the place Derek rents.” Rachel was already moving toward the door.       

Rachel jumped into her truck. She pressed the gas to the floor and blasted out of the driveway. The old Nyman house that Derek rented was on Custer Lane. She'd seen Derek's face—a brief glimpse, but a clear one. He'd been terrified. Not by her appearance, but by what had happened to Justine.

She had to find him and make him tell her everything he knew.

# # #

Frankie sat in the shadow of a huge boulder, her truck shut down. Across the floor of the valley, a cluster of lights sparkled in the darkness.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember, but she couldn't find her way back to the place she wanted to go. As a child, she'd traveled this road many times. It was the road into town, and her mother had spoken often, in the early days of her healing, about the many times she and Dub went into town together to buy feed or equipment. Polly had worked hard, at first, to try to reconnect Frankie with her past–until Polly realized that the young girl who'd come back from the mountains bore no resemblance to the daughter she'd once loved.

Watching the twinkle of lights that signified Harvey Dilson's ranch—the land and home he'd bought from Polly just before the auctioneer's gavel fell on a foreclosure sale—Frankie tried to squeeze even a small memory from her brain. Whatever tender moments had once resided there had been stripped clean by the bullet that ripped through her brain.

She tried again for one single image of love and tenderness from her childhood. Nothing. She smiled. It was the last test. Now she could finish.

If she wanted to shoot Harvey from a distance, she could find the opportunity. Even though Harvey had all of his ranch hands armed to the teeth and patrolling the house area, she could still kill him if she wanted. But she had other plans.

She started the truck and headed away from the ranch, back to town. She'd call Harvey in the morning, see how he was doing. One of the real pleasures that came from the way she'd structured her kills was that she got to witness the fear of her victims. It was so much better than she'd ever imagined.

She'd devised the skinning and decapitating method based on the cruel lifestyle of Hank and Mullet—men who considered themselves to be such
courageous
hunters. It had seemed so appropriate, and her only regret was that no one would know what craven cowards they'd been in the end, begging and pleading for her to stop as she sliced the skin from their bodies. That's why her final victim, U.S. Senator Dilson, would be killed publicly.

Mullet had fainted before she even started, but when she slid the sharpened end of the cable—an improvement over the rope she'd used on Hank—through his tendons and set the winch to lift him, he'd come to with wild screams. And he'd screamed until he had no voice left. It had been a thing of beauty.

The death method had also brought to mind the legend of the Skin Dancer, the mythic Sioux monster. While she hadn't intended to implicate the Sioux, they'd been a handy beard, giving her additional time to complete her revenge without having to hurry. She knew Adam had been haunting the woods, working the old legend, scaring the road crews, by raising the specter of the Skin Dancer. They weren't working together, but they shared a common goal of stopping the road.

Dancing around the victims and the owl feathers were all part of an elaborate stage that would leave Harvey with no doubt that he was next. She wanted him to anticipate his fate.

As she drove, she thought about the strange loops of destiny that had brought her back to Criss County. Much of it she'd engineered, but there had been some divine intervention. She'd been spared so that she could mete out the fate these men deserved. Before it was over, she'd find her father's body and prove that he hadn't abandoned her.

She passed through the darkened town and swung by Rachel's house. The deputy had become a problem. Rachel was smart, persistent and intuitive. Those qualities, while admirable, were also dangerous. She shared a strange kinship with the deputy, but that was beside the point. Especially now that she'd come to the end game. Dilson was her prize, the man she meant to take in a very public way. She would expose him, strip him naked in every sense of the word.

She would have her pound of flesh.

Frankie's grip tightened on the steering wheel. Rachel's driveway was empty. The deputy never seemed to sleep. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Rachel's number. To her surprise the deputy answered.

“Hey, it's Frankie. What's happening?” she said.

“Nothing good.”

Rachel's voice was guarded. Frankie was instantly on the alert. “Want to work out?”

“I'm kind of busy right now.”

“Sounds intriguing.” Frankie kept it light. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Maybe.”

Rachel's voice crackled and Frankie gripped the phone tighter. Damn cell phone reception was iffy at best. “How was your ride today with Adam?”

“He's an interesting guy. He told me about an artisan.”

Rachel left the thought unfinished, and Frankie counted to seven. She couldn't afford to push Rachel. Not now. “It's a little early for Christmas shopping,” Frankie said.

“No, this guy is connected to the murders.”

“How would that be?” Frankie felt her body tighten.

“It's complicated, but I was wondering if you knew Yuma Pete? Ever buy any of his work?”

Frankie had several options. She chose the one closest to the truth. “He's been around. He does great work, but that's all I know.”

Rachel's voice wafted in and out. “Frankie, when were you shot?”

“Why?” She cleared her throat. “I mean why are you asking about that?”

“Just wondered. What year was it?”

“The exact dates elude me.”

“You were twelve, right?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“That would be 1992. Was it summer?”

“Where is this going?” Frankie slowed the truck and pulled over. She had to think. What had Rachel learned from Pete and what had she put together?

“Mr. Pete mentioned something, and I was trying to figure out if any of it fit together.”

“Well, if you do, let me know, okay? So where are you? Maybe we could meet for a drink.”

“I'm at my destination. Gotta go. I'll call you later.”

Frankie was left listening to static. Slowly she lowered the phone. She turned the truck around and headed back to town. She had to find Rachel before the deputy ruined everything.

# # #

Derek cowered in the dense shrubbery that formed an almost impenetrable wall at the back of the house he lived in. He'd parked his vehicle several blocks away. After he'd hit that big land yacht that was parked on the street, he'd panicked and kept driving. He'd slipped back on foot, scared and sick.

Justine. He put his fists into his eyes trying to rub out the image of her, broken and near death. He'd started to remove the duct tape from her mouth when the deputy had barreled into the room. He'd struck out at Rachel on instinct. She'd seen his face, though. He knew it. So now he was waiting for the sirens and the pigs to come for him.

The events of the past week had snowballed. Control over them had been an illusion. From the first moment he'd conceived of the idea of claiming a murder he didn't commit, he'd been doomed.

He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and tried one of the other WAR members. The phone rang and rang. No one was answering his calls. It was as if they knew—he carried the disease of failure. If he kept his mouth shut, he'd do time alone. If he talked, he'd take the whole cell of WAR to prison with him. Destroying a half–million dollars worth of heavy equipment suddenly wasn't nearly as funny as it had been a week before.

Dear God, who had done that to Justine? Had Richard Jones lost his shit when he realized Justine was involved with WAR? Had he hurt her, tied her up and—–he couldn't bear to think any further. Instead of helping her, he'd panicked and run away. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stop the cries that wanted to rise from his throat.

He was a coward and worse. He'd set fire to Justine's car in an act of petty revenge while she'd been suffocating not a hundred feet away. If she lived, she'd never forgive him. If she didn't, he'd never forgive himself.

A vehicle pulled down the shale driveway and stopped. He recognized Rachel Redmond. She wasn't wearing a uniform and she got out of the truck and knocked at his apartment.

Fear immobilized him. He could either step out and turn himself in or spend the rest of his days hiding.

He couldn't decide what to do. If he showed himself, it would work in his favor. Rachel didn't have her gun drawn. She might not shoot him before he had a chance to explain. Then again, if he waited, he might find some evidence that would build a legitimate alibi for the murders. The problem was that he wasn't certain when the poachers had been killed.

He banged his forehead with his fist. His mother would rag on him forever about this.

Another vehicle drove down the street and slowed. He heard the motor die and a door slam. Was someone else coming to talk to him? Maybe to finish him off?

Rachel had moved from the door to the windows. She tapped on the glass and stood on tiptoe trying to look inside.

Derek caught sight of a figure slipping along the side of the house. He couldn't tell if it was man or woman, but it moved with the grace of a panther.

The figure stopped at the corner of the house. Derek couldn't see perfectly, but he saw enough to see the baton the figure carried. He understood in a flash. The intruder meant to harm the deputy—and once again he'd get the blame for it because it was in his backyard.

“Hey!” He roared the word as he came out of the bushes. “Hey!” He waved his arms and ran toward Rachel. “Watch out! Over there!” The force of the deputy's taser hit him square in the chest. Lightning popped behind his eyeballs, and he hit the ground, unable to control the jerking and quivering of his muscles.

 

He held the pen in his hand, the felt tip trembling above the page. What was there to confess? Richard understood that nothing he wrote would save him from Frankie. Were there any words that would save him from himself?

Paradise had occupied his life for so long now. More than sixteen years. In the time his dream had grown to near fruition, Frankie's father had lain in an unmarked grave somewhere. He'd assumed that Hank and Mullet had taken care of that detail, and he'd never asked. He should have. He should at least be able to give Frankie this one thing that might lead her to peace. Instead, he'd chosen to pretend that Dub's murder had never happened.

The luxury of make–believe was gone now, and he was left with the reality of what had occurred. Frankie Jackson, a girl of twelve, had been shot in the head and left to die. The bullet had gone through her brain, coring away parts of her personality. What had been left was a woman bent on a terrible revenge. The blue eyes that he'd thought so lovely when he sat at her dinner table had seemed to sparkle with life and humor. Now he'd seen them icy and dead. Frankie had learned to imitate life, but she'd died a long time ago.

He paced the cabin. He'd tried the doors and windows but they were securely locked and barred. Mullet had sat in this same chair knowing he would die, just as Richard did.

And Justine? What would Frankie do to her if she was  still alive? Though he might not be able to save himself, perhaps if he wrote what Frankie wanted to know, he could help Justine.

Picking up the pen, he willed his hand not to shake as he began to write. He confessed to witnessing the murder of Dub Jackson, and then he began to list the places Dub's body might have been placed.

Frankie had tortured the men, yet they hadn't given her that bit of information or she wouldn't need it from him.

He stopped writing. Surely, as she was peeling the skin from them, they would have told her the location of Dub's grave. Yet they hadn't. Because they didn't know? If they didn't know where Dub was buried, Harvey Dilson did. Dilson. Sweat formed on Richard's forehead, though the evening was cool.

# # #

Rachel tuned out Derek Baxter's yells and placed the call to Adam Standing Bear.

She identified herself. “I need a favor.”

She could hear the hesitation in his voice. He had a right to be cautious. “What kind of favor?”

“Could you go and pick up Yuma Pete. Keep him with you.”

“Yuma might not want to be picked up.”

“He could be in danger.”

“I'll go now.”

“Thanks, Adam.” She replaced the phone.

Derek was ranting about his innocence. He was the only occupant of the jail, and he could protest and threaten until the cows came home. As far as she could discern, he had no useful information about Richard Jones's whereabouts, or about who had attacked Justine. He denied being at Richard's house.

Derek had claimed there was someone hiding in the bushes at his apartment, but Scott and Gordon had searched the area and in the darkness had found no trace to corroborate Derek's tale.