Skin Dancer (29 page)

If Derek would shut up, the office would be quiet and she could think. Scott was canvassing the neighbors around the Jones house, but so far had reported nothing. What few neighbors there were in that rarified, elite area, hadn't seen or heard anything.

Rachel picked up her note pad and flipped through the last two pages. She'd come to believe that the murders of Hank and Mullet were related to the disappearance of Dub Jackson. The boot clips told it clearly. But how? How did silver boot ornaments figure into murder?

And how did Richard Jones? Was the attack on Justine and Richard's abduction part of the same killer's pattern?

She heard the familiar sound of Gordon's steps, the limp still evident. When he walked into the sheriff's office, she stood up.

“Can I have a minute?” she asked.

He motioned her to follow him and closed the door. She could see the toll the last few days had taken on him. Gordon had never been a sheriff who valued forms and computer work. Action had been his motto. A crime was committed and he solved it and put the criminal in jail. Times were changing. Technology had begun to overwhelm him, and the long months of physical pain had eroded his vitality. He was ready to retire–and Jake was a perfect successor.

“Have you found something about Richard?” Gordon asked, and she saw the hope in his eyes. 

“No, sir. But I have some questions. About Dub Jackson.”

Gordon settled into his chair, shifting his weight off his bad hip. “That was a long time ago. How is that relevant to what's going on now?”

She gave him her theory and the evidence she had to support it. Gordon listened without comment until she was finished.

“We searched for Dub. I stayed up in those woods for two weeks. Mel brought in volunteers. The man vanished without a trace. At first I didn't believe he'd leave, but there was no other way to explain how he and his horse simply vanished.”

“Did Richard contribute to the search?” Rachel held her breath.

“He did, in fact. He volunteered to plot the search patterns on his computers. And he even searched some. I heard that later, when Frankie was recovering and he'd begun to rake in the money from his software, he was very generous to Frankie's mom.”

“Did you ever ask yourself why that might be?” Rachel asked the question softly.

“Richard's a good man. He's invested in the people and the area.” Gordon went silent as he looked at Rachel. “You think he was involved in what happened to Frankie and Dub?”

“If I had some proof—”

“That's not possible, Rachel.” Gordon's voice was sharp. “The only people who even remember Dub Jackson and what happened—well, there isn't anyone. Frankie has no memory and her mom, Polly, is dead. No one else cares.”

“Sheriff, I want to bring Frankie in for questioning.”

“Because her father disappeared?”

“Because these murders are tied to Dub Jackson's disappearance.”

“The evidence you have is a piece of boot ornamentation and some theories, Rachel. That's not good enough. You bring me one solid thing, and I'll consider at least bringing Frankie in for questioning.”

Rachel didn't argue. She'd expected Gordon to resist her theory. If she was right, the things that Gordon believed about Criss County would all be turned on their heads.

“Where did Frankie's mom die, and when?” she asked.

“About five years ago. Down in Montgomery, Alabama.”

“Do you remember who told you about it?”

“I don't, but I am telling you that you're on the wrong trail. Sniff down it awhile if you have to, but don't waste a lot of time. We have to find Richard, and we have to find him alive. My hope is that we get a call for ransom or that Miss Morgan comes to and can identify the attacker. I've got roadblocks on every major road out of the county. Harvey said if there's no sign of Richard by tomorrow, he'll call in some federal help.”

Rachel didn't hold out much hope. She didn't believe a ransom call would come. And if Justine could identify her attacker, she'd be dead. Even worse, an onslaught of federal agents would only assure Richard's immediate death, if he wasn't dead already.

“What about Baxter?” the sheriff asked.

“Keep him in jail for the rest of the night. Then cut him loose.”

“You believe he was trying to help you?”

Rachel opened the door. “Not necessarily. But he was yelling for me to watch out when I tasered him. It's not worth it to keep him in jail disrupting the quiet. He can't get far and we can round him up again if we need him.”

# # #

Rachel's eyes felt like someone had grazed them with sandpaper, but she stroked the keyboard, finding her way into the maze of legal documentation in Montgomery County, Alabama. She was looking for the death certificate for Polly Jackson.

Gordon was right about one thing. Frankie and her mother were the only two people who might ever have truly cared what happened to Dub. Frankie allegedly didn't remember enough to talk about it and Polly was dead. But maybe, just maybe there was someone who'd been close to Polly before her death. Someone who might remember something that would tell her how Richard Jones was involved with Dub Jackson.

Because Rachel knew that if she was going to save Richard, she had to find out the truth about Dub's disappearance.

She searched the entire data base of Montgomery County, Alabama, death certificates and found nothing. She expanded the search to the surrounding counties.

Nothing.

She shifted her search to Criss County, in case Frankie had brought her mom back to the area to die.

Nothing.

Where the hell was Polly Jackson's body?

She buzzed Gordon's office. “Sheriff, would you happen to know Polly Jackson's sister's name?”

“Don't waste a lot of time on this.”

“I just want to make a phone call.”

“Call Senator Dilson.” He gave her the senator's private line. “Harvey helped make the arrangements to transfer Frankie down South. She had to go in an air ambulance, and Harvey had some political backers who donated their plane. Maybe he'll remember.”

“Thanks.” Rachel was busy dialing as soon as she got a dial tone.

To her surprise, Dilson came on the phone instantly. When she asked about Frankie's aunt, he hesitated. “Maybelle Crozier,” he said. “What's the interest, deputy?”

“I'm not sure, Senator. But can I ask you something else?”

“Of course.”

“Was Richard Jones ever affiliated with Hank Welford or Mullet Bellows?”

The silence stretched for what seemed to be a long time. “That's a peculiar thing to ask.”

“Was he?”

“Couldn't say,” Dilson said. “They don't strike me as people who would have a common interest, but then again, Richard doesn't use the best judgment where his…ah…associates are concerned. Is there any news on him?”

“None.” Rachel had already turned her attention to the internet phone book. She found a listing for a Maybelle Crozier in Montgomery. “Thanks, Senator.”

The older woman answered on the fourth ring, her soft drawl laced with aggravation at someone who would have the impertinence to call at such a late hour.

Rachel introduced herself and explained that she was looking for a death certificate for Polly Jackson.

“Is Frances in South Dakota?” Maybelle asked.

“Yes, ma'am.” Rachel crushed the impulse to drum her fingers.

“Why don't you ask her about Polly's death?”

Rachel was suddenly calm. “She's out of pocket.”

“What's she done, Deputy?” Maybelle asked. Her voice, though old, was threaded with sharp intelligence.

Truth was not always the best policy. Rachel opted to straddle the fence. “I'm not certain she's done anything at all.”

“Hogwash. But keep your secrets. I'll tell you what I know. Polly had suffered a terrible fall down a flight of stairs in her home. The accident left her paralyzed from the waist down. She was in Heritage Manor Care Facility when she died on May 12, 2004.”

Rachel had a lot of questions, but she focused on the most important ones. “There's no death certificate on file in Alabama for Polly Jackson.”

“Polly Louise Jackson. There has to be.”

“Is she buried in Alabama?”

“No, Frankie took her back to Criss County. There wasn't even a decent service. Just a memorial kind of ceremony. The body had already been cremated.”

“Was Mrs. Jackson close to anyone? Someone she might have confided in?”

Maybelle made a soft sound of disgust. “Once Frankie regained her physical skills, she kept Polly isolated. I didn't know my own sister was paralyzed until a month after the fact.” The line hummed. “Polly was afraid of Frances. She never came right out and said it, but she was afraid of her.”

“Do you know why?”

“I believe Frances hurt Polly. Frances wasn't right. After the accident where she was shot, she wasn't right. The bullet did something to her brain. I know the doctors said it hadn't, but they don't know everything.”

Rachel's fingers tightened on the phone. She was on the right track. Even if no one would listen to her. Frankie was involved in the Criss County murders.

“Can you think of anyone who might be able to give me some information?” Rachel asked.

“There was a therapist. Mischa Woods. Let me get her number.”

# # #

The clock in the rented pickup showed a few minutes after eleven. Frankie was parked on the north side of the Criss County courthouse where she had a clear view of the sheriff's office windows. She could see Rachel at her desk. Criss County had never seen the need to update security in the old offices. No one had ever considered that a sniper could take out a deputy. Rachel Redmond was something she hadn't counted on when she'd planned her revenge.

In the twenty minutes she'd been sitting, Frankie had seen three vehicles drive by, all filled with rowdy teenagers. None of them had even noticed her.

To while away the time, she practiced inhaling and exhaling slowly. Centering. Her legs were jerky with the tedium of sitting still, but her patience would be rewarded.

Beside her on the seat was a rifle and scope. Her right hand caressed the stock where the initials DBJ had been burned in a fancy script. Her father's hunting rifle was one of the few things she'd been able to scavenge from among her mother's useless possessions. Why Polly had chosen to keep the gun, Frankie couldn't begin to guess. Polly hated weapons and noise and any honest emotion. She preferred simpering smiles and whispers and the restraint that all ladies of good breeding know how to practice. And patience. God almighty, if Polly had told her once she'd told her a million times—“You have to be patient, Frances.”

She wanted to bang the steering wheel with her fist, but she didn't. Years of practicing patience had given her the discipline not to act rashly and without purpose. The plan she'd worked so hard on for so many years was about to be completed. Rachel was becoming a nuisance, but the plan wasn't in serious jeopardy. In fact, everything was in place.

Richard was in the old cabin, a place no one would ever think to look. Harvey was at the ranch barking orders and abusing his staff. And Mel Ortiz. That was Frankie's masterstroke. He was at home, never suspecting that the tab for his sins was about to come due. Mel wasn't involved in killing her father, but he certainly hadn't tried hard to find Dub. He'd let Dilson run the whole show.

The ringing of her cell phone startled her. Rachel was calling. It was true that the two of them were connected by some powerful bond. Here she was, sitting outside the courthouse, wondering if she was going to have to kill the deputy, and Rachel was calling her. It was more than coincidence. They were bound together by their pasts, by the loss of fathers and security, by their struggle in a man's world, by so many things they shared.

“Hello, Rachel,” she said.

“Frankie, I got your message, but I've been swamped. I've been researching some old records.” Rachel's voice was casual, friendly.

“Anything interesting?” Frankie asked.

“Not much. We've got a few leads on Richard's disappearance. Where are you, Frankie?”

“Headed home.” Frankie smiled. Parked outside the courthouse, she could see Rachel with the phone to her ear. The deputy never suspected she was under surveillance.

“Can I ask a personal question?” Rachel asked.

“Fire away.” Frankie was feeling better and better about Rachel. The deputy was deepening the intimacy between them. If Frankie could only tell her the reasons behind her actions, Rachel would understand. She might even approve.

“Where is your mom buried?” Rachel asked.

Or maybe not. “That's a strange question. Why are you asking?”

“My mom's in a cemetery in Rapid City. I thought if your mom was close, we could visit them. One day soon.”

Frankie stared at the deputy. Her dark hair was down, swinging across her face to hide her features. What in the hell had Rachel learned?

“My mom died in Montgomery,” Frankie said.

“Really? Is she buried there?”

“She was cremated. So why all the interest in my mom?”

“I was just thinking how much we have in common,” Rachel said. “Both of us have lost our parents. Hey, Frankie, where are you now?”

She started to tell her right outside the courthouse, watching through the window, but she stopped herself. Rachel was too smart to tease. “I'm almost home.”

“You want to work out later tonight?” Rachel asked.

It was a trap. Frankie could smell it. The deputy was on the scent of something. “Not tonight.” She had better things to do. She had a time line established, and the culmination of it was a press conference where she could publicly destroy Harvey Dilson. This was the moment she'd waited sixteen years to achieve, sixteen years of torment and planning. She would show the people of Criss County what kind of man Harvey was and she'd force him to reveal what he'd done with Dub's body.