Skin Dancer (3 page)

She walked off, feeling the daggers of resentment digging into her spine. She hadn't come home to South Dakota to make friends.

The project foreman fell into step beside her, talking as they walked. “Hank Welford never showed up for work today. That's the third time in two weeks. I'm going to cut him loose.”

She nodded.

“If he comes in tomorrow, I'll tell him he's fired.”

“Yep. He's not reliable. Probably holed up drunk somewhere.”

“Or else on one of his illegal hunting trips. That bastard has every game warden in the state looking for him. Makes it hard on the rest of us who are real sportsmen.” He shook his head in disgust.

The dry taste of dust from the road work made Frankie wish for a Diet Coke. “Hank's been living his life to his own tune for at least thirty years. I doubt he's going to change. When you fire him, he'll be furious. Watch out because he has a gun in his truck—I caught him shooting at crows last week during a break. He may try something stupid. Then he'll get over it and hire on someplace else until he gets fired again.” She looked back at the men who were still standing around, talking among themselves. “Put them back to work. I'm going into town to pick up the specs the engineers faxed over.”

She climbed into her pickup truck and drove close to the forest. Whoever had been there was gone. If she were the kind of woman to be scared, the idea of someone hiding in the woods and watching might creep her out. But there was always a logical explanation.

The local Sioux resented the intrusion of the road through their sacred land, and it was likely that someone had come to make sure the huge fir tree—a magnificent creation with a circumference of over 100 feet–was left undisturbed. The tree had once provided shade for the council meetings of the Sioux leaders. Now the knot–heads on the road project had the idea that if they ignored certain things, they wouldn't be challenged. They were wrong.

She gunned the motor and spun out, bringing a smile to the men's faces. It took so little to redirect a guy's focus. Put a woman in a truck spinning a bit of gravel and every thought in a man's head dropped right down to his crotch. Amazing.

Aiming the truck toward the county seat of Bisonville, she notched the needle over eighty and let her thoughts drift. The road project was moving forward, slowly. Things were on track. To that end, she had a dinner party planned to honor some of the state politicians and civic leaders. Although trained as a civil engineer, Frankie knew that it was her ability to build bridges between diverse groups that had gotten her the high six–figure salary she earned. She made all sides on the gnarly issue of the new road feel that they'd won some points. And she did it with style. Lida Jane's training, while irksome at the time, had proven invaluable.

She was just outside Bisonville when she decided to check the radio. A male DJ's voice came over the airwaves.

“…mutilated bodies were found high in the Black Hills this morning by a hiker. Criss County Sheriff's deputies and state game wardens responded and the bodies have been recovered, but no identification has been made.

“Deputy Rachel Redmond refused to comment on the condition of the bodies or the possible motive behind the brutal slaying, but eyewitnesses at the bizarre scene report that the decapitated and skinned bodies, believed to be two hunters, were found beside a dead moose.

“We'll update the story at the top of the hour. Right now, we're back to Toby Keith and ‘It's a Little Too Late.'”

Frankie turned the radio off and slowed the pickup. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and punched in Jake Ortiz's number. “Hey, Jake, it's Frankie. When you get a minute, give me a call. I'm a little worried about my crew out there. I just want to get some details on that double homicide so I can decide whether to send them home or keep them working. Thanks.”

She held the phone a moment before pressing down hard on the accelerator and sending the eight–cylinder truck up to eighty. She had work to do. 

 

The clack of pool balls breaking drowned the soft play of the radio in Bud's Bar. Rachel looked over her shoulder to the heavyset man. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and his beer dripped condensation on the edge of the table.

“You got stripes,” he told the man he played with as he bent, took aim, and shot the cue stick forward. The report was solid and confident. The yellow one–ball zipped into the back corner pocket. He walked around the table and took his next successful shot.

Rachel wasn't as interested in the game as she was in the man. He was nearly six feet tall, in his forties or fifties, strong but gone to pot.

Physically, he was much like one of the dead men. How had someone with that physique been taken down without obvious signs of a struggle? Of course, if the killer had a gun, it was possible both men had been forced into co–operation—or shot in the head. She had no way to tell, since the heads were still missing and the preliminary forensics had revealed only that the two men had lost vast quantities of blood. Whether from the skinning or decapitation, the state pathologist wasn't ready to say. One body had been mutilated worse than the other.

She sipped her Diet Coke and drummed her fingers softly on the varnished wood bar. Bud's was a historical locale, dating back to the Indian wars and the cattle drives that brought the colorful characters of the Old West through the small town. In all likelihood, the bar hadn't had a good cleaning since Custer took his last stand. But it was quiet, for a bar, and not nearly as smoke–filled in the early evening as it would be later that night.

Someone cranked the jukebox up, and she smiled at the first strains of “Okie from Muskogee.” Merle Haggard was still a star in Bisonville, but few of his fans would recognize that the beat of this classic country song was a cha–cha. Rachel remembered a full, royal blue skirt twirling as her mom's bare feet, toe nails painted bright red, moved forward and back in a cha–cha across the faded linoleum of their kitchen. Junie Redmond had loved to dance, even through chores.

A curse from the pool table told her the game was over and someone was a poor looser. She picked up a couple of polaroids she'd taken at the crime scene and walked over to the heavyset man who was racking the balls. Like the four previous guys she'd interviewed, this one wasn't interested in helping a deputy.

He ignored her until she dropped two photographs on the table beside his hand. “Recognize that tattoo?” she asked.

The man tried to ignore her, but the photos caught his eye. He picked up the first one, then the second. Rachel had been careful to show only the tattoo of the snake and none of the damage done to the body.

“What if I do?” he said.

“You could tell me who the tattoo belongs to and then I'd go away.”

He snorted, settled the balls and removed the rack. “You can go or stay. Don't make me no nevermind.”

“It might if I invite you to the courthouse for a chat.”

He looked her up and down, letting his contempt show. “That uniform doesn't mean a damn to me.”

“I didn't come here for a pissing match, but I will if I have to.”

He looked at the photos again. “Never seen ‘em.” He picked up his stick, placed the cue ball and broke in one smooth motion.

Rachel went back to her barstool. The clientele of the bar, at least the ones she'd talked to, hadn't been very helpful. Still, someone had to recognize that tattoo. Perhaps she should try over at the beauty shop where the ladies might recognize it.

The door of the bar swung open and the last golden slant of daylight fell across the wooden floor. Blinded, Rachel could only see the tall silhouette of a slender man. Jake's boots echoed on the boards. She hadn't expected to see Jake in Bud's. He did his drinking in the more upscale bars of Rapid City.

“Rachel, what are you doing in here this time of day?”

Jake was forever the big brother. It was an act that was beginning to make her angry. “I wanted a Diet Coke and a quiet place to sit.” She didn't want to tell him she was working. There were times that Jake made her feel inadequate.

He surveyed the bar, making it clear he found nothing there that should interest Rachel. There were Diet Cokes available at Lulu's Café or the U–Tote ‘Em or any of the dozen gas stations. “I just read an article that said carbonated drinks can make a woman's bones porous.” He stood at her elbow.

“Jesus, Jake. Breathing might pollute my lungs.” She turned back to the bar so he couldn't see the aggravation on her face. “You act like I'm addicted to a diet drink. My mother had the drug problem, not me.” The minute she spoke, she knew it was true. Jake was always vigilant for the first sign of addiction in her. Even to a cola. Heat flushed her face and she had to struggle to control the angry retort that sprang to her mind.

“Sorry, Rachel. I guess I need to back off.” He signaled the bartender for a beer.

“That would be a relief.”

Instead of getting angry, he laughed. “Old habits die hard.” He slipped onto the bar stool beside her. “Remember John Henry James?”

Rachel couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, I had the worst crush on him when I was fourteen. Good thing he never knew I existed.” In a drunken rage John Henry had hit his wife and killed her. His remorse had been great, but remorse didn't bring life back to the woman he'd killed.

“Oh, he knew you existed. He used to ride by your mama's place in that black Camaro. He was like a shark swimming by, just hoping you'd walk out the door.”

Rachel sat taller on her bench. “How do you know this, Jake?”

“Because after school I'd drive by your place. I put down some shingles with roofing tacks in them, and when he had three flat tires, I pulled him out of the car and told him if I saw him hanging around you again, I'd bury him under the asphalt.”

Jake was smiling, but Rachel felt the throb of a vein in her temple. “You had no right to do such a thing.”

“Maybe not, but he was a predator and a creep.” The bartender put a Bud in front of him and Jake popped the top. “Your father was gone and your mom sure wasn't paying attention. Somebody had to look out for you, Rachel. You were headed down a long, hard road.”

She sipped her drink and swallowed her angry responses. Jake was right. “Is John Henry still in the state pen?”

“Got out about four weeks ago. Folks say he's living out in the wilderness in some kind of survivalist mode.”

So this was the reason Jake had brought up the past. Not to devil her but to toss her a possible suspect. “John Henry never struck me as a killer.”

“Tell his dead wife that.”

“Point made and taken. I'll run a check on him at the office and see if I can dig up anything on the time he spent in prison. He was always a big hunter, as I recall.”

“A big
poacher
, as I recall.” Jake drew the distinction with a nod of his head. “Prison can take a messed up person and push him right over the edge, Rachel.”

“I thought you viewed the crime scene today as the work of some anti–hunters.”

“That's my best theory right now, but I'm open to all possibilities. John Henry is just that, a possibility.”

She hesitated. “Jake, I want you to let me handle this on my own. I have to step forward and be a deputy if I'm going to wear this badge.”

“It's your case. I'm only trying to help.”

Hurt touched his features, gone as quickly as it had come. “I know. And I appreciate it. But I have to be able to solve crimes or else I should change jobs.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Rachel, this is a case that would put even the most seasoned detective to the test. Just take what help I can give you. I had a reason for tracking you down. Two things, actually.” He shifted on his bar stool so that he could look directly at her. “You know this hip replacement has set Gordon back.”

Rachel nodded. Gordon had ranched from the time he could sit a horse, and he was a tough man, but he'd taken a spill and his horse had rolled on him, damaging both hips. The constant pain and now the surgery had taken a toll.

“Anyway, Dad and Gordon think I should run for sheriff.” He waited and when she didn't say anything, he continued. “I'd want you to stay on as a deputy. I need your support, Rachel.”

“Is this an act of charity?”

His grin was crooked. “No, ma'am. You're smart. Folks around here respect you and the way you handle things. With experience and more training, you're going to be one of the best. I want you because you'll do a good job.”

Now she understood his motivation at the murder scene. “And that makes this double homicide a big deal for you.”

He nodded. “We solve this one, it'll look good for both of us.”

“You sure this is what you want, Jake? You love the wilderness. You studied so hard for that biology degree. There's a lot more than solving crimes involved in being sheriff.”

“I know. But there's a lot of opportunity, too. Criss County will grow, Rachel. It won't always be this small town that time forgot. I want to put together an effective sheriff's office with more training and better equipment.”

The idea of working for Jake was a bit uncomfortable, but if Gordon quit, there would be a new sheriff. Jake was the best candidate in Criss County.

“I'll do what I can.”

His grin reminded her of the older teenage boy who'd tormented and teased her. “There's one other thing. A special favor.”

Jake Ortiz didn't ask favors of anyone. “This'll be a first. What is it?”

“There's a woman, name of Frances Jackson, a friend of Dad's. She's the liaison between environmental groups and the new four–lane that's going through the Black Hills. Anyway, she's having a party tomorrow night and I need a date.”