Skin Dancer (30 page)

Everything was in place. And now, Rachel was messing with her plan. The simple thing to do would be to kill Rachel. Yet she didn't want to. She would if she had to, but she didn't really want to. But she had to control Rachel, and Frankie had just the ticket.

 

Rachel checked her watch. Time was slipping away from her, and each moment that passed was one less for Richard Jones—if he was alive. At least Frankie wasn't in the wilderness, there was no cell phone reception there.

She called Jake. He'd gone to Richard Jones's neighborhood to help Scott with the canvass. They'd found no solid leads, and the road blocks had yielded nothing. Justine was still unconscious, though the doctors had removed her from the critical list. The search for Richard had stalled completely.

Rachel could hear the frustration in Jake's voice. Everyone on the case knew that time was against them in bringing Richard back alive.

“Have you seen Frankie lately?” she asked.

“Not today. Why?”

She wanted to tell him. To warn him. But Jake, like the sheriff and Mel, would ask for evidence to back up her claims. “If you see her, give me a call, okay?” Rachel didn't believe Frankie was headed home, and she couldn't track her and do the research necessary to prove her theory was correct.

“Sure, I'll give you a call.”  

She hung up and checked the time again. Seconds creeping into minutes. It was nearly midnight, but Rachel placed the call to Mischa Woods in Montgomery anyway. She was surprised when someone answered on the third ring.

“Ms. Woods, this is Deputy Rachel Redmond with the Criss County, South Dakota's Sheriff's office.”

There was a moment of hesitation before a clear, female voice asked, “Why is a South Dakota deputy calling me in the dead of night?”

“It's about Frances Jackson.”

Rachel counted to twenty before the therapist spoke again. “Where is Frances?”

“Here in Criss County.”

“She's not hurt, is she?”

“No, Frankie is fine. But I have four dead men here. Frances is connected to each of them.”

The therapist didn't say anything.

“The dead men have been skinned and decapitated. They suffered greatly. And another man is missing.”

“And what do you think I can do to help you?”

“Tell me about Frankie. Mrs. Crozier, Frankie's aunt, gave me your name. She said you might have information that could help me.”

“I can't talk to you, Deputy Redmond. You know that.”

“Can you tell me how Frankie's mother died?”

“I can tell you what I heard. There was an accident. Mrs. Jackson fell down the stairs in their home. She was crippled and had to be put in a care facility while Frankie was in college. During that time I heard she passed away. I lost contact with the Jacksons.”

“There are a lot of accidents involving members of the Jackson family, don't you think?”

“Polly Jackson devoted herself to Frances. We gave Frances the tools to make a living and have a productive life. Polly did the best she could, under the circumstances.”

“You make Frances sound like a half–wit.”

“No. She was always smart. Too smart. She can absorb anything you put in front of her. A photographic memory. It was never her intellect that concerned us.” She cleared her throat. “I can't talk to you about this. Frances was my patient.”

“Was Mrs. Jackson your patient?”

“No.”

“This fall. You called it an accident. Is that what you really believe?”

“How will any of this information help solve murders in South Dakota? I'm sorry, but I have to go.”

“Wait!” Rachel felt the door closing, and she knew she had to stop it. “Richard Jones will suffer a terrible death if we don't find him.”

“Richard helped finance my clinic.” Mischa's voice had grown deadly quiet. “He's a kind man, a generous man.”

“Frankie is after someone else. Otherwise, she would have killed Richard and fled. I have to find the person or people she intends to get. Is there anything you can tell me? Is there someone who knew Mrs. Jackson?”

“There was a nurses' aide. Rebecca Clay. She was fond of Polly, and I know Polly's death upset her terribly. I'll give you her number, but wait until the morning to call her. She's not well herself.”

“Thanks.” Rachel took down the number. The fact that Mischa Woods was helping her told her that the therapist believed Frankie was capable of murder. It was one small validation of her darkest fears.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and found Gladys standing over her.

“Go home,” Gladys said. “You won't be any good to anyone if you don't get some rest.”

# # #

“Jake, I need your help.” Frankie put all of the Southern belle pathos she could manage into her voice. “My truck's in the shop and I got a rental and now it won't start. I'm stuck just outside the city limits headed to my place. That killer is still on the loose and I'm afraid.”

“Hang on. I'll be there as quick as I can. And while you're waiting, give Rachel a call. She was just asking for you.”

“Thank you, Jake. You're a true gentleman.”

“My daddy taught me well. Be there in ten.”

“I wonder what else your father taught you?” Frankie said to the empty air as she snapped her cell phone shut. Her truck was fine. On her way out of town, she'd stopped by Rachel's place and left another little present for her. One that would rock her world when she finally saw it. The new lock had presented a problem, but nothing she couldn't manage. Locks, tumblers, sliding bolts. With the right equipment, they were no challenge at all. And she'd made it a point to have the finest burglary tools available.

The cry of a small animal cut the still night. The road was empty, rather an amazing fact. Usually someone driving up to the casinos in Deadwood would pass by, but tonight no one was about. Looking in both directions, she saw only emptiness on the county road.

One of the great satisfactions of her work was that she'd make certain the four–lane never went through. By the time she finished with Harvey Dilson, his political influence would be akin to a rattlesnake bite, purely poison and unwanted. No one would touch a project he'd been involved in once she was done with him.

Headlights climbed a rise to the south, and she freshened her lipstick. Jake to the rescue. Now she had to assume the role of damsel in distress. She bent under the hood, giving him a perfect view of her taut backside as he pulled up and stopped. She heard the truck door slam.

“I think this thingy here has come loose,” she said, mumbling so that he leaned down beside her to look. She held the distributor cap wire in her hand.

“Looks like an easy fix.” He flashed his penlight from the truck's motor to her face, then back down into the engine. “I wonder how it came loose. That doesn't normally happen.”

“I was driving home when the truck stopped and wouldn't start. I'm lucky you were available, Jake. I might have spent the entire night out here.”

“You could have called Dad or Gordon. Heck, just about any guy in town would have come.”

“That's a moot issue since you came to help.”

He reconnected the wires and stood. The beam of the flashlight fell on her boots. “You're good to go.”

“I'm concerned that it might come loose again. I know it's a lot to ask, but would you follow me home? I'd love a nightcap and someone to talk to. I'm a little blue tonight. My crews are quitting, my job is going down the tube.” She gave a pitiful, tremulous smile. “I'm feeling sorry for myself and some company would be appreciated.”

“Okay, I'll follow you, but I can't stay long.”

She got in her truck and took off before he had time to change his mind.

 

Harvey crept from his bedroom at the first sign of the sun cresting over the hills. The ranch hands were guarding the perimeter, but none had a reason to come to the big house so early. It was safe for him to get down to business.

He opened the plantation blinds that covered the French doors of his bedroom. With the slatted wooden shutters closed, the place was like a cave. Yes, it was better for his privacy to leave them closed, but he liked the sunshine and walking out on his patio in his underwear to drink coffee and read the morning papers. It was a ritual, and one he loved. He'd sacrificed a lot for South Dakota, personally, professionally and politically.

During the night, he'd weighed all of his options, and he'd come to a conclusion. He wasn't going to sit around and wait for Frankie to come after him. He couldn't afford to call in federal agents. If they took her alive, she could ruin him. He would kill her himself. It was the only solution, and before he'd gone to sleep, he'd figured out the perfect plan. Once he knew what he had to do, he'd slept like a baby.

He opened the French doors and crossed the room to open the interior door. The silver tray with hot coffee, the freshly ground beans imported from Latin America, and several newspapers were waiting for him. Bettina knew the importance of the coffee and newspapers.

He picked up the tray, kicked the door closed behind him and walked out on his patio. He'd landscaped the entire ranch over the years. In this small corner he'd created shadow and light and filled it with a riot of delicate colors that bloomed all summer long. He didn't garden himself, but he'd designed the mulched beds that were filled with local and exotic blooms.

Harvey took a deep breath and put the tray on the wrought–iron patio table. This ranch was a little piece of heaven. When he'd been young, he'd thought of sharing this with a wife and family. But with age had come wisdom. He was an effective political machine because he was unencumbered.

Harvey had made the right decision when he'd confined his lust to discreet escorts. No wife, no children, no pillow talk. He poured the rich black coffee into the bone china cup and snapped open the paper. The sun had crested the hills and the shadows on the patio were rapidly shrinking. It was his favorite time of day. For these few minutes, he would shut out all the rest of his problems.

“Harvey! Harvey! Help me. God, she knows!” The words, spoken in Hank Welford's nasal whine made Harvey jump to his feet.

The patio table overturned and china and silver crashed to the stones. Harvey whirled, but the patio was empty.

“She's going to get you, Harvey! No!” A long scream of pain was followed by begging. “Please, stop. Please. I don't know where Dub's body is. No!”

Harvey froze. He looked across at the bunk house, but no one had come out. No one had heard. Good. He stepped into the last bit of shadow near a shrub.

Hank Welford's severed head stared up at him surrounded by a puddle of water where his frozen tissue had begun to thaw.

“Oh, my, God.” Harvey started to back away from it.

“Help me, Harvey! Help me!” Hank pleaded.

“What the fuck?” Harvey stepped forward. He had to stop it. No one could see or hear this. No one.

The head had been nailed onto a wooden plank in a crude imitation of how a taxidermist might mount an animal.

“Harvey! Help me!” was followed by another long scream.

Harvey knelt beside the head. He poked his fingers into Hank's cold mouth and withdrew a digital recorder. Gagging, he stood and crushed the device under the heel of his slipper.

Hank was silenced in mid–scream.

# # #

Rachel bit into a hamburger that required all ten digits to hold. The lighting in Lulu's was dim, and she noticed the place was empty, except for her. Baskets of food—all of her favorites—were spread out on the table in front of her. She took another bite, filling her mouth with the delicious meat.

Her gaze fell on a mound of onion rings, and she hesitated, holding the burger. Juice leaked from the corner of her mouth, but she was reluctant to let go of the burger long enough to find a napkin. At last, she lowered the sandwich to her plate and reached for the onion rings. They crunched in her mouth, warm and wonderful. She closed her eyes in pleasure.

When she opened them, she saw the drops of vermillion on the snowy white table cloth. Puzzled, she looked around. The emptiness of the café took on a sinister feel.

Rachel stood slowly, feeling for her gun at her hip. When she turned back to the hamburger, she saw the cold, blue fingertips of a hand poking from between the bun. The forefinger had been bitten off.

Her stomach twisted, and she felt a stab of pain.

The alarm buzzed Rachel awake and she sat up in bed, cold sweat covering her body. The dream had been so real. She could almost smell the burger and onion rings. She wiped the corners of her mouth, trying to control the nausea that came on the heels of the nightmare.

The clock showed six–thirty, and it took all of her willpower not to burrow back under the covers. Four hours of sleep wasn't enough, and her body was protesting. She'd come home from the Sheriff's Office and fallen straight into bed with her clothes and shoes on. Her brain, foggy with fatigue, had sought oblivion, but it was daylight and there were too many things to do. Besides, sleeping was as anxiety–provoking as working the case.

She turned on the coffee pot, desperate for some caffeine to jolt her brain into action. While the coffee brewed, she took a shower and put on her uniform. Her pants fit loosely, an indication of the toll the past week had taken. Even though her stomach was jittery from lack of food, she didn't have the time or the desire to eat. Her dream had put her off food. She poured a go cup of black coffee and headed out.

As she passed the mirror in her hallway, she saw the writing.

“Back off or Jake dies.” Beneath the words, written in bright red lipstick, was the same kind of bolo tie Jake wore every day with his uniform.