Skin Dancer (32 page)

“That's good news.”

“Two hours, Rachel. That's it.”

Even though it was still early, she dialed the Montgomery number for Rebecca Clay. The voice that answered was soft with a pleasing cadence. She was only too happy to talk about Polly Jackson and her suspicions of what had happened to Frankie's mother.

“She didn't die,” Rebecca insisted. “She was fine that evening when I left her, and the next morning when I got there to work, they said she was gone. I read the funeral announcement in the paper, but Mrs. Polly didn't die at all. That girl of hers snatched her up and took her away.”

Rachel rubbed at her arms. Ants crawled beneath her skin. Time was ticking by, ticking away. “Do you know where she might have taken her?”

“I do.” Rebecca's voice was strong. “Briarwood Nursing Facility in Custer, South Dakota.”

Frankie felt as if time had frozen. “That's only twenty minutes away. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. I made it my business to see the boxes they had packed up in Mrs. Polly's room. That's where they were addressed to.”

“Mrs. Clay, time is very important. I can't go over there looking for someone who isn't there.”

“Well, I can't swear she's there right now, but she was there. I even called her once, but then they wouldn't let me talk to her again. She was there and she was alive, and no one down here in Montgomery would listen to an old woman.”

“Thank you.” Frankie dropped the phone on her desk as she hurried toward the door.

# # #

Richard forced his spine erect as the door creaked open behind him. Footsteps shuffled toward him, and he imagined Frankie with a stun gun, ropes, or chains, a glittering knife. He'd played this moment over and over again in his head.

Before he could change his mind, he turned swiftly in the chair and hurled himself at the figure that was halfway across the room. He hit her hard, bowling her over so that he fell on top of her.

“Ah–h–h–h–h–h!” He screamed like a savage animal, flailing his arms, slamming his fists into her thin body, his teeth finding purchase on her face, her beard filling his mouth.

At the taste of the beard, he lost momentum and heard a male voice yelling.

“Get the fuck off me, man!”

He slowed his fists and forced his body weight off his opponent long enough to catch a glimpse of a long–haired, disheveled man with sunken cheeks and fear in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Richard asked.

“Fuck you!” the man spat at him, pushing hard to get him off.

Richard eased his weight onto his arms for a better look. He'd never seen the man before. His gaze went immediately to the still open door. Escape. The word took over his brain and he scrambled to his knees and then his feet. His body, dressed only in boxer shorts, was shaking.

He stood, poised, ready to flee out the open door, but he didn't. The man on the floor was picking himself up.

“Who are you?” Richard asked again.

“Your fucking savior, asshole.” He brushed at his seat and chest. “You're Richard Jones, right?”

“What if I am?”

The man rolled his eyes dramatically. “Then I expect you to give me a big reward for saving your skinny ass.” He stepped toward Richard, who instinctively shrank back.

“My name is John Henry James. I heard about how you'd gone missing and were likely tied up in the Skin Dancer murders. I seen this cabin two days ago when I was trailin' a…anyway, I figured this might be the hidey hole where the Skin Dancer was keeping his victims.” He grinned.

Richard tried to process what was happening. “You came to save me?”

“That's right, rich boy.” A hint of amusement touched John Henry's face. “Looks like you could use some savin', too.” He unbuttoned the long–sleeved flannel shirt that covered his Tee. “Take this for now. Can't do nothin' about the pants or boots. You're just gonna have to tough it out.”

“You're taking me out of here?” Richard felt relief like a sweet bubble that rose from his pelvis, up his body, into his throat. “You're really here to help me?”

“Quit your jaw–bonin' and get on out the door.” John Henry gave him the shirt. “Let's get a move on. If the Skin Dancer comes back for you, I'm not waitin' around, no matter how much reward you offer.”

Richard needed no second request. He grabbed the shirt, buttoning as he hurried out the door, across the porch and into the sunshine. The ground was cold and hard on his bare feet, but he dropped in behind John Henry and started hiking at a brisk pace. His savior didn't want to linger in the area, and that suited Richard fine.

“This is a great hidey–hole,” John Henry threw over his shoulder. “Hard to get here through an old mine shaft. Only way in.” He looked behind him for emphasis. “Only way out. So we have to get clear of here before the Skin Dancer comes back.”

Richard cast one last look at the peaceful valley nestled between steep rock cliffs. No one would ever have found him. He followed John Henry into the dark opening that was the mine shaft. He stumbled into the wall and stubbed his toe, but he kept going.

“Do you know this Skin Dancer?” Richard asked.

“Hell no. I still got skin, don't I?”

“But you don't believe it's a…ghost or demon, do you?”

John Henry spat. “What else could it be, man? Nobody in his right mind would do the things that's been done. Has to be that angry Injun spirit.”

Richard felt a sharp rock pierce the bottom of his foot. There would be a blood trail. The thought worried him, but not enough to make him slow down or even look at his injury.

They cleared the mine shaft and stepped into the sunshine. The smell of the fir trees was sharp and clean. Richard closed his eyes for a second, inhaling, grateful that against all odds, he was still alive.

“Move it,” John Henry said. “I don't want to be caught anywhere near here.”

“I'm right behind you.”

# # #

Justine's chest rose and fell with her shallow, almost non–existent breaths. Derek held her cool hand, his forearms resting on the edge of the bed.

“Don't slip away, Justine,” he whispered. “Stay here with me.”

Her chest stirred slightly, the only response to his plea.

The sheriff had kicked him loose. There was nothing to show that he'd attacked Justine. He'd confessed to the burning of the car, but that was so far down the sheriff's priority list that it hadn't even been a consideration. Besides, they were using him for bait. He knew it, which was why he had to come and talk to Justine one last time.

“Hang in here with us, Justine. I'm going to catch the killer and then I'm going to find Richard. I'll make it up to you. I'll save him for you. Then maybe you'll see the real Derek Baxter.”        

He leaned forward and kissed her pale cheek. The idea that she might die before he could get back to her was like a knife in his heart. The thought that his life had been an utter waste made him want to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, but he only brushed a strand of her auburn hair from her face. “When you wake up, I'm going to show you the man I really am.”

He left the room, his legs shaking until he reached the parking lot. As he suspected, a deputy was sitting in a cruiser outside the hospital. To Derek's amazement, the blue lights began to whirl and the siren went off full blast. The patrol car headed off somewhere in a big hurry.

Worry gnawed at Derek as he climbed into his vehicle. He had to find Rachel. She was the first step in setting things right.

The long years of bad choices and bad decisions had created an avalanche, the force of which was pushing him to take an action that would redeem him in the sight of the only person he cared about. Justine.

He would find Richard, even if it meant that he would never claim Justine for himself. He would find the man she loved and return him to her. If she lived, he would never want anything except her total happiness. For the first time in his life, he was looking beyond his own immediate needs. Surely that would mean something to a god who was reputed to be benevolent.

 

Frankie lifted the field glasses once more. There was no sign of life from the ranch where Harvey Dilson would get the first taste of his fate. Although Harvey had set up perimeter guards, he'd failed to tell them not to let her onto the premises. Most of the ranch hands knew her by sight. They'd waved her through with a smile. A wolf in lamb's clothing. The thought made her smile.

It was a pity she couldn't hang around and watch Harvey discover the head of his old comrade, Hank Welford. But she knew Harvey well enough to know that every action and every thought would be centered on his own preservation.

It was what she was counting on.

She checked her watch. Richard was secured in the cabin in the woods. No one would ever find him. Rachel was effectively eliminated by her desire to save Jake. Justine was seriously injured, a necessity in that moment when she went to capture Richard.

It was odd, but Frankie found that she took no pleasure in hurting women. That's why it had been so unsatisfying to kill Bettina, while seeing the fear in Jeremy's eyes had been such a delight. She'd slit his throat before he could even attempt to defend himself. He'd sold his soul to the devil years before when he'd signed on as Harvey's aide. He'd been a hindrance where Bettina had been an aide.

Before she died, Bettina had told her what Harvey preferred for breakfast, and then Frankie had made the coffee, arranged the newspapers just so, and left the tray at his door, and a little lagniappe on his patio.

Next he would find Bettina at the kitchen table and Jeremy sitting on the floor by the front door.

Soon Harvey would have to make a move. Once he found his loyal servants, he'd have to call for help—which would then require an explanation why he had the head of Hank Welford in his possession. Or, Harvey would pretend that nothing had happened. He would continue to his Rapid City office and check the preparations for the press conference. 

Knowing Harvey's nature—and the capital he'd invested in Paradise–this was what Frankie had based her entire plan on. While she loathed game hunters, she loved to hunt a worthy opponent. Harvey was that. He was smart, ruthless and willing to do anything in the name of self–preservation. He was thrilling prey, and the chase had just begun.

She saw movement at the ranch. She lifted the binoculars and zeroed in on Harvey. She could kill him with one rifle shot. That was far too easy. He would suffer more than any of the others. He'd killed her father and he'd shot her in the head. She'd learned the full details of that long–ago day from Hank and Mullet, who'd been only too willing to give up Harvey in the slim hope of saving themselves. But she had a sense of honor. She'd never promised them that she'd let them go. She'd never even hinted that she wouldn't make them suffer. She'd never led them on. They'd gotten exactly what they deserved.

In the long hours of questioning them, the only thing she hadn't discovered was the location of her father's body. She sincerely believed it was because they didn't know.

Harvey was the only one who knew the location, and he would tell her before he died. She was certain of it. Then she'd see that her father's remains were unearthed and his reputation as a man who abandoned his family during hard times was cleared.

And after that? She hadn't completely planned the next step, but it would involve Argentina. She had a yen for a Paso Fino.

Harvey came out the front door. He looked in all directions, as if he expected someone to leap up from the sand like a reincarnated pharaoh and attack him. He was definitely unnerved.

Good. She smiled. Fear was the most effective knife in the universe. The things Harvey had done were finally coming home to cut him. In the next twenty–four hours, he would suffer more at his own hands than hers. After that, though, she would wield the knife, and he would know the true meaning of suffering. The skin, the largest organ in the body, contained the most sensitive nerves.

She followed Harvey's actions. He was jittery; he dropped the keys to the SUV. He wasn't used to driving himself. Jeremy had always done that job.

Harvey jumped into the vehicle and sped down the long driveway toward the main road. Frankie had done her homework. She knew where he was going. Now all she had to do was wait.

When the time was right, she'd be there with bells on.

 

The news media had clustered near the north doors of the courthouse, so Rachel slipped out the south side and made her way to the Rover. She was just sliding into the driver's seat when she felt a hand on her arm.

“I want to help find Richard Jones.” Derek Baxter met her gaze directly. In the last twenty–four hours, he seemed to have grown from a boy into a man.

“Why?” she asked, putting the key in the ignition.

“For Justine. To show her that…that I can do something good.”

“I'm in a hurry, Baxter. I don't have time for this.” She started to pull the door shut, but he blocked it.

“I've made a lot of mistakes in this, but I want to do something right.”

“I'll call you when I get back from Custer.” She didn't know what to tell him and he wasn't a priority. She had to find Polly Jackson and she had to convince Gordon that Frankie was the killer. Jake's life hung in the balance.

“Tell me what to do. Where to look.”

“If I knew, I'd tell you. Now I've got to go.” She pulled the door free and shut it.

He rapped on the window. “Just tell me where to begin looking. I want to help, but the search parties won't let me.”

“Deputies have searched Richard's house.” She had to get moving. Derek was an obstacle that had to be removed. “Try Dixon Point. That's where every body has been found. There's something significant about that area. But if you find something, Derek, don't fuck it up. Call the sheriff.”