Skin Dancer (33 page)

 She put the Rover in reverse and backed up. When she pulled out of the parking lot, Derek was still standing there.

She drove fast and hard, checking the rearview mirror at regular intervals. If Frankie found out she was looking for her mother…she couldn't think about that. She hit the highway and pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. The Rover spurted forward, climbing out of the valley. Time was the enemy. The miles disappeared beneath the wheels as she focused on speed and time, not allowing herself to think about Jake or what Frankie could be doing to him. 

Rachel took a curve so sharply she felt the tires of the SUV slide. She avoided the brake, afraid of a deadly spin. When the vehicle righted itself, she sped up again. She was five minutes from Custer and the nursing facility where Polly Jackson had to be. She'd banked everything on this. If she could prove Polly Jackson was alive, she could get Gordon to listen to her. He would believe her about Frankie, and maybe they could save Jake and Richard.

She made it into town and followed the directions she'd gotten to the nursing facility. When she pulled up in front, the SUV had barely stopped rolling before she was out and running to the front door.

The smell hit her when she pushed open the front door. Not unclean or dirty, but that peculiar hospital odor that came with warehousing the elderly. A middle–aged woman at the receptionist desk looked up at her.

“I'm here to see Polly Jackson,” Rachel said.

The woman stared at her. “I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name.”

# # #

Frankie held the telephone against her ear as she drove. She was hungry. She'd been up for what seemed like weeks. Sleep wasn't necessary, but food was getting to be a high priority. She could taste her body feeding on its own muscle. Ketosis. Not exactly unpleasant, but an omelet or something from Lulu's would be delicious.

When the sheriff answered, she put all of her Southern training into her voice. “Gordon, it's just me. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help. This whole thing with Richard is just awful. Is there any news?”

“No, and you need to keep Richard's disappearance under your hat, Frankie.”

She could hear the tension in his voice. He tried hard to cover it, but Gordon Gray wasn't close to being an actor. He was a relatively decent man with the ambition to have a lot of money.

“You think it's the same person who killed Hank and Mullet?” she asked.

“God, if there are two of them on the loose…Scott's there now, checking it out.

“Is Rachel around?”

“She's not here.”

Frankie felt a twinge of satisfaction. For a moment she'd wondered if Rachel was behaving. But Rachel was smart enough to hold to the bargain they'd made. “Gordon, do you think Richard is still alive? Does the Skin Dancer have him?”

Gordon hesitated. “Look, reporters are crawling all over the place. Two CNN people just walked in the door with a full camera crew. I can't talk about that. We're trying to keep it under wraps for the moment.”

“If something happens to Richard, the whole Paradise venture is at stake.”

He didn't answer, and she smiled at how much that statement worried Gordon. Without Richard, the Paradise development would fall apart at the seams. Richard had the technology, the know–how, the vision. He was “the man” when it came to Paradise. He was also one of a gang of murderers.

“Call me if I can help,” she said.

“Will do.” Gordon hung up.

She swung by Rachel's. When she saw the deputy's truck was gone, she felt the first pang of uneasiness.

# # #

Derek took the road that went to Richard Jones's estate. The cops were so over–worked that they'd left yellow crime scene tape over the door and around the charred remains of Justine's car, but there was no one guarding the premises.

He drove past the house then parked down a dirt road. It was a long trek back, but he jogged it in under fifteen minutes. Climbing the fence, he vaulted to the ground and headed to the house. If there was any evidence of where Richard had been taken, he'd find it.

The house was unlocked, and he eased inside, his heart thudding. He had no idea what he hoped to find, but he was smarter than the sheriff and his deputies. And he was more motivated. There had to be some kind of clue as to who took Richard and why. 

He went up the staircase slowly. Though it curved with grace and elegance, it was sturdily built. Not a single step creaked. At the second floor landing, he hesitated. The idea of walking into that bedroom where he'd found Justine, bleeding, was almost more than he could take.

He forced his feet forward. When he pushed open the door, he inhaled sharply several times. Blood had soaked the mattress and stained the carpet. A lot of blood. Certainly not all of it could be Justine's.

He inched slowly into the room. There was something here. Something that would tell him what he needed to know. He got on his hands and knees and began to pat the carpet inch by inch.

Caught up in his work, he didn't notice the slender figure that moved through the doorway like a wraith.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

He almost screamed, wheeling so fast that he felt the bones in his neck grind. “What the fuck!” He was on his feet, facing the woman he recognized as the road crew foreman, Frankie Jackson. “What are you doing here?”

“That's exactly the question I asked you.”

“I'm looking for evidence. So what are you doing here?”

Frankie leaned against the doorframe. “The same. Richard is a friend of mine. I guess neither of us trusts the competence of the local law enforcement.”

“Bunch of dorks.” Derek's gaze slipped back to the floor. He didn't have time to waste talking to Frankie. From what he could tell, she was up the sheriff's butt. She was the one who introduced Justine to Richard, and she was also the person pushing the four–lane through the wilderness. He turned away from her. “I got things to do.”

“I can't believe they left this place wide open. It's a crime scene. A serious crime. Kidnapping and assault. They should've left someone here to guard it.” Frankie stepped into the room.

“Right.” Derek sank to the carpet and began his search. “Half the sheriff's department is headed out of town.”

“Come on, Gordon wouldn't give Scott time off in the middle of this case, not even to be with his wife and new baby.”

Derek's hands moved over the complex pattern woven into the carpet. Frankie was getting on his last nerve. “Scott didn't leave. Rachel Redmond did. She told me she was headed over to Custer. Just goes to show she has bad taste in destinations as well as career choices.”

He searched the carpet for a few seconds, waiting for Frankie to respond. When she didn't, he looked up. The doorway was empty. There was no sign that she'd ever been there.

# # #

Frankie realized she was clenching her jaw and forced her teeth to relax. She concentrated on driving. In a way, Rachel had disappointed her. But in another, she'd made Frankie proud. Rachel hadn't rolled over like a whipped dog. She hadn't begged and pleaded. She'd done the unexpected—she'd taken action. And a smart step, at that.

She didn't know how the deputy had gotten on to the fact that her mother was still alive, but she knew Rachel was on Polly's trail. That was the only single thing that could have sent the deputy to the next town at a time when every volunteer was working to find Richard Jones.

Well, she'd take care of Rachel and then finish off Richard and Jake. No one was going to interfere with what she intended to do to Harvey Dilson. No one. Dilson was going to tell her where Dub was buried, and then he was going to pay. With long hours of suffering. This was the pay–out for the years of work she'd put into this plan. 

# # #

Staring at the sole of his dirty foot, Richard could see the delicate bones. He'd stepped on something sharp, and though he'd tried to continue walking behind John Henry James, he couldn't go any farther. The wound was bleeding more freely, leaving a trail that a blind tracker could follow.

“You got to get up and move,” John Henry said, rubbing his scraggly beard. “Somebody wants you dead, and if you sit here waitin' for ‘em to come, they will.”

“I can't keep going.” Richard's voice was level, calm. “You go on. Leave me here. I don't want you caught up in this.”

John Henry walked back to stand in front of him. “Man, whoever is after you is gonna hang you upside down, strip the skin off you and chop off your head. You might wanna rethink this quittin' business.”

Richard held up the bottom of his foot. He saw concern touch John Henry's face. “It's not that I don't want to. I can't.”

John Henry knelt down and examined the wound more closely. “Looks like you stepped on a sharp stick. We need to clean this up, get the bark and dirt out of the wound, else you're gonna have a real mess on your hands.”

Richard almost laughed. He'd been kidnapped by a serial killer who meant to skin him—and he'd escaped. It would be ironic if he died of an infected foot. “You go on. Maybe you can find a phone and call for help.”

John Henry rocked back on his heels and thought about it. “It's a trek to anywhere there might be a phone. I was hopin' to get you to my place to rest, but it's still a good four miles to go.”

“I can't make it. But if you do call and get someone to come…” He felt hope surge. Funny how hope never truly died. Not even when the situation was impossible. A deputy on an ATV could whisk him to safety.

“Why does the killer want you?” John Henry asked.

Richard almost brushed him off, but he changed his mind. “A while back I was involved in something really bad. A man was killed and a young girl shot in the head.”

“You killed a dude?” John Henry drew back. “Shit, man, that's heavy.”

“I didn't kill anyone. But I didn't stop it. I should have stopped it, and barring that, I should have turned the people who did it over to the authorities.” He felt the shame he'd suppressed for years. “But I did neither of those things. What I did was pretend none of it had ever happened. I just went on with my life and my dream, and I did nothing.”

John Henry stood up. “Hindsight's a thing of beauty, Mr. Jones. For the past eight years I laid up in a jail cell remembering the night my wife died. We were drunk and arguing. We did it ever' night. But this time she threw a can of beer at me and hit me in the lip. It hurt like hell and I grabbed her wrist. I meant to slap her, just get her to snap out of it. She was crazy wild. She snatched her arm free and fell backward.” He took off the T–shirt he was wearing and began to tear it into strips. “I knew when her head hit the corner of the table that she was dead. It made a sound like thumpin' a ripe melon. She was dead before she hit the floor, and there was nothin' I could do to change a thing.”

John Henry took the strips of cloth and began to bind Richard's foot. “You got to keep goin'. I leave you here, you won't be found by the time I get back.”

“If you stay, she'll kill you, too.”

“She?” John Henry's eyes held surprise and interest. “The Skin Dancer is a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Then we better hurry quicker. I'd rather face a hungry bear than a mad woman. Let's get shaking.” He pulled the bandage tight around Richard's foot.

Pain shot up his leg, but Richard gritted his teeth and made no sound. “If we get out of this, you're going to be a wealthy man, Mr. Henry.”

“Now those are words to live by.” He pulled another strip of cloth tight around the foot. “I don't aim to let you disappoint me on that count.”

The sound of leaves crackling made them both go silent. John Henry stood up, his gaze raking the woods in all directions as he turned. “Someone is out there,” he said softly.

Richard hobbled up on one foot. “Is it her?”

John Henry shook his head. “I don't know, but we can't stay here any longer. Let's move.” He offered Richard his arm to lean on.

Putting weight on the foot was like jamming a hot poker up the bone of his leg, but Richard started to walk. He could feel someone's gaze digging into his back. Had Frankie returned to finish him off? He stepped faster at the idea.

“Don't think about anything but the next step,” John Henry whispered to him. “Step, step, step…” Branches whispered behind them.

“Run for it,” Richard said, pulling his arm free. “Go. I don't want you to die. She isn't after you. It's me she wants. It's me.”

As John Henry sprinted forward, Richard turned to meet his fate.

 

Rachel chewed on a cuticle as the nursing home administrator, Nancy Howard, slowly went through the files of the eighty–nine patients. The woman was methodical and slow as Christmas.

“There is no Polly Jackson here. Just like I told you.” Mrs. Howard pushed her glasses up her nose. “I am sorry, but that's all I can do.”

“Thanks.” Rachel moved to the door. “I appreciate your help.” She didn't have time to go through proper channels; she had to take matters into her own hands and screw the consequences. 

As soon as she cleared the door, she cut back through the shrubbery. There was a back exit. She's seen two aides go out to smoke cigarettes. With any luck, she could get in that way.

And then? She didn't know. But Polly was there, and somehow she had to find her.

The two aides had moved under the shade of an elm to smoke, their backs to the door and their attention on their conversation. She slipped quietly past them and when she got to the door, she found it had been blocked with a small rock to keep the automatic lock from engaging. She walked inside, unnoticed.

The hall was quiet. There were roughly forty–five rooms, double occupancy. Some of the patients were in the day room or involved in activities, but Polly Jackson was bedridden. She had to be in her room.