Skin Dancer (7 page)

Rachel nodded. “We're doing everything we can, Frankie. We only have Scott, the sheriff's injured, and some volunteers who are sometimes more trouble than help. I won't lie to you. The murders have to be our primary focus, but we'll do everything we can to catch the people who did this. You should be sure to post a guard in the future.”

“That I'll do, if I have to sit out here with a shotgun myself.” She sighed. “I'd better get these guys motivated before they decide to hightail it out of here.”

Rachel watched her walk away, a slim woman in jeans so tight every guy on the crew couldn't resist looking. Rachel thought of something and jogged to catch up with Frankie. “Hey, I know you're talking with the Sioux. Any chance this is their handiwork?”

When Frankie turned around, Rachel was surprised to see the worry on her face. “God, I hope not. I'm paid the big bucks to mediate issues between the Sioux nation and Belker. If the Natives are sneaking around destroying equipment rather than addressing their concerns at our meetings, I'm a pretty big failure.”

A dump truck roared past them, halting all attempts at conversation. When it was gone, Rachel gave a half–shrug. “There's no evidence to show it was the Natives.” She thought about the pole with the dangling owl feather. It looked Native, but anyone could imitate such a thing to create the illusion. “I just have to cover all possibilities.”

“Whoever it is, I want them caught and prosecuted.” Frankie wiped her forehead under the hardhat. “Four or five days of delay are going to put us over budget. We were tight anyway, but this is bad. As you know, the development of Paradise depends on the road. A lot of locals have money invested, and they're going to be squawking. My head will roll.”

The cell phone on Rachel's hip buzzed and she slipped it into her hand. “I'll be in touch,” she promised as she stepped back from the construction sounds to take her call.

# # #

Frankie waited ten minutes after Rachel left before she dialed Jake Ortiz. She'd deliberately cultivated his friendship, trading on past history between their families. Not that she didn't enjoy his company and his lean good looks in and of themselves. He was the kind of man she enjoyed bedding, but she'd held off. Sometimes her job required her to use people she liked. This might be one of those times.

“What can I do for you?” Jake asked, and Frankie had to smile. He was a willing partner in this game. Ambitious men understood the rules of advancement, just as she did.

“Rachel was up here a little while ago, and I'm worried.”

“Afraid she won't be able to catch the arsonists?”

Frankie noticed clouds were building to the west. Big clouds. As if she needed another problem. “No, I think Rachel is ultimately competent. She was asking about the Sioux, though. I don't need her stirring the pot with them. This whole project brings up the issue of the violation of the Treaty of Fort Laramie. They claim the Black Hills, and I'm not certain they don't own the land. This roadway is not something they want, Jake. I've got a tenuous trust going, and if Rachel runs out there and accuses them of burning my equipment or, worse yet, killing those two poachers, it could unravel everything I've built here. I don't have to tell you how important Paradise is.”

There was a long pause, and she knew Jake was considering what to do.

“Look, Rachel is diplomatic. She wouldn't accuse anyone of anything unless she had evidence.”

“It would still be best…”

“I can't interfere with her investigation, Frankie. Not even subtly. Besides, you and I both know there's a militant faction of the Sioux nation that might have done this. It wouldn't be the first time.”

Frankie sighed. “I know. I'm just trying to keep a lot of things in balance here. The four–lane is going through. At least with me on the project, the damage will be as minimal as possible. If Belker views me as ineffective, they'll fire me in a heartbeat.”

Jake's voice was wry. “Then that group of environmental rapists will have their way.”

Frankie bit back an angry reply. “This isn't a joke to me. I care about the Black Hills and the heritage here.”

Jake cleared his throat. “Sorry, I didn't mean to sound flippant. We all care, Frankie. Rachel cares, too.”

“Could you at least explain the delicacy to her?”

“Okay, but it'll only make her mad at me. She's tired of me interfering. Twisting her arm to go to your little soiree didn't help matters, either. Rachel is growing up, and she doesn't like to be pushed around.”

“Good for her.” Frankie noticed a cluster of men who weren't working. They were talking vehemently and pointing to the tree line. She walked toward them. “Jake, I'll call you back later.” She closed the phone and addressed the men. “Is there a problem here?”

“There's someone in there watching us, Ms. Jackson.”

Frankie swung her gaze to the trees, instantly alert. “Did you get a look at him?”

The man shook his head. “No, but I saw him, movin' through the trees. I mean he
moved,
like he was drifting
through
the trees.” He spit a stream of tobacco on the ground. “Like some kinda fuckin' spook out there watchin' everything we do.”

“I'll hire some guards.” Frankie searched the thick trees. There was nothing there, at least not now. But she didn't doubt what the man had seen. After all, she'd been aware that someone was watching them for several weeks.

 

The damn county was on a crime spree. There was no other explanation for it. As Rachel sped back toward Bisonville, her shoulders knotted with tension. Two men dead, a half million dollars in heavy equipment ruined—it was all more than she could account for. In her eight months as a deputy, Rachel's experiences included the robbery of an all–night convenience store, some cattle rustling, vandalism of a church, and a couple of lost hikers.

She drove fast but carefully. Around her the wilderness was serene. Bitter juniper spiced the wind, and through the distance she could see the unique rock formations that gave the area such a distinctive profile.

She was in the vicinity of John Henry James's cabin, and a day pass had already slipped away without following the lead Jake had given her. She took a right on Piker Road and eased over the ruts and washouts. Once upon a time the dirt trail had led to a gold mine, but judging from recent usage, only a few deer had been down it. She pulled out a detailed map of the maze of dirt paths that led through the wilderness. She'd marked the location of John Henry's cabin—or at least the location he'd listed as his address.

She'd drive as far as she could. If it looked like she'd need an ATV, she'd leave. The most she could lose was an hour, and the time alone in the woods would give her a chance to think. 

After checking her weapon and making sure pepper spray was in her belt, she started south on Piker Road, headed into a black cloud that was rolling its way over the badlands. She had time, but none to waste. She pressed the accelerator, leaving a trail of dust behind her as she rose and then fell along the ridges of wilderness.

The trees were dense, cutting the sun and causing the temperature to drop at least ten degrees. With the crisp smell of the conifers, the shade and the approaching storm, Rachel felt as if she might have bitten off more than she could chew when the road ended abruptly at a steep drop–off.

The footpath continued down a sixty degree slope, easy enough to descend, but coming back up, especially in the rain, might prove challenging. She debated going back to the sheriff's office but started down the trail. She'd give herself twenty minutes. If she hadn't found John Henry's cabin by then, she'd come back with the proper equipment.

She hit level trail quickly and lengthened her stride. On the off–chance that it might work, she pulled out her cell phone. No signal. Typical of the region where the spectacular hills and towering rock formations played havoc with radio frequency waves.

“Stop or I'll shoot!”

The call came from the trees to her right and she halted and held up her hands.

“John Henry James, it's Deputy Rachel Redmond. Put down your weapon.” She slowly lowered her hands as she spoke.

A man with a long beard stepped out from behind a rock. He held a three–foot stick in his hand.

“I'm here to ask a few questions about something that happened up at Dixon Point,” she said.

John Henry eyed her as if she were speaking a foreign language. She wasn't certain he understood, and she felt a tingle of concern. The way he looked at her was more than a little creepy. His gaze wouldn't hold on her, but kept sliding away, as if he saw or heard something just behind her. Drugs? Mental damage? He was a jittery mess. She resisted the impulse to put her hand on her weapon.

“John Henry, do you remember me?” she asked.

He nodded, breaking the spell. “I do. Used to live in a trailer park. Your mama liked the blow.”

He did remember, probably far better than she liked. He'd once been a boy with dark wavy hair and dreamy brown eyes that held a spark of danger. The danger was still there, smoldering, along with a frenetic energy that was barely under control. He'd survived the state prison, but what had it cost him?

“Rachel Redmond,” he said, a strange smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Your mom died of an overdose, and you became a pig.” His tone was angry.

Silence, filled with the sound of the wind in the trees, dropped over them. “I need to talk with you, John Henry. It's important.” She noticed the dark blue tattoo on his neck. Prison ink. Inmates used it as group identification or to honor some accomplishment.

“I did my time in prison. I don't owe you an answer to anything.”

“Yes, you do.” He didn't have a weapon. He wasn't an immediate threat, but while Rachel kept her voice calm, she watched him carefully. One of his arms twitched, a nervous tic he'd acquired since high school. Life had not been kind to him. Jake was right, sometimes prison could push a man beyond endurance into a place where he was capable of anything. “It's nice out here. Quiet.”

“You spend any time in a place like I was in, you want to be out in the woods, alone. I like the quiet.”

She noticed his use of the second person, a way of distancing himself from the experience. “That's a tough place to come back from, John Henry.”

His gaze went to the thunderhead gaining in size and darkness. “You ought to get on home. That road gets slick with rain.”

“I have to ask some questions first.”

“Ask ‘em and go.” He didn't look at her.

“Where were you two nights ago?”

“Whatever went wrong, I didn't have a part in it.” He started to walk off.

“How do you know something went wrong?” she asked.

He turned to walk away. “You ain't here to talk about old times or for a social call. You're a cop. You only come when it's trouble.”

“I'm not accusing you of anything. Maybe you saw something.” She moved closer.

When he turned to answer, he was startled at her closeness. “What's is it you want to know? Ask and then leave me alone.”

“Two nights ago. Where were you?”

“I was back in my cabin, alone. No alibi. If you're goin' to arrest me, just do it. What is it I supposedly done?”

She mentally debated how much to tell him. He was a man on the edge, a man with a criminal record. “Two men were attacked.” His response surprised her. The news seemed to calm him.

“You not too smart comin' up here by yourself to talk to a convicted murderer, are you?”

The storm was moving in fast and hard. Either she needed to arrest John Henry and take him in or conclude her interview. So far, he'd given her nothing to move her in one direction or the other. “Hank Welford was one of the men. And a plastic surgeon from Boston.”

John Henry rolled his eyes. “Somebody finally got tired of the poachers? Well, good for them. I'll bet Hank's cryin' and moanin' about it, too.”

“How'd you know it was poachers?” John Henry didn't strike her as a man who followed the news. 

“Got to be either hikers or poachers. I don't particularly care for the hikers, showing up in the brush like jack rabbits poppin' out of a hole, but mostly they're just annoyin'. Those fuckin' poachers, though, liable to shoot your head off. Except most of the game they go for is drugged or crippled so it can't get away from them. I saw these two guys take a moose. That animal could barely stagger. Guy walked up to it and shot it from about two feet. That bastard Hank Welford.”

The blood beneath her skin heated. “You saw two men kill a moose? When?”

“A couple of days ago…” He shrugged. “Time runs together sometimes.”

“You can help me.”

“I'm not interested in helpin' you or anyone else. I can barely make it on my own.” His arm jittered, as if he'd lost control of it to some electric pulse.

“When did you see the hunters, John Henry? Time is really important.” She stepped toward him. “I need you to slow down and think.”

“I don't remember!” He started walking. “If you aren't arrestin' me, I've got to get back to the cabin before this rain comes down. I got sense enough to get out of the rain.”

She held out a hand, palm up. “There's a killer loose out here. Think about it. Two men were brutally killed not far away. You're in danger, too.”

It took a few seconds for her words to sink in, but he finally looked at her. “Hank Welford is dead?”

She nodded. “Both men are dead. I think you might have information that would help us find the killer. What time did you see Hank and the other hunter?”

“About nine o'clock. Near Dixon Point. I was up on Dragon Tooth Ridge. I saw ‘em, and I figured they wouldn't be too happy about a witness to what they done. After they killed the moose, I kept goin'. I'd meant to ask ‘em to trade for some supplies, but once I saw what they did, I left ‘em behind.”