Skin Dancer (13 page)

Marston cleared his throat. “Frankie's dad, Dub Jackson, was one of the best trackers in these parts. When she was just a kid, he'd take her along on search–and–rescue rides.”

“I can be a help,” Frankie said softly.

“And I thank you, but right now I have to focus.” Rachel swerved to miss a tree that was partially in the road. “Marston, radio back to the office and see if Scott found out anything about Bellows.”

Marston keyed the radio. “Gladys, what's the word on Mullet and Burl?” he asked.

There was a burst of static, then the voice of the dispatcher. “Not good, K–4. The wife is hysterical. No sign of her husband or Burl.”

“Keep us posted,” Marston said before he signed out.

Frankie watched the familiar scenery flash by the window. She studied the back of the deputy's head. Her dark hair was still wet, clamped into place, and her shoulders were rigid with tension.

They climbed higher into the hills, the sunshine almost too bright, creating thick shadows in the trees and casting the hills in black relief.

After the Civil War, this land had been given to the various Sioux tribes in the Treaty of Fort Laramie. The land had been considered too savage for the white settlers who were spreading west from the Missouri River. She could easily imagine how daunting the rocky mountains had seemed to travelers wanting only to get to the other side, to press onward to California and the streets made of gold. The Badlands with its blistering heat and arid conditions had seemed worthless, the Black Hills an obstacle that could be avoided by a more southern passage. So the land had been deeded to the Indians.

Until the Gold Rush. That had changed everything.

Frankie cleared her throat. “Rachel, there are old mines everywhere in these hills. A murderer could hide anywhere.”

“Let's hope that we can put your tracking skills to use today.”

“So far, this guy's been pretty careful,” Marston added. “Nothing at the other crime scene except two decapitated bodies. And we still haven't found the heads. But we might get lucky today.”

Rachel slowed. Something was in the road ahead. “Damn.” A huge spruce had fallen. “I guess we're going to have to hike in. When we get radio contact, we need to call for a road crew.”

“Fine by me.” Frankie climbed out. “I could use a walk.”

“According to the map, we still have about two miles to go up that timber trail,” Rachel said as she got out and stretched. She caught the gaze of both of her companions. “Thank you both for being here. I'm glad for your help. Now let's do this.”

# # #

Half an hour later, Rachel wiped the sweat from her forehead. The climb had been mostly uphill and made more difficult in places by loosened shale. The storm had rutted the minimal road the wildlife crews maintained, and now the uneven terrain and loose rocks made even walking difficult. She was beginning to wonder if WAR had played the sheriff's office and everyone else for a fool. There was no sign of the body where the WAR spokesman had claimed it would be.

She trudged forward again and stopped. The clear impression of a tire track could be seen. “Here! Tire tracks there. I'll mark the area for the forensic guys.”

“Good work, Rachel.” Frankie snapped a picture. “Most of the tracks have been washed away by the rain. See how that limb lodged up above this one. Must have diverted the rainwater.”

Rachel put down three red flag markers around the print. She'd come back later and make the molds. The tire imprint could be a valuable piece of evidence.

She started walking again, listening to the murmur of conversation between Marston and Frankie. The volunteer was obviously smitten with her. Mullet and his reputed skills with women was their topic, and she tuned it out, focusing on the trail ahead. She caught sight of something in the shadows of the trees and halted. Her stomach dropped.

“What the hell is that?” Frankie stopped beside her and pointed up ahead where the trees created a thick canopy of shadows. Something pale flashed in a ray of sunlight.

She'd almost convinced herself that this was a wild goose chase, that no one else had been murdered, that Mullet and Burl were holed up drunk in some abandoned cabin.

“Let's go, but remember we need to preserve the integrity of the crime scene.” She glanced at Frankie. “You might want to wait here until we check it out.”

Frankie shook her head. “I'm not the squeamish type. Don't worry, I'll be okay.” She held up her camera. “I have a job to do.”

Rachel nodded. “Thank you.” She continued up the trail, Marston and Frankie following behind.

The shadows of the pines and spruce were so deep that she couldn't be certain what was hanging, but there was something there, something large enough to be a human and pale enough to consist of flesh. When she could clearly make out the dangling arms, and the place where a head should have been connected, she accepted the inevitable. The killer had struck again.

She was about to key her radio and see if she could transmit when she stopped. Something wasn't exactly right. Even in the dim light, there was something wrong with the body.

“What the hell?” Marston saw it, too.

She stepped forward, her pace increasing. In the dimness of the woods, she didn't believe her eyes. There was a human form hanging upside down from a tree limb, swaying gently in the breeze, arms pointed toward the ground, the head missing. It wasn't right, though. The body was rigid. It didn't move like a human body. It moved like–

“It's a mannequin,” Rachel said, hardly daring to believe it. “Somebody hauled a mannequin up here.”

“Who would do such a sick thing?” Marston asked. “Look at that.” He started forward.

“Don't touch it.” Rachel caught his sleeve, halting him in his tracks.

“It's one of those store window dummies,” Marston said. “I—”

“It's still a crime scene.” Rachel got out her pad and began to diagram. “There may be footprints or fingerprints or something we can use. We still have to work it.”

“The crazy fucker who killed Welford and that plastic surgeon is laughing at us.” Marston's tone was angry. “He's up here in the woods playing jokes while we're running all over trying to catch him. He's got so much free time, he can plan pranks.”

“He's a clever son of a bitch,” Frankie said as she brought out the camera. “I would never have thought of such a thing. This is truly creepy.”

Rachel tried the radio but she got only static. “Marston, would you walk back to the Rover and drive to a telephone? Call the sheriff right away. Cancel the forensic guys from Rapid City, and tell Gordon to call a press conference. Either the spokesman for WAR is playing with us or he's dumber than a post.”

Frankie held up her camera. “Shall I do the honors, Rachel?”

“Sure thing.” As they walked toward the dummy, Rachel felt a chill touch her neck. She swung around to see if someone was behind her.

“Something wrong?” Frankie asked.          

She shook her head. “Just the sense that someone is watching us.”

Frankie lifted the camera and began to snap photos. “Funny you should say that. I felt it coming up the trail. I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want you to think I was a sissy and send me back to the Rover.”

Rachel couldn't help the gooseflesh that ran over her lower back. “You felt it, too?”

“Like someone's gaze boring into my spine. Yeah, I felt it. Several of the guys on my crew have said the same thing. They think there's an evil spirit in the woods.” She laughed, but it was half–hearted. “I guess all the environmental damage is coming back to haunt them. They think it's the Skin Dancer.”

“The what?”

“It's an old Sioux legend. You mean someone hasn't mentioned this to you?”

“No. What's the story?”

Frankie lowered the camera. “I don't think I'm the one to tell it, but I can arrange for you to hear it from someone who knows it intimately. Maybe this afternoon.”

“And who would that be?”

“Adam Standing Bear. He knows a great deal about Sioux folklore.”

“I've been wanting to talk to Mr. Standing Bear. He's a difficult guy to run down. I've left several messages for him.”

“I'll set it up.” Frankie moved carefully around the mannequin, photographing it from all directions. She stopped when she was on the west side. Bending over, she examined something on the ground.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

Frankie squatted. “You'd better take a look at this.”

Rachel knelt beside Frankie. Half–buried in the mud was a hair clamp. She used a stick to slowly pry it loose from the mud. The clamp was beautiful, a twist of gold with what looked to be real pearls along the rim. Two long strands of dark hair were still attached.

“It looks expensive,” Rachel said.

“It is. And I'm almost positive I know who it belongs to.”

“Who?” Rachel felt a rush of excitement.

“Justine Morgan. In fact, she was wearing one exactly like it at my dinner party last night.”

Rachel absorbed the information and what it might mean. “What time did she leave?”

“It was late.”

“You said you think she's connected with WAR?” Rachel carefully bagged the barrette.

“I have no proof, but she has the ideology and the passion. She's clever enough to come up with something like this for WAR to claim.”

“I think I'm going to have to bring Miss Morgan into the sheriff's office for questioning.”

Frankie nodded. “Sounds like the thing to do.”

Rachel put the bag in her pocket. It was the first solid piece of evidence against a living, breathing suspect they had.

 

“Could you quit yelling long enough to get me a glass of water?” Derek's tongue had stuck to his teeth his mouth was so dry. He'd shown up at Justine Morgan's apartment expecting her to praise him for his latest endeavor. Instead, she'd been furious.

“Derek, you act without thinking.” Justine stomped into the kitchen.

He heard the tap running and then her returning footsteps. His head was pounding and his leg throbbed. All he really wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw that body dangling in the night, a whisper of pale skin illuminated by lightning. He'd managed to get the ATV down to his vehicle and drive into town, and somewhere along the way he'd concocted the brilliant plan of calling the newspaper and claiming another murder for WAR. Only Justine didn't seem to think his plan was so smart. He tried to swallow and couldn't.

“Here.” Justine put the water in his hand. “You've made it dangerous for all of us. They're hunting for us, Derek, and they aren't as stupid as you think. Mom said someone had called her office, asking about my ‘affiliations.'”

Derek didn't think he could feel worse, but the spurt of anxiety her words generated made his heart pound, which in turn increased the pain in his head and leg. “Why did they talk to your mom?”

“From what Mom understood, they're checking all the upper–class young people. They have sort of a profile of the type of person who would belong to WAR. Some FBI bullshit. White,” she ticked the items off, finger by finger–”wealthy, educated, unemployed.” She pointed at him. “All because you had to say we'd killed those two men. And now you did it again!”

“The benefits outweigh the negatives.” He felt the glass nearly slip from his hand, but he tightened his fingers in time. WAR was a cause he believed in, and one he was willing to risk a lot for. In the organization, he'd found a cause for which he could fight, and that had given him a purpose. Publicity was the name of the game—getting WAR's name out there. He'd somehow gotten off track, though. “I don't feel well, Justine. Would you please stop yelling at me?”      

She paced the floor. Twice she started to say something but he saw with relief that she stopped herself. At last she sat down in front of him on a footstool that looked to be hand–embroidered. Her apartment held decorating touches he'd never expected. A Louis XIV sofa, a heavy mahogany secretary—the kind of antiques he associated with his mother and her bridge club. He was beginning to understand that he didn't know Justine at all. The weariness was too much. He let his eyelids close and his head fall back against the sofa.

“So I went to that dinner party last night.”

Her tone of voice made him open his eyes. “And?”

“I met Senator Dilson and several of the men who want to invest in
Paradise
.” Her voice mocked the meaning of the word.

Derek was suddenly interested. “Did you talk to them?”

Justine laughed, and it wasn't pretty or musical. “I'm not an idiot. If I'd tried to talk to them about how this new city will destroy thousands of acres of wilderness, they would have walked away and ignored me.” She took the glass from his hand and put it on the table beside him. “I have a better plan.”

He didn't like the sound of that.

“While you're stirring up trouble for all of us with your big mouth, I'm going to get on the inside.”

“How?”

“I'm having dinner with Richard Jones.” When he was looking at her, she finished. “He likes me.” She smiled, and Derek thought suddenly of a fox, lovely and cunning.

“Jones is the brain behind all of it,” he said. “Without him, it won't happen. If you could convince him–”

“I know. But first I have to get to know him. Frankie Jackson gave me the key to the city, and soon she's going to be out of a job.”

Derek could only stare at her. Justine was smart, smarter than anyone he knew. She was dedicated to stopping the road and the destruction of the wilderness. But what young woman could resist the power offered by a business man with millions of dollars at his disposal.