Skin Dancer (15 page)

Jake gingerly handed the foot to Rachel. “Where'd you find this, John Henry?” he asked.

John Henry stepped back from Jake, and Rachel maneuvered so that she stood by John Henry's side. “We have to know where you found it.”

“You think I did this?” John Henry's voice rose as he pointed to the foot. “That I
ate
somebody like that Dahmer person?”

John Henry's eyes were shifting left and right in rapid motion. She had to calm him. “No, John Henry. I don't think you ate anyone. But we have to find the crime scene and start looking. Two men are missing. If this,” she held up the foot “is one of them, the other may be alive. Maybe injured and needing help right now.”

John Henry nodded carefully. “I found it up the trail. I heard something yesterday right before dark. Sounded like someone screaming. The rain come on about then and I let it go, but this morning I got up and went to check. That's when I found it. Right in the middle of the trail, like someone put it there deliberately.”

“What time did you find it?” Jake asked.

Rachel took a deep breath. “Jake is helping me, and what he wants to know is a time frame so we can begin to reconstruct what happened. You heard the scream about eight last night, and then you found the foot about what time?”

“First light. About five o'clock.”

She calculated that he'd walked nearly ten difficult miles to the closest telephone. “You went to a lot of trouble, John Henry. I appreciate it.”

He turned to see what Jake was doing before he spoke again—to her. “I didn't hurt anyone. I don't want you to think I did. And you were nice to me.”

“And you did help. Thank you, John Henry.” 

Jake jerked his head toward a large tree, and Rachel excused herself and joined him there.

“John Henry has been at two murder sites,” Jake said. “You're not discounting—”

“I'm not discounting anyone,” Rachel answered. “I'm using one interrogation tactic that I learned.”

“You can't be soft with someone like John Henry James. He knows something and you have to get it out of him.”

Jake had always taken charge of her and her life. Not because he wanted to control her, but he felt a need to protect her. Even as a young boy he'd stepped in front of any perceived slights or dangers. She schooled her voice to be reasonable. “I know John Henry knows something, and he's going to tell it to me. Not because I scare it out of him, but because he wants to help me. Jake, he called to tell me about the foot. He could have walked past it and never said a word. But he didn't. Instead, he walked ten miles to call me. That doesn't sound like a killer's conduct to me. So you back off and let me interview this witness without interference. When you're sheriff, if you don't like my technique, you can fire me.”

She walked the few steps back to John Henry. “I just want to thank you. You went out of your way to help, and I appreciate it.”

John Henry glanced quickly at Jake and then away. “He's going to make it hard for me, ain't he?”

Rachel put her hand on his arm and felt the slight tremor that racked his thin body. She moved him several yards away from Jake. “No, he isn't. We're all tense. We've got to find those missing men. Can you take us to the place you found the foot?”

He nodded.

“Deputy Amos is going to give you a ride on the back of his ATV. After that, he'll take you home.”

“You promise? This ain't no trick?”

“No trick. Scott will take you home.” The deputy would be more than glad to get out of the woods and back to town. Betty Lou was holding her own in the hospital, but the doctors had made no bones about being concerned for her safety and that of the baby.

She left John Henry beside the ATV and took the foot to an ice chest in the back of the Rover.

Jake joined her. “Sorry, Rachel. I didn't mean–”

“It's okay.” She closed the ice chest and sealed it. “I'll send someone to find Gordon and Mel up around Lost Creek, tell them about this foot. Gordon needs to stay at the S.O. and handle the media. Scott can handle the legwork from the courthouse. We may be in the woods for a while looking for whoever belongs to that foot.” 

“That's a good idea.”

“Sometimes I have one or two.” She held his gaze. “This is my case, Jake. You need to remember that.”

“Rachel, I don't mean—”

“Jake, I'm twenty–four with two years of college. I'll get my degree when I can afford to go back to school. I'm proficient at Tang Soo Do. If it weren't for your family, I'd probably be dead by now, but you have to stop treating me like a kid sister.”

“I do,” he said. “And I will.” He cleared his throat. “I took a look at the foot. It does look like something big chewed it off.”

“Let's find who or what did this.”

“Dad is really proud of you, Rachel.”

“Thanks, Jake. That means a lot to me.” She walked back to the ATV, thinking about the past and her complicated relationship with Jake. Mel Ortiz had shown up at her trailer after the power had been shut off for non–payment. She'd eaten everything consumable, and she was hungry and cold and afraid. Mel Ortiz had sat beside her and told her that she was going to live with his family. He'd gathered a few of her clothes, helped her into his vehicle and driven her to a new life in a suburban home with his family. She'd never gone back to the trailer, but he had. He'd gotten her clothes and books and the few photographs that depicted her family life. When the Ortizes moved to Bisonville, Rachel had gone with them. Mel had influenced both her and Jake's career choices. And put them in competition against each other.

She turned back to face Jake. “Your dad will be even prouder of you when you're sheriff.”

Rachel was relieved to see the elderly couple on the porch waving frantically for her to come over. “Let me see what they want, and we'll head up into the woods.”

“Deputy Redmond, there's a phone call for you,” the woman said. “It must be important. It's the coroner, and he sounded out of breath. He said to get you to the phone right away.”

 

“Got the necropsy back on the moose,” Charlie Newman said. He was eating something and the words were a little muffled by the food in his mouth.

“It was drugged, wasn't it?” Charlie wouldn't have bothered to call her if something hadn't been fishy.

“Had enough Rompum in it that it couldn't walk. Probably was barely able to stand. It was shot at close range. Two to five feet.”

“Hank Welford got that animal somewhere, drugged it, then set up the kill so the plastic surgeon could get his trophy head without having to actually hunt. He just walked up to a drugged, helpless animal and shot it point blank.” She couldn't stop the disgust that seeped through her and leaked into her voice.

“Not much sport in that kind of kill.” Charlie took another bite of whatever he was eating. She wondered if anything could dampen the coroner's legendary appetite.

“There's not much sport in any kind of hunting today. Most game animals' only defense is flight. That isn't much of a defense against scopes, ATVs, a catered food supply—”

“And don't forget the catered poontang.” Charlie continued, “You know those rich guys hire whores to stay up at the hunting camps to show them a good time. That's why they don't want to walk the woods and hunt. Got to save the energy for humpin'.”

Charlie was sometimes crass, but he was well–informed, and Rachel had grown to like the fact that he talked to her like she was one of the boys. He was waxing eloquent,now. 

“Yeah, those boys indulge their tastes for kink and everything else money can buy. Prostitutes from Rapid City make enough money during hunting season to tide them over the winter months.”

Charlie had his facts correct. The women would stay at the camps for weeks, supplied with food, liquor, drugs, whatever it took to keep them content while they provided pleasures for men who liked to be in control. Junie Redmond had worked the hunting camp circuit the fall before she was killed. Rachel had no doubt the men had clamored for her mother's movie star looks and her breathless, little–girl voice.

“Rachel, I'm not spoiling your virgin ears with this, am I?”

She pulled her thoughts back from the past. “No, Charlie. Heard it all before. But the news on the moose helps.”

“Look, if this killer is taking out a few of these poachers who set up canned hunts, maybe you should just leave him alone for a few weeks. Let him reduce the population of miscreants.”

Rachel smiled. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”

“But find the idiot who hung a mannequin. Got us all stirred up for nothing.”

“You're right. That's the one who needs to go to prison.” Charlie laughed until he wheezed. When he finally caught his breath, he added, “Got a few more forensic details for you.”

She held her breath. “Shoot.”

“The scrapings under Hank's fingernails showed dirt and tree bark, like maybe he clawed at something trying to hang on. The rope used to hang the bodies was a special grade used for roping events. Brand new, too.”

“Can you trace it?”

“Gordon is on it. He came back to the courthouse about twenty minutes ago snorting fire because his hip hurts. He's going nuts being hog–tied to the office, but he's checking these leads.”

“This is good news.”

“And the guys at the lab identified the silver ornament as a toe clip for a boot. That, combined with the special rope, points to someone who fancies himself a rodeo man or at least a roping hobbyist. Some kind of Fancy Dan. Used to see ‘em in some of the dance halls. Had all the accoutrements of a cowboy and none of the skills.”

“Based on what Scott's about to bring you and the lab guys, I needed some good news.” She filled him in on the foot. “When we locate the crime scene, we're going to need another forensics team. Ask Gordon to have one on stand–by and I'll call in as soon as I find something and can get to a phone or working cell tower.”

“I'll pass it on.”

She hung up the phone, thanked the couple and hurried outside before they could ask questions.

Scott and John Henry were astride one ATV, and Jake was waiting for her on the other. He tossed her the keys and scooted back, putting her in the driver's seat. It was a gesture she appreciated. As she straddled the ATV, she felt his hands grasp her waist to steady her.

“Rachel, sometimes you look like the spitting image of your mom. Coming off that porch, when the sunlight struck your hair, you looked so much like Junie.”

She started the ATV and tried not to think about her mother and the things she'd done to put bread on the table. And cocaine up her nose. Junie Redmond had never been an angel, but Rachel's love for her had never faltered.

# # #

Sitting in Justine's apartment, Derek figured he'd sunk as low as he could get. All around him were Justine's things, and on the television was his demise. Reporters from the major networks and several big newspapers who'd come to cover the story of the wilderness serial killer were now mocking and making fun of WAR.

The body he'd seen hanging in the woods wasn't human. In fact, it wasn't even a living thing. It was a freaking mannequin, taken from the old Zimlich's Dry Goods store and placed in the woods.

He still couldn't conceive of who would go to that much trouble just to frighten him.

He got up and hobbled into the kitchen for another slug of wine. He'd found an open bottle of a good merlot, and by God he needed something to drink as he watched all his hard work slip from his grasp.

WAR was a laughingstock now. His statement to the press that WAR had taken another victim—a stupid dummy–showed him to be a liar and a fool.

And the person who'd set him up was that damn Indian. Somehow, Adam Bear Fucker had known that Derek was tailing him. The Indian had led him straight into the perfect man trap.

He finished his wine and poured the last of the bottle into his glass before he limped back to the living room where the television continued with coverage of the “woodland prank” as it was being called. The newscasters' tried hard to keep a straight face as they talked about the “person who'd executed a prank that put egg on the face of both WAR and the Criss County Sheriff's Department, and unnerved a large segment of the population.”

Screw them! He swallowed a gulp of wine. The alcohol would probably give him a worse headache in the long run, but right now, he needed it.

The phone rang and he checked the caller ID. It was Justine calling from her mother's office. He picked up, dreading the things she'd say to him.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Your luck has finally turned, fuckup.”

One thing about Justine, she didn't mince words. Now she was merely deviling him because he was still laid up at her place. “Right.”

“They have another body. Or at least part of one.”

He carefully placed her wineglass on a coaster. “What are you talking about?”

“That female deputy and some others are up around Dixon Point. Some old recluse found a severed foot in a hiking boot.”

“Shit.” He saw a glimmer of hope that it could all be turned around. He didn't know how, but there actually was a body. Maybe…

“And guess who's missing? All of the women in my mother's office are gossiping about it.”

“Who?”

“That creep Mullet Bellows.
And
Burl Mascotti.” She laughed softly. “Can you believe it? Someone is finally taking out those fucking poachers.” Her voice grew playful. “I wonder who that someone is?” She laughed again and hung up before he could respond.

Derek had the sense that he'd lost touch with his body. He held the telephone, but he couldn't really feel it. The worst thought had crossed his mind. The very worst. It was so stunningly awful that it numbed him.