Skin Dancer (24 page)

Rachel pulled to a stop and got out, taking in the yard. Along with the bottles hanging from trees and bushes and sitting on rocks, there were strange figures made of copper and iron. Different types of feathers fluttered from limbs and eaves and totem poles. The place was remarkable, and also a little unnerving.

She approached one of the feathers and examined it. It had been hung with clear fishing line, exactly like the feathers at the crime scene.

The wooden door opened and an old man stepped onto the porch. Stooped with age, he was about three inches shorter than Rachel. His skin was brown leather and his hair, braided down his back, matched the silvery gray–and–white feather in his leather headband.

“Mr. Pete?” she asked.

“That's me.” His dark eyes were alert, sharp.

She held out her badge and identification. “I'm Deputy Rachel Redmond, from Criss County.” She wasn't sure what jurisdiction she was in.

“I've seen you on television.”

His diction was clear, but it held a trace of an accent. Spanish? She couldn't be certain. He looked as if he'd been carved from the badlands themselves. “Would you mind taking a look at something for me?”

“Is this about the murders?” His gaze probed hers.

“Yes, it is.” She held out the plastic evidence bag with the silver toe guard in it.

He took it and looked at it for a long time. Instead of handing it back, he signaled to two rocking chairs on the front porch. “Have a seat. I'll tell you what I can.”

Rachel took the chair he indicated, easing onto the edge so she could turn her knees and face him. He stared into the distance, watching the night come down hard and the sky come alive with shiny brilliance. The moon hung in the east, new and delicate and precise.

Out on the road, a vehicle idled as if it meant to come down the trail to Yuma Pete's. After a moment, it moved on, red taillights winking in the distance.

“It was Hank Welford came to see me that June morning. He wanted something fancy. Something he said that showed he was moving up in the world. I tried to interest him in a belt buckle or something of that nature, but Hank wanted something on his boots. Something that had a little dazzle when he danced.”

Rachel felt the tightness in her gut. At last she'd found the lead she'd sought. The boot clip belonged to Hank Welford. “What did Hank have to do with Mullet Bellows?”

Yuma shifted in his chair. “Back then, they were partners. Both of ‘em were drunks and criminals. I couldn't say which of the two was the worst.”

“But it was Welford who approached you and asked you for the boot clips.

“Yes. I drew up a design. He had a wad of money like I've never seen. Paid me in hundreds. Truth is, I wouldn't have taken the job unless he had cash. Hank didn't always pay his bills, you know.”

“Where did he get the money?” she asked.

“Only thing he said was that he'd found someone who valued his talents.”

“A man like Hank, buying silver boot clips? I just don't get it?”

Yuma chuckled. “Hank never married, but talk around town that summer was that he'd fallen for one of the gals who tended bar across the state line. She liked to hit the dance halls, and Hank was said to be a fair dancer. Toe clips look mighty flashy if the footworks good.”

“So you made the clips for him and he paid you?”

“Cash up front. But that clip you're holding isn't one that I made. It looks a lot like my design, almost identical, in fact, but that's not my work.”

For a moment Rachel tried to make sense of what he was saying. “You didn't make this clip?”

He shook his head. “Someone copied my design.”

“Can you tell when or where or by whom this clip was made?”

“No way to tell that. There's no date or signature. Most of the commission work I do is for saddle ornaments, jewelry, belt buckles. I'd never been asked to make toe guards ‘til Hank showed up. In all my time working, only had one person ever called about them and that was a while back, maybe ten years ago.”

Yuma pointed back to the bag. “That's good work, but it's copied off mine. Where did you find it?”

“Stuck in Mullet's chest with a porcupine quill.”

Yuma didn't flinch. “I heard he was skinned and decapitated.”

“He was. There was also a pole with two owl feathers. I noticed the feathers were wrapped with fishing line, like the ones in your yard.”

Yuma continued to rock. “The Indians used strips of animal hide. Today, some people use thread. I like the fishing line. It holds up better.”

“Is there a special message with the owl feathers?”

He shook his head. “It's hard to say, but if I had to take a guess, I'd think it was a prediction of death.”

“Welford and Mullet are already dead.” Rachel could barely make out Yuma Pete's silhouette. Night had fallen over them, and in the distance was the sound of summer insects. “At the last murder, the killer left two feathers.”

Yuma rocked for a moment. “I'm not a prophet or a detective, but I'd say someone else is gonna die.”

Rachel ignored the chill that his words brushed across her. “When did Hank commission the clips?”

“The summer of 1992. I remember because I knew that summer that Bill Clinton was going to win. In fact, when Hank drove up in that fancy pickup, I was listening to Peter Jennings on the campaign trail. You remember?”

Rachel didn't. “I was just a kid. Anything else happen that summer?”

“There was a lot of hardship in the area. We'd had a tragic winter, then drought took a lot of families off the land, sent them to work in factories. Things began to change around here, and not for the better. Lots of ranchers lost everything.”

Rachel was about to get up when she stopped. “Was that the summer Dub Jackson disappeared?”

“As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Did you know Dub Jackson?”

“Ever'body in the county knew Dub. He was well thought of in these parts. I'll never believe he abandoned his family. Something happened to that man.”

“Mr. Pete, the person who called you about the boot clips. Did you get a name? Can you remember anything about the call?”

“It was a young woman. I remember ‘cause she had this kind of accent. I listen to things like that because folks are always askin' me about mine.”

“What kind of accent?”

“Southern. Just soft and so pretty. I remember just listenin' to her made me smile.”

Rachel eased to her feet, lightheaded from the lack of food and sleep and the possibility she'd uncovered. “I have to go.” The sense of urgency made her feel as if she might have a panic attack.

“You look a mite peaked. You want a drink or something?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “No thank you.”

Her thoughts were fast. Frankie had never believed her father abandoned her. Never.

A sick little girl, brutally damaged, dreaming of a lost father. Rachel understood the power of such a dream. But what if it were true? What if Dub Jackson was murdered? What if Frankie was tracking down the men who killed her father and stole her life?

Yuma rose from the chair. In the darkness, he was barely visible. “Come back to see me, and I'll make you some earrings. Something with horses.”

“I'd like that.” She nearly stumbled in her haste to leave. It was after eight, and she was bone weary. Her legs and seat felt as if she'd been beaten with a pipe.

“What did you tell the young woman who called about the boot clips?” If she was right, Frankie Jackson had been on the trail of Hank and Mullet for a long, long time.

“I told her I did one commission and didn't accept that kind of work anymore.”

“Did you give her Hank Welford's name?”

“Now that you mention it, I think I did.” He inhaled sharply enough that Rachel heard him. “You think I talked to someone connected to the killer?”

“It's a good possibility, Mr. Pete. Now you lock up behind me and take care.”

# # #

Sitting in the study at his ranch, Harvey Dilson gripped the telephone more firmly, and his voice rose. “If you can't get this under control, Gordon, I can and will bring in federal assistance.”

“What do you think federal agents will accomplish that we can't?” Gordon's voice came through the phone line, equally loud and angry.

“Success!” Dilson signaled to his assistant to refill his drink. Jeremy Parker took the Waterford highball glass, dropped in several cubes of ice and filled it with Maker's Mark. He put it back in the Senator's hand. Harvey sipped the drink, letting the burn of the premium bourbon slide down his throat and into his stomach. He'd worked too hard to bring Paradise to fruition to let some maniac with a hard–on for poachers stop the project.

“Rachel Redmond is a twenty–four–year–old rookie from trailer trash! What were you thinking when you put her in charge of the case?” Harvey rose from his chair. He was running for his third term as U.S. Senator from Criss County with an eye toward the White House, and he'd built a power base in Washington. He'd also invested three–quarters of his personal fortune in Paradise.

“Have you seen my budget, Harvey? It isn't like I've got a Washington surplus to play around with. I have two deputies and a host of volunteers.”

“I'm offering you federal agents.”

“Who we'd have to baby–sit in that wilderness. That's no help at all.”

“I talked to Frankie today. She said half her road crew has stopped showing up for work.” The highway was what he had to focus on. Without it, Paradise would never be born. “The road is dead. Do you hear me—dead!” He roared the last word. “The men are afraid to go up there to work. Most everything I own is on the line—”

“You aren't the only one with everything riding on this development.”

Harvey felt his blood pressure surge again. “And you might want to talk to Richard, too. He's running around with that red–haired bitch who thinks she knows everything. I met her at Frankie's house, and she's an opinionated little piece of ass. Richard acts like a puppy at her heels.”

“Justine Morgan may be involved with WAR.”

Harvey took another swallow of bourbon. “Now that's good news. If we could link that little whore into something illegal, it might break the spell she's cast on Richard.” Harvey signaled Jeremy for another drink. Richard was the weak link. The one he'd always worried about.

Gordon's voice was soft, but edged with something else. “Harvey, the question I've been asking myself is why someone murdered Hank and Mullet. Why them? And why skin and decapitate them?”

“I have no idea. Call me when you have an answer.” He put the phone down, but Gordon's question had triggered a series of unpleasant images. Frankie had finagled copies of the crime scene photos for him to see. Damn good photographs, in fact. He'd had to drink a lot of whiskey to get to sleep after he'd looked at the photos. He drained his glass and handed it to Jeremy. His assistant shook his head.

“Slow down, Senator.”

Harvey drew back the glass, aiming at Jeremy. At the last moment, he smashed it against the stone fireplace that was large enough to roast an ox. Jeremy didn't flinch. He simply stood there, waiting.

“I've earned the right to drink when and however much I want.” He looked around the room at the mounted heads of a moose, a grizzly and a big–horned sheep. When he'd bought the old Jackson ranch on the auction block, he'd seen the potential to turn the ranch house into a showplace. With a decorator from Sioux Falls, he'd done just that. Elegant, western, solid, it was a place where a man could relax in solitude. He frequently loaned it to people he needed to woo in his political career, people who liked a bit of hunting without too much hard work.

Jeremy lifted his chin only a fraction, but it showed the stubbornness that Harvey admired. “You need to keep your head. Last night you were so drunk you thought someone was in your bedroom. A couple of the ranch hands heard the commotion. You may have this election sewn up, but if you start acting like a fool and the word gets out, the public will turn on you like a rabid dog.”

Harvey suffered the lecture, and he listened. Jeremy was one of the smartest Beltway advisors around. He paid him a high six–figure salary for his advice.

“You're right. I have meetings with the Paradise group all day tomorrow. I think I'll turn in now.”

Jeremy looked at the shattered glass on the stones of the fireplace. “Try to get some sleep.”

Harvey walked down the hall, past the many photos that showed him with men of power. Often the pictures gave him comfort, documenting his rise from South Dakota state house to the corridors of D.C. The world had changed greatly in the twelve years he'd served in the nation's capitol, and so had he. A moment of longing for the simpler days when he'd focused on South Dakota politics touched him. But like it or not, he'd been destined for greatness.

He entered his bedroom, a master suite with triple French doors that led out to a shadowed veranda where potted palms rustled in the night breeze. The doors were open and the sheer curtains billowed, causing him to catch his breath and step backward. He stopped himself before he let out a yell. Damn doors. He'd asked Bettina to lock them after she'd tidied his room.

The navy blue carpet was thick and plush as he crossed the room to close the doors. In the near darkness, he saw something on his bed. Nearly twelve inches long and two inches wide, it lay stark against the white silk bedspread.

Puzzled, he picked it up. It was filthy and stank to high heaven. It was a piece of hide, something one of his hounds had undoubtedly found. But how had it gotten inside his house and on his bed? He didn't allow animals in the house. Anger at his staff gripped him. He paid good money, and the maids left something like this on his bed. He started toward the doors, intending to throw the filthy thing into the yard.