Skin Dancer (6 page)

“Yes.”

Frankie's eyebrows rose. “Jake said it was poacher–on–poacher crime.”

“Jake would say that. It's his theory. And if you know Jake, he's pretty damn good at promoting his own theories.”

“And his own reputation.” Frankie laughed at the expression Rachel knew she hadn't hidden well. “Look, I've known Jake a while. His old man knew my parents. Jake knows the wilderness like nobody else, but he's an ambitious man. He won't stay a game warden.”

“Jake?” Rachel stumbled over his name. Jake had only just told her about his plan to run for sheriff. Was Frankie already in his confidence. “Why would you think that?”

Frankie shrugged and poured them both another drink. “Woman's intuition. I also sense something between the two of you. He cares about you, Rachel.”

Rachel felt the blush she hated touch her face. In high school she'd been teased mercilessly about sleeping with her “brother.”

Jake was no blood kin, but after her mother's death, she'd moved a few hundred yards and up several socio–economic levels into the Ortiz house. Despite the fact that Jake had never shown the least romantic interest in her, the idea still caused the blood to rush to her cheeks.

“Jake is like my big brother. My big overbearing brother. Nothing more.” She walked to the door and opened it. “We should rejoin the party. I'm sure your guests are wondering where you got off to.”

“I didn't mean to upset you.” Frankie joined her. “Have you ever thought about the FBI? With your looks and intelligence, you'd rise through the ranks quickly.”

“I've thought a few things about them.” Rachel grinned. “Nothing exceptionally positive.”

Frankie laughed out loud, drawing the attention of several guests. “I like you, Rachel. You're way too smart to stay in Criss County, but while you're here I think we should be friends. Hey, I'm looking for a workout partner. What's your routine?”

“Tang Soo Do. There's a small dance studio–slash–dojang on the west end of town. It's called—don't gag—Prima Donna's. I work out there late in the evenings. They actually have some pretty good equipment.”

“I've done some kickboxing, but that's sissy stuff compared to Korean martial arts.”

Rachel's eyebrows rose. “Hardly anyone here knows what Tang Soo Do is. I took a few classes when I was at Quantico for some training and got hooked.”

Frankie struck a pose, her face hardening into a mask that lost every shred of humanity. Rachel was caught unprepared. She started to pick up a fighting stance but stopped once Frankie lowered her arms and smiled.

“I've watched a lot of martial arts movies,” Frankie said.

Rachel felt a bit stupid. Frankie had unsettled her. “You've got the facial expression down pat. You should give it a try. I'll mention it to the owner. I'm sure he'd be glad to give you a key. It's impossible to work out when the dance classes are going.”

“You sure I wouldn't be imposing? I don't want to crowd your space.”

Rachel looked around the room. There was more money in Frankie Jackson's parlor than she'd make in five years as a deputy. “We're not exactly birds of a feather.”

“Maybe not externally but here—” Frankie touched her heart–”I think we may be a lot alike. I could have gone to work anywhere in the world, but I came here, a place that holds both accomplishment and pain for me, because I love the Hills. They're a special place, and you know that. You sense it, too. We can't stop progress, but I can make sure that only a minimal amount of damage is done.”

“If you have any trouble with the road, any threats or anything like that, you'll let me know, won't you?” Rachel put her glass down on a coaster. Frankie had piqued her curiosity, but this wasn't the time to explore a potential friendship.

“If anything strange happens, I'll give you a call. And let's see if we can coordinate our schedules for some workout time. I'd like to get to know you better, Rachel. Now, I'd better work this room. I'm not paid to enjoy myself.”

She moved away, greeting a man that it took Rachel several moments to recognize as U.S. Senator Harvey Dilson. Dilson was one of the most powerful men in the Senate, a key figure in the push to bring progress to Criss County. And an obvious admirer of Frankie Jackson. His gaze followed Frankie, appreciating the toga–cut of her dress that left one shoulder bare and revealed perfect cleavage.

Feeling out of her league, Rachel walked through the crowded room looking for Jake. She'd answered the summons of Frankie Jackson and passed inspection. Now she was ready to get back to Bisonville and work on her case.

 

When he opened the door to the house, Derek Baxter knew he was outgunned. Though he'd sought this meeting—had worked for months to achieve it—he realized he was unprepared. Not in the literal sense of the word, but in presence. The four men, though they bore no physical resemblance to America's white heroes on Mt. Rushmore, perfectly imitated the stone countenances. They sat in straight–back chairs around the dining table in the small cottage. No one smiled or acknowledged him, except for the four pair of dark eyes that pinned him in the doorway.       

“You said you wanted to see me?” Derek took long strides toward the men. He'd had maybe two hours of sleep since his foray on the road equipment, and he wasn't in the mood to be treated like an impertinent child.

One of the men picked up a newspaper and pushed it across the table so Derek could read the headline.

ANIMAL RIGHTS FACTION CLAIMS KILLINGS

Derek smiled. The two–inch headline spanned the page. He hadn't had a chance to see a newspaper yet, but the article was top of the fold and perfect. “I was afraid they'd bury it.”

The youngest of the Native Americans stood up. “My name is Adam Standing Bear. You've jeopardized years of effort, Mr. Baxter. We have legislation working through the court system. We can't afford to have public sentiment turned against us.”

Derek bristled. The raid the night before on the road equipment had been successful. They'd managed to pretty much destroy two huge earth movers and fuck up the wiring on some other equipment, which would grind the roadwork to a halt, at least for a few days.

“I don't know why you think I've jeopardized anything.” He tapped the paper. “Before this, I couldn't get the name of Workers for Animal Rights in the classified section if I bought an ad. Every person in this county hunts or benefits from hunting in one way or another. WAR is dedicated to stopping the use of animals for human entertainment and sport, and we're willing to do whatever it takes to get there.”        

“Even kill people?” Adam asked.

The men were watching him, completely expressionless. Derek had only one ace, and he intended to use it. He'd drawn a line, clearly separating those who killed animals for pleasure from the rest of mankind. “Those two men weren't humans. They happened to walk upright, and they looked like men, but they weren't. They were culls, rejects of humanity, men who deserved to be pulled from the human race. Let's just hope we got them before they bred.”

“Your rhetoric is strident, Mr. Baxter.” Adam took a deep breath. “Your
claim
to the killings will bring law enforcement agents all over this area, and us, as they search for you. The things we've been working on for the last four years are at risk because of you.”

Derek felt a bubble of interest. Native American support could be huge. “What things?”

Adam shook his head. “Things no white man can truly understand.”

“Bullshit. You just don't trust me.”

Adam's smile was slight. “You speak the truth, white man.”

Derek's insulted pride was tempered by his admiration for Adam. “Tell me and maybe we could throw in together. WAR has a tough bunch of dedicated members.” He punched the paper. “And we're not afraid to take action.”

The four men stared at him. He felt anger flush his skin. They acted like they were the judge and jury of how to stop the destruction of the earth. Just because they were Native Americans, they didn't have any god–given solutions to anything, yet they were going to disapprove of him and his tactics. At least he and WAR were doing something.

“Have you ever heard of a creature that roams the wilderness?” Adam asked.          

Derek rolled his eyes. “What? Big Foot? Are you telling me you think Big Foot killed those guys?”

Not a single eye blinked.

“Sasquatch is a legend based on fact. As most legends are.” Adam's voice was controlled. “But that isn't what I speak of. There is something in the Black Hills. Something unsettled by the road cutting through the mountains. Something unhappy with the human race.”

Despite knowing he was being manipulated, Derek felt a shiver. “Cut the crap. Tell me your plan and I'll try to help or I'm outta here.”

“Our plan is to hold a ceremony to try and placate the angry spirit.”

Derek studied Adam. He had the classic good looks, the physique, the long braids that marked him as a Sioux warrior, and he played his part to perfection. “Man, you're full of shit.” He shook his head. “I'm not interested in stories used to scare kids around the campfire.”

“The Skin Dancer isn't a legend, Mr. Baxter. It's very real, and if you doubt it, you can ask Deputy Redmond to let you see the autopsy photographs of the two dead men.”

“The men were killed, but I happen to know that it wasn't some “Skin Dancer” who did it. Because WAR has claimed responsibility. We skinned those hunters.”

The four men stared at him in silence. He could read nothing on their faces and thought again of the Indian Mt. Rushmore.

He walked to the door. “If you want our help, call me. Otherwise, lose my number. I've got a press release to write. The national media is finally interested in hearing what WAR is all about.”

# # #

The two huge bulldozers smoldered, black smoke rising in a straight column on the windless day. The destruction was complete. They'd been professionally burned, and several other pieces of equipment had been crippled by butane torch attacks on their electrical systems. Rachel began the work of looking for evidence that was scarce at best and most likely non–existent. This on top of the newspaper headline where a faction of terrorist animal rights people claimed the brutal killings of Hank Welford and the second man who'd just been identified as Ashton Trussell, a plastic surgeon from Boston.

Rachel had been in the process of checking Trussels' background when she'd gotten pulled out on the arson at the road site. She and Gordon felt the two cases were linked. She just had to figure out how.

Insurance investigators would be there before the morning was over, and they'd expect a preliminary report and some progress toward catching the vandals who'd trashed a half million dollars worth of machinery.

Frankie Jackson wheeled onto the scene, gravel spraying, and Rachel had to resist the impulse to avoid her. Instead, she walked to the big three–quarter ton pickup and waited for Frankie to get off her cell phone and step out.

“Damn it, the man I'd hired to stay up here with the equipment must have left.” Frankie glared at the ruined machines. “Damn it all to hell.”

“At least no one was hurt.” Rachel expected to be ridiculed for such pabulum. “I'll need the watchman's name.” She took it down as Frankie spelled it for her. This was a lead Scott could check out.

Frankie blew out a large breath as she stared at the wreckage. “You're right. It could be worse. You think this is connected to the murders?”  

Rachel fell into step beside Frankie as she began to inspect the damage. “I know you've seen the paper and WAR has claimed responsibility for the murders. But this vandalism looks more like the work of that group. From the research I've done on such militant eco–groups, I wouldn't put them down for the murders, but this, hell yes.”

“I don't really get it.” Frankie waved a hand at the damage. “We're not hurting animals.”

Rachel glanced off into the distance where the trees were so thick they looked impenetrable. “When you destroy forest land, you affect the animals.”

“They're vandals at best and murderers at worst.” Frankie started walking toward her crew. “This will set us back a week or more. Not to mention that half my crew is threatening to quit.”

“Scott's working to locate members of WAR. They've been around here for the past year, but so far they've just protested hunting season, scared a few hunters in the woods, stolen a few vehicles and dumped them in a ditch.” She shrugged. “It's a big step from harassment to murder.”

“I want them arrested.”

“That makes two of us.” She didn't say that WAR had also been effective in hiding the identity of its members. Then again, the Criss County Sheriff's Department hadn't really pursued them. So a few hunters had been scared and had to walk out of the woods. It wasn't a high priority. Even in Criss County there were better ways to spend departmental time.

“Can you identify the membership of the group?” Frankie asked.

“It's going to take awhile. The truth is, it could be any number of young people in the area. There's a lot of wilderness with hunting camps and cabins where they could be meeting. Profiles of these groups show that members are  generally from respectable families. We'll get a lead on them.” If WAR fit the description of most radical groups, they were young, disaffected kids from upper–income families who wanted to change the world—immediately and without regard for the rights of others.

“This isn't petty vandalism,” Frankie said. She fitted a hard hat over her shining hair. “This is arson and property damage at nearly half a million dollars.”