Skin Dancer (12 page)

Frankie shrugged one shoulder. “Because she's always had everything handed to her and never had to work for a damn thing. I think her heart's in the right place. Look, I understand the objections to the road. I do. It's hard to imagine what this area will be like in fifty years with growth and development. But it's coming, and I'm trying to make sure there's at least some wilderness left to preserve.”

“I'll check her out.” Rachel put the truck in reverse. “Thanks for the tip.”

“I could be wrong about Justine. She's a beautiful young woman with passionate political views.” She shrugged. “Since when is that a crime?”

“That's not a crime. Burning two bulldozers is.”

Frankie stepped back as the truck reversed and then slowly pulled onto the empty, windswept road.

 

Derek awoke to rain pelting his face. When he tried to sit up, a wave of nausea forced him back onto the cold, sodden ground. He couldn't remember where he was or how he got into the woods. He only knew that he was hurt, perhaps seriously.

The rain was freezing and he shifted in the mud. He could move his legs and arms, even though he felt as if he'd been savagely beaten by someone.

Or some thing.

The images of a creature, furry and malformed, tumbled in his head, bringing with them a full jolt of terror. He'd seen something. Something evil.

He eased up on one elbow, scrambled to his knees and finally gained his feet. Unsteady, he leaned against a tree trunk. When he started to walk, he found a rope around his right ankle.

As he slowly bent to remove the rope, he remembered.

Someone had trapped him. The snare had been set using a bent tree as leverage. Once he was in the trap, the tree had been released. As it straightened, it had yanked him off his feet. He'd been caught like a wild animal, hung upside down and knocked in the head while he dangled helplessly.

Yet he was still alive.

Why?

Why wasn't he dead like the two poachers?

His thoughts were still jumbled, but he had the presence of mind to look around the rain–drenched woods. Was the thing that had hurt him still around? To escape the area, he had to remember the way he'd come.

He'd followed the Indian into the woods. That's why he was in unfamiliar territory. The Indian had led him into areas that were new to him where the lay of the land was unknown. Some motherfucker had set a man trap. And then the Indian had vanished, like a mirage.

Derek shook violently and not just from the cold. He had to remember the way he'd come in, but all of the landmarks were gone, diffused by the rain and the black night. Trying to calm himself, he rationalized that the person who'd caught him meant for him to escape. Hell, someone had cut him down. Otherwise, why hadn't he been killed when he was helpless?

He stumbled from one large tree trunk to another, headed vaguely in a downhill direction. Without the moon and stars, he was navigating blind. But he couldn't stand still. He couldn't wait for the trapper to return and finish what he'd begun.

Wet tree limbs slapped him in the face, and each step made his head throb painfully, but he stayed on his feet and kept moving.

When he stumbled on a path, he almost couldn't believe his luck. He didn't remember it from his trip into the woods, yet here it was, wide enough for a four–wheeler or Jeep. It would take him to civilization, sooner or later. As long as he kept moving, kept his body temperature up with exertion, he'd make it. He couldn't think about brain damage or concussions or anything negative. He was on the trail home. That's what he had to tell himself, until he made it come true.

Somewhere in another lifetime, he'd asked Justine to meet him for dinner and to plan another assault on the road equipment. She'd looked at him with more respect, because the first raid had gone without a single hitch. He'd finally begun to make some headway with her. But then she'd said she had dinner plans. And she hadn't elaborated.

He trudged on, picturing Justine, with her dark auburn hair and moon–touched complexion. She came from money, which made her secure. And she was smart, which made her difficult. But those things didn't bother him, because she was beautiful, and if he could ever get her to see him as a dynamic leader, then maybe she'd see him as a date, too. Or even as a boyfriend.

He pictured her standing down the trail, waiting for him. All he had to do was walk to her. Using Justine as the reward, he bribed himself to move forward.

He'd just rounded a corner when he saw her twenty yards ahead, this time in a pale gown, something almost flesh colored. She'd be cold in the rain, and he fantasized gathering her into his arms and sheltering her from the elements.

He stumbled along, and when he looked up again, Justine was much closer. Except she was dangling in the air three feet above the ground.

His heart registered that something was wrong long before his brain accepted it. But the object suspended from the tree limb wasn't Justine. It was a pale, nude body hanging upside down. It took a moment to realize the corpse was decapitated.

His shriek echoed against the rain–soaked ridges of the wilderness. Unable to stop himself, he screamed again.

He turned to run, but he'd barely scrambled five yards before he realized that to go back into the woods would mean his own death.

He had to go past the headless cadaver to get to civilization. He stood for a long moment, the rain sluicing off his face and running cold into the collar of his shirt. He was numb, but he managed to force his legs forward. He had to get by the body. The rain dripped into his eyes, and he lowered his head.

“Who–who–whoooooo!”

The owl's question drove a spike of fear into him, firming his resolve to get out of the wilderness. He ricocheted off a tree and ran. He tripped, but he kept going, picking up speed as his limbs thawed.

When he saw his ATV sitting in the middle of the road, he stopped. It was possible it was a trap. He glanced all around, aware that an army could be hidden in the dense forest, and he'd never be able to figure it out.

He decided to run for it. When he made it to the ATV, he couldn't believe his luck. His keys were still in his pocket.

He didn't question it, didn't wait at all. He straddled the machine as quickly as he could, started it and roared in a tight circle, headed toward the main road and help.

# # #

Strange that it was the absence of wind and rain that woke Rachel. She'd been asleep for less than two hours, and her eyes felt like sand had been rubbed in them.

She pulled back her bedroom curtains and looked out on a dawn tinted with the purest pink and gold. Summer mornings in Bisonville, with the Black Hills warming under the sun, could match the beauty of any place in the world.

The only reminders of last night's violent storm were wet asphalt and the crystal drops that accumulated on the shrubs outside her window.

She'd begun to brush her teeth when her cell phone rang. She scrambled to the bedside table and captured it, answering quickly.

“It's Gordon. We've got a situation. I need you at the S.O.”

“Give me ten minutes.” She showered, twisted her wet hair into a knot, threw on her uniform and headed to the sheriff's office. 

When she pulled up, she knew trouble was brewing. The news van from WKKT in Rapid City was there, as well as camera crews from Sioux Falls and Pierre. A couple of reporter types she didn't recognize were milling around, too. The story had just gone from local to regional, and national crews were probably heading their way. It had to be another murder. Mullet Bellows and Burl Mascotti. Had the two missing men been found skinned and decapitated?

Her mouth was dry, and she paused for water from the fountain when she got inside the courthouse. She walked into the S.O., feeling like a deer caught in the headlight glare of the sheriff, Jake, Scott and Marston.

She stopped and waited.

The sheriff dropped the local paper on her desk. Moving forward, she picked it up and scanned the front page. KILLER STRIKES AGAIN, the headline blared. Skimming through the article, she felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The anonymous leader of WAR, in an exclusive interview, claimed responsibility for another murder. He said he would call the sheriff's office at seven to give directions to the body.

“Until the campaign to destroy the wilderness ceases,” he was quoted as saying, “WAR will continue to strike at poachers, the road crew and anyone else who endangers the last vestiges of a natural environment for wild creatures.”

“Dad has volunteered to lead the search for Mullet and Burl. The sheriff has something else for you,” Jake said. “You did everything you could have done last night, Rachel. We're on top of this, but it's going to look bad in the media.”

She put the paper on the top of her desk and looked at the telephone. As if obeying her command, it rang.

Before she could answer, the sheriff snatched it up. Rachel hurried to the extension to start a trace.

Gordon cleared his throat. “We'd like a chance to talk to you. Maybe we can negotiate—” He removed the receiver from his ear and replaced it in the cradle. “He hung up.”

“No time for a trace,” Rachel said. “He was calling from a cell phone, though.”

The sheriff handed her the paper with directions. “I want you to locate the body. Take Marston with you and work the crime scene, then get back here as soon as you hand off the body to forensics. You, Scott, get your ass in gear and get to the newspaper. Find out what you can.”

He turned to face Jake. “In the meantime, you and Mel take the volunteers up around Lost Creek. As of this minute, Mullet is only missing. Some of his buddies said he talked about camping up there.”

Rachel started to say that she didn't think WAR was responsible for the murders. The group was taking advantage of someone else's twisted impulses. One look at Gordon's face, though, and she realized that now wasn't the time. He didn't want to hear her theories. He didn't want to hear anything except results. His physical disability forced him to stay behind in the office, and that wasn't sitting well with him.

Gladys, the dispatcher, walked over to the desk. “You're not gonna like this, Sheriff, but a reporter from
Time
wants to talk to you. She said she was booking a flight. And there are three more reporters on hold. They've got all the lines tied up. They want to know what the killer said. They want—”

“Tell them to kiss my ass,” Gordon said.

Jake stepped forward, nodding at Rachel. “Wait. Talk to them, Gordon. The one thing you don't need now is for the media to crawl up your back questioning every decision we make. If that happens, there'll be a major panic. You can make this work for you.”

Gordon nodded. “You're right. I'll tell them we'll release a statement as soon as we have something to say.” He looked at Rachel. “Why are you still standing here? Oh, yeah, Frankie Jackson has volunteered to track for you. She'll meet you outside.”

Rachel executed an about face and left the office, Marston at her side. She was glad the volunteer was going with her.

“The sheriff is really pissed,” Marston said. “This doesn't look good for him, folks being murdered and hung in the woods. Especially not with him all involved in that new high–tech community. I heard he's one of the investors. That whole deal could go sour if folks are afraid to live around here.”

Rachel handed the directions to Marston. “I'll drive, you navigate. Let's get this done.” 

 

Frankie tapped on the driver's window and realized she'd startled Rachel. She offered an apologetic grin and held up a camera.

When Rachel rolled down the glass, Frankie leaned forward. “Gordon said I might be helpful as a tracker.”

Marston gave her a look that told her he appreciated the faded jeans that molded to her body and the thermal shirt that clung to her back and breasts. Though her wardrobe was casual, it was selected with thought.

“Hop in.” Rachel signaled to the back seat. “We're headed up toward Granite Gulch.”

Frankie slipped into the vehicle, nodding at Marston as she closed the door. The set of Rachel's head and the rigidity of her shoulders spoke volumes about the pressure she was under. “I hope I can help,” Frankie said.

“We can use all the help we can get,” Marston said. “If it's anything like the last one, though, it ain't gonna be pretty.”

“Gordon said there was a decapitated body?” She left the question open. This third murder had caught her completely off–guard. She had to get to the crime scene—to see it for herself—before the law officials dismantled it. There were things to be learned from the scene.

“That's what the spokesman for WAR is saying.” Rachel kept her eyes on the road as she drove fast on the wet asphalt.

Frankie preferred to drive, especially at high speeds. The storm had blown debris around the town, and Rachel dodged trash cans and torn awnings. She was skillful behind the wheel.

“You really think those WAR folks are killing people?” Frankie asked.

“I don't know. We'll be able to tell more when we get there.”

Frankie nodded. “True. I know these woods. I studied all the geographic maps when Belker was planning the construction. I even know some shortcuts that aren't on the forestry maps.” She checked the small, expensive camera she held. “And Gordon asked me to document the crime scene for him until the Rapid City crew gets there.”

“That's a good idea.” Marston grinned at Frankie. “You're gonna be a big help.”

When Rachel didn't say anything, Frankie put a hand on the back of her seat. “I'm not some voyeur or curiosity seeker, Rachel. My career is riding on this project. My crew is losing its nerve. If I can't keep them working, the roadway is history. If this crew shuts down, I'm screwed. I want to go along to help. And I am a good tracker.”