Skin Dancer (16 page)

Justine knew a lot about the killings. Was it possible… He couldn't finish the thought. Justine, with her milky white complexion and auburn hair that caught the sunlight. She was so delicate. But he knew that was only the physical shell. Mentally, Justine was the toughest person he knew. Of all of the WAR activists, she was the most dedicated, the most passionate. The smartest.

He pushed his body off the sofa and limped to the door. He had to find out details. If Justine had done this thing, it would fall on him to protect her. She might come to value him at last.    

# # #

Rachel stood in front of the empty cage. She wasn't a professional trapper, but she could read what had happened at this scene. She saw the footsteps leading from the cage and then the bloody area where the animal had brought down its prey and begun to devour him. It didn't take a whole lot of skill or imagination to put together the sequence of events. What she didn't know was what kind of animal had been in the cage in the first place, and who had opened the lock on the door. She had a pretty good idea that the victim was one of the two missing men, but which one? And where was the other one?

“Rachel, take a look at this.” Jake pointed to a bit of fluff on the side of the cage. Black fur.

She held out an evidence bag and he dropped it in. As she lifted it to the sun, she saw that it was sleek. A cat and not a bear.

“Are black panthers indigenous here?” she asked.

“Maybe a hundred years ago.” Jake looked at the tuft of fur. “Sure looks like a panther, though.”

“Fucking hunters.” She swore softly. “They shoot them in the cage or drug them, Jake.”

“If one of them got eaten by the cat, he got what he deserved.”

She was already wearing latex gloves, and she bent to retrieve the busted lock and chain that had been used to secure the cage door. She put them in another evidence bag for fingerprinting.

“Who would deliberately let a wild cat free?” Jake asked. He walked around the cage, examining it from all angles.

She stood up. “They had to bring this cage in here on some kind of four–wheel drive truck. I got some plaster casts of the tracks. They weren't even close to the tracks we got at the mannequin scene.” She looked down at the blood soaked ground. “You really think this is what happened to Burl or Mullet?”

“I do.” Jake motioned her over to the ATV. “Once we get the tracking dogs up here I think we're going to find what's left of one of those men.”

The walkie–talkie on Rachel's hip vibrated and she pulled it out. Since they didn't have contact with the S.O., she knew it had to be Wilt calling. Scott had headed back to town to report the situation to Gordon. “Go ahead, over.”

“Rachel,” Wilt's voice crackled through the static. “We found an ATV down the trail about a mile. Looks like the driver wrecked it. And there're signs of someone being dragged off.”

The mental pictures forming in Rachel's mind weren't pretty. Her reading of the scene, so far, was that either Burl or Mullet had been attacked by the panther. The other man had attempted to flee on an ATV. “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

She found Jake marking the blood trail. “Wilt and Marston found an all–terrain. I'm going to check it out. Will you secure this crime scene for me?” She was asking him to remain at a scene she'd worked.

“Whatever I can do to help, Rachel.” He threw her the keys to his ATV. “Take it.”

“Thanks.” Rachel straddled the machine and roared down the steep slope.

The two search and rescue volunteers were beside a mud–covered ATV that had coasted into a big pine. The trail was clear. What had caused the driver of the machine to wreck it?

“You're not going to like this,” Wilt said as he walked to a young spruce. She went over to see what he was pointing at. The slender coil of wire was all but covered by the fallen needles and fronds of the trees. Using her toe to kick the debris off the wire, she followed it to the other side of the trail. Boot prints could clearly be seen at the base of a huge fir.

“Someone stood right there and waited for that four–wheeler to come down the trail. Then he pulled that wire tight and clothes–lined the driver.” Marston blew out his breath. “Look here. There's blood, and it looks like someone was dragged into the trees.”

Rachel read the scene exactly as Marston had. Once the driver of the ATV had been knocked off, he'd been hauled through the underbrush.

“Let's see where the trail leads us.”

Marston shook his head gloomily. “I followed it. It goes back to the main trail at a small gully. Looks like someone had a truck parked there. They loaded up whoever they were dragging and took off. The rain washed most everything useful away.”

“Well, shit.” Rachel wanted to punch something. “Whoever is doing this planned it carefully. He's always one step ahead of us.”

“If that foot belongs to Burl, what happened to Mullet? Or vice versa?” Marston asked. His long face twitched. “I don't like to think what might be happening. Could be the Skin Dancer is at work on ‘em right now.”

Rachel knelt to examine the boot print at the base of the fir. She marked it for casting. “The question is why? And why now? Why Hank Welford? Why Mullet Bellows? Why Burl Mascotti? They're low–life poachers, but they've poached for years. Why are they being targeted now?”

Marston pulled a plug of tobacco out of his pocket. “What are we going to do?”

“Get some molds of those boot prints by the tree. Bag the wire. Get the VIN number off the ATV. We'll need some tracking dogs, too.”

Wilt nodded, but his expression said most plainly that he had no faith in the efforts Rachel was making. “Almost makes you want to believe that whatever is doing this ain't human.”

The skin along Rachel's neck prickled. “Don't start talking supernatural. We've got to keep our heads here.”

“There's lots of old legends and stories about spirits that live in the Black Hills.”

“I'm going to talk to the Sioux this afternoon. I'll be curious to hear the legend of the Skin Dancer, but I tell you, whoever is doing this is flesh and blood. They might be clever enough to mimic some ghost story, but this killer is human. And a very smart human at that.”

Marston nodded again. “I'll see about them dogs.”

“Thanks.” She headed back up the trail, unable to stop herself from searching out the pockets of dark shadows among the trees.

 

Sitting in the passenger seat of the big dually, Rachel admired the way Frankie handled her truck over the rutted road. They'd left behind a large herd of bison grazing in grassy prairie before twisting and turning into the empty moonscape of the Badlands. Rachel watched the scenery pass by. She'd visited the Badlands numerous times, but the stark beauty of the undulating hills and canyons never failed to awe her. The shades of umber, coral, peach, and mauve, shifting constantly as the sunlight changed, disguised the deadliness of a sharp land eroded and worn by centuries of wind and rain. Beautiful, yes, but inhospitable to mammals.

“Where are we meeting Mr. Standing Bear?” Rachel asked.

“At Table Butte. I know Gordon didn't think this was a valuable use of your time, but I'm confident you'll get a lot out of talking to Adam. He knows more about the history and folklore of this area than anyone alive.”

“I'm not really interested in
stories
about skin dancers.” Rachel shifted in her seat. But if the killer was using the legend as the spine for his
modus operandi,
that was another matter. While Frankie had done her best to ward off suspicions about the Native American, Rachel was eager to meet Adam and evaluate him for herself.

The butte was located on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation of the Oglala Sioux. Though the tribe had once owned the plains, Badlands and Black Hills, they'd eventually been confined on the reservation. Looking at the land it was impossible not to think of the long, bloody history of the Sioux and the European settlers who'd taken their land.

“What do you make of the foot and Burl and Mullet's disappearance?” Frankie asked.

Rachel was transfixed by the landscape, but she'd also been observing Frankie. Her chiseled face showed no ill effects from a nearly sleepless night. 

“To be honest, I think they're both dead. What has Gordon told you?”

“Not much, only what the media knows. The foot belongs to which one?” Frankie asked.

“Burl. We identified the boot. He'd just bought a pair at Zimlich's Dry Goods that a hiker had ordered and failed to pick up. He was so proud of those high–tech hiking boots he showed them to everyone he knew.”

“Then there's no doubt Burl is dead. So where is Mullet?”

Rachel had no answer. Volunteers had combed the area for several hours. “We found a place where it looks like he was clothes–lined off his ATV and dragged for a distance. Then the trail disappears. Jake and the sheriff took dogs up there, but nothing. No sign of the remainder of Burl's body or Mullet or the black panther that escaped. Whoever is doing this has planned this out to the last detail.”

Frankie downshifted for a steep incline. They were moving deeper and deeper into the raw beauty of the Badlands. In the afternoon light, Frankie reminded Rachel of a big cat, relaxed and powerful. It was part of Frankie's allure, Rachel realized. She presented the soft finish of Alabama, but beneath it was Badland granite.

“Jake told me some facts, and of course, gossip is flying, but I got enough to figure out that Burl and Mullet had a big cat in a cage for one of their canned hunts,” Frankie said. “How'd the cat get loose?”

“Another question without an answer. The lock was smashed. Someone deliberately opened the cage.” Rachel leaned against the passenger door so she could talk more easily. “Frankie, do you think it's possible the Sioux are behind this? I know I asked you before, but please give it some consideration.”

“Anything is possible, Rachel, but why? Why now?”

“The road?” The long hours and sleepless nights were beginning to take a toll on Rachel. She felt bruised, like a peach that had rolled around in a basket. She fought the weariness back. “Maybe the Sioux are trying to stop the four–lane. I mean each step toward development is one step away from the sacredness of the land and the animals.”

Frankie slowed the truck and eventually stopped on a small rise. “That's true. But everyone has to survive here, Rachel. Tourism, the casinos, the Sioux are dependent on access, too. I'm not saying there isn't a faction of traditionalists who are fighting the road. That's my job, to make sure their objections are heard and considered. But you can't look at the Sioux as only one thing. They're complex.”

Rachel nodded. “I'm at a disadvantage out here sometimes. Growing up in the city…” She waved a hand at the window. “I love this as much as anyone can, but I don't have a claim to it. I didn't know it twenty years ago, or even ten. Even so, I understand how someone could want to protect it and keep it pristine.”

Frankie let the truck idle as she stared out the front window. “Once you meet Adam, you'll understand some things better. I think the goals of some of the Sioux are misunderstood. They want to protect their rights, but Adam knows violence isn't the route to take.” She flashed a grin. “But remember, it's in my best interest if you don't view Adam as a suspect, because if the finger of blame points at the Sioux, then it's only going to complicate the road project in ways that'll make my head spin around in circles.”

As Rachel relaxed into the comfortable leather seat, she felt the need for sleep closing down on her again. She let her eyelids drift shut. Frankie was so easy to be around. She was smart and upfront in a way that many women weren't. It made Rachel realize that she'd missed the companionship of a girlfriend. Someone to confide in. To laugh with.

“You need to get some rest, Rachel. You look tired. We're not far now.”

Rachel nodded. It had been a hard week. Not the hardest she'd ever endured, but difficult enough. Right now, though, the sunshine was warm, and the movement of the truck, the heat—it was all so lulling. That and she felt comfortable in Frankie's company. She admired Frankie. She'd overcome obstacles that would have stopped most people. She was smart and generous. And best of all, competent. 

Frankie spoke, her voice soft and lilting with the inflections of the South. “I knew Hank and Mullet. The world is probably a better place without them. But why them?”

“That's the million dollar question, isn't it? Because they were poachers? Now that's an interesting motive, but why not just shoot them and make it look like a hunting accident? Someone went to a lot of trouble to kill Hank Welford. Mullet is still missing, but I feel certain he's dead. I think Dr. Trussell and Burl Mascotti are collateral damage. And I think it somehow involves this Paradise development.”

“Listen, I'm in charge of the media for the big Paradise investors meeting tonight. You might learn something interesting if you attend. You can be my guest.”

As much as Rachel hated the idea, and as tired as she was, she knew it was an opportunity she couldn't pass up. “Thanks, Frankie. I'll be there.”

They turned off onto a dirt trail that rose swiftly on sharp switchbacks. “We're not far now. Listen, Rachel, Jake told me a bit about your past. I know your dad was absent and your mom died when you were sixteen. It's hard to clear that feeling of loss and abandonment. We're almost like sisters in that regard. Grieving and worry killed my mom. I survived, but from what I've been told, I'm not the Frances Jackson that she raised for eleven years.”

“How are you different?”

Frankie shrugged. “I became driven. It's what I had to do to overcome the damage to my body. I focused on accomplishment. First it was speaking, then walking, then—” She jerked the wheel to avoid a washout. “I didn't have time for anything except the next step in recovery, and from there, the next step toward a life. Since I've been back here in Criss County, I've been trying hard to live a little instead of adding notches to my belt. Hang on, we're there.”