Skin Dancer

by Haines, Carolyn

  Outside a gust of wind whipped a branch into the building. Both women looked toward the front door.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “You never saw who shot you?”

  “The bullet went in here.” Frankie pulled her hair back to show her scalp just above her forehead. “It came out over here.” She knew the scar was faint and it was unlikely Rachel could see it. “Small caliber, the same that matched the holes in the target.”

  “So Mel and Gordon figured that someone was practice shooting and a stray round got you?”

  “That’s right. The damage from the bullet and resulting swelling affected the part of my brain that controlled motor skills and memory. I don’t remember anything. When I came to, I didn’t know my own mother. I lost my father in more ways than death.”

  “How did you get home?” Rachel stared at the towel in her hands.

  “I can’t say. All I know is that Mother told me everyone was looking for Dad and me. Gordon and the search and rescue were out. Mel had mobilized all the volunteers to comb the state lands. She said she looked out the kitchen window and saw Dolly, my horse, slowly walking toward the house. I’d somehow managed to get up in the saddle and hang on to the horn. Dolly brought me home. Dad’s horse was never found. Never a trace of him anywhere, except for those tracks leading to a horse trailer.”

  “Jesus, Frankie.” Rachel wiped her forehead with her palm.

  “Hey, it’s not as bad as it could be. I don’t remember any of it. Everything I told you is only what my mother told me. My childhood, except for an occasional flash or a splinter of memory or emotion, is simply gone.” She tapped her head. “I started life at twelve with a clean slate.”

  “And your dad? Nothing ever turned up?”

  Frankie inhaled slowly. “I have this one picture of him. I don’t even know if it’s real or if it’s something I saw on TV and incorporated as my own.” She swallowed. “It’s hard not to have memories like other kids. But in this image, I see my dad. His name was Dub. I see him lifting me into a saddle on a horse. His eyes are blue like the South Dakota sky, and he’s laughing and telling me I’m going to be the best cowgirl ever born. Mother said I was really good. Dad preferred working the cattle with me over the ranch hands because I was so adept at cutting.”

  Rachel pushed her hair back. “I feel like I’m playing forty questions with your life, but why did your mom move down to Alabama?”

  “I want you to know this, because in some ways we share a lot. We’ve both lost our parents. We’ve both grown up and made something of ourselves. We both had to learn to be tough. And I’d rather you hear it from me. That way I know you got the straight story—or at least as straight as my mother’s version can be. When they got me down off Dolly, I couldn’t walk or talk. The local doctor wanted to send me to a brain center in Omaha, but Mother had family in Montgomery. We went there so her sister could help. The therapy was intensive and it took a lot of physical work. I had to learn to sit up, to crawl, to stand. I was like a baby.”

  Frankie realized her tone had gotten harsher. “I hate to think of those years. It’s humiliating not being able to go to the toilet without help. I was deaf at first. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even ask for water. It took months of intensive therapy. My mother and aunt devoted their lives to helping me heal, and in the end I think the stress of it all took a toll. Mom died of a heart attack.”

  Rachel put a hand on her arm. “To look at you, no one would ever think you’d been through anything worse than a bad hair day. Frankie, I’m amazed at you.”

  “Survival is the strongest primal instinct, Rachel. I didn’t do anything spectacular. I merely did what we’re all biologically programmed to do. I survived.”

  “A lot of biologically programmed humans would’ve given up. You’re a superb athlete. You didn’t just learn to walk again, you’re an advertisement for fitness.”

  Frankie stood abruptly, fueled by a surge of impatient energy. Whenever she inched too close to emotion, her body demanded action. She paced the area. “I made a promise to myself that I’d never feel helpless again. I won’t.” She faced Rachel. “I won’t.”

  Rachel rose also. “I don’t know what I could do, Frankie, but if you want me to look at the old case files on your dad’s disappearance, I will.”

  Frankie stopped. “No one has ever offered to do that. After the initial investigation and the fake leads that never panned out, folks assumed that Dad had abandoned the family. It was hard times. Like a lot of other ranchers, Dad was overextended, and the bank was going to foreclose. We moved south, and folks let it slide into the past.”

  “It’s hard to let go of something until you know the truth. Once we find Welford’s killer, I’ll look into your dad’s disappearance.” Rachel picked up her towel. “It’s late. I need to get some sleep. I’m going to be out in the wilderness looking for Mullet and Burl.”

  “If he shows at the job site, I’ll give you a holler, but Mullet doesn’t work regular. In fact, best I can tell, he prefers not to work at all.”

  Frankie followed Rachel to the front door. “If it’s okay, I’m going to stay another half hour and do some stretches. I’ll lock up.”

  “Enjoy yourself.” Rachel opened the door and was almost pulled into the street by a gust of wind.

  She ran to her truck and was backing out of the lot when Frankie waved her to a halt and ran to the driver’s window. “Rachel, I had another dinner party tonight. Investors for Paradise. Justine Morgan, the cardiologists’ daughter, I could be wrong, but she might be a place to start with WAR.”

  “Justine Morgan? She graduated from Yale or some Ivy League school and came back home, right?”

  Frankie nodded. “I’m not trying to interfere—”

  “It’s okay. Why would Justine be messing with WAR?”

  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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  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.