She turned on the coffee pot, desperate for some caffeine to jolt her brain into action. While the coffee brewed, she took a shower and put on her uniform. Her pants fit loosely, an indication of the toll the past week had taken. Even though her stomach was jittery from lack of food, she didn’t have the time or the desire to eat. Her dream had put her off food. She poured a go cup of black coffee and headed out.
As she passed the mirror in her hallway, she saw the writing.
“Back off or Jake dies.” Beneath the words, written in bright red lipstick, was the same kind of bolo tie Jake wore every day with his uniform.
She reached out for the tie but stopped. Instead, her fingertip touched the bright lipstick. She knew who it belonged to. The idea that Frankie had slipped inside while she slept made her catch her breath. Then again, she hadn’t turned on the lights last night. The message could have been there all along.
“Back off or Jake dies.”
Frankie had Jake.
It made perfect sense, in a sick and deadly way. It also confirmed that Frankie had broken into her cottage and left the shepardess and picture. Frankie knew everything about her life—because she’d made it a point to.
Rachel felt the coffee rise up in her stomach. She rushed to the bathroom just in time. When she wiped her face with a cool wash cloth, she couldn’t face her own reflection. Still holding the washcloth to her lips she went to the telephone. She had to call Gordon and tell him. She’d tried to handle the case by herself, and now Jake had been taken by a killer who had murdered four, maybe five men. Not only murdered but cruelly tortured.
As she reached for the phone, it rang.
“Rachel.” Frankie’s voice was lazy, amused. “I figured by now you’d found the message I left for you.”
“Is Jake alive?” Rachel countered.
“Oh, he’s very much alive. He’s not happy, but he’s alive.”
“Have you hurt him?”
“You should listen instead of asking so many questions.”
“I want to talk to him.” Rachel heard her heartbeat roaring in her ears.
“You don’t trust me?” Frankie sounded sad.
“Let me talk to Jake.”
“Jake, darling, Rachel wants to speak with you.”
Rachel heard the sound of muffled cries, and she had to force herself to control her rapid breathing.
“Rachel!” Jake’s voice was hoarse.
“Jake! Are you hurt?”
“Don’t let her manipu–” His words were cut off by a scream.
Frankie came back on the line. “He’s such a bad boy to try and act so brave. Really, he’s not in a position to tell you what to do, Rachel, and I know how you hate that anyway.”
“What do you want?” Rachel asked.
“Nothing. I want you to do absolutely nothing. I’ve spent years putting every piece of this into place, and I have a few loose ends to clip. So I want to make sure you don’t do anything to muck it up.”
“Is Richard Jones alive?”
“That shouldn’t concern you right now.” Frankie’s tone had gotten harsh. “Jake is alive. That should be your focus. If you want him to stay that way you’d better back off.”
Rachel knew better than to argue. “I will.”
“Why is it that I don’t believe you, Rachel?”
“Richard is probably dead. Jake is alive; that’s where I should focus my energies.”
“Very logical deduction, but you aren’t a creature of logic, Rachel. That’s the whole problem. Had Scott Amos been put in charge of this case, as I anticipated, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“Don’t hurt Jake and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You care about him, don’t you? I’ve never loved anyone, or at least I don’t remember loving anyone. I’m incapable of love. That’s what the doctors told my mother. The bullet did so much damage. When there’s no love or happiness or tenderness, that leaves only revenge.”
“Jake never did anything to you, Frankie. Don’t hurt him.”
“So you think Jake is an innocent lamb. That’s amusing.”
Rachel almost bit, but she stopped herself. “Jake has been a good friend to me. His entire family has. I don’t want him to be hurt.”
“You might change your mind about some of that.”
Frankie was toying with her. “Tell me what I should do. I’m listening.”
“I’ve already told you. Do nothing. Go to work, act normal, tell no one. If you do what you’re told, I’ll let Jake go. I need time to get information. If you give me that time, I won’t harm Jake.”
“What kind of information, Frankie? Maybe I can help.”
“I want to know where my father is buried. They killed him. Hank, Mullet and Richard all confessed to my father’s murder. Now I have to find where his body is and clear his name.”
Rachel could hear Jake’s muffled protests. She put her fist to her mouth to stop the desire to threaten Frankie.
“Are you going to cooperate?” Frankie asked.
“Yes.” She choked out the word. “Whatever you say.”
“Good. Put the brakes on the entire investigation. Give me the time I need to finish. After that, I’ll leave and Jake will be alive.”
“You promise?” Rachel forced a plea into her voice. She had to convince Frankie she was cowed and beaten.
“Even if I did promise, you wouldn’t believe me, so I’ll make you this bargain. Mess with me, and I’ll send Jake back to you, bit by bit.”
The phone went dead in Rachel’s hand.
Her fingers gripped the receiver so tightly they wouldn’t release. She finally shook it free and flexed her hand. As the blood flow returned to her fingers, she rushed back to the toilet.
CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN
Harvey threw the five–hundred count Egyptian cotton sheet over Hank’s decaying head. He avoided any close examination. The head had obviously been frozen, and the thawing process was exceedingly unpleasant.
He bundled it up but then stopped. There was no way he could get it to his car without Jeremy or Bettina seeing him. Even the disappearance of the sheet would raise questions. He was a fucking prisoner in his own domain. The idea made him furious and he almost kicked the sheeted bundle on the ground. He couldn’t even go to the bunkhouse to get a shovel. That in itself would raise questions, because he’d never done a lick of yard work in his life.
He went to the flower beds that he’d paid to have installed. Digging tentatively with his hand, he began to scoop out the mulch. The going was much easier than he’d expected because the buried sprinkler system kept the ground moist. Jimmy Hoffa had disappeared—so could Hank’s head.
He dug furiously, throwing dirt and mulch in all directions, like a dog burying a bone. He had to be quick, before someone came looking for him. He had a press conference in Bisonville at 11 a.m. to announce the first architect’s rendering of Paradise. Since Richard was missing, he’d have to carry forth without him.
If Richard was dead? He pushed that question aside. Richard was the brains of the development. He had the vision to build the production plants where the workers would be employed. He had the patents on the technology that would make the whole city economically viable. Without Richard, would there be a Paradise? His hands slowed in the dirt.
For the first time, he noticed they were trembling.
He stood up and retrieved the sheet–wrapped head. He placed it in the hole he’d dug and began to replace the earth. He put the mulch back as neatly as he could, hoping that by the time the gardeners returned, they wouldn’t notice. Later, when things calmed down, he’d take care of the head permanently.
Once Hank’s head was buried, he felt better. He looked around the vista that he’d always found so restful. The four wranglers in the bunkhouse walked outside, their laughter drifting toward him on a gentle breeze. How had Frankie gotten past them? She was smarter than he’d given her credit. And more dangerous. Which meant he had to act now. Th
ere was no time to lose.
The sun had climbed over the hills that ringed the ranch. Warm sunshine mingled with the scent of conifer. To his right a field of sunflowers nodded on a breeze. She might be out there anywhere, sighting on him with a rifle.
He opened the sliding glass door and quickly stepped inside, drawing the shades closed behind him.
# # #
The sun finally warmed the cabin where Richard shivered in his boxer shorts. He needed to go to the bathroom in the worst kind of way, but there were no plumbing facilities. Pride, shame, something made him resist doing the necessary deed in the cabin. Pacing the old wooden floor, he thought that maybe Frankie would come and let him outside where there had to be an outhouse. The pressure in his bowels and bladder was comforting, in the sense that he could focus on this most immediate, urgent need and keep his mind off his likely fate.
He’d lain awake all night, thinking back to that long ago day when he’d reluctantly gone into the woods with Harvey Dilson and his two thugs to clench the support of several D.C. heavyweights for his concept of Paradise.
He’d been little more than a kid, a twenty–five–year–old nerd with no social skills, a master’s degree in computer technology from MIT, and a desire to create a city where everyone had a well–paid job and worked in pollution free conditions.
Early on, he’d been suspicious of Harvey’s interest in Paradise. At first, Harvey had pretended to care about the pollution factor and the classless society that Richard had envisioned. Practicality had been the bludgeon Harvey used to knock out parts of Paradise that Richard held dear. It was impractical to view a city where garbage men and school teachers made as much as corporate executives. It went against the American incentive of capitalism, Harvey had insisted.
Richard’s entire relationship with Harvey had been one long slide into the primordial swamp of greed, corruption, and for–sale–political influence that was the U.S. Congress.
On the day when Dub Jackson had been killed, Harvey had told Richard that he’d brought several influential money men to South Dakota so they could experience firsthand the beauty and pristine glory of the Black Hills.
In the sternest tone, Harvey had warned Richard that he had to get these men behind him, that the best bonding experience for men was a successful hunting expedition, that no one wanted to sweat to get a kill, and that he’d taken care of everything.
In that one moment, when Richard had stood with his hunting gear in hand, about to get into Harvey’s Land Rover, he’d changed the course of his life. He’d entered the car and lost his soul. Now, the account was past due and Frankie had come to collect. When she finally got there, it would be a relief.
When he thought of Justine, he didn’t want to live anyway. She was suffering now—was maybe even dead–because of him. Wrong time, wrong place, Harvey would say. But Richard knew differently. By some quirk of fate, Justine had begun to care for him. She’d hooked up with him to work him. He wasn’t totally naïve. She was a member of that group that wanted to stop the four–lane. A bit of “progress” that Harvey had insisted on, not Richard.
Justine had deliberately met him and seduced him because she meant to use him for her own means. But something else had happened. He could see it in her eyes. She’d seen beneath his multi–million dollar existence. She was manipulative and capable, but she also had great passion for the things she believed in.
Life had become so clear to Richard. His lack of commitment to other women, his inability to fall in love with anything except his dream of Paradise—all of it had to do with the fact that he’d always expected to be punished for what had happened to Dub and Frankie Jackson. He deserved to be punished.
He quickened his steps as a twist of pain shot through his gut. If Frankie didn’t come soon, he would humiliate himself. He’d never been a brave man, but he didn’t want to die surrounded by the stench of his own feces.
He went to the window, checking for the thousandth time the bars that held him inside. He paced the corner that served as a dining room/den. It was a very old cabin, made back when logs were notched to fit together, which only meant that he’d never be able to find a weak spot.
Except for maybe the roof. With the coming of daylight he could clearly see the beam construction of the interior. There was no insulation, and it looked as if it was plywood covered in, he would guess, cedar shingles. If he could get up there…
A sound outside the cabin made his heart surge. The impulse to run came over him, a blind need to move, to flee.
He forced himself to freeze and listen. The distinct sound of footsteps on the front porch told him someone was there.
Frankie.
It could be no one else. Men had been hunting in the woods for days trying to find Mullet without success. As much as he wanted to believe that someone had come to save him, he accepted that his life was coming to an end.
Footsteps moved across the boards of the porch.
He sat down in the chair, his back to the door. He wasn’t about to give her the pleasure of seeing his fear.
There was the rattle of a chain, then the sound of the door creaking open. Richard felt his eyes swell with tears, but he refused to turn around. He gripped the table and closed his eyes, beginning his last prayer for forgiveness.
# # #
“Rachel, have you heard from Jake?” The sheriff stood in front of her desk, a fact that hadn’t even registered on her until he spoke her name.
“Not this morning?” She kept her gaze on her desktop.
“He’s not answering his cell, and I thought for sure he would’ve been here by now. Mel hasn’t seen him, either. I’m calling in the feds. Harvey is dead set against it, but I don’t have the manpower or the resources to stage a hunt for Richard and track a killer. I wanted Jake here when I made the announcement.”
“Can you hold off for an hour or two?” She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. She wanted to tell him about Frankie, but she couldn’t. If Gordon or Mel tried to take action, Frankie would kill Jake. She didn’t trust that the sheriff would believe her, and if he didn’t, Jake would die.
“Why?” Gordon asked.
“Just give me two hours before you call in the feds. Let Derek Baxter out of jail and follow him. Could be he takes you to Richard’s abductor.”
Gordon studied her. “Two hours. That’s it.”
“Thanks.” She felt the knot around her lungs loosen. By the way, how is Justine Morgan?” she asked.
“Improving. They’re doing surgery this morning to repair her nose. They’re going to have to rebuild it completely, but she’s mighty lucky. None of the bone shards penetrated her brain.”
“That’s good news.”
“Two hours, Rachel. That’s it.”
Even though it was still early, she dialed the Montgomery number for Rebecca Clay. The voice that answered was soft with a pleasing cadence. She was only too happy to talk about Polly Jackson and her suspicions of what had happened to Frankie’s mother.
“She didn’t die,” Rebecca insisted. “She was fine that evening when I left her, and the next morning when I got there to work, they said she was gone. I read the funeral announcement in the paper, but Mrs. Polly didn’t die at all. That girl of hers snatched her up and took her away.”
Rachel rubbed at her arms. Ants crawled beneath her skin. Time was ticking by, ticking away. “Do you know where she might have taken her?”
“I do.” Rebecca’s voice was strong. “Briarwood Nursing Facility in Custer, South Dakota.”
Frankie felt as if time had frozen. “That’s only twenty minutes away. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I made it my business to see the boxes they had packed up in Mrs. Polly’s room. That’s where they were addressed to.”
“Mrs. Clay, time is very important. I can’t go over there looking for someone who isn’t there.”
“Well, I can’t swear she’s there right now, but she was there. I even called her once, but then the
y wouldn’t let me talk to her again. She was there and she was alive, and no one down here in Montgomery would listen to an old woman.”
“Thank you.” Frankie dropped the phone on her desk as she hurried toward the door.
# # #
Richard forced his spine erect as the door creaked open behind him. Footsteps shuffled toward him, and he imagined Frankie with a stun gun, ropes, or chains, a glittering knife. He’d played this moment over and over again in his head.
Before he could change his mind, he turned swiftly in the chair and hurled himself at the figure that was halfway across the room. He hit her hard, bowling her over so that he fell on top of her.
“Ah–h–h–h–h–h!” He screamed like a savage animal, flailing his arms, slamming his fists into her thin body, his teeth finding purchase on her face, her beard filling his mouth.
At the taste of the beard, he lost momentum and heard a male voice yelling.
“Get the fuck off me, man!”
He slowed his fists and forced his body weight off his opponent long enough to catch a glimpse of a long–haired, disheveled man with sunken cheeks and fear in his eyes.
“Who are you?” Richard asked.
“Fuck you!” the man spat at him, pushing hard to get him off.
Richard eased his weight onto his arms for a better look. He’d never seen the man before. His gaze went immediately to the still open door. Escape. The word took over his brain and he scrambled to his knees and then his feet. His body, dressed only in boxer shorts, was shaking.
He stood, poised, ready to flee out the open door, but he didn’t. The man on the floor was picking himself up.
“Who are you?” Richard asked again.
“Your fucking savior, asshole.” He brushed at his seat and chest. “You’re Richard Jones, right?”
“What if I am?”
The man rolled his eyes dramatically. “Then I expect you to give me a big reward for saving your skinny ass.” He stepped toward Richard, who instinctively shrank back.
Skin Dancer Page 24
