“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.”
Rachel nodded. “We’re doing everything we can, Frankie. We only have Scott, the sheriff’s injured, and some volunteers who are sometimes more trouble than help. I won’t lie to you. The murders have to be our primary focus, but we’ll do everything we can to catch the people who did this. You should be sure to post a guard in the future.”
“That I’ll do, if I have to sit out here with a shotgun myself.” She sighed. “I’d better get these guys motivated before they decide to hightail it out of here.”
Rachel watched her walk away, a slim woman in jeans so tight every guy on the crew couldn’t resist looking. Rachel thought of something and jogged to catch up with Frankie. “Hey, I know you’re talking with the Sioux. Any chance this is their handiwork?”
When Frankie turned around, Rachel was surprised to see the worry on her face. “God, I hope not. I’m paid the big bucks to mediate issues between the Sioux nation and Belker. If the Natives are sneaking around destroying equipment rather than addressing their concerns at our meetings, I’m a pretty big failure.”
A dump truck roared past them, halting all attempts at conversation. When it was gone, Rachel gave a half–shrug. “There’s no evidence to show it was the Natives.” She thought about the pole with the dangling owl feather. It looked Native, but anyone could imitate such a thing to create the illusion. “I just have to cover all possibilities.”
“Whoever it is, I want them caught and prosecuted.” Frankie wiped her forehead under the hardhat. “Four or five days of delay are going to put us over budget. We were tight anyway, but this is bad. As you know, the development of Paradise depends on the road. A lot of locals have money invested, and they’re going to be squawking. My head will roll.”
The cell phone on Rachel’s hip buzzed and she slipped it into her hand. “I’ll be in touch,” she promised as she stepped back from the construction sounds to take her call.
# # #
Frankie waited ten minutes after Rachel left before she dialed Jake Ortiz. She’d deliberately cultivated his friendship, trading on past history between their families. Not that she didn’t enjoy his company and his lean good looks in and of themselves. He was the kind of man she enjoyed bedding, but she’d held off. Sometimes her job required her to use people she liked. This might be one of those times.
“What can I do for you?” Jake asked, and Frankie had to smile. He was a willing partner in this game. Ambitious men understood the rules of advancement, just as she did.
“Rachel was up here a little while ago, and I’m worried.”
“Afraid she won’t be able to catch the arsonists?”
Frankie noticed clouds were building to the west. Big clouds. As if she needed another problem. “No, I think Rachel is ultimately competent. She was asking about the Sioux, though. I don’t need her stirring the pot with them. This whole project brings up the issue of the violation of the Treaty of Fort Laramie. They claim the Black Hills, and I’m not certain they don’t own the land. This roadway is not something they want, Jake. I’ve got a tenuous trust going, and if Rachel runs out there and accuses them of burning my equipment or, worse yet, killing those two poachers, it could unravel everything I’ve built here. I don’t have to tell you how important Paradise is.”
There was a long pause, and she knew Jake was considering what to do.
“Look, Rachel is diplomatic. She wouldn’t accuse anyone of anything unless she had evidence.”
“It would still be best…”
“I can’t interfere with her investigation, Frankie. Not even subtly. Besides, you and I both know there’s a militant faction of the Sioux nation that might have done this. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Frankie sighed. “I know. I’m just trying to keep a lot of things in balance here. The four–lane is going through. At least with me on the project, the damage will be as minimal as possible. If Belker views me as ineffective, they’ll fire me in a heartbeat.”
Jake’s voice was wry. “Then that group of environmental rapists will have their way.”
Frankie bit back an angry reply. “This isn’t a joke to me. I care about the Black Hills and the heritage here.”
Jake cleared his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound flippant. We all care, Frankie. Rachel cares, too.”
“Could you at least explain the delicacy to her?”
“Okay, but it’ll only make her mad at me. She’s tired of me interfering. Twisting her arm to go to your little soiree didn’t help matters, either. Rachel is growing up, and she doesn’t like to be pushed around.”
“Good for her.” Frankie noticed a cluster of men who weren’t working. They were talking vehemently and pointing to the tree line. She walked toward them. “Jake, I’ll call you back later.” She closed the phone and addressed the men. “Is there a problem here?”
“There’s someone in there watching us, Ms. Jackson.”
Frankie swung her gaze to the trees, instantly alert. “Did you get a look at him?”
The man shook his head. “No, but I saw him, movin’ through the trees. I mean he moved, like he was drifting through the trees.” He spit a stream of tobacco on the ground. “Like some kinda fuckin’ spook out there watchin’ everything we do.”
“I’ll hire some guards.” Frankie searched the thick trees. There was nothing there, at least not now. But she didn’t doubt what the man had seen. After all, she’d been aware that someone was watching them for several weeks.
CHAPTER FIVE
The damn county was on a crime spree. There was no other explanation for it. As Rachel sped back toward Bisonville, her shoulders knotted with tension. Two men dead, a half million dollars in heavy equipment ruined—it was all more than she could account for. In her eight months as a deputy, Rachel’s experiences included the robbery of an all–night convenience store, some cattle rustling, vandalism of a church, and a couple of lost hikers.
She drove fast but carefully. Around her the wilderness was serene. Bitter juniper spiced the wind, and through the distance she could see the unique rock formations that gave the area such a distinctive profile.
She was in the vicinity of John Henry James’s cabin, and a day pass had already slipped away without following the lead Jake had given her. She took a right on Piker Road and eased over the ruts and washouts. Once upon a time the dirt trail had led to a gold mine, but judging from recent usage, only a few deer had been down it. She pulled out a detailed map of the maze of dirt paths that led through the wilderness. She’d marked the location of John Henry’s cabin—or at least the location he’d listed as his address.
She’d drive as far as she could. If it looked like she’d need an ATV, she’d leave. The most she could lose was an hour, and the time alone in the woods would give her a chance to think.
After checking her weapon and making sure pepper spray was in her belt, she started south on Piker Road, headed into a black cloud that was rolling its way over the badlands. She had time, but none to waste. She pressed the accelerator, leaving a trail of dust behind her as she rose and then fell along the ridges of wilderness.
The trees were dense, cutting the sun and causing the temperature to drop at least ten degrees. With the crisp smell of the conifers, the shade and the approaching storm, Rachel felt as if she might have bitten off more than she could chew when the road ended abruptly at a steep drop–off.
The footpath continued down a sixty degree slope, easy enough to desc
end, but coming back up, especially in the rain, might prove challenging. She debated going back to the sheriff’s office but started down the trail. She’d give herself twenty minutes. If she hadn’t found John Henry’s cabin by then, she’d come back with the proper equipment.
She hit level trail quickly and lengthened her stride. On the off–chance that it might work, she pulled out her cell phone. No signal. Typical of the region where the spectacular hills and towering rock formations played havoc with radio frequency waves.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The call came from the trees to her right and she halted and held up her hands.
“John Henry James, it’s Deputy Rachel Redmond. Put down your weapon.” She slowly lowered her hands as she spoke.
A man with a long beard stepped out from behind a rock. He held a three–foot stick in his hand.
“I’m here to ask a few questions about something that happened up at Dixon Point,” she said.
John Henry eyed her as if she were speaking a foreign language. She wasn’t certain he understood, and she felt a tingle of concern. The way he looked at her was more than a little creepy. His gaze wouldn’t hold on her, but kept sliding away, as if he saw or heard something just behind her. Drugs? Mental damage? He was a jittery mess. She resisted the impulse to put her hand on her weapon.
“John Henry, do you remember me?” she asked.
He nodded, breaking the spell. “I do. Used to live in a trailer park. Your mama liked the blow.”
He did remember, probably far better than she liked. He’d once been a boy with dark wavy hair and dreamy brown eyes that held a spark of danger. The danger was still there, smoldering, along with a frenetic energy that was barely under control. He’d survived the state prison, but what had it cost him?
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