CHAPTER TWELVE
“Got the necropsy back on the moose,” Charlie Newman said. He was eating something and the words were a little muffled by the food in his mouth.
“It was drugged, wasn’t it?” Charlie wouldn’t have bothered to call her if something hadn’t been fishy.
“Had enough Rompum in it that it couldn’t walk. Probably was barely able to stand. It was shot at close range. Two to five feet.”
“Hank Welford got that animal somewhere, drugged it, then set up the kill so the plastic surgeon could get his trophy head without having to actually hunt. He just walked up to a drugged, helpless animal and shot it point blank.” She couldn’t stop the disgust that seeped through her and leaked into her voice.
“Not much sport in that kind of kill.” Charlie took another bite of whatever he was eating. She wondered if anything could dampen the coroner’s legendary appetite.
“There’s not much sport in any kind of hunting today. Most game animals’ only defense is flight. That isn’t much of a defense against scopes, ATVs, a catered food supply—”
“And don’t forget the catered poontang.” Charlie continued, “You know those rich guys hire whores to stay up at the hunting camps to show them a good time. That’s why they don’t want to walk the woods and hunt. Got to save the energy for humpin’.”
Charlie was sometimes crass, but he was well–informed, and Rachel had grown to like the fact that he talked to her like she was one of the boys. He was waxing eloquent,now.
“Yeah, those boys indulge their tastes for kink and everything else money can buy. Prostitutes from Rapid City make enough money during hunting season to tide them over the winter months.”
Charlie had his facts correct. The women would stay at the camps for weeks, supplied with food, liquor, drugs, whatever it took to keep them content while they provided pleasures for men who liked to be in control. Junie Redmond had worked the hunting camp circuit the fall before she was killed. Rachel had no doubt the men had clamored for her mother’s movie star looks and her breathless, little–girl voice.
“Rachel, I’m not spoiling your virgin ears with this, am I?”
She pulled her thoughts back from the past. “No, Charlie. Heard it all before. But the news on the moose helps.”
“Look, if this killer is taking out a few of these poachers who set up canned hunts, maybe you should just leave him alone for a few weeks. Let him reduce the population of miscreants.”
Rachel smiled. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”
“But find the idiot who hung a mannequin. Got us all stirred up for nothing.”
“You’re right. That’s the one who needs to go to prison.” Charlie laughed until he wheezed. When he finally caught his breath, he added, “Got a few more forensic details for you.”
She held her breath. “Shoot.”
“The scrapings under Hank’s fingernails showed dirt and tree bark, like maybe he clawed at something trying to hang on. The rope used to hang the bodies was a special grade used for roping events. Brand new, too.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Gordon is on it. He came back to the courthouse about twenty minutes ago snorting fire because his hip hurts. He’s going nuts being hog–tied to the office, but he’s checking these leads.”
“This is good news.”
“And the guys at the lab identified the silver ornament as a toe clip for a boot. That, combined with the special rope, points to someone who fancies himself a rodeo man or at least a roping hobbyist. Some kind of Fancy Dan. Used to see ‘em in some of the dance halls. Had all the accoutrements of a cowboy and none of the skills.”
“Based on what Scott’s about to bring you and the lab guys, I needed some good news.” She filled him in on the foot. “When we locate the crime scene, we’re going to need another forensics team. Ask Gordon to have one on stand–by and I’ll call in as soon as I find something and can get to a phone or working cell tower.”
“I’ll pass it on.”
She hung up the phone, thanked the couple and hurried outside before they could ask questions.
Scott and John Henry were astride one ATV, and Jake was waiting for her on the other. He tossed her the keys and scooted back, putting her in the driver’s seat. It was a gesture she appreciated. As she straddled the ATV, she felt his hands grasp her waist to steady her.
“Rachel, sometimes you look like the spitting image of your mom. Coming off that porch, when the sunlight struck your hair, you looked so much like Junie.”
She started the ATV and tried not to think about her mother and the things she’d done to put bread on the table. And cocaine up her nose. Junie Redmond had never been an angel, but Rachel’s love for her had never faltered.
# # #
Sitting in Justine’s apartment, Derek figured he’d sunk as low as he could get. All around him were Justine’s things, and on the television was his demise. Reporters from the major networks and several big newspapers who’d come to cover the story of the wilderness serial killer were now mocking and making fun of WAR.
The body he’d seen hanging in the woods wasn’t human. In fact, it wasn’t even a living thing. It was a freaking mannequin, taken from the old Zimlich’s Dry Goods store and placed in the woods.
He still couldn’t conceive of who would go to that much trouble just to frighten him.
He got up and hobbled into the kitchen for another slug of wine. He’d found an open bottle of a good merlot, and by God he needed something to drink as he watched all his hard work slip from his grasp.
WAR was a laughingstock now. His statement to the press that WAR had taken another victim—a stupid dummy–showed him to be a liar and a fool.
And the person who’d set him up was that damn Indian. Somehow, Adam Bear Fucker had known that Derek was tailing him. The Indian had led him straight into the perfect man trap.
He finished his wine and poured the last of the bottle into his glass before he limped back to the living room where the television continued with coverage of the “woodland prank” as it was being called. The newscasters’ tried hard to keep a straight face as they talked about the “person who’d executed a prank that put egg on the face of both WAR and the Criss County Sheriff’s Department, and unnerved a large segment of the population.”
Screw them! He swallowed a gulp of wine. The alcohol would probably give him a worse headache in the long run, but right now, he needed it.
The phone rang and he checked the caller ID. It was Justine calling from her mother’s office. He picked up, dreading the things she’d say to him.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Your luck has finally turned, fuckup.”
One thing about Justine, she didn’t mince words. Now she was merely deviling him because he was still laid up at her place. “Right.”
“They have another body. Or at least part of one.”
He carefully placed her wineglass on a coaster. “What are you talking about?”
“That female deputy and some others are up around Dixon Point. Some old recluse found a severed foot in a hiking boot.”
“Shit.” He saw a glimmer of hope that it could all be turned around. He didn’t know how, but there actually was a body. Maybe…
“And guess who’s missing? All of the women in my mother’s office are gossiping about it.”
“Who?”
“That creep Mullet Bellows. And Burl Mascotti.” She laughed softly. “Can you believe it? Someone is finally taking out those fucking poachers.” Her voice grew playful. “I wonder who that someone is?” She laughed again and hung up before he could respond.
Derek had the sense that he’d lost touch with his body. He held the telephone, but he couldn’t really feel it. The worst thought had crossed his mind. The very worst. It was so stunningly awful that it numbed him.
Justine knew a lot about the killings. Was it possible… He couldn’t finish the thought. Justine, with her milky white complexion and aub
urn 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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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.
&nb
sp; 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.”
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