Skin Dancer

by Haines, Carolyn

  Rachel hurried into the bathroom and turned on the shower. What were these sudden trips down memory lane? Every time she was home long enough to draw a breath, she found herself slipping back into the past. It wasn’t healthy, and she’d be damned if she was going to let the quagmire of memory creep around her feet, grab her knees and bring her down.

  Junie Redmond was dead. Rachel had no room in her stark apartment for ghosts or memories. She was an officer of the law, a deputy who dealt in facts and evidence. She was logical, not emotional.

  She stepped beneath the stinging spray. Her body was slightly sore from her workout the evening before, but it was a good kind of ache. One that normally would lead to a blissful night’s sleep.

  She turned off the water, dried herself, and dressed. Jake had offered to pick her up, and she’d agreed. She was applying lipstick when she noticed something in the mirror. The tube slipped from her fingers, falling to the top of her dresser with a clatter. She turned and walked to the bedside table. On top of the stack of books was a small Dresden shepardess, her mother’s favorite figurine.

  Transfixed, she picked it up. The detail was exquisite. The china blue eyes met her gaze with a hint of mockery. Rachel swallowed. She’d left the delicate statuette and all of her mother’s belongings in the trailer. She’d simply abandoned them, unable to carry the weight of her memories on top of the physical reality of her mother’s harsh death.

  Mel had packed up the trailer when he’d rescued her, and the boxes of her past life were still in his garage, as far as she knew.

  But how had the collectible gotten on her bedside table? She looked around the room, reacting too late to the possibility that someone had been in her cottage. Someone had entered her bedroom, had violated her home and her past. Mel never locked his garage, so anyone could have found the figurine. But not everyone would know the significance of it.

  She pulled her gun from the holster and kicked open the bedroom closet. Nothing. Room by room, she searched the entire house. There was no sign of breaking and entering, only a few scratches at her front door lock—the mark of a professional.

  Her breathing had settled and her grip on the gun was loose but ready when she saw a small gift box in the center of the dining table.

  The package looked so innocent, pale blue with a darker bow. Expertly wrapped. A present. She found her kitchen gloves and put them on before she picked up the box. Whatever was inside was light. She shook it then lifted the top off. For a moment, she didn’t register what she held. When she did, she almost dropped the box.

  A photograph of her mother, smiling like a movie star, and wearing the dress she’d died in, fluttered to the table. She was standing against a wall paneled in heart pine, a mounted rack of antlers partially visible in the upper right hand corner of the photo.

  Rachel’s hand began to tremble. The photograph had been taken by someone who saw Junie after Rachel and before she overdosed. Someone who may have seen her mother die.

  The whirring movement of the old clock’s hands seemed to fill the cottage. Rachel tried to think. Someone who knew her past, who had access to her past, had been in her home.

  Before she could decide what to do, she heard Jake’s knock at the door. She covered the box and stuck it in a kitchen drawer and tossed the gloves under the sink.

  “Coming.” She grabbed her purse.

  Jake and his father had packed her things when they’d moved her into their home. They were the last people to touch Junie’s whatnots and, as far as Rachel knew, still had possession of them

  And the photograph? Where had it come from? It couldn’t have been in the things Mel removed from the trailer, because she’d never seen it. Couldn’t have seen it–it was taken after Junie left Rachel in the trailer and before her body was found. It was likely taken at the hunting club where Junie had gone to entertain some men. It was possible that it was taken by Junie’s killer.

  Her heart was racing, and she stuck her gun inside her purse, squared her shoulders and opened the door.

  “We’re late.” Jake was annoyed. He started in the door and she stepped in front of him.

  “I’m ready.”

  He didn’t say anything as he stepped back and held the door for her. As she walked past him, she noticed the tell–tale scratches around her lock. Someone had picked it, but someone who was very good at that kind of work. Not Jake. He had a key. She’d given him one after she’d accidentally locked herself out of the cottage. And Mel? She swallowed with difficulty.

  Jake gently caught her arm. “Hey, are you okay? You look sick.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. She saw the worry in his eyes and she looked away.

  “You don’t look fine. You need to stay home and get some sleep.”

  “Really, Jake, I want to talk to Mel. This is work for me. It isn’t something I can simply skip.”

  “What do you want to talk to Dad about?”

  She considered her answer as he opened the vehicle door for her. “Mama’s things that he moved from the trailer. Does he still have them in the garage?”

  Jake frowned. “As far as I know they’re still there. Why?”

  “Does he lock the garage?”

  “Rachel, nobody in Bisonville locks their garages. What’s this about?”

  “I was just thinking about Mother’s things.”

  Jake walked around and got in behind the wheel. “There wasn’t much, as I recall. A few pictures, some what–nots, and a couple of your mom’s dresses that you wanted to keep. I’m sure they’re boxed up some place safe. If you want, we can stop by there tomorrow and get whatever you need.”

  “Thanks, Jake.” She let it drop for the moment. She had to. Someone was screwing with her head, and until she found out why, she meant to keep the information to herself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mullet’s hand shook as he held the piece of paper in the cabin’s near darkness. He’d finished writing by the light of the oil lantern, the only source of illumination he could find. His stomach was painfully empty, and his throat raw from lack of moisture. He had a taste in his mouth like something had crawled in and died, and the repeated bouts of anxiety had resulted in body odor that even he could smell.

  He re–read what he’d written. Once his captor had the confession, he’d have no reason to let Mullet live. The best Mullet could hope for was a quick, clean death. Not like Burl. Dear God, not like Burl.

  His lips moved in a mumbled prayer, something he hadn’t tried since childhood when he begged an unresponsive God to keep him safe from his father’s strap. Mullet had no real hope that God or even Satan would intervene and save him now. He thought of the panther in the cage, watching him, waiting for any chance of escape. In the long run, the cat had more courage than he, because he’d given up. He only wanted the end to be quick and clean. He didn’t want to be hung upside down and skinned.

  Tears leaked down his face at the thought. If he could find a fucking knife in the cabin, he’d cut his own wrists. At the thought of his ultimate helplessness, he cried harder.

  “Mullet Bellows.”

  The voice outside the front door was mechanical, altered by some device into an eerie, futuristic sound that held not a scrap of humanity.

  “Mullet Bellows, have you written your confession?”

  Mullet took a ragged breath. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “Slide it under the door.”

  Mullet stumbled from the table, the paper shaking in his hand. Balancing as best he could, he leaned down and pushed the page under the crack at the bottom of the door.

  An eternity passed before he heard the voice again.

  “Move back from the door.”

  “Are you going to let me go?” He sounded weak and foolish, but he didn’t care. He only wanted the door to open and for him to have a shot at freedom.

  “Move away from the door.”

  “I did everything you said. I wrote it all down.” He’d thought he’d given up the hope to live,
but he hadn’t. He only wanted a chance. Just one.

  “You think confessing is punishment enough?”

  The word punishment was like a jolt of electricity. Mullet backed away from the door. He’d been a moron to write anything down. Now his captor was going to kill him and still have the confession. Had he not been in such a hurry to write down his list of sins, he might have had something left to bargain with. He slammed his head against the wall where he braced himself.

  The door opened very slowly, letting the night into the cabin. A darker shape separated itself from the dense blackness and stepped inside the living room. Mullet couldn’t make out any of the person’s features. His captor was dressed in what looked like garbage bags, the shiny black kind strong enough to hold leaves. The implication hit him and he cried out.

  “I wrote it down, like you asked. I did just what you said.”

  “Are you sorry for your sins, Mullet?”

  He could see that the person held a voice distorter box to his throat to create the androgynous voice of a zombie. His face was covered with a ski mask.

  Hope rocked his gut. “Yes! I’m sorry!”

  “I don’t think you’re sorry enough.”

  “I am!”

  “This is an interesting confession. You’re a bigger piece of shit than I thought, but you forgot to write down the names of the others who were involved.”

  Mullet slid along the wall. The door was wide open. It was his only chance. He had to try. “You know who was with me. Welford is already dead. And Burl, too. Burl didn’t have anything to do with any of it, but you turned that panther loose on him.”

  “Burl was a miscreant. He had no compassion for any of the animals he drugged and killed. The lesson here, Mullet, is compassion.”

  He pressed his hands against the wall. His only chance was to push himself forward and hope he could stay upright on one good leg. If he could get out into the darkness, maybe he could hide.

  “You’re going to write down the names of all the others involved. Before I’m done with you, you’ll be glad to write them down.”

  He pushed off the wall with all he had, shrieking as loudly as he could. He made it past the table and was almost at the door when he tripped. He went down hard, crying out as he fell onto his already broken wrist. Before he could untangle himself, he felt a rope tighten around his ankles.

  As he rolled and thrashed, the dark–clad figure pulled the rope taunt and walked outside. Before he could regain his feet, he heard the sound of a motor. He was jerked through the doorway, across the porch and onto the ground.

  Bits of rock and sticks tore the skin of his palms as he tried to find something to hang on to. Dirt filled his mouth, and a stone smacked into his front teeth. The one place he didn’t want to go was into the woods, but he couldn’t stop it from happening. He couldn’t hang on to anything. Finally the pain was too much and he surrendered to the darkness.

  # # #

  Rachel accepted the diet cola Jake brought her with a nod. The presentation was over, and now the real meeting had begun as different groups of people talked about Paradise and what the development could do for each of them. Half the county was there.

  A beautiful diorama of the proposed city had been placed on the Civic Center stage so that everyone could walk by and look at it. The building lines were clean and green space had been included in the downtown area as well as the urban living zones that featured mass transit. The model showed a city built on one industry and filled with people who were educated.

  Richard Jones, computer czar, was pressing the flesh, along with Senator Dilson, the sheriff, and other local dignitaries. Mel Ortiz was talking with Jones, and she headed in that direction. Jake fell into step beside her.

  “Dad says this is a great opportunity to get in on the ground floor of Paradise.”

  “The sheriff obviously thinks so.” Rachel nodded at Gordon and his wife as they sipped wine and talked with Senator Dilson and two out–of–town investors. Gordon didn’t look well, and there was tension between him and the senator. No doubt Dilson, who was a big backer of Paradise, was displeased that a killer was still on the loose. A killer who could be anyone in the room with a bone to pick about Paradise.

  Watching the crowd of well–dressed men and women, Rachel realized for the first time that Paradise was a done deal. It didn’t matter what the average Criss County citizen wanted. The road was going through, and Paradise would be developed. Billions of dollars were at stake.

  Mel Ortiz, his gray hair shining like polished chrome, drew Rachel into the group. “This is Rachel Redmond, the Criss County deputy in charge of the wilderness murders.” He put his hand on Rachel’s shoulder. To Richard, he added, “She’s like a daughter to me, Mr. Jones.”

  “Frankie Jackson has sung your praises,” Richard said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You’re also investigating the vandalism to the heavy equipment on the road project, I hope.”

  “Yes.” Rachel had studied Jones during his presentation. He was tall and thin with bright blue eyes. Her impression was that while he might play the absent–minded professor, he was also plenty capable. Even more interesting was his date—Justine Morgan—who was currently bringing him another glass of wine.

  “Any headway on the vandals?” Jones asked Rachel. He was watching her intently.

  “We’re steadily making progress. Mr. Jones, do you know anyone who wants to halt this project?”

  He hesitated, and in that time Justine returned and handed him his wine with a glint of amusement in her eyes. Rachel watched the way he took the glass, his fingertips brushing hers in a deliberate way.

  “Paradise will bring high–paying, pollution free jobs to the area. There are people who are opposed to change, but change is inevitable. Criss County can bring in a dirty industry or a clean one. Paradise is the lesser of two evils.”

  ““Ms. Morgan,” Rachel said, “we haven’t been introduced, but I was wondering how you felt about that.”

  “I don’t feel much about Paradise, but I know that four–lane through the wilderness isn’t necessary.” Justine looked around the civic center where the crowd of at least two hundred potential investors had gathered. “That road benefits no one except Harvey Dilson and his cronies.”

  “Justine!” Richard put a gentle hand on her arm.

  She stepped away from him. “He’s using your idea for his own purposes. He’s a…user.”

  Mel chuckled. “Welcome to the world of politics, Ms. Morgan.”

  A flush ran up her neck and face, and Rachel realized she wasn’t a woman who tolerated condescension. She was off balance now. It was the perfect time to ask her about WAR. “Are you affiliated with any animal rights groups?” She thought she saw a flicker of surprise, but Justine covered it well.

  “If I were, would be I stupid enough to admit it?”

  Rachel started to mention the barrette, but she held off. The DNA would be back, and a positive match was much better than a stab in the dark.

  “Is that all, deputy?” Justine put on a brilliant smile. “Whatever I can do to help, I’ll be glad to.”

  “I’ll give you a call.” Rachel took note of Justine’s auburn hair. Lush and thick, it would look beautiful in the clip Frankie had found at the mannequin site. “I appreciate your…candidness, Ms. Morgan.”

  A brash voice interrupted them. “Exactly who are you helping?”

  They all turned to the young man who’d pushed into their circle. Rachel noted the expensive suit, the polish. She’d never seen him before, but Justine had. She’d gained control of her expression, but not before annoyance and anger marched across her features.

  “What are you doing here, Derek?” she asked.

  “Looking for investment opportunities.” He ignored everyone except Richard Jones. “Mr. Jones, I’m Derek Baxter. I was hoping to talk to you about the possibility of employment.”

  Jones looked from Derek to Justine. “Now isn’t an appropriate time, Mr. Baxter.
” He turned to Justine. “Are you ready to go?” When she nodded, he said his goodbyes and they moved away.

  Rachel saw the dark cloud of anger settle on Derek Baxter’s features. Justine Morgan was one point in a very interesting triangle. Rachel also noticed a cut and a large bruise on Derek’s temple. Someone had been playing rough.

  “Mr. Baxter,” she said, “would you stop by the sheriff’s office tomorrow at eight.”

  “Why?”

  He was hostile and confrontational. Good. Justine Morgan was cool as a moon rock. “You might be able to help me with an investigation.”

  “What would I know about some investigation?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Eight o’clock. Then you can get on with your regular day.”

  Derek walked away, and Rachel watched him thread a path across the room and out the front door.

  Mel was talking with Able Davis, owner of the local hardware store, when Rachel approached him.

  “Do you have a minute, Mel?” she asked.

  “All the time you need, Rachel. What’s up?”

  They moved to a private corner and Mel waited patiently. Rachel found that her chest was tight as she started to speak.

  “Do you know if Mother’s things are still in your garage?”

  “Those two boxes we took from the trailer?” Mel looked completely startled. “Why are you asking?”

  Rachel swallowed. “I’ve been thinking about Mom a lot. I thought I might like to get her things.” She tried for a laugh that came out shaky. “She had a few collectibles that were special to her.”

  “Whenever you want them, I’ll be glad to bring them by.”

  “Thanks, Mel, but I can pick them up.”

  “Rachel, take my advice and put the past behind you. You’ve got an exciting new life that you’ve worked hard to build. You can’t change what happened to your mom. Best to let it go.”

  “I know.” She nodded. “I do know. Have you looked into those boxes lately?”

  He frowned. “No. Why?”

  “Has anybody asked about me or my mom?”

  His brow furrowed more deeply. “You’re beginning to worry me. Why are you asking about that stuff now?