Skin Dancer

by Haines, Carolyn

  Justine wasn’t perfect, but she was dedicated to that cause. Whatever she was up to, the bottom line was that the land rapists and wilderness debauchers would pay a heavy price. She would see to that. And he would help her. This one time in his life, he would hang onto a cause. He wouldn’t give up. On himself or Justine. In all likelihood the sheriff and his minions were lying about a lot of things, including Justine’s barrette. Cops lied all the time to scare people into talking. Well, it wasn’t going to work on him.

  Derek realized he was ravenous. He glanced at the pie suspiciously, but his hunger got the better of him. He ate the cobbler in thirty seconds and chased it with the hot, strong coffee. He had to admit, the pie was some of the best he’d ever eaten.

  He’d just wiped his mouth with the napkin when the door opened again. The sheriff walked toward his cell. Derek thought for the hundredth time how much like an Old West jail this one was, including Sheriff Gray with his rugged looks and silver moustache. He wore his badge on the pocket of a gray western shirt, and his boots, traditional cowboy fare, made crisp echoes as he crossed the cement floor. He even limped, putting a bit of the ‘Chester’ in his Matt Dillon posturing.

  Looking out the barred windows, Derek could see the back street of the town. In an old movie, his compadres would ride up, rope the bars and pull them out so he could make an escape. Unfortunately, the street was empty, so he turned to face the sheriff.

  “Baxter, I want to ask you a few questions. Like where were you Friday night?”

  He rolled his eyes. “At the Paradise development meeting asking Richard Jones for a job. I told the deputy that.”

  “What’s your involvement with WAR?”

  “I’m sympathetic to their stated goals, which are to preserve the wilderness and protect all living creatures against man’s abuse.”

  Gordon walked right up to Derek’s cell and put his hands on the bars. “You’ve got a lot of attitude, don’t you?”

  “You don’t have any evidence to hold me on. I suggest you let me go before I have grounds for a civil suit against you and the county.”

  Gordon’s eyebrows arched. “Since you don’t have gainful employment, I’ve been wondering how you make ends meet. You rent the back half of the old Nyman house. Your ride is a new four–wheel–drive truck. You own an ATV, which we can’t seem to find anywhere. I wonder why that is and how you pay for all your toys?”

  Derek’s heart began to beat faster. His mother had financed some of those things, but WAR had provided the ATV. It was a financial record that could possibly be linked back to them. “None of that is illegal, and it also isn’t any of your business. I have a legitimate source of income.”

  “You still sucking on your mama’s tit, boy?” Gordon asked.

  “My source of income is none of your business.” He kept a sneer in his voice, but he couldn’t help the red that crept into his cheeks.

  “We’ve found some tire tracks, a few careless fingerprints left here and there. Now we’ve got your prints on file. Is there anything you’d like to tell me before we put it together? Once we get the goods on you, there won’t be any negotiating. Right now, if you were to help us out, I’d talk to the district attorney about cutting you some slack.”

  “I don’t need any slack. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “We know you destroyed that road equipment. And we’re going to prove it.” Gordon pulled some keys from his pocket and opened the cell door.

  Derek’s confidence soared. “You only think you’re going to prove it. If you had evidence, you’d charge me now.”

  “Maybe.” Gordon grinned wide. “Maybe not. While we were trying to find a body that didn’t exist, two other men were killed. I’m not sure what the D.A. will say about that, Mr. Baxter, but if I have my way, you’re going to be charged as an accessory to the murder of Burl Mascotti and Mullet Bellows.”

  Derek sighed. “Yeah, right. I’m worried.”

  “You should be, son. While we were busy with your bullshit, those men died. A jury of twelve citizens might not have a hard time seeing how one is related to the other. Don’t try to leave Criss County.”

  Beneath his ribs, his heart plunged. He had to get out of there. They were playing him like a cheap fiddle. Especially that old bat bringing him pie while she tried to manipulate him into turning against Justine.

  He met the sheriff’s intense scrutiny with calm. “When you make the charges,” Derek said, “I’m sure you’ll be in touch. ‘Til then, you have a nice day.” He walked out of the cell block and was halfway through the office when the sheriff called his name.

  All he wanted was to escape the building, but he couldn’t show weakness. He turned around, a sneer firmly in place.

  The sheriff tossed something at him, a plastic bag. He caught it deftly and looked down at it. One of Justine’s gold–and–pearl hair clamps was inside. She had a pair she used to pull her hair back on the sides. He could even see a beautiful auburn hair still caught in the clamp. He couldn’t trust his voice, so he tossed the bag back to the sheriff, continued across the office, down the hall, and, at last, into the twilight.

  # # #

  Frankie poured another healthy dose of single malt into Jake’s glass. The lights in her small, private den were low, casting most of the room into shadow. But the two chairs where she and Jake sat facing each other were adequately lit.

  “I tried to call Rachel, but I couldn’t get in touch with her.” Frankie knew where Rachel was. She’d made it a point to know, but she didn’t mention it.

  “She was exhausted. Gordon sent her home.”

  “This case may be too much for Rachel,” Frankie said.

  “That’s a big jump to make, Frankie. I thought you thought she was smart.”

  “Oh, she is. But she’s young and inexperienced, and this is a tough case.” Frankie put a hand on his knee. “I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable. I respect Rachel and all she’s overcome.”

  “She’s going to be a great law officer.”

  Frankie leaned back in her chair. “I had a bit of a conversation with Mel last night. He told me that you’re running for sheriff.”

  “That’s right.”

  She noticed that Jake kept his gaze on his drink. “Is that your dream, Jake, or Mel’s?”

  Jake’s gaze finally met hers. “You’re perceptive, Frankie. Dad said you’d helped Senator Dilson with his campaigns, that you were kind of a PR wunderkind.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’ve consulted with Harvey on some things. It’s worked to my benefit at times.”

  “With the coming of Paradise, Criss County will change. Dad feels, and I agree with him, that I could accomplish a lot more as sheriff. Gordon has agreed to throw his support behind me.”

  Frankie inhaled. “Then you’ve got it pretty much sewn up. Gordon carries the county. If he retires and names you as his successor, then you’ll go in with a landslide.”

  “A game warden isn’t the most popular person around the area.”

  “Most of the people you’ve arrested don’t bother to vote, Jake. I wouldn’t give it a thought.” She hesitated. “But these Skin Dancer killings have to be cleared. And soon. You’ve attached yourself to the case, which was a smart move and one that Gordon supported. But if the killer isn’t caught, the stink will rub off on you, too.”

  “I know,” Jake said.

  “I could talk to Harvey for you. Ask him to swing his influence behind you.”

  “Would you? I don’t agree with everything Dilson’s done, but he’s been good for South Dakota as a whole.” Jake finished his drink and put the glass carefully on a coaster.

  “I’ll set up a meeting? Maybe tomorrow. I think you’d be great for Criss County. You should announce soon. Maybe at the press conference Harvey’s holding about Paradise. That would be perfect. Let folks start talking. If Harvey will endorse you…” she lifted one shoulder, “that’s huge.”

  “Let’s set up the meeting.” J
ake rose quickly to his feet.

  She stood also. “The sooner the better. We need to feel him out.”

  Jake gave her hand squeeze. “I’m so glad we became friends, Frankie. I hope once the road project is finished you’ll hang around Criss County.”

  “That’s not likely, but we’ll see what happens.”

  She walked him to the door. As soon as he was gone she went to the telephone. The number she dialed rang several times before someone answered.

  “This is Frankie Jackson. Would you ask the senator to give me a callback tomorrow? Early. Tell him politics are heating up in Criss County, and I need him on the ground floor.”

  At the bar she made herself another drink, returned to the phone, looked up Justine Morgan’s number and called. It was late evening, and she wondered if the young woman was putting the moves on Richard Jones. She’d seen a lot of ambitious young women launch a frontal attack on Richard, hoping to get married and stay that way long enough to get a hefty alimony check.

  Justine didn’t seem to be motivated by money. It was Jones’s power she wanted. The power to change a community, to bring in development and progress. Or to stop it dead in its tracks. Justine was a woman with an agenda. Frankie appreciated that. All was fair in the arena of politics. Justine answered, an annoyed tone in her voice.

  “Justine, Frankie Jackson here. Just wanted to remind you of Senator Dilson’s press conference.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Justine asked. “You’re practically in his pocket.”

  “Harvey won’t agree with me, but I feel it’s best to get your questions out in the open now. I’m counting on you to express yourself.” Frankie was imagining Justine’s confusion—and smiling–when she hung up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The last vivid hues of sunset had fled, and a violent blue had taken over the east. Slowly it would shift across the sky, claiming it for the night. Rachel watched Adam Standing Bear drive south at the fork in the road. She headed north, back toward Bisonville. Instead of taking the two–lane into town, she took County Road 12 west following the directions Adam had given her.

  She was tired and her legs and thighs were already sending up warning signals of what she could expect in the morning. Somehow, because she worked out and stayed in shape, she’d assumed she’d escape the legendary soreness that came from riding. Not so. She would barely be able to hobble in the morning. She could already hear the ribald jokes.

  The terrain she entered was isolated and rugged. According to the directions Adam gave her, she was close. She slowed, hunting for the trail that would lead to his place. She saw the square boulder, just as Adam had described, and she turned down the lane that was barely distinguishable. Each bump made her shift in an effort to ease her sore backside, but as she drew close to a rough–hewn building, her attention was captured by the flutter of feathers and the glitter of colored glass hung from the branches of a stunted tree. The headlights of her truck struck bottles of red, blue, green and yellow, a rattling rainbow collection.

  Rachel pulled to a stop and got out, taking in the yard. Along with the bottles hanging from trees and bushes and sitting on rocks, there were strange figures made of copper and iron. Different types of feathers fluttered from limbs and eaves and totem poles. The place was remarkable, and also a little unnerving.

  She approached one of the feathers and examined it. It had been hung with clear fishing line, exactly like the feathers at the crime scene.

  The wooden door opened and an old man stepped onto the porch. Stooped with age, he was about three inches shorter than Rachel. His skin was brown leather and his hair, braided down his back, matched the silvery gray–and–white feather in his leather headband.

  “Mr. Pete?” she asked.

  “That’s me.” His dark eyes were alert, sharp.

  She held out her badge and identification. “I’m Deputy Rachel Redmond, from Criss County.” She wasn’t sure what jurisdiction she was in.

  “I’ve seen you on television.”

  His diction was clear, but it held a trace of an accent. Spanish? She couldn’t be certain. He looked as if he’d been carved from the badlands themselves. “Would you mind taking a look at something for me?”

  “Is this about the murders?” His gaze probed hers.

  “Yes, it is.” She held out the plastic evidence bag with the silver toe guard in it.

  He took it and looked at it for a long time. Instead of handing it back, he signaled to two rocking chairs on the front porch. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  Rachel took the chair he indicated, easing onto the edge so she could turn her knees and face him. He stared into the distance, watching the night come down hard and the sky come alive with shiny brilliance. The moon hung in the east, new and delicate and precise.

  Out on the road, a vehicle idled as if it meant to come down the trail to Yuma Pete’s. After a moment, it moved on, red taillights winking in the distance.

  “It was Hank Welford came to see me that June morning. He wanted something fancy. Something he said that showed he was moving up in the world. I tried to interest him in a belt buckle or something of that nature, but Hank wanted something on his boots. Something that had a little dazzle when he danced.”

  Rachel felt the tightness in her gut. At last she’d found the lead she’d sought. The boot clip belonged to Hank Welford. “What did Hank have to do with Mullet Bellows?”

  Yuma shifted in his chair. “Back then, they were partners. Both of ‘em were drunks and criminals. I couldn’t say which of the two was the worst.”

  “But it was Welford who approached you and asked you for the boot clips.

  “Yes. I drew up a design. He had a wad of money like I’ve never seen. Paid me in hundreds. Truth is, I wouldn’t have taken the job unless he had cash. Hank didn’t always pay his bills, you know.”

  “Where did he get the money?” she asked.

  “Only thing he said was that he’d found someone who valued his talents.”

  “A man like Hank, buying silver boot clips? I just don’t get it?”

  Yuma chuckled. “Hank never married, but talk around town that summer was that he’d fallen for one of the gals who tended bar across the state line. She liked to hit the dance halls, and Hank was said to be a fair dancer. Toe clips look mighty flashy if the footworks good.”

  “So you made the clips for him and he paid you?”

  “Cash up front. But that clip you’re holding isn’t one that I made. It looks a lot like my design, almost identical, in fact, but that’s not my work.”

  For a moment Rachel tried to make sense of what he was saying. “You didn’t make this clip?”

  He shook his head. “Someone copied my design.”

  “Can you tell when or where or by whom this clip was made?”

  “No way to tell that. There’s no date or signature. Most of the commission work I do is for saddle ornaments, jewelry, belt buckles. I’d never been asked to make toe guards ‘til Hank showed up. In all my time working, only had one person ever called about them and that was a while back, maybe ten years ago.”

  Yuma pointed back to the bag. “That’s good work, but it’s copied off mine. Where did you find it?”

  “Stuck in Mullet’s chest with a porcupine quill.”

  Yuma didn’t flinch. “I heard he was skinned and decapitated.”

  “He was. There was also a pole with two owl feathers. I noticed the feathers were wrapped with fishing line, like the ones in your yard.”

  Yuma continued to rock. “The Indians used strips of animal hide. Today, some people use thread. I like the fishing line. It holds up better.”

  “Is there a special message with the owl feathers?”

  He shook his head. “It’s hard to say, but if I had to take a guess, I’d think it was a prediction of death.”

  “Welford and Mullet are already dead.” Rachel could barely make out Yuma Pete’s silhouette. Night had fallen over them, and in the di
stance was the sound of summer insects. “At the last murder, the killer left two feathers.”

  Yuma rocked for a moment. “I’m not a prophet or a detective, but I’d say someone else is gonna die.”

  Rachel ignored the chill that his words brushed across her. “When did Hank commission the clips?”

  “The summer of 1992. I remember because I knew that summer that Bill Clinton was going to win. In fact, when Hank drove up in that fancy pickup, I was listening to Peter Jennings on the campaign trail. You remember?”

  Rachel didn’t. “I was just a kid. Anything else happen that summer?”

  “There was a lot of hardship in the area. We’d had a tragic winter, then drought took a lot of families off the land, sent them to work in factories. Things began to change around here, and not for the better. Lots of ranchers lost everything.”

  Rachel was about to get up when she stopped. “Was that the summer Dub Jackson disappeared?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was.”

  “Did you know Dub Jackson?”

  “Ever’body in the county knew Dub. He was well thought of in these parts. I’ll never believe he abandoned his family. Something happened to that man.”

  “Mr. Pete, the person who called you about the boot clips. Did you get a name? Can you remember anything about the call?”

  “It was a young woman. I remember ‘cause she had this kind of accent. I listen to things like that because folks are always askin’ me about mine.”

  “What kind of accent?”

  “Southern. Just soft and so pretty. I remember just listenin’ to her made me smile.”

  Rachel eased to her feet, lightheaded from the lack of food and sleep and the possibility she’d uncovered. “I have to go.” The sense of urgency made her feel as if she might have a panic attack.