Skin Dancer

by Haines, Carolyn

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to know.”

  “Well someone is going to tell me. And if I have to strip the skin off every inch of you and Harvey Dilson, I will find my father’s body and I will prove that he didn’t abandon me. So where is my dad? Save yourself a lot of pain.”

  “I told you the truth. I don’t know. I was afraid to ask any questions. Hank and Mullet were reckless. They enjoyed hurting people, and Harvey wasn’t inclined to control them. Back then, I only had ideas—no money. If I went against Harvey, no one would believe me anyway. They would have shot me on the spot and left me, too.” He rubbed his eyes. “Dub was shot in the back of the head so they couldn’t leave him to be found. Harvey set it up to make it look like he left.”

  She saw that he was too beaten to even fight back. “I’m going to leave you here, Richard, to reflect on your sins. Think about all the damage and hurt you’ve caused in your lifetime. There’s a pen and paper on the table.” She nodded toward them. “I want your confession.”

  # # #

  Rachel pulled up to the gate in front of Richard Jones’s estate and instantly saw the flames. A car was on fire in the driveway. Even more unsettling was the fact that no one was making any attempt to put it out.

  She grabbed her fire extinguisher from behind the seat. Holding it in one hand, she began to scale the fence. Something was wrong with the alarm system she knew Richard had installed.

  She punched her cell phone as she ran across the manicured lawn. “Gladys, there’s a fire at Richard Jones’s place. Send a truck and backup.”

  “Sheriff’s out at the Dilson ranch. I’ll find Scott and Jake.”

  “Thanks.” She dropped the phone in her pocket and began to spray the emergency fire extinguisher on the burning car, a new Lexus. The car was a total loss, but as close as it was to the house, there was a danger the fire would spread.

  Where the hell was Richard, she wondered. And how had the car come to spontaneously combust? She glimpsed a partially burned gas can behind the car and had her answer.

  When she had the blaze beaten down and there was no danger of it spreading, she dropped the extinguisher. The front door of the house was slightly open. She pressed it gently with her fingers and the door inched forward on well–oiled hinges. Silence was like a physical entity inside the house.

  She was out of uniform, but she had her gun, which she drew and held at the ready. The sense that something was seriously wrong pushed her across the threshold. “Richard! Justine!” she called as she stepped inside.

  Her footsteps muffled by lush carpet, she almost stumbled over a Chinese umbrella stand that cost more than her annual salary.

  “This is Deputy Redmond. Show yourselves.” She crept down the foyer, vaguely aware of pen–and–ink drawings of South Dakota wildlife hanging on the walls. Before her was a massive staircase, beautifully turned, as if it hung in the air unsupported. The lights in the house were on and as she moved forward, she saw the blood trail on the blond wood. It led up the stairs.

  “Richard!” She took the first two steps, pausing to listen, gun extended. She couldn’t be certain, but it sounded as if someone was in the house.

  “Richard Jones! Justine Morgan! This is Deputy Redmond. Show yourselves now!” She continued moving upward, her gun ready.

  At the second floor, she passed an open door where a computer monitor light cast the latest equipment in pale blue light. She hesitated but kept moving.

  Glass crunched underfoot. More blood was in the hallway, a stain that looked as if someone had fallen against the wall and floor. She read the blood spatter, backtracking the story to a massive wooden door.

  A noise came from behind the door, like something mewling. A baby? A cat? Or someone waiting in ambush.

  She eased forward, her fingers lightly touching the door. A strange snuffling noise came from inside. Pushing the door open, Rachel froze. Justine was tied up on the bed, her pale body and the sheets spattered in blood. Her eyes were wide, begging for help. Her mouth, covered with silver duct tape, sucked in and out with sounds of terror and partial suffocation.

  Rachel stepped inside the room, swiveling from side to side, her gun leading. The room was empty. Crossing quickly to the bed, she leaned down and pulled the tape from Justine’s mouth.

  Justine’s eyes rolled to the right and Rachel spun, bringing the gun up. She was too late. Something hard cracked across the side of her head. She fell forward onto Justine’s body, but not before she recognized Derek Baxter as he sprinted from the room.

  # # #

  The rhythmic lilt of Dr. Akmar Myss’s voice did nothing to sooth Harvey as he held the phone to his ear.

  “Yes or no, doctor. Could Frances Jackson recover any portion of her memory?”

  The doctor hesitated. “As you know, the damage to Miss Jackson’s brain was quiet severe. Her physical recover has been a miracle. But medicine is both art and science, Senator. And there are sometimes recoveries that defy a medical explanation.”

  “Do you know how much money I funneled into your research via federal grants?” Harvey’s voice was deadly.

  “Your generosity has been—”

  “Doctor, you told me point blank she would never recover the past.”

  The doctor’s voice took on an aggressive tone. “If that young woman has recovered some memories, why does this upset you so? You sound as if you don’t want her to remember.”

  Harvey literally growled. He smashed the telephone back into its base just in time to hear loud knocking on his door.

  “Jeremy!” He summoned his assistant with a bellow. “Who the hell is at the door?”

  Jeremy entered the study, his lips compressed. “The sheriff, I hope. I called him.”

  “Damn you.” Harvey rose to his feet so rapidly that his chair flipped over. “You’re fired.”

  “Fine by me. But your home has been broken into. This is a matter for national security. Like it or not, Senator, you belong to the public.”

  “Get the door.” He turned away from his assistant before he struck him. He heard the distinctive walk that marked Gordon Gray since the hip surgery. Just a slight hesitation, a limp.

  “There’s no need for you to be here,” Harvey said as soon as Gordon reached the doorway. “Jeremy over–reacted. I can handle this.”

  “What is there to handle?” Gordon asked. “Jeremy only said it was urgent. That someone had broken in here.”

  “What’s urgent is where the fuck is Richard?” Harvey demanded. “I’ve been calling him for an hour.”

  Gordon entered the room. “Something has frightened you, Harvey. Care to tell me what really happened?”

  Harvey saw Jeremy standing in the doorway, listening without even attempting to hide it. The little weasel. Jeremy wanted to show Gordon the skin, but that wasn’t happening. Not now, not ever. That would open a can of worms that he’d never be able to close. The skin represented a threat from a psychotic serial killer and something more—a herald that the past had come a’calling. Neither the sheriff nor fifty FBI agents could protect him. He had to take care of it himself, and he had to do it in such a fashion that no one would ever know. His future depended on it, as did his fortune, Paradise, and his bid for the presidency.

  “I appreciate you coming out, Gordon, but Jeremy over–reacted. We heard something outside. I’ve got the ranch hands on alert. If there’s anything going on, I’ll call you and get a Secret Service detail in here.”

  “I could send Scott Amos to watch over you. His wife had the baby and things are fine.”

  Harvey chuckled. “Let that man have a moment with his new baby. Things are okay here. Jeremy over–reacted.” He lowered his voice. “City boy and all that. He’s as nervous as an old maid on her honeymoon.”

  “He sounded more than a little frightened.”

  Harvey waved it away. “We’re fine. I promise you. Get back on that murder case. Once you’ve arrested the killer, the entire county will calm down.” If Gordo
n’s deputies started really digging, they might unearth the bones of Dub Jackson.

  Gordon’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” He pulled it from the holder on his belt and answered. “Got it, Gladys!” He rose as he spoke.

  “What is it?” Harvey asked.

  “Someone set fire to Justine Morgan’s car in front of Richard Jones’s house. Justine’s been seriously injured, and Rachel was knocked out.”

  “And Richard?”

  “Gone. No trace of him so far.”

  Harvey tried not to show his fear, but he could tell from Gordon’s expression that he’d failed.

  “You sure you don’t have something to tell me, Harvey?”

  For the first time that Harvey could remember, Gordon’s voice held a note of superiority. For all the years they’d known each other, Harvey had always been the one who gave orders. Gordon had done as he was told, with few questions.

  “Not a damn thing. And don’t ask again, Gordon.” He walked to the door and waited. “When you find Richard, tell him to call me.”

  “You bet.” Gordon’s eyes were narrowed in thought. He started to leave, but then he turned back. “What would Richard Jones have in common with Hank and Mullet?” he asked softly.

  “What makes you think Richard is in danger?” Harvey had recovered his aplomb. “He’s probably in St. Croix fucking some slut. For all of his weak–sister looks, he gets more than his share of the action. Women are drawn to money and power, Gordon. I told you that years ago.”

  “Right.” Gordon put his hat on. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “You do that.”

  As soon as Gordon was gone, Harvey sent Jeremy to the office to get some papers. When the assistant was gone, Harvey dialed Richard’s number. He got the answering machine for the fourth or fifth time. “Call me. I want to talk to you. Maybe we can work out a deal.”

  His heart was racing when he hung up. He was playing the odds that if the killer had taken Richard, he might also have Richard’s phone. It was a long shot, but most of his life had been about risk and gamble. Harvey was good at it, and he was even better at doing what had to be done.

  He went to the gun case and unlocked it. He studied the weapons, then selected a Glock automatic and a high–powered hunting rifle. He had no intention of sitting at home and waiting to be a victim. If Frankie wanted to play tough, he was ready to hunt her down and do what was necessary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE

  The medics loaded Justine on a stretcher and headed to the hospital. Rachel didn’t know if the girl would live or not. Her nose was badly broken and the EMTs had told Rachel they feared the shattered bone was dangerously embedded in the soft tissue near Justine’s brain. On top of that she’d had her mouth taped shut—which prevented adequate oxygen from getting to her lungs and heart.

  “You should get checked out,” the medic told Rachel as he dabbed antiseptic along the gash in her temple and jaw. “You need stitches. Dr. Martinez does a great job. If you don’t get that sewn up, it’ll probably scar.”

  “Thanks.” The last thing on her mind was some scarring. She looked at the bed. Justine had lost a lot of blood. So much so that Rachel wondered how she could still be alive.

  She stood and felt a moment of vertigo.

  A strong hand grasped her elbow and steadied her. “Easy, there,” Scott said. “You took a pretty good lick. Did you see who hit you?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.” She eased back from his grip.

  “I think the hospital is a good idea.”

  She shook her head and again felt her balance slip. “No hospital. I need to work the scene here.” Her gaze slipped to the floor, and she forced it to stay there until her balance solidified.

  “Betty Lou and Scott Junior are doing fine. I can work this scene. Just tell me what happened,” Scott said.

  “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “He’s out at Harvey Dilson’s place. Someone broke in. Dilson’s upset, but Gordon’s on his way here.”

  She nodded.

  “So what happened?”

  She took a breath. “I saw the car burning outside and tried to get it under control. The door was open, and I had a bad feeling so I came in.” She looked at the bed. “I saw Justine, and when I went to help her someone clobbered me on the side of the head.”

  Scott nodded. “Good thing you’d already called for backup.” He looked around the room. “You were by the bed checking on Justine Morgan and what happened?”

  “He came from behind the door. I think it was Derek Baxter.”

  “Baxter? Are you sure?”

  Scott had interviewed Derek, and Rachel knew he was thinking exactly what she’d thought. Though Derek tried hard to be tough, he simply didn’t come across as the physically violent type. “I just caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye before he clobbered me.”

  “Why would Baxter—” He took in the bedroom, the intimate sprawl of Justine’s and Richard’s clothes on the floor. “The little bastard was jealous. You think he abducted Richard?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t certain how Derek figured into the whole scene, but she didn’t think he’d hurt Justine and tied her up or taken Richard Jones.

  “Did Jake go out to the Senator’s with Gordon?” It was odd that Jake hadn’t shown up at this scene.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What about Frankie—” She didn’t get to finish the question. The radio on Scott’s shoulder crackled, and Gladys’s voice came through.

  “Scott, just got a call about a wreck on Custer Lane. Doesn’t sound too serious, but Mrs. McAdams was upset. Someone hit her new Buick and kept going. She got a partial tag number. I ran it and it could be Derek Baxter’s vehicle.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Scott. That’s close to the place Derek rents.” Rachel was already moving toward the door.

  Rachel jumped into her truck. She pressed the gas to the floor and blasted out of the driveway. The old Nyman house that Derek rented was on Custer Lane. She’d seen Derek’s face—a brief glimpse, but a clear one. He’d been terrified. Not by her appearance, but by what had happened to Justine.

  She had to find him and make him tell her everything he knew.

  # # #

  Frankie sat in the shadow of a huge boulder, her truck shut down. Across the floor of the valley, a cluster of lights sparkled in the darkness.

  She closed her eyes and tried to remember, but she couldn’t find her way back to the place she wanted to go. As a child, she’d traveled this road many times. It was the road into town, and her mother had spoken often, in the early days of her healing, about the many times she and Dub went into town together to buy feed or equipment. Polly had worked hard, at first, to try to reconnect Frankie with her past–until Polly realized that the young girl who’d come back from the mountains bore no resemblance to the daughter she’d once loved.

  Watching the twinkle of lights that signified Harvey Dilson’s ranch—the land and home he’d bought from Polly just before the auctioneer’s gavel fell on a foreclosure sale—Frankie tried to squeeze even a small memory from her brain. Whatever tender moments had once resided there had been stripped clean by the bullet that ripped through her brain.

  She tried again for one single image of love and tenderness from her childhood. Nothing. She smiled. It was the last test. Now she could finish.

  If she wanted to shoot Harvey from a distance, she could find the opportunity. Even though Harvey had all of his ranch hands armed to the teeth and patrolling the house area, she could still kill him if she wanted. But she had other plans.

  She started the truck and headed away from the ranch, back to town. She’d call Harvey in the morning, see how he was doing. One of the real pleasures that came from the way she’d structured her kills was that she got to witness the fear of her victims. It was so much better than she’d ever imagined.

  She’d devised the skinning and decapitating method based on the cruel lifestyle of Hank and Mullet—men who c
onsidered themselves to be such courageous hunters. It had seemed so appropriate, and her only regret was that no one would know what craven cowards they’d been in the end, begging and pleading for her to stop as she sliced the skin from their bodies. That’s why her final victim, U.S. Senator Dilson, would be killed publicly.

  Mullet had fainted before she even started, but when she slid the sharpened end of the cable—an improvement over the rope she’d used on Hank—through his tendons and set the winch to lift him, he’d come to with wild screams. And he’d screamed until he had no voice left. It had been a thing of beauty.

  The death method had also brought to mind the legend of the Skin Dancer, the mythic Sioux monster. While she hadn’t intended to implicate the Sioux, they’d been a handy beard, giving her additional time to complete her revenge without having to hurry. She knew Adam had been haunting the woods, working the old legend, scaring the road crews, by raising the specter of the Skin Dancer. They weren’t working together, but they shared a common goal of stopping the road.

  Dancing around the victims and the owl feathers were all part of an elaborate stage that would leave Harvey with no doubt that he was next. She wanted him to anticipate his fate.

  As she drove, she thought about the strange loops of destiny that had brought her back to Criss County. Much of it she’d engineered, but there had been some divine intervention. She’d been spared so that she could mete out the fate these men deserved. Before it was over, she’d find her father’s body and prove that he hadn’t abandoned her.

  She passed through the darkened town and swung by Rachel’s house. The deputy had become a problem. Rachel was smart, persistent and intuitive. Those qualities, while admirable, were also dangerous. She shared a strange kinship with the deputy, but that was beside the point. Especially now that she’d come to the end game. Dilson was her prize, the man she meant to take in a very public way. She would expose him, strip him naked in every sense of the word.

  She would have her pound of flesh.

  Frankie’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Rachel’s driveway was empty. The deputy never seemed to sleep. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Rachel’s number. To her surprise the deputy answered.