Skin Dancer

by Haines, Carolyn

  “Hey, it’s Frankie. What’s happening?” she said.

  “Nothing good.”

  Rachel’s voice was guarded. Frankie was instantly on the alert. “Want to work out?”

  “I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” Frankie kept it light. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Maybe.”

  Rachel’s voice crackled and Frankie gripped the phone tighter. Damn cell phone reception was iffy at best. “How was your ride today with Adam?”

  “He’s an interesting guy. He told me about an artisan.”

  Rachel left the thought unfinished, and Frankie counted to seven. She couldn’t afford to push Rachel. Not now. “It’s a little early for Christmas shopping,” Frankie said.

  “No, this guy is connected to the murders.”

  “How would that be?” Frankie felt her body tighten.

  “It’s complicated, but I was wondering if you knew Yuma Pete? Ever buy any of his work?”

  Frankie had several options. She chose the one closest to the truth. “He’s been around. He does great work, but that’s all I know.”

  Rachel’s voice wafted in and out. “Frankie, when were you shot?”

  “Why?” She cleared her throat. “I mean why are you asking about that?”

  “Just wondered. What year was it?”

  “The exact dates elude me.”

  “You were twelve, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “That would be 1992. Was it summer?”

  “Where is this going?” Frankie slowed the truck and pulled over. She had to think. What had Rachel learned from Pete and what had she put together?

  “Mr. Pete mentioned something, and I was trying to figure out if any of it fit together.”

  “Well, if you do, let me know, okay? So where are you? Maybe we could meet for a drink.”

  “I’m at my destination. Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

  Frankie was left listening to static. Slowly she lowered the phone. She turned the truck around and headed back to town. She had to find Rachel before the deputy ruined everything.

  # # #

  Derek cowered in the dense shrubbery that formed an almost impenetrable wall at the back of the house he lived in. He’d parked his vehicle several blocks away. After he’d hit that big land yacht that was parked on the street, he’d panicked and kept driving. He’d slipped back on foot, scared and sick.

  Justine. He put his fists into his eyes trying to rub out the image of her, broken and near death. He’d started to remove the duct tape from her mouth when the deputy had barreled into the room. He’d struck out at Rachel on instinct. She’d seen his face, though. He knew it. So now he was waiting for the sirens and the pigs to come for him.

  The events of the past week had snowballed. Control over them had been an illusion. From the first moment he’d conceived of the idea of claiming a murder he didn’t commit, he’d been doomed.

  He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and tried one of the other WAR members. The phone rang and rang. No one was answering his calls. It was as if they knew—he carried the disease of failure. If he kept his mouth shut, he’d do time alone. If he talked, he’d take the whole cell of WAR to prison with him. Destroying a half–million dollars worth of heavy equipment suddenly wasn’t nearly as funny as it had been a week before.

  Dear God, who had done that to Justine? Had Richard Jones lost his shit when he realized Justine was involved with WAR? Had he hurt her, tied her up and—–he couldn’t bear to think any further. Instead of helping her, he’d panicked and run away. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stop the cries that wanted to rise from his throat.

  He was a coward and worse. He’d set fire to Justine’s car in an act of petty revenge while she’d been suffocating not a hundred feet away. If she lived, she’d never forgive him. If she didn’t, he’d never forgive himself.

  A vehicle pulled down the shale driveway and stopped. He recognized Rachel Redmond. She wasn’t wearing a uniform and she got out of the truck and knocked at his apartment.

  Fear immobilized him. He could either step out and turn himself in or spend the rest of his days hiding.

  He couldn’t decide what to do. If he showed himself, it would work in his favor. Rachel didn’t have her gun drawn. She might not shoot him before he had a chance to explain. Then again, if he waited, he might find some evidence that would build a legitimate alibi for the murders. The problem was that he wasn’t certain when the poachers had been killed.

  He banged his forehead with his fist. His mother would rag on him forever about this.

  Another vehicle drove down the street and slowed. He heard the motor die and a door slam. Was someone else coming to talk to him? Maybe to finish him off?

  Rachel had moved from the door to the windows. She tapped on the glass and stood on tiptoe trying to look inside.

  Derek caught sight of a figure slipping along the side of the house. He couldn’t tell if it was man or woman, but it moved with the grace of a panther.

  The figure stopped at the corner of the house. Derek couldn’t see perfectly, but he saw enough to see the baton the figure carried. He understood in a flash. The intruder meant to harm the deputy—and once again he’d get the blame for it because it was in his backyard.

  “Hey!” He roared the word as he came out of the bushes. “Hey!” He waved his arms and ran toward Rachel. “Watch out! Over there!” The force of the deputy’s taser hit him square in the chest. Lightning popped behind his eyeballs, and he hit the ground, unable to control the jerking and quivering of his muscles.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

  He held the pen in his hand, the felt tip trembling above the page. What was there to confess? Richard understood that nothing he wrote would save him from Frankie. Were there any words that would save him from himself?

  Paradise had occupied his life for so long now. More than sixteen years. In the time his dream had grown to near fruition, Frankie’s father had lain in an unmarked grave somewhere. He’d assumed that Hank and Mullet had taken care of that detail, and he’d never asked. He should have. He should at least be able to give Frankie this one thing that might lead her to peace. Instead, he’d chosen to pretend that Dub’s murder had never happened.

  The luxury of make–believe was gone now, and he was left with the reality of what had occurred. Frankie Jackson, a girl of twelve, had been shot in the head and left to die. The bullet had gone through her brain, coring away parts of her personality. What had been left was a woman bent on a terrible revenge. The blue eyes that he’d thought so lovely when he sat at her dinner table had seemed to sparkle with life and humor. Now he’d seen them icy and dead. Frankie had learned to imitate life, but she’d died a long time ago.

  He paced the cabin. He’d tried the doors and windows but they were securely locked and barred. Mullet had sat in this same chair knowing he would die, just as Richard did.

  And Justine? What would Frankie do to her if she was still alive? Though he might not be able to save himself, perhaps if he wrote what Frankie wanted to know, he could help Justine.

  Picking up the pen, he willed his hand not to shake as he began to write. He confessed to witnessing the murder of Dub Jackson, and then he began to list the places Dub’s body might have been placed.

  Frankie had tortured the men, yet they hadn’t given her that bit of information or she wouldn’t need it from him.

  He stopped writing. Surely, as she was peeling the skin from them, they would have told her the location of Dub’s grave. Yet they hadn’t. Because they didn’t know? If they didn’t know where Dub was buried, Harvey Dilson did. Dilson. Sweat formed on Richard’s forehead, though the evening was cool.

  # # #

  Rachel tuned out Derek Baxter’s yells and placed the call to Adam Standing Bear.

  She identified herself. “I need a favor.”

  She could hear the hesitation in his voice. He had a right
to be cautious. “What kind of favor?”

  “Could you go and pick up Yuma Pete. Keep him with you.”

  “Yuma might not want to be picked up.”

  “He could be in danger.”

  “I’ll go now.”

  “Thanks, Adam.” She replaced the phone.

  Derek was ranting about his innocence. He was the only occupant of the jail, and he could protest and threaten until the cows came home. As far as she could discern, he had no useful information about Richard Jones’s whereabouts, or about who had attacked Justine. He denied being at Richard’s house.

  Derek had claimed there was someone hiding in the bushes at his apartment, but Scott and Gordon had searched the area and in the darkness had found no trace to corroborate Derek’s tale.

  If Derek would shut up, the office would be quiet and she could think. Scott was canvassing the neighbors around the Jones house, but so far had reported nothing. What few neighbors there were in that rarified, elite area, hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  Rachel picked up her note pad and flipped through the last two pages. She’d come to believe that the murders of Hank and Mullet were related to the disappearance of Dub Jackson. The boot clips told it clearly. But how? How did silver boot ornaments figure into murder?

  And how did Richard Jones? Was the attack on Justine and Richard’s abduction part of the same killer’s pattern?

  She heard the familiar sound of Gordon’s steps, the limp still evident. When he walked into the sheriff’s office, she stood up.

  “Can I have a minute?” she asked.

  He motioned her to follow him and closed the door. She could see the toll the last few days had taken on him. Gordon had never been a sheriff who valued forms and computer work. Action had been his motto. A crime was committed and he solved it and put the criminal in jail. Times were changing. Technology had begun to overwhelm him, and the long months of physical pain had eroded his vitality. He was ready to retire–and Jake was a perfect successor.

  “Have you found something about Richard?” Gordon asked, and she saw the hope in his eyes.

  “No, sir. But I have some questions. About Dub Jackson.”

  Gordon settled into his chair, shifting his weight off his bad hip. “That was a long time ago. How is that relevant to what’s going on now?”

  She gave him her theory and the evidence she had to support it. Gordon listened without comment until she was finished.

  “We searched for Dub. I stayed up in those woods for two weeks. Mel brought in volunteers. The man vanished without a trace. At first I didn’t believe he’d leave, but there was no other way to explain how he and his horse simply vanished.”

  “Did Richard contribute to the search?” Rachel held her breath.

  “He did, in fact. He volunteered to plot the search patterns on his computers. And he even searched some. I heard that later, when Frankie was recovering and he’d begun to rake in the money from his software, he was very generous to Frankie’s mom.”

  “Did you ever ask yourself why that might be?” Rachel asked the question softly.

  “Richard’s a good man. He’s invested in the people and the area.” Gordon went silent as he looked at Rachel. “You think he was involved in what happened to Frankie and Dub?”

  “If I had some proof—”

  “That’s not possible, Rachel.” Gordon’s voice was sharp. “The only people who even remember Dub Jackson and what happened—well, there isn’t anyone. Frankie has no memory and her mom, Polly, is dead. No one else cares.”

  “Sheriff, I want to bring Frankie in for questioning.”

  “Because her father disappeared?”

  “Because these murders are tied to Dub Jackson’s disappearance.”

  “The evidence you have is a piece of boot ornamentation and some theories, Rachel. That’s not good enough. You bring me one solid thing, and I’ll consider at least bringing Frankie in for questioning.”

  Rachel didn’t argue. She’d expected Gordon to resist her theory. If she was right, the things that Gordon believed about Criss County would all be turned on their heads.

  “Where did Frankie’s mom die, and when?” she asked.

  “About five years ago. Down in Montgomery, Alabama.”

  “Do you remember who told you about it?”

  “I don’t, but I am telling you that you’re on the wrong trail. Sniff down it awhile if you have to, but don’t waste a lot of time. We have to find Richard, and we have to find him alive. My hope is that we get a call for ransom or that Miss Morgan comes to and can identify the attacker. I’ve got roadblocks on every major road out of the county. Harvey said if there’s no sign of Richard by tomorrow, he’ll call in some federal help.”

  Rachel didn’t hold out much hope. She didn’t believe a ransom call would come. And if Justine could identify her attacker, she’d be dead. Even worse, an onslaught of federal agents would only assure Richard’s immediate death, if he wasn’t dead already.

  “What about Baxter?” the sheriff asked.

  “Keep him in jail for the rest of the night. Then cut him loose.”

  “You believe he was trying to help you?”

  Rachel opened the door. “Not necessarily. But he was yelling for me to watch out when I tasered him. It’s not worth it to keep him in jail disrupting the quiet. He can’t get far and we can round him up again if we need him.”

  # # #

  Rachel’s eyes felt like someone had grazed them with sandpaper, but she stroked the keyboard, finding her way into the maze of legal documentation in Montgomery County, Alabama. She was looking for the death certificate for Polly Jackson.

  Gordon was right about one thing. Frankie and her mother were the only two people who might ever have truly cared what happened to Dub. Frankie allegedly didn’t remember enough to talk about it and Polly was dead. But maybe, just maybe there was someone who’d been close to Polly before her death. Someone who might remember something that would tell her how Richard Jones was involved with Dub Jackson.

  Because Rachel knew that if she was going to save Richard, she had to find out the truth about Dub’s disappearance.

  She searched the entire data base of Montgomery County, Alabama, death certificates and found nothing. She expanded the search to the surrounding counties.

  Nothing.

  She shifted her search to Criss County, in case Frankie had brought her mom back to the area to die.

  Nothing.

  Where the hell was Polly Jackson’s body?

  She buzzed Gordon’s office. “Sheriff, would you happen to know Polly Jackson’s sister’s name?”

  “Don’t waste a lot of time on this.”

  “I just want to make a phone call.”

  “Call Senator Dilson.” He gave her the senator’s private line. “Harvey helped make the arrangements to transfer Frankie down South. She had to go in an air ambulance, and Harvey had some political backers who donated their plane. Maybe he’ll remember.”

  “Thanks.” Rachel was busy dialing as soon as she got a dial tone.

  To her surprise, Dilson came on the phone instantly. When she asked about Frankie’s aunt, he hesitated. “Maybelle Crozier,” he said. “What’s the interest, deputy?”

  “I’m not sure, Senator. But can I ask you something else?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was Richard Jones ever affiliated with Hank Welford or Mullet Bellows?”

  The silence stretched for what seemed to be a long time. “That’s a peculiar thing to ask.”

  “Was he?”

  “Couldn’t say,” Dilson said. “They don’t strike me as people who would have a common interest, but then again, Richard doesn’t use the best judgment where his…ah…associates are concerned. Is there any news on him?”

  “None.” Rachel had already turned her attention to the internet phone book. She found a listing for a Maybelle Crozier in Montgomery. “Thanks, Senator.”

  The older woman answered on the four
th ring, her soft drawl laced with aggravation at someone who would have the impertinence to call at such a late hour.

  Rachel introduced herself and explained that she was looking for a death certificate for Polly Jackson.

  “Is Frances in South Dakota?” Maybelle asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rachel crushed the impulse to drum her fingers.

  “Why don’t you ask her about Polly’s death?”

  Rachel was suddenly calm. “She’s out of pocket.”

  “What’s she done, Deputy?” Maybelle asked. Her voice, though old, was threaded with sharp intelligence.

  Truth was not always the best policy. Rachel opted to straddle the fence. “I’m not certain she’s done anything at all.”

  “Hogwash. But keep your secrets. I’ll tell you what I know. Polly had suffered a terrible fall down a flight of stairs in her home. The accident left her paralyzed from the waist down. She was in Heritage Manor Care Facility when she died on May 12, 2004.”

  Rachel had a lot of questions, but she focused on the most important ones. “There’s no death certificate on file in Alabama for Polly Jackson.”

  “Polly Louise Jackson. There has to be.”

  “Is she buried in Alabama?”

  “No, Frankie took her back to Criss County. There wasn’t even a decent service. Just a memorial kind of ceremony. The body had already been cremated.”

  “Was Mrs. Jackson close to anyone? Someone she might have confided in?”

  Maybelle made a soft sound of disgust. “Once Frankie regained her physical skills, she kept Polly isolated. I didn’t know my own sister was paralyzed until a month after the fact.” The line hummed. “Polly was afraid of Frances. She never came right out and said it, but she was afraid of her.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I believe Frances hurt Polly. Frances wasn’t right. After the accident where she was shot, she wasn’t right. The bullet did something to her brain. I know the doctors said it hadn’t, but they don’t know everything.”

  Rachel’s fingers tightened on the phone. She was on the right track. Even if no one would listen to her. Frankie was involved in the Criss County murders.