Skin Dancer

by Haines, Carolyn

  Well, she’d take care of Rachel and then finish off Richard and Jake. No one was going to interfere with what she intended to do to Harvey Dilson. No one. Dilson was going to tell her where Dub was buried, and then he was going to pay. With long hours of suffering. This was the pay–out for the years of work she’d put into this plan.

  # # #

  Staring at the sole of his dirty foot, Richard could see the delicate bones. He’d stepped on something sharp, and though he’d tried to continue walking behind John Henry James, he couldn’t go any farther. The wound was bleeding more freely, leaving a trail that a blind tracker could follow.

  “You got to get up and move,” John Henry said, rubbing his scraggly beard. “Somebody wants you dead, and if you sit here waitin’ for ‘em to come, they will.”

  “I can’t keep going.” Richard’s voice was level, calm. “You go on. Leave me here. I don’t want you caught up in this.”

  John Henry walked back to stand in front of him. “Man, whoever is after you is gonna hang you upside down, strip the skin off you and chop off your head. You might wanna rethink this quittin’ business.”

  Richard held up the bottom of his foot. He saw concern touch John Henry’s face. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I can’t.”

  John Henry knelt down and examined the wound more closely. “Looks like you stepped on a sharp stick. We need to clean this up, get the bark and dirt out of the wound, else you’re gonna have a real mess on your hands.”

  Richard almost laughed. He’d been kidnapped by a serial killer who meant to skin him—and he’d escaped. It would be ironic if he died of an infected foot. “You go on. Maybe you can find a phone and call for help.”

  John Henry rocked back on his heels and thought about it. “It’s a trek to anywhere there might be a phone. I was hopin’ to get you to my place to rest, but it’s still a good four miles to go.”

  “I can’t make it. But if you do call and get someone to come…” He felt hope surge. Funny how hope never truly died. Not even when the situation was impossible. A deputy on an ATV could whisk him to safety.

  “Why does the killer want you?” John Henry asked.

  Richard almost brushed him off, but he changed his mind. “A while back I was involved in something really bad. A man was killed and a young girl shot in the head.”

  “You killed a dude?” John Henry drew back. “Shit, man, that’s heavy.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone. But I didn’t stop it. I should have stopped it, and barring that, I should have turned the people who did it over to the authorities.” He felt the shame he’d suppressed for years. “But I did neither of those things. What I did was pretend none of it had ever happened. I just went on with my life and my dream, and I did nothing.”

  John Henry stood up. “Hindsight’s a thing of beauty, Mr. Jones. For the past eight years I laid up in a jail cell remembering the night my wife died. We were drunk and arguing. We did it ever’ night. But this time she threw a can of beer at me and hit me in the lip. It hurt like hell and I grabbed her wrist. I meant to slap her, just get her to snap out of it. She was crazy wild. She snatched her arm free and fell backward.” He took off the T–shirt he was wearing and began to tear it into strips. “I knew when her head hit the corner of the table that she was dead. It made a sound like thumpin’ a ripe melon. She was dead before she hit the floor, and there was nothin’ I could do to change a thing.”

  John Henry took the strips of cloth and began to bind Richard’s foot. “You got to keep goin’. I leave you here, you won’t be found by the time I get back.”

  “If you stay, she’ll kill you, too.”

  “She?” John Henry’s eyes held surprise and interest. “The Skin Dancer is a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we better hurry quicker. I’d rather face a hungry bear than a mad woman. Let’s get shaking.” He pulled the bandage tight around Richard’s foot.

  Pain shot up his leg, but Richard gritted his teeth and made no sound. “If we get out of this, you’re going to be a wealthy man, Mr. Henry.”

  “Now those are words to live by.” He pulled another strip of cloth tight around the foot. “I don’t aim to let you disappoint me on that count.”

  The sound of leaves crackling made them both go silent. John Henry stood up, his gaze raking the woods in all directions as he turned. “Someone is out there,” he said softly.

  Richard hobbled up on one foot. “Is it her?”

  John Henry shook his head. “I don’t know, but we can’t stay here any longer. Let’s move.” He offered Richard his arm to lean on.

  Putting weight on the foot was like jamming a hot poker up the bone of his leg, but Richard started to walk. He could feel someone’s gaze digging into his back. Had Frankie returned to finish him off? He stepped faster at the idea.

  “Don’t think about anything but the next step,” John Henry whispered to him. “Step, step, step…” Branches whispered behind them.

  “Run for it,” Richard said, pulling his arm free. “Go. I don’t want you to die. She isn’t after you. It’s me she wants. It’s me.”

  As John Henry sprinted forward, Richard turned to meet his fate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Rachel chewed on a cuticle as the nursing home administrator, Nancy Howard, slowly went through the files of the eighty–nine patients. The woman was methodical and slow as Christmas.

  “There is no Polly Jackson here. Just like I told you.” Mrs. Howard pushed her glasses up her nose. “I am sorry, but that’s all I can do.”

  “Thanks.” Rachel moved to the door. “I appreciate your help.” She didn’t have time to go through proper channels; she had to take matters into her own hands and screw the consequences.

  As soon as she cleared the door, she cut back through the shrubbery. There was a back exit. She’s seen two aides go out to smoke cigarettes. With any luck, she could get in that way.

  And then? She didn’t know. But Polly was there, and somehow she had to find her.

  The two aides had moved under the shade of an elm to smoke, their backs to the door and their attention on their conversation. She slipped quietly past them and when she got to the door, she found it had been blocked with a small rock to keep the automatic lock from engaging. She walked inside, unnoticed.

  The hall was quiet. There were roughly forty–five rooms, double occupancy. Some of the patients were in the day room or involved in activities, but Polly Jackson was bedridden. She had to be in her room.

  Rachel pushed open the door of the first room. Two elderly men gave her a startled look, then a smile. “Excuse me,” she said and closed the door.

  Down the corridor she moved, opening each door, praying that she would find the woman she sought before it was too late for Jake and Richard.

  # # #

  Frankie ate a burger and sipped on a chocolate shake as she waited in the rental truck parked half a block down the street from Rachel’s vehicle. As she suspected, Rachel had gone to the nursing home. Rachel had brains and determination, and they were going to be the death of her.

  Frankie settled back against the seat. She’d catch the deputy when she came out. The day was hot, humid for South Dakota. It reminded her of Montgomery.

  When she and her mother had first moved to Alabama, Frankie had been unable to move or talk. Her mother had pushed her along the sidewalk every evening.

  Frankie remembered how the air had felt almost solid, as if she were cutting through damp layers of meringue. Today, the feeling was almost the same. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the car seat. She missed the South. As much as she loved South Dakota, she could never rid herself of the anxiety and dread that came each winter. Alabama, at first, had been one slow drawl of pain, but it had also been days and weeks of hard–fought accomplishment. South Dakota, so beautiful and lush in the summer, was terrifying when the winter set in.

  Sometimes she’d dream about the snow, high up to her chest, trapping her so
that she couldn’t move. It always reminded her of the winter the cows had starved and frozen in the fields. That was the winter she’d watched her daddy suffer, and she’d been helpless to do a thing for him.

  After the thaw, her dad and some of the hands had gone out. He’d told her to stay behind with her mother, but she’d managed to get in the back of a truck. By the time Dub found her, it was too late to send her home.

  The carnage was horrible. Pits had to be dug and the dead cows pushed into them. Sanitary precautions. Her father had come in from the range that day bent, like something vital had broken. He never recovered. He did the work. He tended the ranch. But he’d lost the swagger in his walk and the quick smile that teased the corners of his mouth.

  She’d stayed by his side every day that spring and summer, and she’d thought she’d seen the shadows retreating, bit by bit. But he hadn’t lived long enough. His life was stolen from him and he’d been labeled a coward and yellowbelly, a man who left his family to starve.

  She was pulled from her memories when she saw two people exiting the nursing home. Frankie drained the last of the milkshake and tossed the paper cup on the floorboard. What the hell was keeping Rachel? She should have come out of the nursing home, headed for Bisonville like a scalded dog.

  Her hand touched the automatic pistol she’d taken from Richard’s house. The cold steel calmed her. A baton was on the seat beside her.

  Sitting in the hot truck, she let her mind return to the past. So many years, when she’d been a prisoner of her unresponsive body, she’d tried to fit the pieces together. Visitors to her hospital room had talked, thinking she couldn’t understand. She’d gleaned the first bits of information that told her what had really happened. Helpless, unable to speak, she’d listened, remembering the strange silver boot ornament worn by the man who’d left her to die. Now the puzzle was complete. Everything was in order. The confessions of Hank and Mullet had been icing on the cake. She knew the exact details now. Dub had ridden up and caught Harvey and his cohorts in the middle of one of their canned hunts. Dub hated poachers and people who abused animals in that manner. He’d threatened to turn Harvey over to the authorities. Harvey shot him as he rode away. When she’d ridden up, he’d shot her too. It was that simple.

  Harvey was never one to believe he deserved punishment. The ends justified the means—his motto. Because he delivered for his constituents in South Dakota, most of them felt the same way. They’d returned him to office twice already; he brought home the bacon in federal funds.

  She got out of the truck. She couldn’t wait any longer. She imagined her mother’s face when she saw her. She had to be careful, though. She didn’t want to end up arrested in Custer. Her escape route was planned through South Dakota. She had to be in Criss County by nightfall to bring everything to fruition.

  # # #

  Rachel saw the nurse coming and slipped into the next room. She’d covered one hall and moved on to the second. When she opened the door, she found a woman sitting up in bed. Her tired hazel eyes noted Rachel’s presence, but she didn’t seem enthused over a visitor.

  “Mrs. Jackson?”

  The first hint of alarm sharpened the focus of her gaze. “My name is Sarah Powell.”

  Rachel closed the door. Polly Jackson’s hair was gray and her face was lined with pain and worry, but this was Frankie’s mother. She could see it. “I’m here about Frances.”

  Polly turned her face away toward the wall.

  “Mrs. Jackson, peoples’ lives are in danger. I have to know about Frances.”

  She turned bruised eyes toward Rachel. “There’s nothing I can tell you. I don’t know this person who has my daughter’s body. I don’t want to know her.”

  “What really happened to your husband, Mrs. Jackson? Mullet Bellows and Hank Welford are dead. Two other men are missing. If Frankie is killing the people she thinks are responsible for Dub’s death, who else will she go after?”

  The intensity in Polly’s eyes faded, as if she looked upon another time and place. “Frances killed those men in the Black Hills?”

  “Yes.” Rachel had no time for qualifiers. “Who else was involved in your husband’s death? You have to know. Frankie thinks you know. Why else would she treat you like this?”

  “He said it was a mistake.” Her voice faded and then came back, stronger. “I didn’t know for a long time. I never suspected. They made me believe Dub had left and Frances was shot in an accident. They had evidence that Dub left us, alone out there with the cattle hungry and no way to feed them. I couldn’t believe that Dub had done that, but they said there were tracks, that people had seen him in Texas…”

  “Who? Who said those things?” Rachel wanted to grasp the older woman’s hands to convey the urgency, but she forced herself to stand calmly.

  “You have to understand. Dub and Frances were closer than they should have been. I couldn’t have another child, so she became my daughter and Dub’s son. He taught her to ride when she was so little her legs barely straddled the pony. She started going to work with him on the ranch when she was five. She adored him.”

  Rachel pulled up a chair beside the bed. Not even the screech of the metal legs on linoleum could dislodge Polly from the past where she now lingered.

  “It was summer the day Dub disappeared. School was out. Frances had finished the sixth grade, and I’d asked her to go into town with me to get fitted for a bra and some dresses. It was time for her to give up her britches. She didn’t want to go, so the minute my back was turned she slipped out her bedroom window, saddled her horse and took off after her dad.

  “Dub had a good head start up into the hills, but he’d taught Frances to track. Dub was hunting twenty cows that had strayed. Those were valuable cows since so much of our herd died the winter before.”

  She cleared her throat as if it had gone dry, and Rachel handed her a plastic glass of water with a straw. Her old hands wrapped around Rachel’s as she gripped the glass.

  “Dub never came back. When Frances rode home that day, barely hanging on to the saddle horn, blood covering her hair and body, dripping down onto the horse and leaving a trail in the sand, I looked into her eyes and I knew she was gone.” Her grip on the glass tightened and water gushed over the top.

  Rachel got a towel from the bathroom and mopped the floor. “What did Frankie say?” she asked.

  Polly shook her head. “She couldn’t talk, but the fear… She was like a wild animal in a trap. We took her by car to Rapid City because we couldn’t wait on the ambulance. They told me the bullet had done extensive damage to her brain. They wanted to institutionalize her after she was released from the hospital, but I couldn’t.”

  “And Dub was gone?”

  “I thought so. It almost killed me. Gordon Gray—he’s a good and decent man–he searched those woods day after day after day. Frances couldn’t remember anything, but he and the volunteers followed Frankie’s blood trail back to the hills. They found where she’d been shot, but no evidence that Dub had ever been there. The only sign they ever found was Dub’s horse’s tracks and then the tire prints from a horse trailer. They said he’d loaded up his horse and took off long before Frances was shot. Dub would never have left her hurt.”

  “How did Frankie get up on her horse?”

  “No one could ever figure that out.”

  “And no one was questioned about the shooting?”

  “It was a .22. Not something a person would hunt with. They found a target and figured kids had been up there practice shooting. It was written off as an accident. Kids never thinking where a bullet might end up. Mel told me that there wasn’t a point in making a criminal out of a kid, that it would be best to let it go.”

  “And Dub?”

  “I waited until September, when Frances was released from the hospital. Then I put the ranch up for sale. We were so far behind, I was hoping to cover the debt and be done with it. Before I could even put the sign up, Harvey Dilson bought it and with a handsome prof
it for me. Enough to bring Frances here and hire a private therapist to work with us.”

  “I knew Dilson owned a ranch, but I never knew it was the Jackson ranch.”

  She nodded. “I thought he was so kind, so generous. For the first few years, someone would leave money on the front step of the house every six months. It was more than enough to pay for the therapy and the things Frances needed, with some left over for me to invest. I thought that was Harvey because…” She looked out the window.

  “Dilson left the money?”

  When she turned back her face was haggard. “No one ever owned up to it, but I thought it was Harvey. He wrote letters for Frances and got her accepted into MIT for the engineering degree. He got her the job on the road project in South Dakota.”

  “Did you ever ask yourself why?”

  Polly’s gray eyes came into focus. Her right hand twisted the wedding band that was now loose on her finger.

  Rachel almost gasped. She leaned forward. “Mrs. Jackson, were you involved with Harvey Dilson?”

  Tears moved slowly down the wrinkles of Polly’s face. “Dub and Frances never needed me. They were all each other needed. I was left out, and I needed someone.”

  “Does Frankie know about this? Is that why she hurt you?”

  Polly shrugged one shoulder. “She can smell guilt. She’s like an animal, sniffing out the guilt and the sorrow. That’s what she feeds on.”

  Rachel mentally flipped through the conversation she’d had with Frankie. “I believe Frankie is looking for her father’s body. I think she has to prove that he died, that he didn’t abandon his family. That’s why she’s been torturing the men before she kills them. She has to find his body. Do you know where Dub is buried?”

  Polly let her head fall back against her pillow. “There’s an old mine shaft. If you walk all the way through it, there’s a cabin that Harvey used on occasion. Dub’s body is in the mine shaft, down a tunnel.”