Frankie tapped on the driver’s window and realized she’d startled Rachel. She offered an apologetic grin and held up a camera.
When Rachel rolled down the glass, Frankie leaned forward. “Gordon said I might be helpful as a tracker.”
Marston gave her a look that told her he appreciated the faded jeans that molded to her body and the thermal shirt that clung to her back and breasts. Though her wardrobe was casual, it was selected with thought.
“Hop in.” Rachel signaled to the back seat. “We’re headed up toward Granite Gulch.”
Frankie slipped into the vehicle, nodding at Marston as she closed the door. The set of Rachel’s head and the rigidity of her shoulders spoke volumes about the pressure she was under. “I hope I can help,” Frankie said.
“We can use all the help we can get,” Marston said. “If it’s anything like the last one, though, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“Gordon said there was a decapitated body?” She left the question open. This third murder had caught her completely off–guard. She had to get to the crime scene—to see it for herself—before the law officials dismantled it. There were things to be learned from the scene.
“That’s what the spokesman for WAR is saying.” Rachel kept her eyes on the road as she drove fast on the wet asphalt.
Frankie preferred to drive, especially at high speeds. The storm had blown debris around the town, and Rachel dodged trash cans and torn awnings. She was skillful behind the wheel.
“You really think those WAR folks are killing people?” Frankie asked.
“I don’t know. We’ll be able to tell more when we get there.”
Frankie nodded. “True. I know these woods. I studied all the geographic maps when Belker was planning the construction. I even know some shortcuts that aren’t on the forestry maps.” She checked the small, expensive camera she held. “And Gordon asked me to document the crime scene for him until the Rapid City crew gets there.”
“That’s a good idea.” Marston grinned at Frankie. “You’re gonna be a big help.”
When Rachel didn’t say anything, Frankie put a hand on the back of her seat. “I’m not some voyeur or curiosity seeker, Rachel. My career is riding on this project. My crew is losing its nerve. If I can’t keep them working, the roadway is history. If this crew shuts down, I’m screwed. I want to go along to help. And I am a good tracker.”
Marston cleared his throat. “Frankie’s dad, Dub Jackson, was one of the best trackers in these parts. When she was just a kid, he’d take her along on search–and–rescue rides.”
“I can be a help,” Frankie said softly.
“And I thank you, but right now I have to focus.” Rachel swerved to miss a tree that was partially in the road. “Marston, radio back to the office and see if Scott found out anything about Bellows.”
Marston keyed the radio. “Gladys, what’s the word on Mullet and Burl?” he asked.
There was a burst of static, then the voice of the dispatcher. “Not good, K–4. The wife is hysterical. No sign of her husband or Burl.”
“Keep us posted,” Marston said before he signed out.
Frankie watched the familiar scenery flash by the window. She studied the back of the deputy’s head. Her dark hair was still wet, clamped into place, and her shoulders were rigid with tension.
They climbed higher into the hills, the sunshine almost too bright, creating thick shadows in the trees and casting the hills in black relief.
After the Civil War, this land had been given to the various Sioux tribes in the Treaty of Fort Laramie. The land had been considered too savage for the white settlers who were spreading west from the Missouri River. She could easily imagine how daunting the rocky mountains had seemed to travelers wanting only to get to the other side, to press onward to California and the streets made of gold. The Badlands with its blistering heat and arid conditions had seemed worthless, the Black Hills an obstacle that could be avoided by a more southern passage. So the land had been deeded to the Indians.
Until the Gold Rush. That had changed everything.
Frankie cleared her throat. “Rachel, there are old mines everywhere in these hills. A murderer could hide anywhere.”
“Let’s hope that we can put your tracking skills to use today.”
“So far, this guy’s been pretty careful,” Marston added. “Nothing at the other crime scene except two decapitated bodies. And we still haven’t found the heads. But we might get lucky today.”
Rachel slowed. Something was in the road ahead. “Damn.” A huge spruce had fallen. “I guess we’re going to have to hike in. When we get radio contact, we need to call for a road crew.”
“Fine by me.” Frankie climbed out. “I could use a walk.”
“According to the map, we still have about two miles to go up that timber trail,” Rachel said as she got out and stretched. She caught the gaze of both of her companions. “Thank you both for being here. I’m glad for your help. Now let’s do this.”
# # #
Half an hour later, Rachel wiped the sweat from her forehead. The climb had been mostly uphill and made more difficult in places by loosened shale. The storm had rutted the minimal road the wildlife crews maintained, and now the uneven terrain and loose rocks made even walking difficult. She was beginning to wonder if WAR had played the sheriff’s office and everyone else for a fool. There was no sign of the body where the WAR spokesman had claimed it would be.
She trudged forward again and stopped. The clear impression of a tire track could be seen. “Here! Tire tracks there. I’ll mark the area for the forensic guys.”
“Good work, Rachel.” Frankie snapped a picture. “Most of the tracks have been washed away by the rain. See how that limb lodged up above this one. Must have diverted the rainwater.”
Rachel put down three red flag markers around the print. She’d come back later and make the molds. The tire imprint could be a valuable piece of evidence.
She started walking again, listening to the murmur of conversation between Marston and Frankie. The volunteer was obviously smitten with her. Mullet and his reputed skills with women was their topic, and she tuned it out, focusing on the trail ahead. She caught sight of something in the shadows of the trees and halted. Her stomach dropped.
“What the hell is that?” Frankie stopped beside her and pointed up ahead where the trees created a thick canopy of shadows. Something pale flashed in a ray of sunlight.
She’d almost convinced herself that this was a wild goose chase, that no one else had been murdered, that Mullet and Burl were holed up drunk in some abandoned cabin.
“Let’s go, but remember we need to preserve the integrity of the crime scene.” She glanced at Frankie. “You might want to wait here until we check it out.”
Frankie shook her head. “I’m not the squeamish type. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” She held up her camera. “I have a job to do.”
Rachel nodded. “Thank you.” She continued up the trail, Marston and Frankie following behind.
The shadows of the pines and spruce were so deep that she couldn’t be certain what was hanging, but there was something there, something large enough to be a human and pale enough to consist of flesh. When she could clearly make out the dangling arms, and the place where a head should have been connected, she accepted the inevitable. The killer had struck again.
She was about to key her radio and see if she could transmit when she stopped. Something wasn’t exactly right. Even in the dim light, there was something wrong with the body.
“What the hell?” Marston saw it, too.
She stepped forward, her pace increasing. In the dimness of the woods, she didn’t believe her eyes. There was a human form hanging upside down from a tree limb, swaying gently in the breeze, arms pointed toward the ground, the head missing. It wasn’t right, though. The body was rigid. It didn’t move like a human body. It moved like–
“It’s a mannequin,” Rachel said, hardly daring to believe it. “Somebody hauled a mannequin up here.”
“Who would do such a sick thing?” Marston asked. “Look at that.” He started forward.
“Don’t touch it.” Rachel caught his sleeve, halting him in his tracks.
“It’s one of those store window dummies,” Marston said. “I—”
“It’s still a crime scene.” Rachel got out her pad and began to diagram. “There may be footprints or fingerprints or something we can use. We still have to work it.”
“The crazy fucker who killed Welford and that plastic surgeon is laughing at us.” Marston’s tone was angry. “He’s up here in the woods playing jokes while we’re running all over trying to catch him. He’s got so much free time, he can plan pranks.”
“He’s a clever son of a bitch,” Frankie said as she brought out the camera. “I would never have thought of such a thing. This is truly creepy.”
Rachel tried the radio but she got only static. “Marston, would you walk back to the Rover and drive to a telephone? Call the sheriff right away. Cancel the forensic guys from Rapid City, and tell Gordon to call a press conference. Either the spokesman for WAR is playing with us or he’s dumber than a post.”
Frankie held up her camera. “Shall I do the honors, Rachel?”
“Sure thing.” As they walked toward the dummy, Rachel felt a chill touch her neck. She swung around to see if someone was behind her.
“Something wrong?” Frankie asked.
She shook her head. “Just the sense that someone is watching us.”
Frankie lifted the camera and began to snap photos. “Funny you should say that. I felt it coming up the trail. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you to think I was a sissy and send me back to the Rover.”
Rachel couldn’t help the gooseflesh that ran over her lower back. “You felt it, too?”
“Like someone’s gaze boring into my spine. Yeah, I felt it. Several of the guys on my crew have said the same thing. They think there’s an evil spirit in the woods.” She laughed, but it was half–hearted. “I guess all the environmental damage is coming back to haunt them. They think it’s the Skin Dancer.”
“The what?”
“It’s an old Sioux legend. You mean someone hasn’t mentioned this to you?”
“No. What’s the story?”
Frankie lowered the camera. “I don’t think I’m the one to tell it, but I can arrange for you to hear it from someone who knows it intimately. Maybe this afternoon.”
“And who would that be?”
“Adam Standing Bear. He knows a great deal about Sioux folklore.”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to Mr. Standing Bear. He’s a difficult guy to run down. I’ve left several messages for him.”
“I’ll set it up.” Frankie moved carefully around the mannequin, photographing it from all directions. She stopped when she was on the west side. Bending over, she examined something on the ground.
“What is it?” Rachel asked.
Frankie squatted. “You’d better take a look at this.”
Rachel knelt beside Frankie. Half–buried in the mud was a hair clamp. She used a stick to slowly pry it loose from the mud. The clamp was beautiful, a twist of gold with what looked to be real pearls along the rim. Two long strands of dark hair were still attached.
“It looks expensive,” Rachel said.
“It is. And I’m almost positive I know who it belongs to.”
“Who?” Rachel felt a rush of excitement.
“Justine Morgan. In fact, she was wearing one exactly like it at my dinner party last night.”
Rachel absorbed the information and what it might mean. “What time did she leave?”
“It was late.”
“You said you think she’s connected with WAR?” Rachel carefully bagged the barrette.
“I have no proof, but she has the ideology and the passion. She’s clever enough to come up with something like this for WAR to claim.”
“I think I’m going to have to bring Miss Morgan into the sheriff’s office for questioning.”
Frankie nodded. “Sounds like the thing to do.”
Rachel put the bag in her pocket. It was the first solid piece of evidence against a living, breathing suspect they had.