Skin Dancer by Carolyn Haines

the words, taking some courage from the sound of his own agitated voice. He was still in command. “Pick up this shit here, and I’m going to grab the drugs up on the top of the ridge where I left ‘em.”
    He straddled his four–wheeler and roared off, leaving Burl to pick up the beer and sandwiches they’d planned to eat while waiting for the lawyers to “find” the panther. He was halfway up the ridge when he heard a high–pitched sound that was neither human nor animal. He cut the engine to listen and was about to turn the machine back on when he heard it again, this time a distinct scream. Burl’s scream.
    He hesitated, his fear blooming, as alive and powerful as the forces barely contained in the overhead cloud.
    Burl’s cries tore through the gloom. Mullet spun the ATV toward the site where he’d left his partner.
    Mullet re–entered the camp area as the first drops of rain began to fall. Hard and cold, containing small crystals of hail, the rain sang as it struck his nylon jacket. He shone his headlight on the area.
    The door of the panther’s cage swung open. The lock that he’d taken such precautions to buy so that some happenstance hiker wouldn’t free the animal had been sprung.
    A blood trail disappeared into the woods.
    Terrified, he wanted to flee. He could always claim he thought he should get help rather than search for Burl on his own. He could claim…
    The headlight caught the boot.
    He left the ATV running as he got off and walked slowly toward the hiking boot that stood all alone on the forest floor. The blood trail ended at the boot, Burl’s brand new boot.
    The rain came down harder, washing away all traces of Burl and what might have happened in the small clearing.
    # # #
    Rachel shuffled the papers she’d been studying and glanced out the window of the sheriff’s office. Her best lead so far involved Trussell, a wealthy plastic surgeon who had a legal problem. A serious one. He wasn’t highly regarded by his office staff. Or his wife. She’d come to claim his body, sans head, and never shed a tear.
    Scott had interviewed a dozen men associated with Hank Welford and who might bear him a grudge. Nothing. The case was at a standstill. Even the forensic evidence was nil so far. Her first big case and she was stalled.
    Trussell’s expensive belongings had been found at a camp site some five miles from the murder scene but had led nowhere.
    Night had fallen early with the help of the storm. She was alone, except for the dispatcher, Gladys, who was reading a novel. Judging from the expression on Gladys’s face, she wouldn’t have paid attention if a bomb exploded in their building.
    Rachel rubbed her eyes, aware that she was tired and hungry. VICAP had yielded no match for similar cases, but she’d done a comprehensive ten–year newspaper search for murders where the victims were mutilated. There were plenty of cases, but none that resembled what was happening in Criss County.
    A shadow fell over her desk, and she looked up to see Jake reading the report over her shoulder.
    â€œYou got something on that doctor?” Jake motioned to the papers in her hand. “What’s the story?”           
    â€œHe was being sued by one of his patients.”
    Jake’s eyes showed immediate interest. “What kind of suit?”
    â€œThe kind that can get a man killed.” She handed the papers to him.
    Jake studied the report for a moment before he lowered it. “He molested a sixteen–year–old girl?”
    â€œAllegedly molested. And not just any girl, but a patient who claims she was raped while sedated. The girl’s family was asking for half a million to settle.”
    Jake put the pages on her desk. “So why torture Hank instead of the doctor?”
    Rachel rubbed the furrow between her eyebrows. “That troubles me. Could be Trussel