Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

“The Matsunagas found this tour through the website, too,” says Vivian. “Isao told me he was looking for a true African experience. Not some tourist lodge, but a chance to really explore the bush.”

“That’s also how we ended up here,” Richard says. “That same fucking website. Lost in Botswana.”

I remember the night Richard showed it to me on his computer. For days he’d been surfing the Web, drooling over images of safari lodges and tented camps and feasts spread across candlelit tables. I don’t remember why Lost in Botswana was the site he finally settled on. Perhaps it was the promise of an authentic experience. True wilderness, the way Hemingway would have lived it, although Hemingway was more likely just a convincing bullshitter. I had no part in planning this holiday; it was Richard’s choice, Richard’s dream. Now a nightmare.

“What are you all saying, that his website’s a fake?” I ask. “That he used it to lure us out here? Do you people even hear yourselves?”

“People come here from all around the world to hunt big game,” says Richard. “What if this time, we’re the game?”

If he’s angling for a reaction, he certainly gets one. Elliot looks as if he might throw up. Sylvia claps her hand over her mouth, as though to stifle a sob.

But I respond with a snort of derision. “You think Johnny Posthumus is hunting us? God, Richard, don’t turn this into one of your thrillers.”

“Johnny’s the one with the gun,” Richard says. “He holds all the power. If we don’t stick together, every single one of us , then we’re all dead.”

There it is. I hear it in his bitter voice. I see it in the wary looks they all give me. I’m the Judas in their midst, the one who’ll run to Johnny and tattletale. It’s all so ridiculous I should laugh, but I’m too fucking angry. As I rise to my feet, I can scarcely keep my voice steady. “When this is over, when we’re all on that plane back to Maun next week, I’m going to remind you of this. And you’re all going to feel like idiots.”

“I hope you’re right,” Vivian whispers. “I hope to God we are idiots. I hope we are on that plane, and not just a pile of bloody bones in the …” Her voice cuts off as a shadow suddenly looms over her.

Johnny has moved so quietly that they didn’t hear his approach, and now he stands just behind Vivian and looks around at our gathering. “We need water and firewood,” he says. “Richard, Elliot, come down to the river with me.”

As both men stand up, I see fear in Elliot’s eyes. The same fear that gleams in the eyes of the blondes. Johnny calmly cradles the gun across his body, the pose of a rifleman at ease, but just the presence of that gun in his arms tilts the balance of power.

“What about—what about the girls?” Elliot asks, nervously glancing at the blondes. “Shouldn’t I, uh, stay and keep an eye on them?”

“They can wait in the truck. Right now, I need muscle.”

“If you give me the gun,” suggests Richard, “Elliot and I can get the firewood and water.”

“No one leaves camp without me. And I don’t leave the perimeter without this rifle.” Johnny’s face is grim. “If you want to stay alive, you’ll just have to trust me.”

BOSTON

GABRIEL’S STEAK WAS COOKED A PERFECT MEDIUM RARE, THE WAY HE always ordered it when they dined out at Matteo’s. But tonight, as they sat at their favorite table in the restaurant, Jane could scarcely stomach the sight of blood oozing out when her husband sliced into the filet. It made her think of Debra Gomez’s blood, dripping down the boulder. Of Gott’s body, hanging like a side of beef. Whether it comes from cow or human, we are all fresh meat .

Gabriel noticed she’d scarcely touched her pork chop, and he gave her a searching look. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help it. Doesn’t it happen to you? Scenes you can’t get out of your head, no matter how hard you try?”

“Try harder, Jane.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’s been far too long since our last dinner out together.”

“I am trying, but this case …” She looked at his steak and shuddered. “It just might turn me into a vegetarian.”

“As bad as that?”

“We’ve both seen some awful things. Spent too much time in autopsy rooms. But this one, it freaks me out on some deeper level. Gutted and left hanging. Eaten by your own damn pets.”

“That’s why we shouldn’t get a puppy.”

“Gabriel, this isn’t funny.”

He reached for his glass of wine. “I’m just trying to lighten up date night. We don’t get many of them, and this one is turning into another case review. As usual.”

“It’s the work we both do. What else are we supposed to talk about?”

“Our daughter, maybe? Where we should go on our next vacation?” He set down his wine and looked at her. “There’s more to life than murder.”

“It’s what brought us together.”

“It’s not the only thing.”

No, she thought as her husband again picked up his knife, wielding it with the cool, calm skill of a surgeon. The day they’d met, at a crime scene in Stony Brook Reservation, she’d found his unflappability intimidating. In the chaos of that afternoon, as cops and criminalists coalesced around the decomposing body, Gabriel had been a quietly commanding presence, the aloof observer taking it all in. She hadn’t been surprised to learn he was FBI; she’d known at a glance that he was an outsider, and that he was there to challenge her authority. But what first pitted them against each other was also what later drew them together. Push and pull, the attraction of opposites. Even now, as she watched her maddeningly imperturbable husband, she knew exactly why she’d fallen for him.

He looked at her and gave a resigned sigh. “Okay, whether I like it or not, it seems we’re going to talk about murder. So.” He set down his knife and fork. “You really think Big Mouth O’Brien is the key to this?”

“Those nasty calls to his radio show were so eerily similar to the comments left on that article about Leon Gott. They talked about hanging and gutting.”

“There’s nothing particularly unique about that imagery. It’s simply what hunters do. I’ve done it myself after bringing down a deer.”

“The caller Suzy identifies herself as a member of the Vegan Action Army. According to their website, they claim to have fifty members in Massachusetts.”

Gabriel shook his head. “That organization’s not ringing any bells for me. I don’t recall it popping up on any federal watchlists.”

“Or Boston PD lists, either. But maybe they’re smart enough to stay quiet. Not take credit for what they do.”

“Hanging and gutting hunters? Does that sound like vegans?”

“Think of the Earth Liberation Front. They plant firebombs.”

“But ELF tries its best to avoid killing anyone.”

“Still, look at the symbolism. Leon Gott was a big-game hunter and taxidermist. Hub Magazine runs an article about him called ‘The Trophy Master.’ Months later, he’s found hanging by his ankles, slashed from stem to stern and gutted. Suspended at just the right height to be eaten by his pets. What more fitting way to dispose of a hunter’s body than to have it ripped apart by Fluffy and Fido?” She paused, suddenly aware that the restaurant had gone quiet. Glancing sideways, she saw the couple at the next table staring at her.

“Not the time or place, Jane,” Gabriel said.

She stared down at her pork chop. “Nice weather we’re having.”

Only when the buzz of conversation around them had resumed did she say, more quietly: “I think the symbolism is obvious.”