Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

“Jane, you’re bleeding. I’ve got alcohol swabs in my purse downstairs.”

“First we catch him. Go to the other side of the bed. Scare him toward me.”

Maura dropped to her knees and looked under the bed frame. A pair of yellow eyes glared back at her, and the growl that rumbled from the animal’s throat was so feral it made the hairs lift on Maura’s arms. This was no nice little kitty. This was Demon Fluffy.

“Okay, I’m ready with the towel,” said Jane. “Chase him my way.”

Maura gave a timid swipe at the animal. “Shoo.”

The cat bared its teeth and hissed.

“Shoo?” Jane snorted. “Seriously, Maura, that’s the best you can do?”

“Okay, then. Move, cat!” Maura waved her arm and the cat backed away. Maura pulled off her shoe and swung it at the animal. “Go!”

The cat shot out from under the bed. Though Maura couldn’t see the struggle that ensued, she heard the yowling and hissing and Jane’s muttered oaths as she wrestled her prey. By the time Maura was back on her feet, Jane had Demon Fluffy securely bundled in the bath towel. Jane dumped the struggling cat and towel into the cardboard box and closed the flaps. The box rattled and shook with fifteen pounds of angry cat.

“Do I need a rabies shot?” Jane asked, looking at her clawed arm.

“What you need first is soap and antiseptic. Wash your arm. I’ll go downstairs and get those alcohol swabs.”

The old Boy Scout motto of Be Prepared was one that Maura also shared, and in her purse she had latex gloves, alcohol swabs, tweezers, shoe covers, and plastic evidence bags. Downstairs, she found her purse on the coffee table where she’d left it. She dug out the bundle of alcohol wipes and was turning to go back upstairs when she suddenly noticed the bare nail in the wall. Surrounding the empty spot were framed photos of Leon Gott on various hunting expeditions, posing with his rifle and his lifeless trophies. Deer, a buffalo, wild boar, a lion. Also framed was the printed article about Gott from Hub Magazine: “The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.’ ”

Jane came down the stairs, into the living room. “So should I worry about rabies?”

Maura pointed to the bare nail. “Was something removed from here?”

“I’m worried about my arm falling off, and you’re asking about an empty spot on the wall.”

“There’s something missing here, Jane. Was it like this last week?”

“Yeah, it was. I noticed that nail before. I can check the crime scene videos to confirm.” Jane paused, suddenly frowning at the exposed nail. “I wonder …”

“What?”

Jane turned to her. “Gott called Jodi Underwood, asking for Elliot’s photos from Africa.” She pointed to the empty space on the wall. “You think this has to do with why he called her?”

Maura shook her head, perplexed. “A missing photo?”

“That same day, he also called Interpol in South Africa. Again, it was about Elliot.”

“Why would he focus on his son now? Didn’t Elliot vanish years ago?”

“Six years ago.” Once again Jane turned to look at the naked spot where something had been removed. “In Botswana.”

BOTSWANA

HOW LONG CAN A MAN STAY AWAKE, I WONDER AS I WATCH JOHNNY nodding off in the firelight, his eyes half closed, his torso slumping forward like a tree on the verge of collapse. Yet his fingers are still wrapped around the rifle in his lap, as if the weapon is part of his body, an extension of his limbs. All evening the others have been watching him, and I know Richard’s tempted to wrestle control of that gun, but even a half-asleep Johnny is too formidable to tangle with. Since Isao’s death, Johnny has caught only snatches of sleep during the day and he’s determined to stay awake all night. If he keeps this up, in another few days he will be either catatonic or insane.

Either way, he’ll be the one with the gun.

I look at the faces around the fire. Sylvia and Vivian huddle together, their blond hair equally tangled, faces equally tight with worry. It’s strange, what the bush does to even beautiful women. It strips them of all superficial gloss, dulls their hair, scours away makeup, erodes them down to flesh and bone. That’s what I see when I look at them now: two women slowly being eroded to their bare elements. Already it has happened to Mrs. Matsunaga, who’s been worn down to her fragile, fractured core. She is still not eating. The plate of meat I gave her sits untouched at her feet. To coax some sort of nutrition into her, I added two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea, but she immediately spat it out, and now she looks at me with distrust, as if I tried to poison her.

In fact, everyone now looks at me with distrust, because I haven’t joined their blame-Johnny team. They think I’ve gone to the dark side, and I’m Johnny’s spy, when all I’m trying to do is figure out the most likely way for us to stay alive. I know Richard’s no outdoorsman, even though he thinks he is. Clumsy, terrified Elliot hasn’t shaven in days, his eyes are bloodshot, and any minute now I expect him to start babbling like a madman. The blondes are falling apart even as I watch. The only person who still has it together, who actually knows what he’s doing out here, is Johnny. I vote for him.

Which is why the others no longer look at me. They look past me or through me, shooting furtive glances at one another in some silent eyelid-flickering Morse code. We’re living the real-life version of TV’s Survivor , and it’s clear I’ve been voted off the island.

The blondes are off to bed first, huddling together and whispering as they leave the firelight. Then Elliot and Keiko slip away to their respective tents. For a moment it’s just Richard and me sitting by the fire, too wary of each other to say a word. That I once loved this man is almost impossible to believe. These days in the bush have added a handsomely rugged edge to his good looks, but now I see the petty vanity underneath it all. The real reason he dislikes Johnny is that he can’t measure up. It’s all come down to who’s more of a man. Richard always has to be the hero of his own story.

He seems about to say something when we both realize that Johnny’s awake, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. Without a word, Richard rises to his feet. Even as I watch him stalk off and duck into our tent, I’m aware of Johnny’s gaze on me, can feel the heat of it on my face.

“Where did you meet him?” Johnny asks. He sits so still against the tree that he seems to be part of the trunk itself, his body like one long, sinuous root.

“A bookshop, of course. He came in to sign copies of his book Kill Option .”

“What was that one about?”

“Oh, the usual R. Renwick thriller. The hero finds himself trapped on a remote island with terrorists. Uses his wilderness skills to take them down one by one. Men eat up the books like candy, and we had a full house for the signing. Afterward, he and the bookshop staff went out to the pub for drinks. I thought for certain he had his eye on my colleague Sadie. But no, he went home with me.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You haven’t seen Sadie.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“Almost four years ago.” Long enough for Richard to get bored. Long enough for the various hurts and grievances to pile up and make a man wonder about better options.

“Then you should know each other pretty well,” says Johnny.

“We should.”

“You’re not certain?”

“Can one ever be?”

He looks at Richard’s tent. “Not about some people. The way you can’t ever be sure about some animals. It’s possible to tame a lion or an elephant, even learn to trust them. But you can’t ever trust a leopard.”