Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

A gunshot echoed.

Before she could jump back to her feet, she heard Frost calling her name. Heard footsteps crashing toward her through the underbrush. Suddenly there he was, and he was not alone; a few steps behind him was a beefy man who eyed her in amusement as she yanked up her pants.

“We heard a gunshot,” said a red-faced Frost, quickly averting his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Forget about it,” Jane snapped as she finally managed to zip up. “It’s posted for no hunting. Who the hell’s shooting?”

“Sound could’ve come from up the valley,” said the heavyset man. “And you folks shouldn’t be out in the woods without blaze orange.” Certainly no one could miss the neon-bright vest he was wearing over his parka. “You must be Rizzoli.” He glanced down at where she’d been squatting and didn’t offer a handshake.

“This is Detective Barber, Maine State Police,” said Frost.

Barber gave her a curt tip of the head. “I was surprised when you folks called yesterday. Never thought Nick Thibodeau would end up in Boston.”

“We’re not saying he did,” said Jane. “We just want to get a better handle on him. Who he is, and whether he might be the guy we’re looking for.”

“Well, you wanted to see where we found Tyrone’s body five years ago. So let me show you.”

He led the way, tramping confidently through the underbrush. Within a few steps, Jane snagged her trouser leg on a spiky blackberry cane and had to stop to disentangle herself. When she looked up again, Barber’s blaze-orange vest was already bobbing far ahead, beyond a tangle of bare branches.

Another gunshot thundered in the distance. And here I am wearing black and brown, just like a bear . She scrambled after Barber, anxious to reach the safety of that neon orange. By the time she caught up, Barber had steered them onto a groomed trail.

“Pair of campers from Virginia found Tyrone’s body,” said Barber, not bothering to glance back to see if she’d kept up. “They had a dog with ’em, and he led ’em straight to it.”

“Yeah, it’s always the dogs who find ’em out here,” said Frost, suddenly sounding like an expert on bodies in the wilderness.

“It was late summer, so the trees were leafed out, hid it from view. Might’ve smelled it themselves if the wind was blowing the right way. But things are always dying out in the woods, so you expect to come across a dead animal now and then. What you don’t expect is some guy hanging upside down with his belly slit open.” He nodded ahead at the trail. “We’re coming up on the spot.”

“How do you know?” said Jane. “These trees all look alike to me.”

“Because of that.” He pointed to a NO HUNTING sign posted alongside the trail. “Past this sign, it’s just a few dozen paces into the woods.”

“You think the location’s significant? Was this sign meant as some kind of message?”

“Yeah. It’s a big fuck you to authority.”

“Or maybe this is the message: No hunting. Because one of our victims in Boston was a hunter and we’re wondering if the killer is making a political point.”

Barber shook his head. “Then you’re looking for the wrong man here. Nick Thibodeau was no animal rights nut. Hunting was his thing.” He headed off the trail, into the woods. “Let me show you the tree.”

With every step, the cold seemed to deepen. Jane’s shoes were damp, and the chill was now seeping through the leather. The dead leaves were calf-deep here, and they hid mudholes and ankle-snagging roots. On that warm day in August five years ago, the killer would have had a far pleasanter stroll through these woods, although mosquitoes might have swarmed, stirred up by his passage. Was the victim still alive, walking willingly beside him, unaware of his companion’s intentions? Or was Brandon Tyrone already dead, slung like a gutted deer across the killer’s shoulders?

“This is the tree,” said Barber. “He was hanging upside down from that branch.”

Jane looked up at the branch where a few brown leaves still clung quivering to the twigs. She saw nothing to distinguish this particular oak from any other tree, no hint of what had dangled from that branch five years ago. It was an ordinary tree that told no secrets.

“Tyrone had been dead about two days, according to the ME,” said Barber. “Hanging up there, the only wildlife that could reach him was birds and insects, so he was still in one piece.” He paused. “Except for the guts, which would’ve been scavenged right away.” He stared up at the branch, as if he could see Brandon Tyrone still suspended there, shaded by the summer canopy of leaves. “We never found his wallet or his clothes. Probably disposed of, to make him harder to ID.”

“Or he took them as a trophy,” said Jane. “The way hunters take an animal’s skin, to remind them of the thrill.”

“Naw, I doubt he meant it as any kind of ritual. Nicko was just being practical, as usual.”

Jane looked at Barber. “You sound like you know the suspect.”

“I do. We grew up in the same town, so I know him and his brother Eddie.”

“How well?”

“Enough to know those boys were trouble from way back. At twelve, Nick was already stealing loose change out of the other kids’ jackets. At fourteen, he was breaking into cars. At sixteen, it was houses. The victim, Brandon Tyrone, was the same story. Nick and Tyrone, they’d come out here together, steal stuff out of campers’ tents and cars. After Nick killed Tyrone, we found a bag of stolen items hidden in Tyrone’s garage. Maybe that’s why they had a falling-out. There was some nice stuff in that bag. Cameras, a silver cigarette lighter, a wallet full of credit cards. I think they got in a fight over how to divide it, and Tyrone lost. Mean little bastard. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“And where do you think Nick Thibodeau is now?”

“I assumed he took off out west. California, maybe. Didn’t think he’d end up as close as Boston, but maybe he doesn’t want to be too far from his brother Eddie.”

“Where’s Eddie live?”

“He’s about five miles from here. Oh, we hit Eddie hard with the questions, but to this day he refuses to tell us where Nick is.”

“Refuses? Or doesn’t know?”

“Swears he doesn’t know. But these Thibodeau boys, in their minds, it’s them against the world. You gotta remember, Maine is the northern tip of Appalachia, and some of these families value loyalty above all. Stand by your brother, no matter what he’s done. I think that’s exactly what Eddie did. Came up with a plan to get Nick outta here and help him disappear.”

“For five years?”

“Not so hard if you have help from your brother. That’s why I still keep tabs on Eddie. I know where he goes and who he calls. Oh, he’s sick of me all right, because he knows I’m not gonna let it go. He knows I have my eye on him.”

“We need to talk to Eddie Thibodeau,” said Jane.

“You won’t get the truth out of him.”

“We’d still like to try.”

Barber glanced at his watch. “Okay, I’ve got a free hour. We can head over to his house now.”

Jane and Frost looked at each other. Frost said, “Maybe it’d be better if we saw him on our own.”

“You don’t want me there?”

“You two have a history,” said Jane, “obviously not a friendly one. If you’re there, it’ll put him on guard.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m the bad cop and you want to be the good cops. Yeah, that makes sense.” He looked at the weapon strapped to Jane’s waist. “And I see you’re both carrying. That’s good.”

“Why? Is Eddie a problem?” asked Frost.

“He’s unpredictable. Think about what Nick did to Tyrone, and stay alert. Because these brothers are capable of anything.”