Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

A GUTTED FOUR-POINT BUCK hung upside down in Eddie Thibodeau’s garage. Cluttered with tools and spare tires, trash cans and fishing gear, it looked like any suburban garage in America, except for the animal dangling from a ceiling hook, dripping blood into a puddle on the concrete floor.

“I don’t know what else I can say ’bout my brother. Already told the police everything there is to say.” Eddie raised a knife to the buck’s hind leg, slit around the ankle joint, then sliced through skin from ankle to groin. Working with the efficiency of a man who’d broken down many a deer, he grasped the pelt with both hands and grunted with effort as he peeled it down, baring purplish muscle and sinew cloaked in silvery fascia. It was cold in the open garage, and he exhaled clouds of steam as he paused to catch his breath. Like the photo of his brother Nick, Eddie had broad shoulders and dark eyes and the same stony expression, but he was an unkempt version of his brother, dressed in bloodstained overalls and a wool cap, his beard stubble already peppered with gray at the ripe age of thirty-nine.

“After they found Tyrone hanging in that tree, the state police kept hassling me, asking the same damn questions. Where would Nick go to ground? Who was hiding him? I kept telling ’em they got it all wrong. That something must’ve happened to Nick, too. If he was on the run, he’d never leave without his bug-out bag.”

“What kind of bag?” said Frost.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a bug-out bag.” Eddie frowned at them across the splayed rear legs of the deer.

“What is it, exactly?”

“It’s where you keep your essentials for survival. For when the system goes all to hell. See, if there’s some kind of catastrophe like a dirty bomb or a terrorist attack, people in big cities are gonna be in a world of hurt. No power, folks in a panic. That’s why you need a bug-out bag.” Eddie peeled more of the pelt, and the smell of bloody deer meat, raw and gamy, made Frost grimace and step away.

Eddie glanced at him in amusement. “Not a fan of venison?”

Frost stared at the glistening flesh, streaked with fat. “I tried it once.”

“Didn’t like it?”

“Not really.”

“Then it wasn’t prepared right. Or killed right. For the meat to taste good, the deer has to go down quick. One bullet, no struggle. If it’s only wounded and you have to chase it down, that meat’s gonna taste like fear.”

Frost stared at exposed muscles that had once propelled this buck through fields and woods. “And how does fear taste?”

“Like scorched flesh. Panic sends all kinds of hormones through the animal and you taste the struggle. Ruins the flavor.” He cleanly sliced a fist-sized hunk of meat from the haunch and tossed it into a stainless-steel bowl. “This one was killed right. Never knew what hit him. Gonna make a tasty stew.”

“You ever go hunting with your brother?” asked Jane.

“Nick and I grew up hunting together.” He sliced off another hunk. “I miss that.”

“Was he a good shot?”

“Better than me. Real steady, always took his time.”

“So he could survive out there, in the woods.”

Eddie gave her a cold stare. “It’s been five years. What, you think he’s still out there, living like some mountain man?”

“Where do you think he is?”

Eddie dropped his knife in a bucket, and bloodstained water splashed onto the concrete. “You’re looking for the wrong man.”

“Who’s the right man?”

“Not Nick. He’s no killer.”

She eyed the dead buck, its left leg now stripped down to bone. “When they found Nick’s buddy Tyrone, he was gutted and hanging just like this deer.”

“So?”

“Nick was a hunter.”

“So am I, and I haven’t killed anyone. I’m just feeding my family, something you people are so far removed from, you’ve probably never even used a boning knife.” He took the rinsed knife from the bucket and held it out to Jane. “Let’s see you give it a try, Detective. Go on, take it. Slice off a chunk and see how it feels to harvest your own dinner. Or are you afraid of a little blood on your hands?”

Jane saw the disdain in his eyes. Oh no, a city girl would never dirty her hands. It was men like the Thibodeau brothers who hunted and farmed and butchered so that she could have her steak on a plate. She might view his kind in contempt, but so, too, did he view hers.

She took the knife, stepped toward the buck, and sliced deep, all the way to bone. As chilled flesh peeled open, she smelled all that the deer had once been: fresh grass and acorns and forest moss. And blood, wild and coppery. The meat came away from bone, a dense, purple wedge of it, which she tossed into the bowl. She didn’t glance at Eddie as she started carving off the next chunk.

“If Nick didn’t kill his friend Tyrone,” she said, her knife gliding through flesh, “who do you think did?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nick has a history of violence.”

“He was no angel. He got in a few fights.”

“Did he ever get in a fight with Tyrone?”

“Once.”

“That you know of.”

Eddie picked up another knife and reached deep inside the carcass to strip out a tenderloin. His blade was at work barely an arm’s length away from her but she calmly carved another chunk from the leg.

“Tyrone was no angel, either, and they both liked to drink.” Eddie pulled out the bloody tenderloin, slippery as an eel, and tossed it into the bowl. Swished the blade in the bucket of icy water. “Just because a man loses control once in a while doesn’t make him a monster.”

“Maybe Nick did more than just lose control. Maybe an argument led to something way worse than a fight.”

Eddie looked straight at her. “Why would he leave him hanging from a tree, out in the open, where everyone could find him? Nick’s not stupid. He knows how to cover his tracks. If he killed Tyrone, he’d drag him into the woods and bury him. Or scatter his parts for the animals. What was done to Tyrone, that was something else, something sick. That wasn’t my brother.” He crossed to a workbench to hone his blade, and all conversation was cut off by the whine of the sharpener. The steel bowl was now mounded high with meat, at least twenty pounds’ worth, and half the deer had yet to be butchered. Outside the open garage, an icy drizzle was falling. On this lonely country road there were few houses, and in the last half hour she’d seen no cars pass by. And here they were, in the middle of nowhere, watching an angry man sharpen his knife.

“Did your brother go down to Boston much?” she called out over the screech.

“Sometimes. Not a lot.”

“He ever mention a guy named Leon Gott?”

Eddie glanced up at her. “That’s what this is about? Leon Gott’s murder?”

“You knew him?”

“Not personally, but I knew his name, of course. Most hunters do. I could never afford his work, but if you wanted your kill stuffed and mounted, Gott was the man to go to.” Eddie paused. “Is that why you’re up here, asking about Nick? You think he did Gott?”

“We’re just asking if they knew each other.”

“We read Gott’s articles in Trophy Hunter . And we went down to Cabela’s, to check out some of the big game he mounted. But as far as I know, Nick never met the guy.”

“He ever go to Montana?”

“Years ago. We both went, to see Yellowstone.”

“How many years ago?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does.”

Eddie set down the knife he’d been sharpening and said, quietly, “Why are you asking about Montana?”

“Other people have been killed, Mr. Thibodeau.”

“You mean, like Tyrone was?”