Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

In all the pictures, I see the same middle-aged man, posing with a rifle next to his various kills. There is also a framed magazine article: “The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.”

“I had no idea Elliot’s father was a hunter.”

“Elliot never told you?”

“Not a word. He didn’t talk about his father at all.”

“Probably because he was ashamed of him. Elliot and his dad had a falling-out years before. Leon liked to blast away at animals. Elliot wanted to save the dolphins, the wolves, and the field mice.”

“Well, I know he loved birds. On safari, he was always pointing them out to us, trying to identify them.” I look at the photos of Leon Gott with his dead-animal conquests and shake my head. “Poor Elliot. He was everyone’s punching bag.”

“What do you mean?”

“Richard was always putting him down, making him the butt of jokes. Men and their testosterone, always trying to one-up each other. Richard had to be king, and Elliot had to bow. It was all about impressing the blondes.”

“The two South African girls?”

“Sylvia and Vivian. Elliot had such a crush on them, and Richard never lost a chance to show how much more of a man he was.”

“You still sound bitter about it, Millie,” she observes quietly.

I’m surprised that I am bitter. That even after six years, it still stings to remember those nights around the campfire, Richard’s attention all on the girls.

“And during this battle for male dominance, where was Johnny in all this?” she asks.

“It’s odd, but he didn’t really seem to care. He just stood back and watched the drama. All our petty battles and jealousies—none of it seemed to matter to him.”

“Maybe because he had other things to think about. Like what he had planned for all of you.”

Was he thinking about those plans as he sat beside me at the fire? Was he imagining how it would feel to spill my blood, watch life drain from my eyes? Feeling suddenly cold, I hug myself as I look at the photos of Leon Gott and his conquered animals.

Rizzoli comes to stand beside me. “I hear he was an asshole,” she says, looking at Gott’s picture. “But even assholes deserve justice.”

“No wonder Elliot never mentioned him.”

“Did he ever talk about his girlfriend?”

I look at her. “Girlfriend?”

“Jodi Underwood. She and Elliot were together for two years.”

This surprises me. “He was so busy mooning over the blondes, he never mentioned any girlfriend. Have you met her? What is she like?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Something’s troubling her, something that makes her hesitate before responding.

“Jodi Underwood is dead. She was killed the same night Leon was.”

I stare at her. “You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s an active investigation so there are things I can’t tell you, Millie.”

“You brought me all this way to help you, yet you keep things from me. Important things. You should have told me that .”

“We don’t know that their deaths are connected. Jodi’s murder looks like a robbery, and the method of killing was entirely different from Leon’s. That’s why I came for these hair samples. We’re looking for a physical link between the attacks.”

“Isn’t it obvious? The connection is Elliot .” The realization hits me with such force that for a moment I can’t speak, can’t even breathe. I whisper: “The connection is me .”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you contact me? Why did you think I could help you?”

“Because we followed the links. They led us to the Botswana murders. And you.”

“Exactly. Those links led you to me . For six years I’ve been hiding in Touws River, living under a different name. I’ve stayed away from London because I was afraid Johnny would find me. You think he’s here, in Boston. And now, so am I.” I swallow hard. “Right where he wants me.”

I see my alarm reflected in her eyes. She says quietly: “Let’s go. I’m taking you back to Maura’s.”

As we step out of the house, I feel as vulnerable as a gazelle in open grass. I imagine eyes everywhere, watching me from the houses, from the passing cars. I wonder how many people know that I’m in Boston. I remember the crowded airport where we landed yesterday, and I think of all the people who might have seen me in the Boston PD lobby or in the cafeteria or waiting for the elevator. If Johnny was there, would I have spotted him?

Or am I like the gazelle, blind to the lion until the moment he springs?

“IN HER MIND, HE’S GROWN INTO A MONSTER OF MYTHICAL PROPORTIONS,” said Maura. “For six years, she’s been obsessed with him. It’s only natural she thinks this hunt is all about her.”

From the living room, Jane could hear the sound of the shower running in the guest bathroom. While Millie was out of earshot, this was their chance to talk about her in private, and Maura was quick to offer her opinion.

“Think about how preposterous her idea is, Jane. She thinks superhuman Johnny killed Elliot’s father, killed Elliot’s girlfriend, and had the miraculous foresight to plant a silver cigarette lighter as a clue five years ago? All this, to lure her out of hiding?” Maura shook her head. “Even for a master chess player, it’s too elaborate.”

“But it’s possible this is about her.”

“Where’s your proof that Jodi Underwood and Leon Gott were killed by the same perp? He was strung up and gutted. She was strangled in a quick, efficient blitz attack. Unless there’s a DNA match with those cat hairs—”

“The tiger hair’s pretty convincing.”

“What tiger hair?”

“The forensic lab called me just before we left to come here. You know that unidentified third strand on Jodi’s blue bathrobe? It came from a Bengal tiger.” Jane pulled the plastic evidence bag from her pocket. “Leon Gott just happens to have a tiger head mounted on his wall. What are the chances there are two different killers running around who’ve both been in contact with a tiger?”

Maura frowned at the hairs in the evidence bag. “Well, that does make your case a lot more convincing. Outside of a zoo, you’re not going to find many …” She paused, looked at Jane. “The zoo has a Bengal tiger. What if that hair was from a live animal?”

The zoo.

A memory suddenly sprang into Jane’s head. The leopard cage. Debra Lopez, mauled and bleeding at her feet. And the veterinarian, Dr. Oberlin, crouched over Debra’s body, his hands pumping on her chest as he desperately tried to restart her heart. Tall, blond, blue eyes. Just like Johnny Posthumus .

Jane pulled out her cell phone.

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Dr. Alan Rhodes called back. “I’m not sure why you want this, but I was able to find you a photo of Greg Oberlin. It’s not a very good one. It was taken at our fund-raiser a few weeks ago. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“You didn’t tell Dr. Oberlin about this, right?” said Jane.

“You asked me not to. Frankly, I don’t feel comfortable going behind his back. Is this some sort of police matter?”

“I can’t share the details, Dr. Rhodes. It needs to stay confidential. Can you email that photo?”

“You mean, right now?”

“Yes right now.” Jane called out: “Maura, I need to use your computer. He’s sending the photo.”

“It’s in my study.”

By the time Jane sat down at Maura’s desk and signed into her email account, the photo was already in her inbox. Rhodes had said it was taken during a zoo fund-raiser, and the event was clearly a black-tie affair. She saw half a dozen smiling guests posed in a ballroom, wineglasses in hand. Dr. Oberlin was at the edge of the image, partly turned away as he reached toward the canapé tray.