Tess Gerritsen - Last to Die

“You’re saying this might have been an accident,” said Dr. Owen.

“I’m just throwing out scenarios here,” said the cop. “Say two buddies come hunting on this land without permission. The guy with the bow spots a deer, gets excited, and lets an arrow fly. Oops, down goes his buddy. Guy with the bow freaks out and runs. Doesn’t tell anyone, ’cause he knows they were trespassing. Or he’s on probation. Or he just doesn’t want the trouble.” He shrugged. “I could see it happening.”

“Let’s hope that is the story,” said Maura. “Because I don’t like the alternative.”

“That there’s a homicidal archer running around these woods?” said Dr. Owen. “That is not a comforting thought, so close to a school.”

“And here’s another disturbing thought. If this man wasn’t hunting for deer, what was he doing up here with a sniper rifle?”

No one responded, but the answer seemed obvious when Maura gazed down at the valley below. If I were a sniper, she thought, this is where I would wait. Where I’d be camouflaged by this underbrush, with a clear view of the castle, the courtyard, the road.

But who was the target?

That question dogged her as she scrambled down the trail an hour later, across bare boulders, through sun and shade and sun again. She thought of a marksman poised on the hill above her. Imagined a target hatch mark trained on her back. A rifle with an eight-hundred-meter range. Half a mile. She would never realize anyone was watching her, aiming at her. Until she felt the bullet.

At last she stumbled out of a tangle of vines onto the school’s back lawn. As she stood brushing twigs and leaves from her clothes, she heard men’s voices, raised in argument. They came from the forester’s cottage at the edge of the woods. She approached the cottage, and through the open doorway she saw one of the detectives she’d met earlier up on the ridge. He was standing inside with Sansone and Mr. Roman. None of them acknowledged her as she stepped inside, where she saw an array of outdoorsmen’s tools. Axes and rope and snowshoes. And hanging on one wall were at least a dozen bows, as well as quivers filled with arrows.

“There’s nothing special about these arrows,” Roman said. “You can find ’em in any sporting goods store.”

“Who has access to all this equipment, Mr. Roman?”

“All the students do. It’s a school, or haven’t you noticed?”

“He’s been our archery instructor for decades,” said Sansone. “It’s a skill that teaches them discipline and focus. Valuable skills relevant to all their subjects.”

“And all the students take archery?”

“All those who choose to,” Roman said.

“If you’ve been teaching for decades, you must be pretty good with a bow,” the detective said to Roman.

The forester grunted. “Fair enough.”

“Meaning?”

“I hunt.”

“Deer? Squirrels?”

“Not enough meat on a squirrel to make ’em worth the trouble.”

“The point is, you could hit one?”

“I can also hit your eye at a hundred yards. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Whether I took down that fella up on the ridge.”

“You had a chance to examine the body, did you?”

“Dog took us straight to him. Didn’t have to examine the body. Clear as day what killed him.”

“That can’t be an easy shot to make, an arrow through the eye. Anyone else at this school able to do it?”

“Depends on the distance, doesn’t it?”

“A hundred yards,”

Roman snorted. “No one here but me.”

“None of the students?”

“No one’s put in enough time. Or had the training.”

“How did you get your training?”

“Taught myself.”

“And you hunt with only a bow? Never a rifle?”

“Don’t like rifles.”

“Why not? Seems like a rifle would be a lot easier when you’re hunting deer.”

Sansone cut in: “I think Mr. Roman’s told you what you wanted to know.”

“It’s a simple question. Why won’t he use a rifle?” The detective stared at Roman, waiting for a response.

“You don’t need to answer any more questions, Roman,” said Sansone. “Not without a lawyer.”

Roman sighed. “No, I’ll answer it. Seems to me he already knows about me, anyway.” He met the cop’s gaze head-on. “Twenty-five years ago, I killed a man.”

In that silence, Maura’s sharp intake of breath made the cop finally look at her. “Dr. Isles, would you mind stepping outside? I’d like to continue this interview in private.”

“Let her stay, I don’t care,” said Roman. “Better to have it all out right now, so there’s no secrets. Never wanted to keep it a secret anyway.” He looked at Sansone. “Even though you thought it best.”

“You know about this, Mr. Sansone?” the cop asked. “And you employ him here anyway?”

“Let Roman tell you the circumstances,” said Sansone. “He deserves to be heard, in his own words.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it, Mr. Roman.”

The forester crossed to the window and pointed at the hills. “I grew up there, just a few miles past that ridge. My grandfather was the caretaker here, looked after the castle since way back, before it became a school. No one was living here then, just an empty building, waiting for a buyer. Naturally, there were trespassers. Some of ’em just come in to hunt and leave. They’d bag their deer and go. But some of ’em, they came to make trouble. Smash windows, set the porch on fire. Or worse. You run into ’em, you didn’t know which kind you were dealing with …”

He took a breath. “I ran into him over there, coming out of the woods. There was no moon that night. He just suddenly appeared. Big fella, carrying a rifle. We saw each other and he raised his gun. I don’t know what he was thinking. I’ll never know. All I can tell you is, I reacted on pure instinct. Shot him in the chest.”

“With a gun.”

“Yes, sir. Shotgun. Took him right down. He was probably dead within five breaths.” Roman sat down, looking a decade older, his hands resting on his knees. “I’d just turned eighteen. But I guess you knew that.”

“I called in a background check.”

Roman nodded. “No secret around these parts. Thing is, he was no saint, even if he was a doctor’s kid. But I killed him, so I went to jail. Four years, manslaughter.” Roman looked down at his hands, scarred from years of outdoor labors. “I never picked up a shotgun again. That’s how I got so good with a bow.”

“Gottfried Baum hired him straight out of prison,” said Sansone. “There’s no better man.”

“He still has to come into town to sign a statement.” The cop turned to the forester. “Let’s go, Mr. Roman.”

“Headmaster Baum will make some calls, Roman,” said Sansone. “He’ll meet you in town. Don’t say a word, not until he gets there with an attorney.”

Roman followed the cop to the door and suddenly stopped to look at Sansone. “I don’t think I’ll be making it back here tonight. So I want to warn you that you’ve got a big problem here, Mr. Sansone. I know I didn’t kill that man. Which means you better find out who did.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

SUMMER FOG CLOAKED THE HIGHWAY TO PROVIDENCE, AND JANE craned forward, peering from behind the wheel at cars and trucks that glided ahead of them like ghosts in the mist. Today she and Frost were chasing yet another ghost, she thought, as the wiper swept the gray film from her windshield. The ghost of Nicholas Clock, Teddy’s father. Born in Virginia, graduate of West Point with a degree in economics, avid outdoorsman and sailor. Married with three children. Worked as a financial consultant at Jarvis and McCrane, a job that required frequent travel abroad. No arrests, no traffic tickets, no outstanding debts.