Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(50)

Maura spun around and saw something white streak across the living room and dart up the stairs. She snatched up the cardboard box and followed Jane to the second floor.

“Master bedroom!” Jane yelled.

They stepped into the room and shut the door behind them.

“Okay, we’ve got him trapped,” said Jane. “I know he came in here. So where the hell is he hiding?”

Maura scanned the furniture. Saw a queen bed, twin nightstands, and a massive chest of drawers. A mirror on the wall reflected their flushed and frustrated faces.

Jane dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “Not here,” she announced.

Maura turned to the walk-in closet, its door hanging ajar. It was the only other hiding place in the room. They glanced at each other and simultaneously took deep breaths.

“A hunting we will go,” Jane sang softly and flipped on the closet light. They eyed jackets and sweaters and far too many plaid shirts. Jane nudged aside a heavy parka to peer deeper into the closet. Flinched back as the cat came flying out, yowling.

“Shit!” Jane stared at her right arm, where her sleeve had been clawed open. “I now officially hate cats. Where the f*ck did it go?”

“It ran under the bed.”

Jane stalked toward her feline nemesis. “No more Mrs. Nice Cop. Cat, you are mine.”

“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.