Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(60)

“You ever hunted?”

“Never wanted to.”

“Because of Bambi’s mom?”

“It’s not like I’m against hunting. I just don’t see the fun of it, lugging a rifle into the woods. Freezing your ass off. And then …” He shuddered.

“Having to gut a deer?” She laughed. “Naw, I can’t see you doing it.”

“Well, could you?”

“If I had to. It is where meat comes from.”

“No, meat comes from the supermarket, where it’s wrapped in plastic. No guts involved.”

Outside their car, bare branches dripped icy water and dark clouds hung on the horizon. It was a miserable day to be tramping in the woods, and when they finally arrived at the trailhead parking lot two hours later, she was not surprised to find no other cars. They sat for a moment, eyeing the gloomy woods and leaf-littered picnic tables.

“Well, we’re here. So where is he?” she said.

“He’s only ten minutes late.” Frost pulled out his cell phone. “No signal. How we gonna reach him?”

Jane pushed open her door. “Well, I can’t wait. I’m going to take a little walk in the woods.”

“You sure you want to go out there? Hunting season?”

She pointed to the NO HUNTING sign nailed to a nearby tree. “This area’s posted. Should be safe.”

“I think we should wait in the car for him.”

“No, I really can’t wait. I gotta pee.” She climbed out and started toward the woods. The wind cut right through her thin trousers, and her bladder ached in the cold. She tramped a few yards into the trees, but November had stripped them of leaves, and through the bare branches, she could still see the car. She kept walking, and the silence of the woods made every snap of a twig sound like a startling explosion. Ducking behind a clump of evergreen saplings, she unzipped her pants and squatted, hoping that no one would hike by and see her in all her bare-assed glory.

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 f*ck 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.”