Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(61)

With every step, the cold seemed to deepen. Jane’s shoes were damp, and the chill was now seeping through the leather. The dead leaves were calf-deep here, and they hid mudholes and ankle-snagging roots. On that warm day in August five years ago, the killer would have had a far pleasanter stroll through these woods, although mosquitoes might have swarmed, stirred up by his passage. Was the victim still alive, walking willingly beside him, unaware of his companion’s intentions? Or was Brandon Tyrone already dead, slung like a gutted deer across the killer’s shoulders?

“This is the tree,” said Barber. “He was hanging upside down from that branch.”

Jane looked up at the branch where a few brown leaves still clung quivering to the twigs. She saw nothing to distinguish this particular oak from any other tree, no hint of what had dangled from that branch five years ago. It was an ordinary tree that told no secrets.

“Tyrone had been dead about two days, according to the ME,” said Barber. “Hanging up there, the only wildlife that could reach him was birds and insects, so he was still in one piece.” He paused. “Except for the guts, which would’ve been scavenged right away.” He stared up at the branch, as if he could see Brandon Tyrone still suspended there, shaded by the summer canopy of leaves. “We never found his wallet or his clothes. Probably disposed of, to make him harder to ID.”

“Or he took them as a trophy,” said Jane. “The way hunters take an animal’s skin, to remind them of the thrill.”

“Naw, I doubt he meant it as any kind of ritual. Nicko was just being practical, as usual.”

Jane looked at Barber. “You sound like you know the suspect.”

“I do. We grew up in the same town, so I know him and his brother Eddie.”

“How well?”

“Enough to know those boys were trouble from way back. At twelve, Nick was already stealing loose change out of the other kids’ jackets. At fourteen, he was breaking into cars. At sixteen, it was houses. The victim, Brandon Tyrone, was the same story. Nick and Tyrone, they’d come out here together, steal stuff out of campers’ tents and cars. After Nick killed Tyrone, we found a bag of stolen items hidden in Tyrone’s garage. Maybe that’s why they had a falling-out. There was some nice stuff in that bag. Cameras, a silver cigarette lighter, a wallet full of credit cards. I think they got in a fight over how to divide it, and Tyrone lost. Mean little bastard. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“And where do you think Nick Thibodeau is now?”

“I assumed he took off out west. California, maybe. Didn’t think he’d end up as close as Boston, but maybe he doesn’t want to be too far from his brother Eddie.”

“Where’s Eddie live?”

“He’s about five miles from here. Oh, we hit Eddie hard with the questions, but to this day he refuses to tell us where Nick is.”

“Refuses? Or doesn’t know?”

“Swears he doesn’t know. But these Thibodeau boys, in their minds, it’s them against the world. You gotta remember, Maine is the northern tip of Appalachia, and some of these families value loyalty above all. Stand by your brother, no matter what he’s done. I think that’s exactly what Eddie did. Came up with a plan to get Nick outta here and help him disappear.”

“For five years?”

“Not so hard if you have help from your brother. That’s why I still keep tabs on Eddie. I know where he goes and who he calls. Oh, he’s sick of me all right, because he knows I’m not gonna let it go. He knows I have my eye on him.”

“We need to talk to Eddie Thibodeau,” said Jane.

“You won’t get the truth out of him.”

“We’d still like to try.”

Barber glanced at his watch. “Okay, I’ve got a free hour. We can head over to his house now.”

Jane and Frost looked at each other. Frost said, “Maybe it’d be better if we saw him on our own.”

“You don’t want me there?”

“You two have a history,” said Jane, “obviously not a friendly one. If you’re there, it’ll put him on guard.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m the bad cop and you want to be the good cops. Yeah, that makes sense.” He looked at the weapon strapped to Jane’s waist. “And I see you’re both carrying. That’s good.”

“Why? Is Eddie a problem?” asked Frost.

“He’s unpredictable. Think about what Nick did to Tyrone, and stay alert. Because these brothers are capable of anything.”

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.