Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(63)

“Did your brother go down to Boston much?” she called out over the screech.

“Sometimes. Not a lot.”

“He ever mention a guy named Leon Gott?”

Eddie glanced up at her. “That’s what this is about? Leon Gott’s murder?”

“You knew him?”

“Not personally, but I knew his name, of course. Most hunters do. I could never afford his work, but if you wanted your kill stuffed and mounted, Gott was the man to go to.” Eddie paused. “Is that why you’re up here, asking about Nick? You think he did Gott?”

“We’re just asking if they knew each other.”

“We read Gott’s articles in Trophy Hunter. And we went down to Cabela’s, to check out some of the big game he mounted. But as far as I know, Nick never met the guy.”

“He ever go to Montana?”

“Years ago. We both went, to see Yellowstone.”

“How many years ago?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does.”

Eddie set down the knife he’d been sharpening and said, quietly, “Why are you asking about Montana?”

“Other people have been killed, Mr. Thibodeau.”

“You mean, like Tyrone was?”

“There were similarities.”

“Who are these other people?”

“Hunters, in Montana. It happened three years ago.”

Eddie shook his head. “My brother disappeared five years ago.”

“But he has been to Montana. He’s familiar with the state.”

“It was one f*cking trip to Yellowstone!”

“What about Nevada?” said Frost. “He ever been there?”

“No. What, did he supposedly kill someone there, too?” Eddie looked back and forth at Jane and Frost and snorted. “Any other murders you want to pin on Nick? He can’t defend himself, so you might as well throw your whole cold-case file at him.”

“Where is he, Eddie?”

“I wish I knew!” In frustration, he slapped away an empty bowl and it hit the concrete floor with an ear-ringing clang. “I wish you f*cking cops would do your f*cking jobs and come up with answers! Instead you keep harassing me about Nick. I haven’t seen or heard from him in five years. The last time I did see him, he was on the porch, drinking with Tyrone. They were haggling over some crap they’d picked up at the campground.”

“Picked up?” Jane snorted. “You mean, stolen.”

“Whatever. But it wasn’t a fight, okay? It was a … lively negotiation, that’s all. They left for Tyrone’s place, and that’s it. The last time I saw them. Few days later, state police shows up here. They found Nick’s truck parked at the trailhead. And they found Tyrone. But they never found any trace of Nick.” As if too weary to stand any longer, Eddie sank onto a bench and huffed out a breath. “That’s what I know. That’s all I know.”

“You said Nick’s truck was parked at the trailhead.”

“Yeah. Police figured he took off into the wild. That he’s somewhere in the woods like Rambo, living off the land.”

“What do you think happened?”

For a moment, Eddie was silent, staring down at his callused hands, the nails crusted with blood. “I think my brother’s dead,” he said softly. “I think his bones are scattered somewhere, and we just haven’t found him yet. Or he’s hanging from some tree, like Tyrone.”

“So you think he was murdered.”

Eddie raised his head and looked at her. “I think they met someone else out there, in the woods.”





BOTSWANA

WHEN THE SUN COMES UP, I AM ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS. I HAVE stumbled for hours in the darkness, and I have no idea how far I’ve traveled from camp; I only know that I am somewhere downstream, because all night I kept the sound of the river to my left. As the sky brightens from pink to gold I am so thirsty I drop to my knees at the water’s edge and drink like a wild animal. Only yesterday, I would have insisted the water be boiled or purified with iodine first. I would have fretted over all the microbial terrors I’m ingesting, a fatal dose of bacteria and parasites with every gulp. None of that matters now, because I am going to die anyway. I scoop up water in my palms, drink so greedily that it splashes my face, streams from my chin.

When at last I’ve had my fill, I rock back on my haunches and gaze across a clump of papyrus to the trees and waving grasses beyond the river. To the creatures who inhabit this green and alien world, I am but a walking source of meat, and everywhere I look, I imagine teeth waiting to devour me. With sunrise came the noisy chatter of birds, and when I look up, I see vultures tracing lazy loops in the sky. Have they already marked me for their next meal? I turn upriver, toward camp, and see the clear trail of footprints I’ve left along the bank. I remember how easily Johnny tracked even the faintest paw prints. My trail will be as glaring as neon for him to follow. Now that it’s daylight, he’ll be hunting me because he can’t afford to let me live. I’m the only one left who knows what happened.

I rise to my feet and continue to flee downstream.

I can’t allow myself to think of Richard or the others. All I can focus on is staying alive. Fear keeps me moving, pushes me deeper into the wild. I have no clue where this river leads. I recall from the guidebook that the rivers and streams of the Okavango Delta are fed by rainfall in the Angola highlands. All this water, which annually floods these lagoons and swamps from which so much wildlife magically springs, will eventually empty into the parched Kalahari Desert. I glance up to gauge the direction of the sun, which is only now lifting over the treetops. I am walking south.