Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(67)

“How did they do that?”

“There’s this theory that early hominids in Africa fed themselves not by hunting, but by stealing meat that leopards had stored in trees. It would have been the equivalent of a fast-food outlet. No need to chase down an impala yourself. Just wait for the leopard to make the kill and drag it up a tree. He’ll eat his fill and leave for a few hours. That’s when you snatch the rest of the carcass. That ready supply of protein might have boosted the brainpower of our ancestors.”

“The leopard wouldn’t stop you?”

“Radio collar monitoring confirms that leopards don’t stay with their kills during the day. They’ll gorge, leave for a while, then return hours later to feed again. Since the carcasses are often disemboweled, the meat stays good for a few days. It gave us hominids a chance to sneak in and steal dinner. But you’re right, it wouldn’t have been a risk-free proposition. You find plenty of prehistoric hominid bones in ancient leopard caves. While we were stealing their dinner, they sometimes made us theirs.”

She thought of the cat in her own home, and how it watched her as intently as this cougar was doing now. The connection between felines and humans was more complex than between mere predator and prey. A house cat might sit in your lap and eat from your hand, but it still had the instincts of a hunter.

As do we.

“They’re solitary animals?” she asked.

“Yes, like most felids. Lions are the exception. Leopards in particular are solitary. Females leave their cubs alone for periods up to a week, because they prefer to hunt and forage by themselves. By a year and a half, those cubs have left Mom and they’re off to establish their own home range. Except when they breed, they keep to themselves. Very secretive, very hard to spot. They’re nocturnal hunters with a reputation for stealth, so you can see why they held such a powerful place in mythology. It would have made the darkness terrifying for ancient man, knowing that, on any given night, you might find a leopard’s jaws clamped around your throat.”

She thought of Debra Lopez, for whom that terror would have been the last thing she registered. She glanced toward the leopard enclosure just a few yards away. Since the zookeeper’s death, a temporary screen had been erected to hide the cage, but two zoo visitors stood there now, snapping cell phone photos. Death was a rock star who always drew an audience.

“You said big cats disembowel their kills,” she said.

“It’s just a consequence of how they feed. Leopards will rip open the body cavity from the rear. That releases the entrails, which they’ll consume within the first twenty-four hours. It keeps the meat from decaying too quickly, so the cat can take its time feeding.” He paused as his cell phone rang. With an apologetic look, he answered the call. “Hello? Oh God, Marcy, I completely forgot about it. I’ll be right there.” He hung up with a sigh. “Sorry, but they’re expecting me at a board meeting. It’s the eternal hunt for funds.”

“Thank you for seeing me. You’ve been a big help.”

“Anytime.” He started down the path, then turned and called: “If you ever want a private after-hours tour, let me know!”

She watched him hurry away around the bend, and suddenly she was alone, shivering in the wind.

No, not entirely alone. Through the bars of the empty leopard’s cage, she glimpsed blond hair, tawny as a lion’s mane, and broad shoulders clad in a brown fleece jacket. It was the zoo’s veterinarian, Dr. Oberlin. For a moment they eyed each other like two wary creatures who have unexpectedly come face-to-face in the bush. Then he gave a brusque nod, a wave, and vanished back into the camouflaging shrubbery.

As invisible as a cougar, she thought. I never even knew he was there.





“IF INDEED THESE VARIOUS ATTACKS IN DIFFERENT STATES ARE LINKED, then we’re dealing with a set of highly complex ritual behaviors,” said Dr. Lawrence Zucker. A criminal psychologist who served as consultant to Boston PD, Zucker’s pale, hulking figure was a familiar sight in the homicide unit. From his seat at the head of the table, he eyed Maura and the four detectives who’d gathered in the conference room that morning. There was something disturbingly reptilian about Zucker, and as his gaze swept past Maura, it felt like the cold flick of a lizard’s tongue on her face.

“Before we get ahead of ourselves,” said Detective Crowe, “we haven’t yet established that these attacks are linked. Dr. Isles came up with that theory, not us.”

“And we’re still digging into it,” said Jane. “Frost and I drove up to Maine yesterday to look into the case that happened five years ago. A victim named Brandon Tyrone, who was found gutted and hanging from a tree.”

“And what do you think?” asked Zucker.

“I can’t say the picture’s any clearer. Maine State Police are focused on only one suspect, a man named Nick Thibodeau. He and the victim knew each other. They may have had a falling-out, which triggered the killing.”

Crowe said, “I called Montana and Nevada, spoke to detectives about their cases. They believe cougar attacks could explain both incidents. I don’t see how the out-of-state cases connect to ours, or to the homicide in Maine.”

“It’s the symbolism that connects them all,” said Maura, unable to hold her silence. Neither a cop nor a psychologist, she was once again the intruder at this meeting, and had come at the invitation of Dr. Zucker. As they all turned to look at her, she felt the wall of skepticism looming in her way. A wall she’d have to batter down. Crowe had all force fields up. Both Frost and Jane were trying to look open-minded, but she’d heard the lack of enthusiasm in Jane’s voice. As for Johnny Tam, he remained as opaque as ever, keeping his opinions to himself.