Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(98)

Rizzoli advances to the next photo. It is a “selfie,” taken aboard the airline flight. The real Elliot grins from the aisle coach seat as the female passenger on his right lifts a wineglass to the camera.

“These are all cell phone photos that Elliot emailed to his girlfriend, Jodi. It’s a day-by-day chronicle of what he saw and who he met,” says Rizzoli. “We don’t have the emailed text that accompanied these pictures, but they document his trip. And he took a lot of them.” She clicks through the next photos, of his airline meal. The sunrise through the plane’s window. And another selfie, where he’s wearing a goofy grin as he leans into the aisle to show the cabin behind him. But this time, it’s not Elliot I focus on; it’s the man in the seat behind him, a man whose face is clearly visible.

Alan Rhodes.

“They were on the same flight,” says Rizzoli. “Maybe that’s how they met, on the plane. Or maybe they’d met earlier, in Boston. What we do know is, by the time Elliot arrived in Cape Town, he had a friend to hang out with.”

She clicks another image icon, and a new photo glows on-screen. Elliot and Rhodes, standing together on Table Mountain.

“This picture is the last known photo taken of Elliot. Jodi Underwood had it framed and she gave it to Elliot’s father. We believe it was hanging in Leon’s house the day Alan Rhodes delivered the snow leopard. Leon recognized Rhodes from the photo. He probably asked Rhodes how he knew Elliot, and how they both happened to be in Cape Town. Later, Leon made phone calls. To Jodi Underwood, asking for all her photos from Elliot’s trip. To Interpol, trying to reach Henk Andriessen. That photo was the catalyst for everything that followed. Leon Gott’s murder. Jodi Underwood’s murder. Maybe even the zookeeper, Debra Lopez, because she was there in Gott’s house and heard the whole exchange. But the one person Rhodes was most afraid of was you.”

I stare at the laptop screen. “Because I’m the only one who knew which of these men actually went on safari.”

Rizzoli nods. “He had to keep you from ever seeing this picture.”

Suddenly I can’t bear to look at Rhodes’s face any longer and I turn away. “Johnny,” I whisper. That’s the only word I say, just Johnny. A memory springs into my head, of him in the sunlight, his hair tawny as a lion’s. I remember how he stood, with feet planted as firmly as a tree in its native African soil. How he’d asked me to trust him, told me that I must also learn to trust myself. And I think of the way he looked at me as we sat by the fire, the light of the flames flickering on his face. If only I’d listened to my heart; if only I’d put my faith in the man I wanted to believe in.

“So now you know the truth,” Dr. Isles says gently.

“It could have turned out so differently.” I blink, and a tear slides down my cheek. “He fought to keep us alive. And we all turned against him.”

“In a way, Millie, he did keep you alive.”

“How?”

“Because of Johnny—your fear of him—you stayed hidden in Touws River, where Alan Rhodes couldn’t find you.” Dr. Isles glances at Rizzoli. “Until we, unfortunately, brought you to Boston.”

“Our fault,” admits Rizzoli. “We had our eye on the wrong man.”

So did I. I think of how Johnny has stalked me through my nightmares, when he was never the one I should have feared. Those bad dreams are fading now; last night I slept better than I have in six years. The monster is gone, and I’m the one who defeated him. Weeks ago, Detective Rizzoli told me it was the only way I’d ever sleep soundly again, and I’m confident that soon the nightmares will vanish entirely.

She closes the laptop. “So tomorrow you can fly home knowing it really is over. I’m sure your husband will be glad to have you back.”

I nod. “Chris has been calling me about three times a day. He says this has made it into the news there.”

“You’ll go home a hero, Millie.”

“I’m just happy to go home.”

“Before you do, there’s something I thought you might want to have.” She reaches into the laptop bag and pulls out a large envelope. “Henk Andriessen emailed that to me. I printed it up for you.”

I open the envelope and pull out a photograph. My throat closes over, and for a moment I can’t make a sound. I can only stare at the picture of Johnny. He stands in knee-high grass, a rifle at his side. His hair is gilded by sunlight and his eyes are crinkled in mid-laugh. This is the Johnny I fell in love with, the real Johnny who was temporarily eclipsed by the shadow of a monster. This is how I must remember him, at home in the wild.

“It’s one of the few good photos that Henk could find. It was taken by another bush guide around eight years ago. I thought you’d like it.”

“How did you know?”

“Because I know what a mental whiplash it must be to find out that everything you believed about Johnny Posthumus was wrong. He deserves to be remembered for who he really was.”

“Yes,” I whisper as I caress the smiling face in the photo. “And I will.”





CHRISTOPHER WILL BE WAITING FOR ME AT THE AIRPORT. VIOLET WILL be there too, almost certainly holding a big bouquet of flowers. I’ll be swept into their arms and then we’ll drive home to Touws River, where there’ll be a welcome-home party this evening. Chris has already warned me about it, because he knows I don’t like surprises, nor do I much like parties. But I feel it’s finally time to celebrate, because I am reclaiming my life. I’m rejoining the world.