“What’s this?”
“Items she collects from newspapers. She saves everything where I’m mentioned and follows every case I’m working on.”
“Including Gott and Jane Doe.”
“Of course.”
“Now I know where this is coming from. Amalthea Lank tells you there’s a connection, and you believe her.” Jane shook her head. “Didn’t I warn you about her? She’s playing you.”
“She sees things no one else does. Spots the clues lost among all the details.”
“How can she? She doesn’t have access to the details.”
“Even in prison, she hears things. People tell her, or write her, or send her news clippings. She sees connections, and she was right about this one.”
“Yeah. If she weren’t a convicted killer, she’d make a great crime analyst.”
“Maybe she would. After all, she is my mother.”
Jane raised both hands, a gesture of surrender. “Okay. You want to give her that power, I can’t stop you. But I know a mistake when I see one.”
“And you’re always so happy to point it out.”
“Who else is going to say it? That’s what a friend does, Maura. She stops you before you screw up your life again.”
Again. Maura could offer no retort and she stared back in silence, stung by the truth of what Jane had said. Again. She thought of all the times Jane had tried to stop her from making the mistake that still haunted her all these months later. As she and Father Daniel Brophy had circled closer and closer, drawn into a love affair with no possible happy ending, Jane had been the voice of reason, warning her of heartbreak ahead. A voice that Maura had ignored.
“Please,” Jane said quietly. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.” She reached for Maura’s arm with the stalwart grasp of a friend. “You’re so smart in every other way.”
“Except when it comes to people.”
Jane laughed. “People are the problem, aren’t they?”
“Maybe I should stick to cats,” Maura said as she opened her car door and slid inside. “With them, at least you know exactly where you stand.”
TWENTY
LOBSTER AND MOOSE AND WILD BLUEBERRIES. THAT’S WHAT MOST PEOPLE imagined when they thought about the state of Maine, but Jane’s images were far grimmer. She thought of dark woods and murky bogs and all the hidden places where a human being could vanish. And she thought of the last time she and Frost had made this drive north, only five months earlier, on a night that had ended in a mist of blood and death. For Jane, Maine was no Vacationland; it was a place where bad things happened.
Five years ago, a bad thing happened to a petty thief named Brandon Tyrone.
The rain turned to icy pellets as they drove north on Coastal Route 1, Frost at the wheel. Even with the heater blowing, Jane’s feet were chilled and she wished she’d pulled on boots that morning, instead of the thin flats she was now wearing. As much as she hated to acknowledge that summer was over, all it took was a glance out the car window at bare trees and gunmetal-gray skies to see that the darkest season had arrived. It seemed they were driving into winter itself.
Frost slowed down as they passed two hunters in blaze orange, hefting a gutted doe into a parked pickup truck. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Bambi’s mom.”
“November. It’s that time of year.”
“With all these guns blasting away, it makes me nervous crossing the state line. Bang! Bagged another Masshole!”
“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 k
now?” 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 fuck 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.”
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.
“After they found Tyrone hanging in that tree, the state police kept hassling me, asking the same damn questions. Where would Nick go to ground? Who was hiding him? I kept telling ’em they got it all wrong. That something must’ve happened to Nick, too. If he was on the run, he’d never leave without his bug-out bag.”
“What kind of bag?” said Frost.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a bug-out bag.” Eddie frowned at them across the splayed rear legs of the deer.
“What is it, exactly?”
“It’s where you keep your essentials for survival. For when the system goes all to hell. See, if there’s some kind of catastrophe like a dirty bomb or a terrorist attack, people in big cities are gonna be in a world of hurt. No power, folks in a panic. That’s why you need a bug-out bag.” Eddie peeled more of the pelt, and the smell of bloody deer meat, raw and gamy, made Frost grimace and step away.
Eddie glanced at him in amusement. “Not a fan of venison?”
Frost stared at the glistening flesh, streaked with fat. “I tried it once.”
“Didn’t like it?”
“Not really.”
“Then it wasn’t prepared right. Or killed right. For the meat to taste good, the deer has to go down quick. One bullet, no struggle. If it’s only wounded and you have to chase it down, that meat’s gonna taste like fear.”
Frost stared at exposed muscles that had once propelled this buck through fields and woods. “And how does fear taste?”
“Like scorched flesh. Panic sends all kinds of hormones through the animal and you taste the struggle. Ruins the flavor.” He cleanly sliced a fist-sized hunk of meat from the haunch and tossed it into a stainless-steel bowl. “This one was killed right. Never knew what hit him. Gonna make a tasty stew.”
“You ever go hun
ting with your brother?” asked Jane.
“Nick and I grew up hunting together.” He sliced off another hunk. “I miss that.”
“Was he a good shot?”
“Better than me. Real steady, always took his time.”
“So he could survive out there, in the woods.”
Eddie gave her a cold stare. “It’s been five years. What, you think he’s still out there, living like some mountain man?”
“Where do you think he is?”
Eddie dropped his knife in a bucket, and bloodstained water splashed onto the concrete. “You’re looking for the wrong man.”
“Who’s the right man?”
“Not Nick. He’s no killer.”
She eyed the dead buck, its left leg now stripped down to bone. “When they found Nick’s buddy Tyrone, he was gutted and hanging just like this deer.”
“So?”
“Nick was a hunter.”
“So am I, and I haven’t killed anyone. I’m just feeding my family, something you people are so far removed from, you’ve probably never even used a boning knife.” He took the rinsed knife from the bucket and held it out to Jane. “Let’s see you give it a try, Detective. Go on, take it. Slice off a chunk and see how it feels to harvest your own dinner. Or are you afraid of a little blood on your hands?”
Jane saw the disdain in his eyes. Oh no, a city girl would never dirty her hands. It was men like the Thibodeau brothers who hunted and farmed and butchered so that she could have her steak on a plate. She might view his kind in contempt, but so, too, did he view hers.
She took the knife, stepped toward the buck, and sliced deep, all the way to bone. As chilled flesh peeled open, she smelled all that the deer had once been: fresh grass and acorns and forest moss. And blood, wild and coppery. The meat came away from bone, a dense, purple wedge of it, which she tossed into the bowl. She didn’t glance at Eddie as she started carving off the next chunk.
“If Nick didn’t kill his friend Tyrone,” she said, her knife gliding through flesh, “who do you think did?”
“I don’t know.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 329
