HE IS HERE, SOMEWHERE IN THIS CITY. AS WE SIT IN AFTERNOON TRAFFIC, I look out the car window and watch pedestrians trudge past, heads bowed against the wind that whips between buildings. I have lived so long on the farm that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in a city. I don’t care for Boston. I don’t like how cold and gray it is here, and these tall buildings cut off any view of the sky, trapping me in eternal shadow. I don’t like the brusqueness of the people, who are so direct and hard-edged. Detective Rizzoli seems distracted as she drives, and she makes no effort at conversation, so we sit in silence. Outside is a cacophony of honking horns and distant sirens and people, so many people. Like the bush, this, too, is a wilderness, where the wrong move—a careless step off the curb, an exchange of words with an angry man—can prove fatal.
Where, in this giant maze of a city, is Johnny hiding?
Everywhere I look, I imagine I see him. I glimpse a towering blond head and a pair of broad shoulders, and my heart gives a lurch. Then he turns and I see it’s not him. Nor is the next tall, fair-haired man who catches my eye. Johnny is simultaneously everywhere, and nowhere.
We halt at another stoplight, boxed in between two lanes of cars. Detective Rizzoli looks at me. “I need to make one quick stop before I take you to Maura’s. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. Where are we going?”
“A house. The Gott crime scene.”
She says it so casually, but this is what she does for a living. She goes to places where they find bodies. She is like Clarence, our tracker in the Delta, who was always hunting for signs of game. The game that Detective Rizzoli hunts for are those who kill.
At last we escape heavy city traffic and enter a much quieter neighborhood of single-family houses. There are trees here, although November has stripped them of their leaves, which tumble like brown confetti on the streets. The house where we pull up has all its shades closed, and a single strand of police tape flutters on a tree, the lone bright accent in the autumnal gloom.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” she says. “You can wait in the car.”
I glance around at the deserted street and spy a silhouette in a front window, where someone stands watching us. Of course people would be watching. A killer has visited their neighborhood, and they worry he’ll make a second appearance.
“I’ll come in with you,” I say. “I don’t want to sit out here by myself.”
As I follow her to the front porch, I’m nervous about what I’m going to find. I’ve never been inside a house where someone was murdered, and I imagine blood-spattered walls, a chalk figure drawn on the floor. But when we step inside I see no blood, no signs of violence—unless you count the ghastly display of animal heads. There are dozens of them mounted on the walls, with eyes so life-like they seem to be staring at me. An accusatory gallery of victims. The overwhelming smell of bleach makes my eyes water, my nose sting.
She notices my grimace and says, “The cleaners must have doused the whole house in Clorox. But it’s a lot better than what it used to smell like.”
“Did it happen … was it in this room?”
“No, it was in the garage. I don’t need to go in there.”
“What are we doing here, exactly?”
“Hunting for a tiger.” She scans the trophy heads displayed on the walls. “And there he is. I knew I saw one in here.”
As she drags over a chair to reach the tiger, I imagine the souls of these dead animals murmuring among themselves, passing judgment on us. The African lion looks so alive that I’m almost afraid to approach him, but he draws me like a magnet. I think of the real lions I saw in the Delta, remember their muscles rippling beneath tawny coats. I think of Johnny, golden-haired and just as powerful, and imagine his head staring down at me. The most dangerous creature on this wall.
“Johnny said he’d kill a man before he’d ever shoot a big cat.”
Rizzoli pauses in the midst of plucking hairs from the mounted tiger and looks at me. “Then this house would definitely piss him off. All these cats, killed for sport. Then Leon Gott went bragging about it in a magazine.” She points to the gallery of photos hanging on the opposite wall. “That’s Elliot’s dad.”
In all the pictures, I see the same middle-aged man, posing with a rifle next to his various kills. There is also a framed magazine article: “The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.”
“I had no idea Elliot’s father was a hunter.”
“Elliot never told you?”
“Not a word. He didn’t talk about his father at all.”
“Probably because he was ashamed of him. Elliot and his dad had a falling-out years before. Leon liked to blast away at animals. Elliot wanted to save the dolphins, the wolves, and the field mice.”
“Well, I know he loved birds. On safari, he was always pointing them out to us, trying to identify them.” I look at the photos of Leon Gott with his dead-animal conquests and shake my head. “Poor Elliot. He was everyone’s punching bag.”
“What do you mean?”
“Richard was always putting him down, making him the butt of jokes. Men and their testosterone, always trying to one-up each other. Richard had to be king, and Elliot had to bow. It was all about impressing the blondes.”
“The two South African girls?”
“Sylvia and Vivian. Elliot had such a crush on them, and Richard never lost a chance to show how much more of a man he was.”
“You still sound bitter about it, Millie,” she observes quietly.
I’m surprised that I am bitter. That even after six years, it still stings to remember those nights around the campfire, Richard’s attention all on the girls.
“And during this battle for male dominance, where was Johnny in all this?” she asks.
“It’s odd, but he didn’t really seem to care. He just stood back and watched the drama. All our petty battles and jealousies—none of it seemed to matter to him.”
“Maybe because he had other things to think about. Like what he had planned for all of you.”
Was he thinking about those plans as he sat beside me at the fire? Was he imagining how it would feel to spill my blood, watch life drain from my eyes? Feeling suddenly cold, I hug myself as I look at the photos of Leon Gott and his conquered animals.
Rizzoli comes to stand beside me. “I hear he was an asshole,” she says, looking at Gott’s picture. “But even assholes deserve justice.”
“No wonder Elliot never mentioned him.”
“Did he ever talk about his girlfriend?”
I look at her. “Girlfriend?”
“Jodi Underwood. She and Elliot were together for two years.”
This surprises me. “He was so busy mooning over the blondes, he never mentioned any girlfriend. Have you met her? What is she like?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Something’s troubling her, something that makes her hesitate before responding.
“Jodi Underwood is dead. She was killed the same night Leon was.”
I stare at her. “You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s an active investigation so there are things I can’t tell you, Millie.”
“You brought me all this way to help you, yet you keep things from me. Important things. You should have told me that.”
“We don’t know that their deaths are connected. Jodi’s murder looks like a robbery, and the method of killing was entirely different from Leon’s. That’s why I came for these hair samples. We’re looking for a physical link between the attacks.”
“Isn’t it obvious? The connection is Elliot.” The realization hits me with such force that for a moment I can’t speak, can’t even breathe. I whisper: “The connection is me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you contact me? Why did you think I could help you?”
“Because we followed the links. They led us to the Botswana murders. And you.”
“Exactly. Those links led you to me. For six years I’ve been hiding in Touws River, living under a different name. I’ve stayed away from London because I was afraid Johnny would find me. You think he’s here, in Boston. And now, so am I.” I swallow hard. “Right where he wants me.”
I see my alarm reflected in her eyes. She says quietly: “Let’s go. I’m taking you back to Maura’s.”
As we step out of the house, I feel as vulnerable as a gazelle in open grass. I imagine eyes everywhere, watching me from the houses, from the passing cars. I wonder how many people know that I’m in Boston. I remember the crowded airport where we landed yesterday, and I think of all the people who might have seen me in the Boston PD lobby or in the cafeteria or waiting for the elevator. If Johnny was there, would I have spotted him?
Or am I like the gazelle, blind to the lion until the moment he springs?