Die Again

Thirty-eight

A DAY LATER, THEY UNCOVERED HIS LAIR.

After ground-penetrating radar detected the underground chamber in Alan Rhodes’s backyard, it took only a few minutes’ shovel work to locate the entrance, a wooden hatch cover hidden under an inch of mulch.

Jane was the first to climb down the steps, descending into a chilly blackness that smelled of damp earth. At the bottom she reached a concrete floor and stared at what her flashlight revealed: the snow leopard pelt, mounted on the wall. Dangling from a hook beside it were steel claws, the razor-sharp tips polished to a gleaming brightness. She thought of the three parallel slashes on Leon Gott’s torso. She thought of Natalie Toombs and the three nicks on her skull. Here was the tool that had left those marks in flesh and bone.

“What do you see down there?” called Frost.

“Leopard Man,” she said softly.

Frost came down the stairs and they stood together, their flashlight beams slashing the darkness like sabers.

“Jesus,” he said as his light fixed on the opposite wall. On the two dozen drivers’ licenses and passport photos tacked to corkboard. “They’re from Nevada. Maine. Montana …”

“It’s his trophy wall,” said Jane. Like Leon Gott and Jerry O’Brien, Alan Rhodes also displayed his kills, but on a wall that was for his eyes only. She focused on a page ripped from a passport: Millie Jacobson, the trophy Rhodes thought he’d won, but this prize had been prematurely claimed. Next to Millie’s photo were other faces, other names. Isao and Keiko Matsunaga. Richard Renwick. Sylvia Van Ofwegen. Vivian Kruiswyk. Elliot Gott.

And Johnny Posthumus, the bush guide who had fought to keep them alive. In Johnny’s direct gaze, Jane saw a man ready to do whatever was necessary, without fear, without hesitation. A man prepared to face any beast in the wild. But Johnny had not realized that the most dangerous animal he would ever encounter was the client smiling back at him.

“There’s a laptop in here,” said Frost, crouched over a cardboard box. “It’s a MacBook Air. You think it was Jodi Underwood’s?”

“Turn it on.”

With gloved hands, Frost lifted the computer and pressed the POWER button. “Battery’s dead.”

“Is there a power cord?”

He reached deeper into the box. “I don’t see one. There’s some broken glass in here.”

“From what?”

“It’s a picture.” He pulled out a framed photo, its protective glass shattered. He shone his flashlight on the image, and for a moment neither one of them said a word as they both registered its significance.

Two men stood together, the sun in their faces, the bright light defining every feature. They looked enough alike to be brothers, both with dark hair and squarish faces. The man on the left smiled straight into the lens, but the second man appeared caught by surprise just as he’d turned to face the camera.

“When was this taken?” said Frost.

“Six years ago.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know where this is. I’ve been there. It’s Table Mountain, in Cape Town.” She looked at Frost. “Elliot Gott and Alan Rhodes. They knew each other.”