Die Again by Tess Gerritsen Page A

cat.”
    “What, do they steal your manhood?”
    “It’s all about image, you know? If I bring home a girl, what’s she gonna think when she sees I have a fluffy white cat?”
    “Oh yeah, like your goldfish gives a much better impression.” She nodded at his laptop. “So what else does O’Brien have to say?”
    “Listen to this part,” said Frost, and clicked PLAY .
… but no, these grass-eating rodents, vicious bunnies who dine every day on lettuce, they’re more bloodthirsty than anycarnivore. And believe me, friends, I hear from them. They threaten to string me up and gut me like a deer. Threaten to burn me, cut me, strangle me, crush me. Would you believe this comes from the lips of vegetarians ? Friends, beware the lettuce eaters. There’s no one on earth more dangerous than your so-called animal lovers .
    Jane looked at Frost. “Maybe they’re even more dangerous than he realizes,” she said.
    W ITH A WEEKLY SHOW syndicated to six hundred radio stations, reaching an audience of over twenty million listeners, Jerry “Big Mouth” O’Brien could afford the best, a fact made abundantly clear from the moment Jane and Frost drove past the guarded gatehouse onto O’Brien’s estate. The rolling pastures and grazing horses could be on a farm somewhere in Virginia or Kentucky; it was an unexpectedly bucolic setting only an hour outside Boston. They drove past a farm pond and up a grassy slope dotted with white sheep, to the massive log-built residence at the top of the hill. With its wide porches and massive timber posts, it looked more like a hunting lodge than a private home.
    They had just pulled up to the building when they heard the first gunshots.
    “What the hell?” said Frost as they both unsnapped their holsters.
    More gunshots rang out in rapid succession, then silence. Too long a silence.
    Jane and Frost lurched out of the car and were already bounding up the porch steps, guns drawn, when the front door suddenly swung open.
    A chubby-cheeked man greeted them with a pasted-on smile so big it had to be fake. He saw the two Glocks pointed at his chest and said, with a laugh: “Whoa now, there’s no need for that . You must be Detectives Rizzoli and Frost.”
    Jane kept her weapon level. “We heard gunshots.”
    “It’s only target practice. Jerry’s got a nice shooting range downstairs. I’m his personal assistant, Rick Dolan. Come on in.”
    Another burst of gunfire rang out. Jane and Frost glanced at each other, then simultaneously reholstered their weapons.
    “Sounds like some major firepower,” said Jane.
    “You’re welcome to check it out. Jerry loves to show off his arsenal.”
    They stepped into a soaring entrance hall where the natural pine walls were hung with Native American rugs. Dolan reached into a hall cabinet and tossed ear protectors to his guests.
    “Jerry’s rules,” he said, slipping a pair of protectors over his own head. “He went to a few too many rock concerts as a kid, and as he likes to say, Deafness is forever .”
    Dolan swung open a door that was thickly padded with soundproofing. Jane and Frost hesitated as gunfire thundered up from the basement.
    “Oh, it’s perfectly safe down there,” he said. “Jerry spared no expense when he designed it. Basement walls are sand-filled blocks, ceiling’s pre-stressed concrete, topped with four inches of steel. He’s got fully enclosed bullet traps, and the underground exhaust system vents all the smoke and residue to the outside. I’m telling you, it’s the best of the best. You gotta take a look.”
    Jane and Frost put on the ear protectors and followed him down the stairs.
    Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, Jerry O’Brien stood with his back turned to them. He was dressed incongruously in blue jeans and a garish aloha shirt, which generously draped his barrel-shaped torso in flowered fabric. He did not immediately acknowledge his visitors, but kept his focus on the target of a human silhouette as