"Nope.” She munched popcorn for a while. “Would a blow like that have killed him?"
"Impossible to say. The specific injuries to his jaw, no. But he was hit hard. There might easily have been associated injuries to his brain or his spine."
"So you're saying this may have been a murder."
He spread his hands. “I'm saying that just before he died, this guy-either James Pratt or Steven Fisk-was hit in the face with tremendous force."
"But how can you be so sure it was before? How do you know his jaw wasn't damaged long after he was killed, even years later, by pressures in the glacier itself?” She shook her head. “We sure have the damndest discussions."
"I know for several reasons. First, the collagen fibers in the bone tissue were intact at the time-which I know because the distortion of the trabeculae-"
She held up her hand. “I'm convinced. All right, then, why-dare I ask-was it ‘just’ before? Why not a week before, two weeks before? A separate accident, a separate fight?"
"Again, several reasons. No signs of healing. No signs of treatment-and that jaw would have needed wiring. Also, for what it's worth, Tremaine and Henckel don't remember either of the men having anything wrong with his jaw."
"What did Arthur say when you told him all this?"
"Are you serious? Just having the bones turn up is about all the poor guy can handle right now. I'm not telling him we might be dealing with a murder until I have more than this to go on."
She ate some more popcorn, kernel by kernel. “Look,” she said reasonably, “you've never examined anyone who died in an avalanche before, have you?"
"No."
"So you don't really know firsthand what avalanche injuries look like."
"Well, no, not firsthand."
"You said that getting hit on the chin with a rock could do this. There would have been rocks flying around in the avalanche, or at least big pieces of ice, right? Why couldn't one of those have done it?"
"Right smack on the point of the chin?"
"Why not?"
"No other signs of injury; no impact points but this one, flush on the jaw?"
"Why not?"
He finished his Scotch and considered. Why not, indeed. True, it would be odd for a piece of flying ice to duplicate this kind of injury so exactly, but he had run into things a lot more improbable than that.
He put his glass on the table with a thump. “Maybe you're right."
Julie looked at him, head cocked. “But?"
"No ‘buts.’ I've been jumping to conclusions. You're right, that's all."
She was still recovering from this when Tremaine appeared at the table, one hand in his jacket pocket, suave and amiable.
"Dr. Oliver? I hope I'm not intruding?"
"Of course not. This is my wife, Julie."
"Mrs. Oliver, my pleasure."
Gideon gestured at the third chair at the table. “Please."
"No, thank you, I'll just take a minute of your time. I'd like to apologize for not knowing who you were yesterday, Dr. Oliver."
"No reason why you should. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your work."
"Well, ‘Voyages’ isn't a one-man show, you know.” He smiled with practiced modesty. “I get all the glory, but a great many people are involved behind the scenes, each making his own unique contribution to the whole."
"Ah,” said Gideon. There didn't seem to be any point in explaining that it was not “Voyages” he admired.
Tremaine leaned both hands on the table. “I wonder if I might ask a favor. Do you know why I'm here at Glacier Bay?"
"I understand you're working on a book about the Tirku survey expedition."
"Yes, it's quite close to finished, really, and I'm being assisted by several people who are either members of the original team or relatives of the members who were killed. Well, naturally, today's discovery of those, ah, remains has stimulated a great deal of interest among them. They were wondering if you'd be good enough to spend a little time with us and tell us what you've found."
"I'm afraid there isn't a lot to tell. There's no way I can make a positive-"
"Would tomorrow at ten be convenient? We meet in the upstairs lounge."
"No, tomorrow morning I'm going out to Tirku myself to have a look around."
"I see. What about the afternoon, then? Will you be back by four?"
"Well, I'm not really-"
"Sure you will,” Julie said. “You're getting a lift with my class, aren't you? Bill said he'd have us back by four."
"Splendid,” Tremaine said. “We'll see you at four then, Dr. Oliver. I'll look forward to it.” He inclined his shaggy but well-groomed head at Julie. “Mrs. Oliver."
"Uh, did I do something wrong?” Julie said when he had left. “Do I detect a little reluctance on your part?"
Gideon shrugged. “No, that's okay. I'm not reluctant, exactly. It just makes me uncomfortable. I mean, what am I supposed to do, bring in the bones for a show-and-tell?"
"I've never known you to object to talking about bones before."
"But these are their relatives-brothers, sisters, whatever. That makes it different."
"Yes, I see what you mean. Sorry about that. Are you going to tell them about the fractured mandible?"
"Not a chance. No reason to."
There was a pause. “You're not going to tell Tremaine either, are you?"
"I'm not telling anyone. Just you. Not until I put in some more work."
"Because, you know, I just realized,” Julie said, thoughtfully running her finger around the rim of her empty glass, “if you just happen to be right about how that mandible got broken-"
"Which we've agreed I'm not."
"-and there was a murder all those years ago-"
"Which we've agreed there wasn't."
"-then the finger of suspicion would have to point to M. Audley Tremaine himself, wouldn't it, since he was the only one who got out alive?"
"Well, not necessarily, but I admit the thought did cross my mind."
She leaned across the table toward him. “All right now, tell the truth. Do you or don't you think that jaw damage came from the avalanche?"
"I don't know,” Gideon answered honestly. “Intellectually, I think you're right about it. But intuitively I can't help-"
"Oh-oh, intuitively. That's always a bad sign."
He laughed. “Okay, you're right.” He reached up and stretched luxuriously. “I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. Maybe I'm just looking for some way to get him off the airwaves before he fouls up the American mind for good."
"Come on,” Julie said, standing up. “You've been sitting around deducing all day, but I've been working and I need some crab-stuffed halibut."
Chapter 5
Sailing into the upper reaches of Glacier Bay is a spectacular experience for anyone, but for those whose interests turn toward natural history it is matchless, an adventure to be found nowhere else in the world. As the ship moves out of Bartlett Cove and swings northwest past the Beardslees and into the great bay proper, one sails backward in time. With every mile, the land grows newer, more raw, as one closes on the shrinking glacier that carved out the bay in the first place. In three hours one traverses two hundred years of postglacial history.
The evidence is there even for the untrained eye. At Bartlett Cove itself the ice has been gone for two centuries. The roots of mature Sitka spruce and western hemlock have taken firm hold under the mossy forest duff, and the green, soft, richly wooded land amenably shelters the lodge and the Park Service complex. But sixty-five miles away, where the present upper end of the bay terminates at the foot of the Grand Pacific Glacier, there are no plants at all-only bare rocks and gravel, still wet from the ice that had covered them for millennia. Sailing between the two points mimics the glacier's withdrawal; every mile covered is three years of glacial retreat. In less than half an hour the stately hemlock along the shores begin to disappear, and then the spruce give way grudgingly to tangled stands of alder and cottonwood, which in turn make way for willow, ryegrass, fireweed, and dryas, and finally for the coarse, primitive black crust of algae that marks the first scrabbling hold of the plant kingdom on newly exposed rock.