"Okay, I'll check with clerical as soon as we're done."
"Clerical! Good heavens, man, we don't have clerks. We have,” he said solemnly, “support staff."
"Right, I keep forgetting. Do I report to Anchorage on this or what?"
"No, we treat this as if we're the OO."
"The OO?"
Appletree shook his head in amiable wonder. “John, you're amazing. How do you manage to function so effectively in this bureaucratic maze? Do you really not know what ‘OO’ means?"
John ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “Well-"
"The OO is the originating office,” Appletree said, picking up a small pitcher of real cream that Melva had deposited on the table, “the office with the primary responsibility for a case."
"I'll try to remember."
"Do. For one thing it saves time; two syllables instead of whatever. And, of course,” he added with a smile, “if we went around saying things like ‘originating office,’ everybody would know what we were talking about. And we certainly wouldn't want that, would we?"
He poised the creamer over John's mug. “Let's see, if I remember right, you like it heavy on the cream."
Why was it, Gideon had sometimes wondered, that his students got so possessive about their chairs? Even when seating at the first class meeting was random or arbitrary, they headed right for the same places the next time and forever after. Try to rearrange things and there were groans of frustration and despair.
The phenomenon, he now noted, was not limited to the classroom. By this, the third predinner cocktail hour since their arrival, the seating arrangement in the Icebreaker Lounge was fixed and apparently immutable. There were Tremaine and his admirers in possession of the bar. There were Anna Henckel, Walter Judd, and Gerald Pratt at their corner window table. There were the customary groupings of trainees. When Julie and Gideon had come in at five-thirty, half an hour into things, their table, directly before the fireplace with its newly laid log fire, was waiting for them as if it had been reserved.
They downed hot apple ciders while Gideon brought her up to date. He had just come back from the bar with seconds when Owen Parker came in, got a 7-Up, and headed their way. It was the first time they'd seen him in the cocktail lounge. He was in uniform, the only ranger who was. But then he was the only one on duty.
He pulled over a chair from the next table and dropped solidly into it. “So. I just got off the phone with the FBI. The guy who's going to be running things gave me a call."
"And?” Gideon asked.
"And he'll be out here tomorrow morning."
"Fast work,” Julie said.
"These guys don't mess around,” said Owen. He slowly poured 7-Up from the can into his ice-filled glass. “Oh, he had a message for you,” he said to Gideon. “He said: ‘Tell Doc the next time he comes up with something, would he please make it Arizona, not Alaska?’”
"Doc?” Gideon looked at Julie, then back at Owen. Only one person called him “Doc.” He put down his glass mug. “You're kidding me. John Lau?"
"That's right,” Owen said doubtfully. “What's the matter, is there a problem with the guy?"
Gideon laughed. “No, John's terrific, first-rate. He's an old friend."
"What's he got against Alaska?"
"He just likes it hot,” Julie said.
"And dry,” Gideon put in. “The world's only Hawaiian who can't stand humid weather."
"Hot and dry,” Owen said. “He must love it in Seattle."
"Can't stand it,” Gideon said. He stirred his cider with the rolled strip of cinnamon bark in it and licked the end of the bark. “But what's a Seattle agent doing in this? Isn't there a field office in Juneau?"
"It's a long story,” Owen said. “Listen, you want to drive out to the airport with me to pick him up tomorrow morning? You can explain about the bones better than I can."
"Sure, what time?"
"I'll pick you up at twenty to eight. I arranged for a charter flight to meet his plane in Juneau at seven-thirty. He'll be here about eight."
"Can I come too?” Julie asked. “It'll be fun to see John."
"I thought you were heading out to the glaciers again tomorrow morning,” Gideon said.
"Oh,” Julie said, “that's right. Rats. I keep thinking I'm on vacation too."
"I beg your pardon." The voice was imperious, arresting, and unmistakable.
M. Audley Tremaine looked down upon them, erect and lordly. One hand was in the side pocket of his jacket. Gideon noticed that he had changed from the brown houndstooth-check sport coat he'd been wearing earlier to a bottle-green velvet jacket. If there were still such things as smoking jackets, this had to be one. The ascot had been tastefully changed to match it.
"I would like you to know,” he said coldly, addressing Owen, “that I do not appreciate the way matters have been handled thus far, and I have every intention of informing your superiors."
Owen bristled. “Matters?"
"The hole in the skull. The ice ax. The whole damned thing.” He had had that Rob Roy, Gideon realized, maybe two. He wasn't sloppy-far from it-but there was a telltale, sullen glitter in his eyes.
"Exactly what is it that you don't appreciate, sir?” Owen asked evenly.
"I don't appreciate being the last one to know. I don't appreciate being the subject of innuendo and the object of macabre curiosity to every damned park ranger in the place. I don't appreciate this…gentleman"-a frigid glance at Gideon-"coming in to us and lying. Through his teeth. And all the while bathing us in that wide-eyed sincerity and compassion."
Gideon began to say something, but checked himself. What Tremaine had said was true. All right, he hadn't exactly lied to them, but he'd sure omitted a few things, and he wasn't too happy with it either.
"It was my decision,” Owen said shortly. “I did what I thought was appropriate."
"Your decision,” Tremaine repeated, the rich voice oozing contempt. “And your next decision? Am I to be arrested for murder?” He held his slim hands out, as if for handcuffing. “Don't shoot, officer."
"Professor Tremaine,” Owen said, his copper-brown face stony, “nobody's arresting you. The FBI will be-"
"The FBI. Dear me, is it as important as that? Do you suppose I'll make the ten-most-wanted list?"
"Look, Professor, nobody's accusing anyone, and nobody's arresting anyone. Why don't you just enjoy your dinner tonight and we'll worry about sorting things out tomorrow."
"Oh, we'll sort things out tomorrow, all right,” Tremaine said hotly. “You'll be lucky to have a job as a janitor by the end of tomorrow.” He glared at Owen for another moment, then turned abruptly, literally on his heel, and strode from the room.
"Whew,” Julie said. “How did he find all that out?"
"I'd guess,” Gideon said, “that someone overheard us on the boat and came back and passed the word around.” He shrugged. “You can't blame them. It's pretty exciting stuff."
Owen turned to look over his shoulder toward the knot of young rangers who had been surrounding Tremaine earlier. Under his gaze they shifted and glanced sheepishly away. The hum of conversation picked up. Gideon realized belatedly that it had died down while people had listened in on Tremaine's tirade.
"Yeah, I'd say you were right,” Owen said, turning back. “There weren't any doors on the galley, and we weren't thinking about being quiet. At least I sure wasn't.” He leaned his elbows on the table and hunched over his glass. “What the hell. Your friend John's going to love this."
"Don't worry,” Julie said. “John's a sweetie."
"I'm happy to hear it.” Owen drained his 7-Up, crunched an ice cube between his teeth, and smiled. “I'm a sweetie too."
Chapter 9
John tossed his shoulder bag into the back seat of the green Park Service car, ducked to get through the door, and slid in. “But what are you saying did happen, Doc? That Tremaine killed this guy with this ice ax, and a few minutes later this avalanche just happened to come along and conveniently bury everything?” He pulled the door closed after him.