"Could be. Whoever killed Tremaine-"
"Not that murder; the one in 1960."
"How do you come up with that?"
"Well, think about it: Yesterday we figure out that someone was murdered on that glacier-"
"You figure out. It makes me nervous when you get modest."
"-and inside of a few hours the only remaining person who was there gets strangled, and his description of it disappears. Then this morning the only other contemporaneous account of the survey that we know about disappears too. It can't be coincidence. There has to be a relationship.” The Law of Interconnected Monkey Business, his old professor and friend Abe Goldstein called it.
"Maybe, maybe not. Twenty-nine years is a long time ago. Maybe Tremaine got killed for some reason we don't know anything about; he didn't seem to have any problem ticking people off. And maybe Fisk's journal got ripped off for a completely different reason. Let's keep our options open.” He broke his donut in two and examined the interior, evidently finding it to his satisfaction.
"Let me ask you about something else, Doc. Maybe we can whittle down our suspects a little. Would a woman have been able to pull Tremaine's body into position like that? Actually lift him up off the floor and tie the thongs to the hook?"
Gideon leaned back in his chair, considering. “Well, those are two pretty hefty women you're thinking about. Anna Henckel must weigh a hundred and sixty; Shirley more. Tremaine was only a hundred and thirty-five or so. You'd get a lot of leverage from pulling the thongs over the top of the partition and then wrapping them around the hook as you went. And the body wouldn't have been hanging free, it would've been propped against the partition. That would have helped."
"So you're saying yeah?"
"I'm saying yeah."
John rocked slowly back and forth on the rear legs of his chair. “You know, it's sad. A few years ago we could have ruled the ladies out right off. Women didn't strangle people. Poison, sure. Guns, you better believe it. But no strangling, no knives, no torture, no mutilation. Boy,” he said with a world-weary sigh, “times have changed. Well, what about Fisk? He's not exactly hefty. Would he be able to lift Tremaine?"
"I think so, John. It looks as if we'll have to stay with five suspects for the moment."
"What's with this ‘we,’ Doc? We're just having a conversation, that's all. This is my job, not ‘our’ job."
"Of course it's your job. You're the one who started talking about ‘we.’ What do I know about solving murders?"
"Yeah, sure, you're just a simple bone man, right?” John looked at him doubtfully. “Doc, I want your word that you're gonna concentrate on the bones. You solve that murder, I'll solve this murder. That'll make us both happy. My boss too."
"Fine."
"I mean it. And I want to know what you're doing every step of the way. I'm in charge, understand?"
"I said fine."
"That doesn't include going around doing your own little interviews with Judd or Henckel, or anyone else. Or messing around with-"
"John, I'm not a complete idiot."
John's feet came off the chair. “Yeah, you are! When it comes to this, you are! Look, I know you. You think you know everything about everything. You stick your nose into things, you get involved where you don't have any business, you make life hard for everybody. My goddamn boss was right about you.” He was chopping at the air with both hands, more like the John that Gideon knew. “Well, do me a favor and stay out of this one, dammit!” There was a long pulsing silence while he stared angrily at Gideon.
Gideon studied his friend in return. “On the other hand,” he said judiciously, “it could be that you haven't mellowed."
John's irritation hung on a second longer, then wavered and slid away like shards of glass from a broken mirror. He blew out his pent-up breath, leaned back in his chair again, and laughed. “Doc, Doc, somebody here is a killer. “I don't want you making him mad, I don't-ah, hell, I don't want to see you get hurt, that's all I'm worried about."
Gideon clapped him on the forearm. “I know it, John. I never thought anything else. I'll concentrate on the bones, I promise. What do you mean, your boss was right about me?"
"Never mind, you don't want to know.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “Things to do. Meet you and Julie for dinner?"
"Uh, I don't think we'll be here."
"You're not gonna be in Glacier Bay?"
"No, I was planning to catch the six o'clock plane into Juneau. If I can convince Julie to play hooky for a day, I'll take her with me. We'll be back on tomorrow's flight."
"What's in Juneau?” John asked suspiciously.
"The anthropologist who worked on those bones in 1964. I want to compare notes with him."
"Mm,” John said. “I guess that makes sense."
"Would there be any problem with my taking the fragments along with me? That'd be a help."
John sat down again. “I don't know, Doc, that could be a problem. That's evidentiary material, especially that piece of skull. Tell you the truth, I'm not even too keen about it just being in the Park Service safe up here. I'd be happier if it was in an FBI evidence room somewhere."
"Well, isn't there an FBI office in Juneau? I could drop it off for you."
"That's not exactly kosher."
"I know, but we're not exactly in Seattle, with agents and couriers all over the place."
John paused, then made a decision. “Okay. Take it with you and leave it at the resident agency office. Federal building, ninth floor. I'll let ‘em know you're coming."
"Good, I will."
John stood up again and stretched, then leveled a finger at Gideon. “Lose it, you die."
"Thanks for your confidence,” Gideon said.
"Just don't screw up. Hey, are you planning to eat that brownie or not?"
"Damn right I am,” Gideon said, and snatched it off the plate before John could make his grab.
Shirley Yount stopped them on the boardwalk outside by standing squarely in their way, hands on hips, elbows akimbo, feet planted. A formidable figure.
"I understand that little fart says I stole his diary."
"Yes. ma'am, you could say that,” John said.
She glared at John, very nearly eye to eye. “Well, I didn't,” she said.
Chapter 15
The daily turnaround flight between Juneau and Gustavus is surely one of the most spectacular jet flights in America. Going southeast, toward Juneau, you leave the flat Gustavus plain, with Glacier Bay tilting on your left, rise quickly over Icy Strait and the huddled green Chilkat Mountains, and wing out over the Inside Passage. Below, in the muted blue water, are the thousand forested, uninhabited islands of the Alexander Archipelago, and a few miles to the east the rearing, gleaming white chain of the Boundary Range. Beyond them, in British Columbia, appears the even grander, whiter mass of the great Coast Range, stretching out of sight to the north and south. Toward the end of the flight, the vast Juneau ice field comes into view (larger than the state of Rhode Island, the pilot informs you over the public-address system), and, finally, as the plane wheels and drops toward Juneau Airport, the colossal, frozen river that is Mendenhall Glacier, impressive even after Glacier Bay.
All this in twelve minutes’ air time, in a 727 that never gets more than four thousand feet off the ground and seems to float between the two airports like a dirigible with wings. Few passengers do anything during the twelve minutes but stare out the windows, struck dumb. But Julie and Gideon hadn't even glanced up, hadn't stopped talking.
They hadn't stopped talking since he'd met her boat at the pier at a little after four, Persuading her to play hooky for a day had taken all of thirty seconds. Trying to explain what was going on had taken the rest of the two hours, even with John's help on the drive to Gustavus. Small wonder. When she'd started off that morning the only mystery had been the pierced skull from 1960, and that had been mystery enough. But by the time Gideon saw her again nine hours later, Tremaine had been found dead; the manuscript had disappeared; Burton Wu had come, made his pronouncements, and gone; Elliott Fisk's journal had been stolen; and dark, old motives were popping to the surface like fizz in a glass of Alka-Seltzer.