"I still don't get it,” Gideon said. “What does this have to do with Arthur?"
"I don't get it either,” Julie said.
John sighed. “Will you people read the beginning?"
This time Gideon read aloud.
DATE: September 24, 1960
TO: Thomas Llewellyn, Assistant Director for Personnel
FROM: Edgar V. Luna, Appeals Mediator
SUBJECT: Appeal of Cornelius H. Tibbett from Termination
The purpose of this "Tibbett?" Julie said.
Gideon had passed right over it. Not that he was about to admit it to John.
"Bingo,” John said, “Tibbett. Finally. Cornelius H. Tibbett was Arthur Tibbett's father. Tell them what you found out, Julian."
Julian folded his well-groomed hands on the table. “Upon losing his job, Cornelius Tibbett returned to New York with his wife and turned to drink, never holding a meaningful job for the rest of his life, which was unhappily brief. In 1962 he jumped in front of the Lexington Avenue IRT at Eighty-sixth Street."
"You're saying,” said Julie after a pause, “that this gives Arthur a motive for killing Tremaine?"
"Damn right,” John said. “Tremaine gets his father canned, which ruins his career and his life, and two years later the guy kills himself. And the way Arthur probably sees it-hell, the way I see it-is that it was Tremaine that was in the wrong every step of the way."
Julie shook her head. “But, John, Arthur was just a little boy. It was such a long time ago."
"Are you kidding?” John said, laughing. “Compared to the other things we've got to go on, 1962's recent."
"In point of fact,” Minor told Julie, “Arthur Tibbett was twenty at the time his father was dismissed."
He continued explaining while they ate their meals. Arthur himself had just begun working for the Park Service as a seasonal ranger in 1960 and had been shattered by what had happened to his father. Throughout much of his subsequent career he'd been obsessed with the idea of someday returning to Glacier Bay in a position of authority; to restore the Tibbett honor, as it were. Two years ago the position of assistant superintendent became vacant. Arthur applied, did well on the examination, and got the job.
"All of this,” Minor concluded, “is well known to his colleagues and superiors in Washington, D.C."
"But not to me,” John said, “which is what bugs me. Never once did he say anything to me about having a grudge against Tremaine."
"Well, why should he?” Gideon asked. “He achieved his goal, he was satisfied. Why stir it up again? I'd probably have kept it to myself too."
"No, you wouldn't,” John said crisply. “Not once Tremaine got killed, you wouldn't. Once that happened it was damn pertinent. You'd have come forward and told the investigating officers. You wouldn't have sat around waiting for us to dig it up by ourselves."
"No, you're right; I would have told you. Arthur should've told you. Still-"
Still what? Now that Gideon thought about it, Tibbett's virulent dislike for Tremaine had come through dearly enough that first evening at dinner. And after Tremaine had been killed, hadn't his mood perked up noticeably? Well, yes, but still "Look,” John said, “I'm not accusing the guy. I just need to have a little heart-to-heart with him, that's all. Get a few things straight."
"I'd like to wait on that until tomorrow, if it's all the same,” Minor said. “I still have some telephone calls in to Washington on him."
Across the room, the members of Tremaine's group had been leaving one by one, darting glances at the FBI agents. Elliott Fisk remained behind and was now approaching the table.
"Sir?” John said to him.
Fisk held out a thick, flat notebook bound with blue imitation leather; the kind with a little fold-around flap that fitted into a slot on the front to keep the cover closed.
"The journal?” John said.
"I found it under a bird feeder near my door this afternoon. There's a bench next to it and I usually sit there for a few minutes before breakfast.” He turned to Gideon. “To plan my day."
Plan his day? At the lodge? What was there to plan?
John took the journal and held it without opening it. “How do you think it got there?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"You tell me."
"Shirley finished with it and decided to return it after all, for reasons of her own."
"She told you this?"
Fisk gave him a look of scathing incredulity. “Oh, certainly."
"Uh-huh,” John said.
"Now, look. I assure you I did not accidentally leave it under the bird feeder yesterday morning. I had it with me at breakfast. Dr. Judd can vouch-"
"Okay, I believe you,” John said. “Are any pages missing?"
"None."
"Can I hold on to this for now?"
"By all means, do. You'll find it quite interesting, I'm sure."
When Fisk had left, John pulled out the flap and riffled without interest through the pages. The last third were empty, the rest covered with a sloppy, slanting scrawl in blue ink. “The first entry's January 2, 1960. Last is"-more riffling-"July 25, the day before he got killed."
He closed the notebook and slid it to Minor. “Julian, will you have a look through it and see what you find?"
"My pleasure,” Minor said. Gideon could smell his cedary cologne as the agent reached for the journal. The dark, neat hand hesitated over the notebook. “Perhaps we'd better go over it for fingerprints first."
"Nah,” John said, “don't waste too much time on it. Just read it when you get a chance."
"You don't think there'll be anything important in it?” Julie asked.
John shook his head. “Not if it got returned."
They were on their second cups of coffee when John suddenly snapped his fingers. “Hey, I almost forgot! They found some more bones for you, Doc."
Gideon was caught in the act of putting his coffee cup to his mouth. He managed to avoid spilling any and set the cup back in its saucer. “Bones?"
Julie and John both burst out laughing.
Gideon looked at them, puzzled. “What's funny?"
"You,” Julie said. “The way you say ‘Bones?’ If dogs could talk that's the way they'd say it. I think your ears actually prick."
Gideon shrugged. “I guess I like my work,” he said, laughing too.
"Chacun a son gout, said Minor, who hadn't joined in the hilarity.
"Owen's people spent the day on Tirku again,” John explained. “They brought back a box of stuff; mostly pretty ratty-looking. They're in the contact station."
"Are they human?"
"You're asking me?"
Gideon was out of his chair, fishing in his pocket for the key to the station. “I'm going to have a look. Anybody want to come along?"
"Sure,” Julie said, standing up too.
"Sure,” John said. “Come on, Julian, you'll learn something."
Minor hesitated. “I think I'd better use the time to go through the journal."
"No pots to stir this time,” Gideon told him. “I promise."
Minor permitted himself a faint, not-unfriendly smile. “Be that as it may,” he said.
Chapter 20
"Weasel,” Gideon said tossing a tiny vertebra into the wastepaper basket. “Marten, maybe."
More bones and bone fragments followed. “Goat…bird-seagull, probably…bear…um, elk…"
"There aren't any elk around here,” Julie said.
"Okay, moose, if you're going to be like that. Cervidae, anyway…fox…bear…bear…goat… ah!"
He held up a flat, twisted piece of bone six or seven inches long and looking something like a dog's rawhide chew.
"Human?” Julie said.
John put one hand to his forehead and pointed at the bone with his other. “Scapula? Wait, wait, I mean, I mean-what the hell do I mean?” He scowled mightily. “Clavicle! Collarbone! Am I right?"
"On the button."
John beamed. “Why, John,” Julie said, “I'm impressed."
He nodded modestly toward Gideon. “Well, you know, I took that class from him in Saint Malo."