"That’s right," Gideon said carefully.
"The femur is the leg bone?"
"Yes, the thigh bone."
"Dr. Arthur Fenster maintains one should never try to estimate stature with fewer than two complete long bones."
"Dr. Arthur Fenster is correct. I support Dr. Arthur Fenster and applaud him. But we don’t have two complete long bones. We don’t have one complete long bone. We don’t have half of one long bone. We have seven lousy centimeters, from the caput femoris to the…the…" He’d forgotten the Latin term for the lesser trochanter. Why was he speaking Latin, anyway?
Minor smiled for the first time, a pleasant, self-effacing smile. "I surely do take your point," he said. He glanced back at the summary. "It certainly looks as if it’s the Hornick girl, doesn’t it?"
"I don’t know. Could be."
"You don’t know? Didn’t you look at the stats?" He indicated a file folder that he’d earlier left on the table for Gideon.
"No. If you have a missing person’s stats, you tend to find what you’re looking for."
"Well, then," Minor said, "I really am impressed." He opened the folder. "Eighteen on the nose, five-seven on the nose-no, I guess you missed by half an inch there." He smiled again. "What can you expect from seven lousy centimeters? And she weighed one-thirty. And of course she disappeared September 28. Two weeks ago. It must be she."
"It sounds like it."
"Yes." Minor’s mild, slightly whimsical air vanished as he studied something in the folder. "Have you ever seen her picture?"
"Not that I can remember."
Minor handed a photograph to Gideon. It was a small black-and-white high school graduation portrait. The girl wore a black gown and a mortarboard set unfashionably straight on her head. She looked directly into the camera with a soft smile that showed a chipped incisor. Her hair, long and straight and carefully fanned over her shoulders, appeared to be light brown. She looked like a million other kids. Gideon had the feeling that under the gown she was wearing grubby jeans with torn knees, and dirty tennis shoes.
A convulsive shudder ran slowly up his spine and jerked his shoulders. Twelve-thousand-year-old skeletons, dry and brittle and brown, were more his line. No meat on the bones. No smiling photographs. He handed the picture back to Minor. "It’s a shame. She looks like a nice kid."
"You bet it’s a shame!" Minor said with sudden vehemence. "A goddamn shame!" As if embarrassed by this display of emotion, he visibly collected himself, ran a finger around the inside of his collar, and said, "I’d like to thank you for your excellent report, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful."
Julie had left a note for him on her office door. "I’ve gone home," it said. "Could you drop by when you have a chance?"
When she let him in, he was at once concerned. Her face was pale, almost gray, with the area around her mouth a dead white. She had changed from her uniform to a nondescript blouse and pants.
"What is it?" he asked. "The body?"
She nodded. "Come inside. Let’s sit down."
Worried, he followed her in. The sight of her bare feet padding along as strong, brown, and healthy as ever reassured him slightly.
"Was it Claire Hornick?" she said when they were seated on the sofa. Her clenched hands rested on her thighs.
"It was the Hornick girl, yes."
Her eyes flashed. "Not the Hornick girl…Claire! She had a name; she wasn’t a laboratory specimen!" She unclenched her fists and placed a hand on his knee. "Ah, Gideon, I’m sorry. I just…it didn’t really come home to me before, but this one…There really are murderers out there. I don’t care if they’re Indians or what… It scares me to think of you trying to find them."
"I know, Julie." With his own hand, he covered the hand on his knee.
"Gideon," she said, not looking at him, "don’t go looking for them. I don’t want to go, and I don’t want you to go." She was very near to crying.
"I don’t think there’s too much to worry about," he said gently. "Remember, I don’t even know where to look."
She squeezed his hand impatiently. "I want you to promise me you’ll leave all this to the FBI. You can study them after they’re caught. Promise me you won’t go." Before he could answer she said, "No, I’m sorry. I am possessive, aren’t I?" She tried a tentative, weepy smile, and his heart melted.
"You sure are." He tipped her head back to kiss her forehead. "Now stop being all female and trembly. I have to go back to Dungeness and get on with my dig, and I want a proper kiss good-bye."
She put her hands on the back of his neck, and he wrapped her in his arms. They kissed a long time, leaning back against the soft, old cushions, breathing in and out without moving. When he finally lifted his face from hers, she was Julie again, soft and smiling; no white skin around her lovely mouth, no tremulous muscles near her eyes. "Gideon, Gideon," she said, slumping lushly against the cushions, "you’re very good medicine for me." She smiled tiredly at him.
"That’s better," he said. "Now, are you or aren’t you going to invite me back down for next weekend?"
"Why don’t I come up there instead and spend a few days? Wouldn’t you like a hand on your project?"
"Was that a bawdy pun? I must say, I’m very surprised."
She laughed. "You’re terrible. Gideon, may I come? Or do you already have a mistress tucked away in your little cottage?"
"Two, but I’ll get rid of them. Come, please, Julie. Sure you can help me on the dig. And it will be fun for you to meet Abe. Fun for him, too." He paused and felt himself tense. "Julie…I want you to know I…like you a hell of a lot." Disconcerted to find himself stammering, his cheeks growing hot, he stopped. For three simple, monosyllabic words, "I love you" was giving him a great deal of trouble.
Julie was smiling gently at him with a quizzical expression. "I like you, too," she said. "I’ll see you next Friday, then."
On the way back to Dungeness he stopped at Port Angeles to buy a large tin of Earl Grey tea and a five-pound box of Scottish shortbread and preserves, and mailed them to Mr. Pringle. Then he had a razor clam dinner at a seafood restaurant on Fountain Street. By the time he got to Bayview Cottages it was almost dark. He poured himself some Scotch, grumbled at himself for forgetting to make ice cubes, filled the tumbler with water, and took it out to the edge of the low cliffs, where a few folding chairs were set out overlooking the straits.
He had meant to think about Julie, not the Indians, but he couldn’t get them out of his mind. The bloodthirsty little band that murdered any strangers who came within reach didn’t square with Pringle’s scrawny, frightened group sneaking back to his cabin with gifts of thanks for his great benevolence in not shooting them.
He was, although he tried to convince himself otherwise, not as keen as he’d been on finding them. The Hornick affair had left him still feeling sick, and he found little kindness in his heart for the people who had murdered that harmless, pretty girl. He wondered if they had stabbed her with one of their crude bone spears, or clubbed her.
He shook his head to clear away the images. Let John find them; it was his job. And probably a good thing, he thought moodily. The rainy season was about to arrive, and Gideon was, as Julie had pointed out, no woodsman. A jungly wilderness in the rain was no place for him.
He had finished his drink but was too gloomily comfortable to go inside and get another. A heron floated down to the shoreline below, sending the gulls squawking away, and wading a few elegant steps into the quiet, dark water, there to stand staring absently at the distant lights of Victoria on the Canadian shoreline.
He must have dozed, because when the telephone rang in his cottage, he jerked upright, startling the heron, which croaked roughly and rose on slow, lolloping wingbeats into a sky of burnt crimson.