Her hand lay on the table at the base of her glass. He covered her hand with his. "Yes, that’s creepy," he said. "But if you rule out the crossbow, the alternatives are even creepier."
"Like what?"
"Like somebody getting Eckert down on his back and then using a mallet to pound a spear through his heart. That might do it."
"Boy, when you say creepy, you mean creepy. Why would anyone do that? I mean, aside from the possibility that Eckert was a vampire." When he didn’t smile, she went on: "Gideon, do you think it was one of those weird cults? Or are you joking?"
He patted her hand. "No, I’m not joking, but I don’t really think that’s what happened. The trouble is," he said, and paused to finish his brandy, "the trouble is, the only other conclusion I can come up with is even more weird."
He sat silent and staring at the empty glass on the table through two long, deep breaths.
"Dr. Oliver," Julie said finally, "has anyone ever told you that you can sometimes be just a teeny weeny bit irritatingly slow in coming to your point?"
"Frequently," he said with a smile. "I’m just trying to figure out a way of saying it so that I don’t sound like a character in a 1930s horror movie."
He put his hands flat on the table and looked directly at her. "All right, Frau Burgermeister, the conclusion that I am forced to reach is that Eckert was killed by someone-some thing -with superhuman strength."
Julie’s eyes were wide. Someone behind Gideon struck a match, and they shone briefly in the dim light, like a cat’s. "Gideon, you’re not suggesting, not implying…?"
"Bigfoot? Absolutely not. Superhuman doesn’t necessarily mean supernatural, Julie. Bigfoot doesn’t exist; it can’t."
"But then what did kill him?"
Gideon slowly shook his head. "It beats the hell out of me."
Chapter 4
Gideon was in a good mood. He had, as usual, slept well, had risen about six, and had taken a tonic earlymorning walk along the misty footpaths on the hillside across the road from the lodge. Then, invigorated but damp and cold, he’d eaten a big breakfast of ham and eggs in the dining room and had sat over two cups of coffee, contentedly gazing across the placid lake.
Now, relaxed, full, and pleasantly sleepy, he slumped comfortably on a weatherbeaten wooden lawn chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The press conference had been going on for half an hour, and Julie, in the chair next to him, had so far handled most of the questions.
She was explaining in cool, professional tones to the three reporters that one of the skeletons found two days earlier had been tentatively identified as Eckert’s and that a bone spear was the probable instrument of death. Gideon poured himself more coffee from the silver server that had been brought out to the lawn from the dining room and leaned back again in his chair, drifting tranquilly and almost dozing. The questions and answers droned on; the golden morning sunlight was warm on his cheeks.
He opened his eyes suddenly to find the reporters looking brightly at him, pens poised.
"Uh," he said, "I’m afraid I missed the question."
"Well, now, I guess us country cousins have put the professor to sleep." The speaker was the oldest of the reporters, a heavyset, redheaded man of fifty who looked as if he might have been a hotshot cub reporter thirty years before, with pork-pie hat, bow tie, and appealing grin. The bow tie was still in place; the grin, too, but time had worn it into more of a sly smirk than a smile.
"Sorry," Gideon said, "I guess I was thinking of something else. If you’d repeat the question I’d be glad to answer it, Mr…"
"Hood’s my name and newspaperin’s my game, like I said before. My friends call me Nate. I tell you, Gideon, I don’t know much about bones and things, but it sure seems to me that it’d take one hell of a lot of power to put a bone spear through that poor fella’s breastbone… Is that its right name?"
"Sternum."
"Mmm, sternum, sternum. My, my." He sipped his coffee and crossed his thick legs, straining the double-knit fabric of his trousers and revealing in unpleasant detail the contours of a plump thigh. "Well, through his ster -num then, and through his heart and everything else in there, and still stick way down deep in his backbone."
"Vertebra. Seventh thoracic."
"Right, right. Numero seven. Anyway, the thing I keep wondering about is, you’d sure have to be one strong hombre to do that, wouldn’t you?"
"That’s good thinking, Mr. Hood. You’re quite right. The average person couldn’t do it. It would take extraordinary strength, superhuman strength, to drive that spear-that bone spear-in so deeply."
"What about Bigfoot?" The question came from one of the others, a gangling, nervous girl of twenty who had introduced herself tersely as Walker of the Globe.
Gideon smiled. "I suppose Bigfoot could have done it, assuming that he’s-what is it supposed to be, eight or nine feet tall, and built like a gorilla? But I think a lot of things would militate against drawing that conclusion, not the least of which is the fact that he almost certainly doesn’t exist."
"But-" the girl began.
"But something killed him," Hood interrupted. "Just what kind of thing is running around Quinault Valley? I mean, superhuman strength, carrying a bone spear…?"
Julie looked concerned and opened her mouth, but Gideon spoke first: "You said that, Mr. Hood, not I. I don’t know what killed Mr. Eckert, or rather who killed him, and I hope the article you write reflects that."
" If I write an article. You’re not giving us much to write about."
Walker of the Globe raised a three-inch nub of pencil in a childish hand with chewed, grubby fingernails. "Just what is the FBI doing to-"
This time Julie cut in. "I think we’ve covered everything we’re able to. I’m sorry Mr. Lau isn’t here to give you the FBI perspective, but I’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything to tell you."
When the reporters had left, Gideon poured two more cups of coffee from the silver pot. "That wasn’t too bad," he said. "My first press conference, did you know?"
"I’d never have guessed."
"What do you mean? I thought I did pretty well. How’d you like the way I handled that sleazy Hood character? I know what he was trying to do."
"Oh, great, wonderful. I’m going to love reading the papers."
"Come on, Julie. What did I do wrong? Aside from falling asleep."
She refused to elaborate, so they sipped their coffee in companionable silence, enjoying the sunlight and the sounds of hotel guests beginning to straggle down toward the lake for a day’s play.
"Gideon," Julie said after a while, "what do you think did kill him?"
" Who, not what."
"All right, who?"
"I can think of a few possibilities. First, that this was a ritual execution or a sacrifice. A cult, perhaps-the sort of thing we mentioned last night: stake driven through the heart and so forth."
"That’s horrible. Do you really think so?"
Gideon ran his finger around the rim of the empty cup. "Pretty doubtful. I’ve never heard of it happening before. Not that I know anything about cult murders. Or want to know."
"What are the other possibilities?"
"Well, that there might be a small band of Indians, primitive Indians, living in the rain forest-"
"I checked in my Ethnography of the Northwest Coast after dinner last night. Indians have never lived in the rain forest itself."
Gideon shrugged abstractedly, watching a noisy, laughing group of teenagers playing volleyball nearby, boys against girls. "Far be it from me," he said, "to quarrel with Ethnography of the Northwest Coast, but if they haven’t lived there they’ve certainly died there. Those basket burials, at least the ones I could determine race on, were American Indian to the core. And the baskets certainly look Amerind, even if they’re not local."