Icy Clutches

'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.'

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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.

'And conveniently kill the only two witnesses?” Owen put in, turning the key in the ignition.

'And conveniently not kill Tremaine?” added John. “Just bury him up to his eyeballs in the ice for two days?'

Gideon pulled his own door closed and settled himself in the front passenger seat. “What are you ganging up on me for? You're the ones who're supposed to figure all the hard stuff out. What do I know? I'm just a simple bone man.'

John muttered something, finished off the last of his candy bar, licked his fingers, and stuck the wrapper in the pocket of his denim jacket.

His plane, a single-engine two-seater with “Kwakiutl Airlines” stenciled on the doors, had been early. When Owen and Gideon had arrived at the lonely cedar-board longhouse that was the Gustavus/Glacier Bay Airport terminal building, the big FBI agent had been sprawled on a wooden bench, sipping from a cardboard cup of coffee from one vending machine and munching a Butterfinger bar from the other.

'No breakfast,” had been his wistful greeting.