Icy Clutches

Gideon looked at him. “John, you have to stop doing that. It's really irritating.'

John laughed. “Is that who you're talking about? Pratt?'

'Yeah, that's who I'm talking about,” Gideon said grudgingly.

John slapped the table and stood up. “I'm gonna pick up Julian and go have a talk with Pratt right now. Owen too,” he added. “He's got proprietary jurisdiction. If there's an arrest, he oughta be the one to make it.” He headed for the door.

'You're going to arrest him right now?” Gideon asked. “This minute?'

'I'm not sure.” He paused, musing, with his hand on the doorknob. “Doc, how the hell did you figure out it was Pratt? Even with that stuff about the bones.'

'How the hell did you figure it out?” Gideon responded.

But John was already gone. Julie stared after him at the closing door. “How the hell did anybody figure it out?” she muttered. She leaned toward Gideon, frowning.

'Figure what out?” she said.

* * * *

Gerald Pratt was sitting by himself at one of the tables that looked out over the cove, a half-empty cup of coffee before him. He was wearing his orange coveralls; already looking like a prisoner, John thought.

'Mr. Pratt?” he said.

Pratt, caught predictably in the act of tamping his pipe, looked up from under his eyebrows to take in the three men. “Hm?'

'Could we speak with you, please:'

'Sure,” Pratt said, and pointed with the pipe. “Have a seat.” If he was made uneasy when none of them moved, he didn't show it. The pipe went into his mouth and was laboriously lit. “What about?” he said through the resulting fug.

'I think it'd be better if we talked in private.” Around the room, a few other solitary members of Tremaine's group had looked up from their breakfasts to watch.

Pratt took the pipe from his mouth. He probed a cheek with his tongue. “They're warming up one of those jelly donuts for me. Kind of hate to pass that up. Why don't I look you up in ten minutes or so?'

'I'm sorry, that won't do,” Minor said.

Pratt sat up straight. His long jaw tightened. A ropy tendon stood out on either side of his throat. “Well, sir. I'm afraid it'll have to do. I don't see that I have to sit here and be, well—” He looked directly into John's eyes. “Mister, are you standing there and telling me I'm under arrest?'

'I tell you what,” John said, “why don't we just say—'

'Why don't we just say what you've got on your mind?'

John exhaled, then nodded, not at Pratt but at Owen. “All right, do it,” he said quietly.

Owen took a laminated plastic card from his shirt pocket. “James Pratt,” he said in a tight, unfamiliar voice, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right at this—'

'Wrong,” Pratt said.

Owen faltered.

'You people ought to get your facts straight,” Pratt said, looking from Owen, to Minor, to John. “James Pratt's been dead for thirty years. My name's Gerald Pratt. Gerald Harley Pratt.'

John waited for what seemed like a long time before answering.

'No,” he said, “I don't think so.'

* * * *

They had finally gotten out to sit on the end of the pier; to lie, rather, looking up at the thin, luminous cloud sheet, Julie directly on the planks, Gideon with his head propped on her belly.

'I understand,” Julie said lazily, her fingers in his hair, “about deltoid tuberosities and waitresses. I understand that you and Worriner misidentified that humerus as male when it was actually Jocelyn's. What I don't understand is how you get from there to Pratt's being guilty.'

Gideon covered a relaxed yawn with his hand. The effects of the aspirin were well along and, even with the cloud layer, enough sunlight was getting through to put a comfortable glow on his forehead. “Well, I just started wondering if it was simply a matter of chance that we never found any of James Pratt's bones—or if maybe he hadn't been killed after all.'

'Hey—” Julie said.

'Which started me thinking about Gerald Pratt. Wasn't it conceivable—barely—that Gerald Pratt wasn't Gerald Pratt?'

'Hey—'

'That he was really James Pratt? After thirty years, with his hair thinning, and his nose broken, and a mustache, who was going to recognize him? He was claiming to be James's brother, after all, so it'd be perfectly natural for them to look a lot alike.'

'Hey, wait a minute!” She sat up. His head, so tenderly looked after a few minutes ago, bounced from her abdomen to her lap. “That's my theory.'