Icy Clutches

by Aaron Elkins

  M. Audley Tremaine himself was holding court at the bar, oozing urbane charm. In attendance were a tipsy, wisecracking Shirley Yount, who had obviously started her cocktail hour in her room, and half-a-dozen star-struck park rangers in jeans and sweaters. Anna Henckel, Walter Judd, and Gerald Pratt made an unlikely trio at a table by the big window looking west over the cove. Anna, reading from a sheet of paper, was grimly and methodically ticking off points. Judd, not overly responsive, chuckled and joshed. Pratt, between them, was leaning back out of the way in his chair, Seven and Seven in one hand, pipe in the other, equably gazing over their heads at the clouds obscuring the Fairweathers, and himself off somewhere in clouds of his own making. Elliott Fisk was nowhere to be seen.

  Most of the other tables were taken up by park rangers in groups of two or three, and Julie and Gideon had been lucky to find a table of their own near the stone fireplace.

  "You want my honest opinion?” Julie was saying.

  "Of course I want your honest opinion."

  "I think you're...well..."

  "Inventing things?"

  "No, not inventing. Reaching...exaggerating. It's natural. You're at loose ends, and you're bored, and I just wonder if your imagination isn't getting the better of you."

  Gideon leaned back in the comfortable captain's chair, stretched out his legs, and crossed them at the ankles. He'd been wondering the same thing himself. “Maybe so, but I'm not exaggerating that break in the mandible."

  "I don't mean that you're exaggerating the physical facts, I mean that you're exaggerating—inventing—well, the—"

  "The cause of them?"

  "No, not the cause. The—"

  "Antecedents. Determinants."

  She sighed and picked up her white wine. “How am I supposed to argue with you if you keep telling me what I mean?"

  He smiled at her. “Are we arguing?"

  "No, we're just—I guess we're just—"

  "Speculating. Deliberating. Conferring."

  Julie raised her eyes to the rough-beamed ceiling. “I'm going to kill him. All right, tell me what you found."

  "I already told you. I spent fifteen minutes telling you."

  "I was in the shower washing my hair. And you were yelling from the other room. I missed a word here and there. Tell me again."

  "All right, I found—"

  "It might help if you kept it to words that a simple, unsophisticated park ranger is capable of understanding this time."

  "Such as yourself?"

  "Such as myself."

  "A park ranger who minored in anthropology."

  "Nevertheless."

  "Uh-huh.” Gideon took a few kernels of popcorn from the bowl on the table. “All right, I found that the mandible was broken off on the right side, a sharp, vertical break, and the broken margin was beveled, not jagged. And the fracture lines were what we call ‘stepped.’ That means, well...stepped. Like stairs. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "I also found that the left M3 mesiolingual cusp had a menisciform fracture."

  She eyed him over the rim of her wineglass.

  "The left third molar had a sort of crescent-shaped crack,” he explained.

  "That I can handle."

  "And, finally, there were signs of pressure damage on the posterior surface of the left mandibular condyle, which is—"

  "The little round thingy on the hack of the jawbone, that fits in that socket on the skull. Right?"

  He sipped his Scotch and soda. “Not bad for a simple park ranger."

  "Watch it, don't press your luck. And in your mind all this adds up to what? In a nutshell, please."

  Gideon helped himself to a handful of popcorn while he put what it all added up to in a nutshell. “If that mandible had been found in a shallow grave near Green Lake, and I'd been asked for my opinion—my expert opinion, I modestly call to your attention—I would have said that this particular profile of indicators is consistent with an extremely forceful ante-mortem impact in the region of the protuberantia mentalis."

  She nodded soberly. “Sounds like you, all right.” Gideon let it pass. “An extremely strong blow to the point of the chin. The living chin."

  "All right, I'm with you so far. Where you lose me is when you say it wasn't caused by the avalanche."

  "I'm not saying it wasn't, Julie. I'm just saying that every time I've ever run into that particular combination of injuries up to now, it was the result of one human being hitting another human being. Either with his fist, if he happened to have a fist like a gorilla's, or more likely with some heavy object, like a rock, or maybe a bat or a hammer. It just makes me wonder, that's all. Which is what they're paying me to do. Or would be, if they were paying me. Want another drink?"

  "Nope.” She munched popcorn for a while. “Would a blow like that have killed him?"

  "Impossible to say. The specific injuries to his jaw, no. But he was hit hard. There might easily have been associated injuries to his brain or his spine."

  "So you're saying this may have been a murder."

  He spread his hands. “I'm saying that just before he died, this guy—either James Pratt or Steven Fisk—was hit in the face with tremendous force."

  "But how can you be so sure it was before? How do you know his jaw wasn't damaged long after he was killed, even years later, by pressures in the glacier itself?” She shook her head. “We sure have the damndest discussions."

  "I know for several reasons. First, the collagen fibers in the bone tissue were intact at the time—which I know because the distortion of the trabeculae—"

  She held up her hand. “I'm convinced. All right, then, why—dare I ask—was it ‘just’ before? Why not a week before, two weeks before? A separate accident, a separate fight?"

  "Again, several reasons. No signs of healing. No signs of treatment—and that jaw would have needed wiring. Also, for what it's worth, Tremaine and Henckel don't remember either of the men having anything wrong with his jaw."

  "What did Arthur say when you told him all this?"

  "Are you serious? Just having the bones turn up is about all the poor guy can handle right now. I'm not telling him we might be dealing with a murder until I have more than this to go on."

  She ate some more popcorn, kernel by kernel. “Look,” she said reasonably, “you've never examined anyone who died in an avalanche before, have you?"

  "No."

  "So you don't really know firsthand what avalanche injuries look like."

  "Well, no, not firsthand."

  "You said that getting hit on the chin with a rock could do this. There would have been rocks flying around in the avalanche, or at least big pieces of ice, right? Why couldn't one of those have done it?"

  "Right smack on the point of the chin?"

  "Why not?"

  "No other signs of injury; no impact points but this one, flush on the jaw?"

  "Why not?"

  He finished his Scotch and considered. Why not, indeed. True, it would be odd for a piece of flying ice to duplicate this kind of injury so exactly, but he had run into things a lot more improbable than that.

  He put his glass on the table with a thump. “Maybe you're right."

  Julie looked at him, head cocked. “But?"

  "No ‘buts.’ I've been jumping to conclusions. You're right, that's all."

  She was still recovering from this when Tremaine appeared at the table, one hand in his jacket pocket, suave and amiable.

  "Dr. Oliver? I hope I'm not intruding?"

  "Of course not. This is my wife, Julie."

  "Mrs. Oliver, my pleasure."

  Gideon gestured at the third chair at the table. “Please."

  "No, thank you, I'll just take a minute of your time. I'd like to apologize for not knowing who you were yesterday, Dr. Oliver."

  "No reason why you should. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your work."

  "Well, ‘Voyages’ isn't a one-man show, you know.” He smiled with practiced modesty. “I get all
the glory, but a great many people are involved behind the scenes, each making his own unique contribution to the whole."

  "Ah,” said Gideon. There didn't seem to be any point in explaining that it was not “Voyages” he admired.

  Tremaine leaned both hands on the table. “I wonder if I might ask a favor. Do you know why I'm here at Glacier Bay?"

  "I understand you're working on a book about the Tirku survey expedition."

  "Yes, it's quite close to finished, really, and I'm being assisted by several people who are either members of the original team or relatives of the members who were killed. Well, naturally, today's discovery of those, ah, remains has stimulated a great deal of interest among them. They were wondering if you'd be good enough to spend a little time with us and tell us what you've found."

  "I'm afraid there isn't a lot to tell. There's no way I can make a positive—"

  "Would tomorrow at ten be convenient? We meet in the upstairs lounge."

  "No, tomorrow morning I'm going out to Tirku myself to have a look around."

  "I see. What about the afternoon, then? Will you be back by four?"

  "Well, I'm not really—"

  "Sure you will,” Julie said. “You're getting a lift with my class, aren't you? Bill said he'd have us back by four."

  "Splendid,” Tremaine said. “We'll see you at four then, Dr. Oliver. I'll look forward to it.” He inclined his shaggy but well-groomed head at Julie. “Mrs. Oliver."

  "Uh, did I do something wrong?” Julie said when he had left. “Do I detect a little reluctance on your part?"

  Gideon shrugged. “No, that's okay. I'm not reluctant, exactly. It just makes me uncomfortable. I mean, what am I supposed to do, bring in the bones for a show-and-tell?"

  "I've never known you to object to talking about bones before."

  "But these are their relatives—brothers, sisters, whatever. That makes it different."

  "Yes, I see what you mean. Sorry about that. Are you going to tell them about the fractured mandible?"

  "Not a chance. No reason to."

  There was a pause. “You're not going to tell Tremaine either, are you?"

  "I'm not telling anyone. Just you. Not until I put in some more work."

  "Because, you know, I just realized,” Julie said, thoughtfully running her finger around the rim of her empty glass, “if you just happen to be right about how that mandible got broken—"

  "Which we've agreed I'm not."

  "—and there was a murder all those years ago—"

  "Which we've agreed there wasn't."

  "—then the finger of suspicion would have to point to M. Audley Tremaine himself, wouldn't it, since he was the only one who got out alive?"

  "Well, not necessarily, but I admit the thought did cross my mind."

  She leaned across the table toward him. “All right now, tell the truth. Do you or don't you think that jaw damage came from the avalanche?"

  "I don't know,” Gideon answered honestly. “Intellectually, I think you're right about it. But intuitively I can't help—"

  "Oh-oh, intuitively. That's always a bad sign."

  He laughed. “Okay, you're right.” He reached up and stretched luxuriously. “I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. Maybe I'm just looking for some way to get him off the airwaves before he fouls up the American mind for good."

  "Come on,” Julie said, standing up. “You've been sitting around deducing all day, but I've been working and I need some crab-stuffed halibut."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 5

  * * * *

  Sailing into the upper reaches of Glacier Bay is a spectacular experience for anyone, but for those whose interests turn toward natural history it is matchless, an adventure to be found nowhere else in the world. As the ship moves out of Bartlett Cove and swings northwest past the Beardslees and into the great bay proper, one sails backward in time. With every mile, the land grows newer, more raw, as one closes on the shrinking glacier that carved out the bay in the first place. In three hours one traverses two hundred years of postglacial history.

  The evidence is there even for the untrained eye. At Bartlett Cove itself the ice has been gone for two centuries. The roots of mature Sitka spruce and western hemlock have taken firm hold under the mossy forest duff, and the green, soft, richly wooded land amenably shelters the lodge and the Park Service complex. But sixty-five miles away, where the present upper end of the bay terminates at the foot of the Grand Pacific Glacier, there are no plants at all—only bare rocks and gravel, still wet from the ice that had covered them for millennia. Sailing between the two points mimics the glacier's withdrawal; every mile covered is three years of glacial retreat. In less than half an hour the stately hemlock along the shores begin to disappear, and then the spruce give way grudgingly to tangled stands of alder and cottonwood, which in turn make way for willow, ryegrass, fireweed, and dryas, and finally for the coarse, primitive black crust of algae that marks the first scrabbling hold of the plant kingdom on newly exposed rock.

  For over an hour Julie and Gideon had sat relaxed in airplane-style seats in the boat, mostly hand in hand, watching the scenes slip by. The living attractions of Glacier Bay had made their appearance as if programmed. They had seen a trio of humpback whales lolling in the water; black bears swinging lustily along the shore; mountain goats on the high rocks; nesting kites and puffins tucked in stony crevices among the Marble Islands; seals and sea lions and bald eagles; clownish, red-beaked oyster catchers awkwardly stalking mussels.

  They had watched the blue water gradually turn milky green from the infusion of “glacial flour,” the powdery silt from glacially pulverized rock. The first icebergs—eroded, small, bizarrely shaped—appeared near Rendu Inlet at about the time they were breakfasting on minced ham and scrambled eggs from the ship's galley. And by the time they'd finished their second cups of coffee, they had caught up with the glacial flows themselves. At Lamplugh Glacier the boat slowed and stopped. With everyone else they went upstairs to stand on the top deck and gawk at the two-hundred-foot-high face of brilliant white, shot through with cracks of glowing turquoise blue. And to listen.

  Unlike mountain glaciers, tidewater glaciers are never quiet. The grinding noises are predictable enough, but the other sounds from the straining ice come as a surprise to those who haven't heard them before. Sharp cr-a-aks indistinguishable from echoing rifle shots. Long, slow boooommms like cannon fire in mountain passes. Gurgles, clicks, rattles, even wheezes and moans. Gideon and Julie stood for half an hour, hunched against a dry, scraping wind. With the others they murmured with pleasure when huge chunks of ice came away and slid ponderously into the water, making great splashes that left the icebergs rolling about in their wake.

  When the captain started the ship up again they went downstairs, poured cups of hot chocolate to warm themselves, and found their seats.

  "Julie,” Gideon said, balancing his cup as he slid in beside her, “there are some things I don't understand about glaciers."

  "Like what?"

  "Like how they work."

  "How they work?” Although she had seen her first tidewater glaciers here in Glacier Bay only the day before, she knew plenty about the glaciers in general. Olympic National Park, where she worked, had a dozen of them, and she herself had given lectures on glacial ecology. “Well, they start when snow accumulates faster than it melts over the years, and the old snow underneath is compressed by new snow, so that ice crystals—"

  "No, I understand how they form. I don't understand how they work, how they move."

  She twisted to face him more fully. "You don't understand how glaciers move? The world's leading authority on Ice Age man?"

  "Just because I know something about human evolution in the Pleistocene doesn't mean I'm particularly well acquainted with glaciers. The Ice Age has been over for some time, you know.” He gulped from the steaming cardboard cup. Beyond the window was what looked like an Ice Age very much in progre
ss. “Anyway, I'm not the world's leading authority on Ice Age man."

  "One of the world's leading authorities, then."

  "That's different,” he said gravely.

  "Either way, I still can't believe that you don't understand—"

  "I understand the theories of Ice Age progression. I understand the theories of glacial advancement and withdrawal on a global level. I'm fine with the theories. Sometimes I just have a little trouble with mechanics, that's all."

  She batted her eyes, or came as close to it as Julie ever did. “Do tell."

  "Hey, is that a crack about the cabinet I tried to put up in the den? Because if it is, there's no way that can be considered my fault. In theory those toggle bolts should have...” He grinned at her. “Okay, I see what you mean. I admit it: Operational details aren't my strong point."

  "Really."

  "Now wait a minute. The only reason the back door won't hang straight is—I mean, sliding doors are not as simple as you think. How the hell was I supposed to know...What's that look supposed to mean?"

  "Gideon, have I told you that I loved you today?"

  He shook his head. “Not a word."

  "Well, I love you."

  They leaned together and kissed gently, barely touching. “I love you too,” he said quietly. Her soft, glossy black hair fell against his cheek. He closed his eyes. What astonishing power she had to move him. He tipped her head toward him. They kissed again.

  "Hey, we don’ ‘low none of that stuff ‘roun’ here,” a ranger rumbled from across the aisle. “Eyes front."

  They separated, smiling.

  "Now,” Julie said, “exactly what do you want to know about glaciers?"