Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 13 - Unnatural Selection

by Unnatural Selection

  Well, he’d put an end to that line of thinking right now.

  Some of the bones were still in their sacks. He got them all out onto the table, and then by way of penance, started with the ones that gave him the most trouble when it came to distinguishing between them and determining right from left: the thirty-five hand and foot bones. Without a text or a comparative skeleton it wasn’t easy. There was a public library just down the street, and chances were they had an atlas of anatomy he could have used, but what kind of penance would that have been? Sorting the maddening little bones was frustrating, but because it didn’t require anything like coherent thought—it was basically a matter of comparing bone to bone, nodule to nodule, foramen to foramen—it untethered and relaxed his mind, allowing it to float off on its own.

  And it was while he was in this drifting, hovering state that the repugnant thought that had been niggling away at the borders of his mind broke through his defenses and entered. Julie had suggested that Joey could have been killed because he knew who had murdered Villarreal, and the killer had silenced him before he could tell anyone. And Gideon had rejected it because Joey’s death had come when everyone still thought the remains were Pete Williams’s, and how could anyone predict that he, Gideon, would identify them as Villarreal’s the next day? But now . . . now he realized that there was indeed someone who might have foreseen just that.

  A crime of passion, Clapper had called it, and most assuredly it was. But crimes of passion were hardly limited to sexual jealousies, let alone resentments over academic disputes or prima donna status. There were other possible causes. And while the specific cause he was thinking about now was as improbable as it was repugnant, it had to be looked into. If nothing else, it was the only thing—the only thing he’d thought of so far—that might conceivably explain Joey’s murder.

  The skeletal inventorying had waited this long; it could wait a little longer. He put down the left cuneiform bone he’d been holding in one hand and the ballpoint he’d had in the other, and went to Robb’s computer but didn’t have the password to access the Internet. Instead, he locked up the station and walked a block down Garrison Lane to the little public library—the Scillies’ one and only—where he plunked down five pounds for an hour’s Internet access at one of the two computers. He brought up the ProQuest search engine, typed in “Selway-Bitterroot AND Villarreal AND grizzly OR grizzlies,” clicked to sort the results by date, and waited while seventy-five references scrolled down the page. The last one, the oldest, was the one he wanted, and he brought it up.

  CANADIAN COUPLE KILLED, PARTIALLY EATEN BY GRIZZLY

  Bill Giles

  The Associated Press

  Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, MT—In a horrific incident at Lost Horse Creek campground, on the Idaho-Montana border about forty miles southwest of Missoula . . .

  TWENTY-TWO

  WHEN the Fellows of the Consortium of the Scillies reconvened after a late lunch, they were surprised to find Sergeant Clapper awaiting them in the Victorian lounge, seated on the piano bench, his back to the upright piano.

  “I’ll take but a minute of your valuable time,” he said convivially, as they placed themselves on the red, overstuffed chairs. “I wanted to inform you that the premises of Star Castle will be examined again this afternoon. Is that all right with you, Mr. Kozlov?”

  “Me? Sure. What I got to hide? Just don’t break nothing.”

  “Very well, then—”

  Donald Pinckney’s forefinger went up. “Do you mean you’ll be searching our rooms again, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Again?” Rudy Walker said. “You’ve already gone through all our things once.”

  “Yes. It’s not that pleasant to have someone pawing through your personal things, you know,” Donald said. “I mean, well, my wife doesn’t appreciate having some stranger . . .”

  Clapper’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t expect anyone will be interfering with your wife’s personal things at this time. Or yours, either.”

  “Oh, I see” Donald said, quick to show that he wasn’t objecting, not really. “It’s just a sort of general search, then. For clues and things.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right, then.”

  Not with Victor Waldo. “Look, I understand this is Vasily’s house, but as his guests, don’t we have some rights to privacy? I ask as a matter of principle.”

  Clapper waited to see if there were other protestations. When none came, he said: “Yes, sir, of course you have rights, and those rights have been observed.” He held out a folded sheaf of papers. “I have here a search warrant authorized by the magistrate in St. Mary’s this morning, applicable to all rooms in the house, including those occupied by guests. You’re welcome to examine it.”

  “No, of course not, there’s no need for that.”

  “Don’t you have to have specific cause in order to get a search warrant?” Liz Petra asked. “I know we do in the States.”

  “Yes, we certainly do.”

  He could see that Liz and several others were on the edge of demanding to know his cause, but no one had the nerve to ask. He waited a moment longer and then said, “I must request that no one enter his or her room again until the room has been examined.”

  “Oh, brother,” Liz grumbled. “That’s really a pain.”

  “It should be much quicker than yesterday’s search,” Clapper assured her. “I expect we’ll be done by dinner. Oh, and should any of you wish to be present in your room during the execution of the warrant, you may do. Anybody?”

  Nobody took him up, although for a moment Liz and Victor seemed close to it.

  “Very well, then—” he began again, and again he was interrupted. This time it was by Robb, who came in to tell him that the crime-scene examiner that he had requested from Exeter had arrived and would like to begin as soon as was convenient.

  “Well, then,” Clapper said with evident enthusiasm, placing his hands on his thighs and pushing himself up, “shall we get on with it?” He tipped an invisible hat to the attendees. “Do enjoy your afternoon.”

  THE librarian at the reference desk, a disciplinarian of the old school, looked up sharply and with a pencil to her lips sternly motioned to silence the large American gentleman at the computer.

  “Ah, no,” he had murmured.

  ANYONE seeing Gideon Oliver trudging up Garrison Hill toward Star Castle might have wondered if his feet were bothering him. Indeed, he was literally dragging them, scuffling along with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, unhappy to know what he now knew, reluctant to do what he now knew had to be done.

  As he walked under the carved “ER 1593” he heard voices and clinking—cups on saucers, forks on plates—from above. He looked at his watch: three-thirty. The members of the consortium were starting their afternoon tea on the lawn atop the ramparts. He climbed the stone steps to find them just arranging themselves in plastic lawn chairs, most of them balancing cups and saucers in their hands or on their thighs, and some managing to deal with a pastry as well. Behind them, Mr. Moreton, very proper in tie and coat, manned the bar, which was set up with tea and coffee things.

  Julie lit up and waved when she saw him. “Hi, sweetheart, come on over.” She was sitting in a little group with Liz and Kozlov. Near them Victor, Rudy, and Donald formed another conversational clump, along with Mike Clapper, who was demurely sipping his tea—pinky extended—while sitting atop one of a pair of stubby, seventeenth-century cannons set out on the lawn. A little further away in a group of their own, Cheryl Pinckney, not off tooling around on her motorcycle for once, was working her feline, high-cheekboned magic on Robb and was having some success, judging from his rigid, uneasy posture and his bright pink face.

  Gideon pulled up a chair beside Julie and sat down heavily.

  “Not having anything?” Liz asked.

  “Have some tea!” Kozlov amiably commanded.

  “No, thanks, I really
don’t want anything.”

  Julie’s brow wrinkled. She brought her head closer to his and lowered her voice. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, not wrong,” he whispered. “Not exactly. I have to talk to Mike, that’s all. There’s—”

  “So, Sergeant,” Kozlov boomed, bringing the other conversations to a halt, “the searching shall have been finished?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s done,” Clapper said pleasantly. “We won’t have to bother you lot any more.”

  “And you find what you looking for?”

  Clapper smiled. “I believe we did, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  What do you know, he’s figured it out, too, Gideon thought. He hoped it was true, because it meant that it wasn’t going to be up to him, Gideon, to rat on anyone after all, a duty he was dreading. His stiff shoulders relaxed a bit. He began thinking that a cup of tea might be a good thing.

  “Good, good,” Kozlov said, “you make progress.”

  “Oh, yes,” Clapper boomed genially on, his voice carrying well on the soft, warm air, “we should have it all sorted out pretty soon now. I have to clear up a few minor areas of inconsistency, that’s all.”

  “Inconsistency?” Donald asked after a few seconds of silence that was very definitely pregnant. “Are you referring to our interviews with you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Minor things, really, but—”

  “Well, this would be a good time to resolve them, wouldn’t it?” Rudy asked. “We’re all here.”

  “Oh, I don’t like to intrude on this splendid tea.”

  Like hell you don’t, Gideon thought.

  “Is okay, is good, is interesting,” Kozlov said. “What kind inconsistency?”

  “Well, all right, then. It’s a simple matter of room assignments at the first consortium two years ago.” Hatless but otherwise in his casual summer uniform of white short-sleeved shirt and blue trousers, Clapper looked crisp and robust. He lifted the flap of his breast pocket, took out his mechanical pencil and notepad, licked the point of the pencil, and pretended to study the diagram he’d drawn earlier.

  “Now let me see . . . Mister Waldo, you stated that you and Mrs. Waldo were in the Sir Henry Vane Room. . . .”

  Waldo colored slightly at the mention of his wife, but nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “Mrs. Oliver, you were in the Sir John Wildman Room; and Ms. Petra, I believe you said you were staying in the Duke of Hamilton Room. Mr. Walker, the John Bastwick Room.”

  Nod, nod, nod.

  “Very good. To continue—”

  “Wait a minute,” Donald said. “I’m pretty sure Cheryl and I were in the John Bastwick Room.” He frowned. “Weren’t we? Isn’t that what I told you?”

  “That is what you told me,” Clapper said, pretending to scrutinize his drawing again, and then raising his head to level his gaze at Donald, “and therein lies the source of my confusion. I rather doubt that the three of you were lodged together.”

  “Of course we weren’t,” Rudy said primly. “Donald, if I’m not mistaken, you two were in the John Biddle Room.”

  “The hell we were,” Cheryl said, turning her attention from Robb. “We were in the John Bastwick Room. Joey was next to us in the Marianus Napper Room, and you were on the other side of him, in the John Biddle Room, down at the end of the hall.”

  “That’s right,” Liz said. “I remember, too.”

  “So do I,” Julie said. “Definitely.”

  “Was I?” Rudy shrugged. “That’s not what I remember, but maybe I was. Too many Johns around here, I guess.”

  “Actually, Mr. Walker,” Clapper said gravely, setting his tea down on the lawn and rising from the cannon, never taking his eyes from Rudy, “it’s quite a significant point, I’m afraid.”

  Rudy wasn’t laughing anymore “What’s a significant point? What the hell difference does it make which room I was in? What’s this all about? What are you trying to do?”

  Clapper just kept gazing at him, as did the others now. The silence on the ramparts was profound. There was no sound but the soughing of the breeze.

  “What’s going on here?” Rudy blurted, looking now at Robb, who had gotten up and was slowly approaching him. “What’s the difference? I forgot my room, that’s all. I didn’t kill anyone, you know, I just—”

  “Yeah, you did,” Gideon said. He hadn’t meant to; it had just popped out. And he’d said if softly, mostly to himself, but in the silence everyone heard it.

  “Yeah,” echoed Clapper with what he must have thought was an American twang, “you did.” He glanced at Robb. “Constable?”

  Robb placed himself directly in front of Rudy, face to face, and stood tall. “Rudolph James Walker, you are under arrest for the murder of Edgar Villarreal. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say . . .”

  TWENTY-THREE

  GIDEON spent the following two hours at the police station, first talking briefly with Clapper and then, at his request, making out a deposition on Robb’s computer. Meanwhile, three or four yards away, behind the closed door of the interview room, Rudy went through the lengthy English booking process. When the door opened for Robb to bring in coffee and sandwiches, Gideon got his first look at Rudy since the arrest. He was seated behind one of the two tables, gray-faced and rigid, and Gideon thought at first that they’d put him in some kind of white prison uniform, but then realized it was a paper suit. Did they think he was a suicide risk, then, dressing him in paper to be sure he had nothing that could be used for a ligature?

  My amusing, irreverent old buddy in a paper suit to keep him from killing himself. Gideon shivered. Their eyes met, and Rudy sent him a smile, but it was like getting a smile from a corpse. When the door closed Gideon still seemed to see it, like a Cheshire-cat afterimage, and it sent what felt like a jet of ice-cold water up his spine and deep into his skull.

  That’s it, he thought. Time for me to get out of here. There was plenty left to be done—he had yet to properly inventory and record the bones—but there was no reason it couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He printed up the deposition, signed it, gave it to Robb, and told him he’d be back the next day to finish up. Then he walked up the hill to the castle, trying to sort out his feelings. Contributing to the conviction of a two-time murderer; that was good. Helping put one of his oldest friends—at a difficult time in his life, his dearest friend—away for the rest of his life, not so good.

  He found Julie on a bench at the top of the path, just outside the castle walls, staring out to sea and looking as pensive and down in the dumps as he was.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she said vacantly as he sat down beside her. “What’s happening at the station? Is Rudy admitting anything?”

  “Don’t ask me. I was all by myself writing my deposition. Rudy was in the next room being interrogated. Nobody told me anything.” He took her hand. “What about you, Julie, how are you holding up? This has been a hell of a conference.”

  “Oh, I’m all right, I guess. I’m out here because I just couldn’t bear to be in there”—a tilt of her head toward the walls looming behind her—“with them anymore. Isn’t there someplace we can go to get away from them, and from the castle, and everything else, just for a while?”

  He thought for a moment. “I think so, yes. Only a few miles away, but out of sight anyway, and far removed in time, if not in place.”

  “That sounds mysterious.”

  He stood and pulled her to her feet as well. “Come on.”

  They borrowed Kozlov’s boxy, ancient Hillman Minx (“Not forget. Drive on wrong side.”) and drove north to Bant’s Carn, one of the Bronze Age grave mounds he’d been at earlier in the day. As before, the hilltop site was deserted. When they climbed up onto the grave’s monumental capstone and sat, legs hanging over the edge, they had it all to themselves: the ancient site itself, the rolling green and purple countryside that fell away fr
om it, the sunset view of sea and islands, the fresh marine breeze with its trace of heather and gorse. They had stopped at Porthmellon for a bag of Maltesers, and it lay open now between them. Julie slowly rolled a malted milk ball around her mouth (she was a sucker, he was a chewer), already looking more relaxed, and for a few minutes, and a few malted milk balls, they sat in tranquil silence.

  “This is good,” she said, waving a hand to show that she was talking about the setting and not the Malteser she was working on. After another few moments, she said, “So, are you going to tell me what made you so sure it was Rudy? Were you and Mike working together?”

  “No. I was surprised when Mike accused him. I still don’t know what his reasoning was.” He pulled his legs up under him and sat cross-legged. “But speaking for myself, I think the idea was in my head for a couple of days, although it didn’t really hit me until this afternoon.” He hunched his shoulders. “I guess I didn’t want to face it. Actually, it started with something you said after they found Joey’s body.”

  “Something I said?”

  “That’s right.” She had wondered, he reminded her, if it was possible that Joey might have known what had really happened to Edgar, but, for whatever reason, had kept his silence as long as no one else knew. But once it became evident that Gideon was on his way to identifying the bones as Edgar’s, Joey’s continued existence became a huge risk to the murderer. So—

  “And you said?” said Julie.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I came up with this brilliant idea, which eventually solved the case, apparently. You said . . . ?”