he'd tentatively reached some manifestly unlikely conclusions about that mandible. His instincts, his experience, had told him something was very wrong. And now, apparently, it turned out that he'd been correct. And he'd quickly recognized this hole in the parietal for what it was too. Simple enough to do on a skeleton found in someone's basement; not so obvious in bones that had been through what these had gone through. Yes, he had reason to be satisfied with his work.
On the other hand, his years of forensic activity had done little to harden him to the unfailing repulsiveness of murder, especially violent, bloody murder. When he was eleven his Uncle Jack had taken him to a wax museum, and Gideon, being a normal enough kid, had dragged his uncle into the chamber of horrors. The first tableau had been enough, a shockingly realistic recreation of a famous ax murder and bathtub dismemberment. Gideon had stumbled out, white-faced and shaken, never to return.
With time, he hadn't changed much, despite his decades-long fascination with bones (the older and drier the better). The sight of the spike piercing this fragile remnant of a young man's head made him want to look away too. His imagination was every bit as active as Julie's, and his knowledge of the human body greater. He knew how abundantly supplied with blood vessels the scalp was. He knew the consistency and color of living brain tissue. He knew...
With both hands he lifted the fragment from the point and set it back on the paper towel.
Owen put the ice ax down on its side and made a final try. “Look, couldn't the avalanche have knocked it out of his hands and driven it into...No, huh?"
"Come on, Owen."
The ranger sighed loudly, puffing out his brown cheeks. “Arthur's gonna have a fit."
"What do we do now?” Gideon said. “Who has jurisdiction in a case like this, the FBI?"
"Hell, no,” Owen said, bridling. “The NPS. Me."
"You're going to investigate a murder?" Gideon winced even as he said it. But he would have been surprised if Owen had ever had to deal with a homicide before, let alone a twenty-nine-year-old homicide.
"As chief ranger, I'm responsible for all law-enforcement matters at Glacier Bay,” Owen said frostily.
"Fine,” Gideon said. “It's all yours. Where do we go from here? What do we do next?"
Owen leaned stiffly back against the counter, then abruptly relaxed and grinned. “The next thing I do is get on the horn to the FBI in Juneau,” he said, “and ask them what the hell we do next."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 7
* * * *
For untold eons it had hung there, this huge mass of densely compressed ice nestling in a remote flank of the towering mountain range that would one day be known as the Fairweathers. Even when the Great Warming had set in fifteen thousand years before, it had managed to survive. But the immense ice field of which it had been a part had sagged, cracked, shrunk. Where slow, grinding seas of ice had flowed and carved out deep valleys, rivulets of water now trickled. Land that had lain frozen and barren since the beginning of time emerged at last. The mastodons came—and went—and then the wolves, and badgers, and bears. And still the nameless hanging glacier endured, remote and proud.
The rich, distinctive voice of M. Audley Tremaine resonated, then seemed to float up toward the beams of the rustic A-frame ceiling twenty feet above. In the arched fieldstone fireplace of Glacier Bay Lodge's upstairs lounge a fragrant log fire snicked and crackled, a welcome counterpoint to the gray, raw afternoon visible through the floor-to-ceiling dormer windows. Six armchairs were drawn up to the hearth, their occupants in various postures of repose.
Rather too much in the way of repose, Tremaine thought with mounting annoyance as he turned over the manuscript page. Lunch had been heavy and long—they hadn't finished until two—and the wine had flowed freely. Did these stuffed and slumbrous people have any
On the other hand, his years of forensic activity had done little to harden him to the unfailing repulsiveness of murder, especially violent, bloody murder. When he was eleven his Uncle Jack had taken him to a wax museum, and Gideon, being a normal enough kid, had dragged his uncle into the chamber of horrors. The first tableau had been enough, a shockingly realistic recreation of a famous ax murder and bathtub dismemberment. Gideon had stumbled out, white-faced and shaken, never to return.
With time, he hadn't changed much, despite his decades-long fascination with bones (the older and drier the better). The sight of the spike piercing this fragile remnant of a young man's head made him want to look away too. His imagination was every bit as active as Julie's, and his knowledge of the human body greater. He knew how abundantly supplied with blood vessels the scalp was. He knew the consistency and color of living brain tissue. He knew...
With both hands he lifted the fragment from the point and set it back on the paper towel.
Owen put the ice ax down on its side and made a final try. “Look, couldn't the avalanche have knocked it out of his hands and driven it into...No, huh?"
"Come on, Owen."
The ranger sighed loudly, puffing out his brown cheeks. “Arthur's gonna have a fit."
"What do we do now?” Gideon said. “Who has jurisdiction in a case like this, the FBI?"
"Hell, no,” Owen said, bridling. “The NPS. Me."
"You're going to investigate a murder?" Gideon winced even as he said it. But he would have been surprised if Owen had ever had to deal with a homicide before, let alone a twenty-nine-year-old homicide.
"As chief ranger, I'm responsible for all law-enforcement matters at Glacier Bay,” Owen said frostily.
"Fine,” Gideon said. “It's all yours. Where do we go from here? What do we do next?"
Owen leaned stiffly back against the counter, then abruptly relaxed and grinned. “The next thing I do is get on the horn to the FBI in Juneau,” he said, “and ask them what the hell we do next."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 7
* * * *
For untold eons it had hung there, this huge mass of densely compressed ice nestling in a remote flank of the towering mountain range that would one day be known as the Fairweathers. Even when the Great Warming had set in fifteen thousand years before, it had managed to survive. But the immense ice field of which it had been a part had sagged, cracked, shrunk. Where slow, grinding seas of ice had flowed and carved out deep valleys, rivulets of water now trickled. Land that had lain frozen and barren since the beginning of time emerged at last. The mastodons came—and went—and then the wolves, and badgers, and bears. And still the nameless hanging glacier endured, remote and proud.
The rich, distinctive voice of M. Audley Tremaine resonated, then seemed to float up toward the beams of the rustic A-frame ceiling twenty feet above. In the arched fieldstone fireplace of Glacier Bay Lodge's upstairs lounge a fragrant log fire snicked and crackled, a welcome counterpoint to the gray, raw afternoon visible through the floor-to-ceiling dormer windows. Six armchairs were drawn up to the hearth, their occupants in various postures of repose.
Rather too much in the way of repose, Tremaine thought with mounting annoyance as he turned over the manuscript page. Lunch had been heavy and long—they hadn't finished until two—and the wine had flowed freely. Did these stuffed and slumbrous people have any
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