Chapter 12

   There was already water in the kettle, and Pringle, moving slowly and carefully, put it up to boil and produced from a cupboard a tin of Earl Grey tea bags. They sat at a kitchen table with a surface that was spongy from many paintings, the last one green, and pushed aside a pile of newspapers to make room for themselves.

"I generally use one bag for two cups," Pringle said. "Is that all right? The cups are quite clean."

"That’s fine," said Gideon. There were, he saw, only two bags left.

Pringle paused with his long fingers in the tin. "If you want a whole tea bag, just say so. No trouble at all."

"No, this is fine. I don’t like it too strong." He tasted the watery tea. "This is delicious."

"Do you like it, really?" Pringle asked. "It’s the bergamot that gives it the flavor, you know." He drank some with ponderous care, steadying the cup in both enormous, knobby hands, and reaching for it with his lips as it neared his mouth. Then he put the cup down, sighed, and closed his eyes. With the clear, cornflower-blue irises hidden, the face was suddenly cadaverous, a death mask.

"It would have been 1913," he said suddenly in his quavery tone, with his eyes still closed. "I was pretty young."

It was late April of a long, wet winter, and Big Herb Pringle was twenty-five then, six-feet-six, two hundred forty pounds, a powerful, red-haired ox of a man who didn’t have to worry about dribbling when he drank his tea. He’d already established himself as a schoolteacher in Olympia, and three years before, he and his father had built the hunting cabin on Canoe Creek with their own hands, cutting the trees down, shaping the logs, all of it.

It must have been a weekend, because that was about the only time Herb was able to get away from Olympia. He was coming back with some squirrel on his belt and his rifle on his shoulder when he heard a noise from the cabin, and he stepped quickly into the trees to watch.

Three Indians climbed out of the cabin’s single window, one after another. When Herb stepped from behind a tree with his rifle, they stopped, thunderstruck, and then docilely lined up against the cabin, shaking and looking at the ground.

There was an old man who had taken a shabby coat and a rusty, worn-out saw blade from the cabin, a filthy woman who might have been twenty or fifty wearing two of his old jumpers and just about nothing else, and a boy of no more than eight with a horribly crippled left foot.

"Luther Yacker did that," Pringle said, suddenly opening his bright eyes. "The year before. He’d shot at a woman and a child rifling his cabin one night. There were three or four cabins built on the creek, you see, and I remember I grabbed my rifle and ran over when I heard the shooting. The woman was lying there dead. Luther was all excited and telling Billy Mann and Si Keeler about it." Pringle sat pursing his lips and blinking at the table. "I can remember just what he said. He said he’d hit the papoose, too, and the little bastard was going to have a hard time finding all his toes. He was really excited, trying to find the bloodstains with a lantern so he could show us.

"And," Pringle said, finally raising his eyes to Gideon’s face, "all they’d taken was a couple of hard-boiled eggs. The woman still had them in her hand."

All three of the terrified Indians who were flattened against Herb Pringle’s cabin were scrawny and dressed in rags or in the old clothes they’d gotten from inside. Except for the saw blade, they’d taken nothing but clothing. They’d left the food untouched because it was all in cans and they probably didn’t know how to get at it or what it was.

The old man shoved the woman forward and she made motions as if she were nursing a baby. Then she fell on her face on the ground and just lay there crying. Herb indicated with gestures that they could keep their pitiful loot and offered them the squirrels as well, but they were afraid to come and take them. They were afraid to leave, too, and just cowered there, so Herb had to send them on their way by shouting and waving his arms to frighten them off.

"Did they say anything that you remember?" Gideon asked.

"Oh, yes, there was a bit of jabbering when I waved at them. The woman kept crying and shouting, ’cara!’—like the Italian word—and all three of them were yelling, ’sin-yah!’ or some such."

Gideon took a small notebook from his pocket and jotted it down. "That’s quite a story, Mr. Pringle."

"Oh, there’s more," Pringle said.

They had finally run off, the little boy scrabbling sideways like a crab. Herb never saw them again, but when he went up to the cabin one weekend in the fall of that year, he saw that someone had been in it again. He was a little put out, feeling that he had dealt fairly with the Indians.

When he went in he saw that nothing had been taken. Instead, two Indian baskets had been left on the floor in front of the fireplace.

A large yellow tear ran crookedly down Pringle’s face. "Another problem with getting old," he said. "You cry awfully easily." He sipped his tea and smiled wanly. "I haven’t thought about those Indians in a very long time. It is a nice story, isn’t it?"

Nice, yes, but was it any more than a story? Pringle was very old, and he was talking about a time sixty-nine years ago. "I don’t imagine you still have the baskets?" he said.

"Oh, yes, surely." Pringle was peaceably offended. "They were gifts. I wouldn’t give anything like that away. They’re the ones on the top shelf of the case to the left."

Gideon went into the living room and looked at the baskets. They were similar to the ones from the graveyard. He made a quick sketch of the decorations: black rectangles arranged like steps and running from top to bottom in diagonal rows.

He came back frowning. "I’ve seen baskets like those before, Mr. Pringle. From what I understand, the local Indians don’t make them."

"No, that’s right. I had another fellow come out to look at them, oh, seven or eight years ago—fellow named Blackpath—"

"Dennis Blackpath? An anthropology student doing research?"

"Yes, I believe he was. He said they were California baskets. I forget the name of the tribe. He said they must have been traded for."

Traded for? With whom? How could a tiny, isolated, starving band of Indians trade with people who lived hundreds of miles away, beyond several formidable mountain ranges? Still, it wasn’t impossible. He made a mental note to look in American Doctoral Dissertations the next time he was at the Cal library to see if Blackpath had ever written that dissertation. Maybe he wasn’t the crackpot Julie said he’d been.

Standing, Gideon finished his tea. "Mr. Pringle, I’d like to thank you for your hospitality. You have a fine collection."

"Oh, I’ve enjoyed talking with you," Pringle said, and looked as if he had. A tinge of pink was visible through the gray of his cheeks. "Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of tea? I’m afraid I don’t have anything sweet to go with it right now, but I’m sure I could locate some toast and a little jam." He said this with an air of courteous bewilderment, as if there were usually piles of sweets, and if Gideon had arrived an hour earlier or later the table would have been overflowing with cookies and pastries.

"No, thanks," Gideon said, "I really have to go. Let me pour yours, though."

"Why, thank you. Thank you very much." He reached for the tin, then stopped, his hand in the air. "That last tea bag was rather strong, don’t you think? I’ll just see," he said lightly, "if we can’t get another cup out of it."

Gideon’s eyes were irritated. The Formalin, no doubt; he should have gone to an office somewhere to type, instead of using the old portable in the workroom. He rubbed his eyes gently, stretched, pulled the sheet from the typewriter, and set the completed report on the table in front of him.

To: Julian Minor, Special Agent, FBI

From: Gideon P. Oliver

Subject: Examination of skeletal remains found in Pyrites Creek, Olympic National Park, conducted September 14, 1982

Summary

The skeletal remains presented to me appear to be those of a Caucasoid female of 18 years. Living stature was 5’ 51/2" to 5’ 91/2", with a most likely height of 5’ 71/2". Weight was 120 to 130 lbs. Time of death was approximately two weeks ago. Cause of death is unknown. A detailed analysis follows.

Preliminary Treatment

Preliminary examination in your presence revealed an unclothed partial human body with considerable decomposed soft tissue present. The bones were cleaned of soft tissue, and segments of skin and muscle from both buttocks and the right lateral and posterior thigh were preserved in a 10% Formalin solution.

Bones Present

The partial skeleton consists of the pelvic girdle, including both pelves, the sacrum, and the fifth lumbar vertebra. The coccyx is not present. In addition, the proximal three inches of the right femur, extending to the distal end of the lesser trochanter, are present.

Condition

Exposed edges of bone show heavy abrasion, probably from contacts with rocks in the creek. The right acetabulum is perforated, apparently post-mortem, probably as a result of buffeting by the head of the femur, caused by the fast-moving water of the depositional environment. The break in the femur is splintered and abraded.

Pathological Conditions, Antemortem Trauma, Anomalies

None noted.

Sex

The angles of the sciatic notches and the subpubic angle indicate that the skeleton is that of a female. The diameter of the head of the femur (41mm.) supports this view.

Age

The aging criteria for female skeletons of Gilbert and McKern were applied to the pubic symphysis and indicate an age of no less than 14 and no more than 18. The complete fusion of the proximal femoral epiphyses, and of the pubis and ischium, and the complete ossification of the acetabulum indicates an age of 17+. The most probable age is therefore 18.

Race

Whereas the pelvis provides accurate skeletal evidence of sex and age, its bones are among the least reliable in determining race. However, interspinous and interiliac diameters were measured (22.2mm. and 26.6mm., respectively) and make it possible to draw tentative conclusions in regard at least to the three major racial groupings: The skeleton is most probably that of a Caucasoid, but possibly that of a Mongoloid. The wide diameters, and also the lower symphysis of this pelvis, make it unlikely that the skeleton is that of a Negroid.

Stature

Determination of height is problematical, inasmuch as the pelvis and vertebrae are of no help, the single lumbar vertebra is unreliable, and long bone representation is limited to the proximal end of the femur. Nevertheless, height was estimated by applying Steele’s regression formulae. The resulting estimate of height is 169 cm. +/- 5 cm. or 5’ 71/2" +/-1.97".

Weight

The skeletal remains give no indication of obesity or thinness. They do, however, indicate a person of slender, gracile frame. Assuming no extreme of obesity or thinness, and taking into consideration the estimated age of 18, it is estimated that living weight was from 120 to 130 lbs.

Time of Death

Assuming the body to have been continuously in Pyrites Creek from the time of death to the time of discovery, and assuming the water to contain a reasonable complement of fish and other flesh-consuming organisms, the estimated time elapsed since death is two to four weeks, with two weeks the most likely estimate. Any variation in the above assumptions would greatly modify this estimate.

Cause of Death

No evidence of cause of death is provided by the skeletal material.

Not too bad, Gideon thought. Not as definite as he’d like it to be, but there wasn’t much to go on. Minor would love it. It was nice and bureaucratic, with enough passives to make it sound official.

Minor came in. "I heard the typewriter stop. May I assume you’re done?"

He sat down, placed the report on the table in front of him, aligned the two sheets with each other and the edge of the table, straightened his immaculate cuffs, and began to read. Gideon could see his eyes moving back and forth with rigid precision. When Minor finished, he put the first sheet back on top and straightened the papers again.

"Height, weight, sex, age, race, time of death," he said. "That’s a great deal to tell from so few bones."

Gideon said nothing. If Minor wanted to argue about it, he’d have to argue with himself. Gideon had done the best he could with the material, had indicated his reservations, and wasn’t going to quibble over his findings. Minor could take them or leave them. Gideon frowned, surprised at himself. His defenses were certainly up. The Hornick analysis must have bothered him more than he’d realized.

"If I understand correctly," Minor continued with polite dubiety, "your estimation of height is based on a single three-inch fragment of femur?"

"That’s right," Gideon said carefully.

"The femur is the leg bone?"

"Yes, the thigh bone."

"Dr. Arthur Fenster maintains one should never try to estimate stature with fewer than two complete long bones."

"Dr. Arthur Fenster is correct. I support Dr. Arthur Fenster and applaud him. But we don’t have two complete long bones. We don’t have one complete long bone. We don’t have half of one long bone. We have seven lousy centimeters, from the caput femoris to the…the…" He’d forgotten the Latin term for the lesser trochanter. Why was he speaking Latin, anyway?

Minor smiled for the first time, a pleasant, self-effacing smile. "I surely do take your point," he said. He glanced back at the summary. "It certainly looks as if it’s the Hornick girl, doesn’t it?"

"I don’t know. Could be."

"You don’t know? Didn’t you look at the stats?" He indicated a file folder that he’d earlier left on the table for Gideon.

"No. If you have a missing person’s stats, you tend to find what you’re looking for."

"Well, then," Minor said, "I really am impressed." He opened the folder. "Eighteen on the nose, five-seven on the nose—no, I guess you missed by half an inch there." He smiled again. "What can you expect from seven lousy centimeters? And she weighed one-thirty. And of course she disappeared September 28. Two weeks ago. It must be she."

"It sounds like it."

"Yes." Minor’s mild, slightly whimsical air vanished as he studied something in the folder. "Have you ever seen her picture?"

"Not that I can remember."

Minor handed a photograph to Gideon. It was a small black-and-white high school graduation portrait. The girl wore a black gown and a mortarboard set unfashionably straight on her head. She looked directly into the camera with a soft smile that showed a chipped incisor. Her hair, long and straight and carefully fanned over her shoulders, appeared to be light brown. She looked like a million other kids. Gideon had the feeling that under the gown she was wearing grubby jeans with torn knees, and dirty tennis shoes.

A convulsive shudder ran slowly up his spine and jerked his shoulders. Twelve-thousand-year-old skeletons, dry and brittle and brown, were more his line. No meat on the bones. No smiling photographs. He handed the picture back to Minor. "It’s a shame. She looks like a nice kid."

"You bet it’s a shame!" Minor said with sudden vehemence. "A goddamn shame!" As if embarrassed by this display of emotion, he visibly collected himself, ran a finger around the inside of his collar, and said, "I’d like to thank you for your excellent report, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful."

Julie had left a note for him on her office door. "I’ve gone home," it said. "Could you drop by when you have a chance?"

When she let him in, he was at once concerned. Her face was pale, almost gray, with the area around her mouth a dead white. She had changed from her uniform to a nondescript blouse and pants.

"What is it?" he asked. "The body?"

She nodded. "Come inside. Let’s sit down."

Worried, he followed her in. The sight of her bare feet padding along as strong, brown, and healthy as ever reassured him slightly.

"Was it Claire Hornick?" she said when they were seated on the sofa. Her clenched hands rested on her thighs.

"It was the Hornick girl, yes."

Her eyes flashed. "Not the Hornick girl…Claire! She had a name; she wasn’t a laboratory specimen!" She unclenched her fists and placed a hand on his knee. "Ah, Gideon, I’m sorry. I just…it didn’t really come home to me before, but this one…There really are murderers out there. I don’t care if they’re Indians or what… It scares me to think of you trying to find them."

"I know, Julie." With his own hand, he covered the hand on his knee.

"Gideon," she said, not looking at him, "don’t go looking for them. I don’t want to go, and I don’t want you to go." She was very near to crying.

"I don’t think there’s too much to worry about," he said gently. "Remember, I don’t even know where to look."

She squeezed his hand impatiently. "I want you to promise me you’ll leave all this to the FBI. You can study them after they’re caught. Promise me you won’t go." Before he could answer she said, "No, I’m sorry. I am possessive, aren’t I?" She tried a tentative, weepy smile, and his heart melted.

"You sure are." He tipped her head back to kiss her forehead. "Now stop being all female and trembly. I have to go back to Dungeness and get on with my dig, and I want a proper kiss good-bye."

She put her hands on the back of his neck, and he wrapped her in his arms. They kissed a long time, leaning back against the soft, old cushions, breathing in and out without moving. When he finally lifted his face from hers, she was Julie again, soft and smiling; no white skin around her lovely mouth, no tremulous muscles near her eyes. "Gideon, Gideon," she said, slumping lushly against the cushions, "you’re very good medicine for me." She smiled tiredly at him.

"That’s better," he said. "Now, are you or aren’t you going to invite me back down for next weekend?"

"Why don’t I come up there instead and spend a few days? Wouldn’t you like a hand on your project?"

"Was that a bawdy pun? I must say, I’m very surprised."

She laughed. "You’re terrible. Gideon, may I come? Or do you already have a mistress tucked away in your little cottage?"

"Two, but I’ll get rid of them. Come, please, Julie. Sure you can help me on the dig. And it will be fun for you to meet Abe. Fun for him, too." He paused and felt himself tense. "Julie…I want you to know I…like you a hell of a lot." Disconcerted to find himself stammering, his cheeks growing hot, he stopped. For three simple, monosyllabic words, "I love you" was giving him a great deal of trouble.

Julie was smiling gently at him with a quizzical expression. "I like you, too," she said. "I’ll see you next Friday, then."

   On the way back to Dungeness he stopped at Port Angeles to buy a large tin of Earl Grey tea and a five-pound box of Scottish shortbread and preserves, and mailed them to Mr. Pringle. Then he had a razor clam dinner at a seafood restaurant on Fountain Street. By the time he got to Bayview Cottages it was almost dark. He poured himself some Scotch, grumbled at himself for forgetting to make ice cubes, filled the tumbler with water, and took it out to the edge of the low cliffs, where a few folding chairs were set out overlooking the straits.

He had meant to think about Julie, not the Indians, but he couldn’t get them out of his mind. The bloodthirsty little band that murdered any strangers who came within reach didn’t square with Pringle’s scrawny, frightened group sneaking back to his cabin with gifts of thanks for his great benevolence in not shooting them.

He was, although he tried to convince himself otherwise, not as keen as he’d been on finding them. The Hornick affair had left him still feeling sick, and he found little kindness in his heart for the people who had murdered that harmless, pretty girl. He wondered if they had stabbed her with one of their crude bone spears, or clubbed her.

He shook his head to clear away the images. Let John find them; it was his job. And probably a good thing, he thought moodily. The rainy season was about to arrive, and Gideon was, as Julie had pointed out, no woodsman. A jungly wilderness in the rain was no place for him.

He had finished his drink but was too gloomily comfortable to go inside and get another. A heron floated down to the shoreline below, sending the gulls squawking away, and wading a few elegant steps into the quiet, dark water, there to stand staring absently at the distant lights of Victoria on the Canadian shoreline.

He must have dozed, because when the telephone rang in his cottage, he jerked upright, startling the heron, which croaked roughly and rose on slow, lolloping wingbeats into a sky of burnt crimson.

"You’re back?" Abe said. "And you didn’t call to say even hello?"

"I got in late, Abe. I didn’t want to bother you."

"Eight o’clock is too late to bother me? What am I, an invalid? You ate dinner?"

"Yes, I stopped in Port Angeles."

"So come on over for a glass tea and a Danish, maybe. Bertha went to a movie in Port Angeles. I’m all alone."

Gideon looked out the window at the darkening straits, now a misty mauve. He was in a somber, solitary mood. He wanted to fix another drink, take it back outside, and watch the evening turn to night. Maybe the heron would return. "Actually, it’s been a long day, Abe," he said. "I’d like to get to bed early. How about tomorrow?"

"Tuesdays the warden doesn’t let us have any visitors. Only Mondays. Come on, a glass tea, a piece cake, tell me how come it’s been such a long day. And then…"

"The last time you gave me one of those ‘and then’s’ I wound up on center stage at the great American Bigfoot debate."

"No, no, nothing like that. I just got something interesting to show you. You’ll see."