Twenty blue devils

Chapter 19

"You have reached Julie and Gideon Oliver,” Gideon was informed by his own voice, sounding very much like a robot, and a pretty listless robot at that. “We aren't available to take your call, but if you'll leave a message at the tone we'll get back to you."

This was disconcerting. Why wasn't Julie home? It was after 10:00 in Tahiti-past midnight in Port Angeles-and she hadn't said anything about going anywhere for the night. He chewed his lip for a few moments before it occurred to him to press the pound button to see if she had left him a message. When he did he was immediately relieved to hear her voice.

"Hi, love,” she said, sounding very much like Julie; bright, and sparkling, and pretty. “I hope you remember to listen for this message, because it's the sort of thing you always forget you can do, and if you call me and I'm not home and you don't know where I am you'll worry, right? But then if you did forget, then you're not listening now anyway, and you can't hear this, and if you didn't forget, then obviously you are listening, so what's the point of my babbling on about it?'

Gideon smiled as she caught her breath.

"Anyway, since you weren't going to be home for a while, I thought I might as well get out in the field for a couple of days and join the winter elk count in the Hoh quadrant; it's better than sitting behind a desk at the admin center, although you probably don't think so."

She was right about that. Two days of moldering in the rainiest river valley in the United States during the wettest, coldest, gloomiest month of the year, never getting quite dry, never getting quite warm, was not his idea of a good time. He liked the Northwestern winters all right, but he preferred to look out at them through a double-paned window with a log fire crackling in the fireplace behind him. And he preferred dry beds to wet sleeping bags. For an anthropologist, as she sometimes reminded him and as he readily admitted, he had an unseemly fondness for the soft life.

"So that's where I am,” she went on. “I hope everything's all right in Tahiti and I hope your corpse isn't too terribly messy. I'll talk to you when I get back. Hi to John. Tell him I'm meeting Marti for lunch on Wednesday. And that's about it. I miss you, Gideon. I wish you were already back.” She paused. Her voice softened and dropped a notch. “I do love you."

"I love you too,” he said to the recording, then left a message on the machine to that effect.

He leaned back, warmed by the call but feeling oddly vexed too. It didn't take him long to figure out why: he was always a little grumpy when Julie was away from home. The fact that he wasn't there either had nothing to do with the matter. When somebody traveled, he liked it to be him. Julie he preferred safe at home where she belonged-not that he would ever admit it to her. It was an attitude he didn't seem to have much control over, probably a genetic residue dating back to Australopithecus afarensis and before: man come back to cave from hunt, man want find woman waiting, cooking, loving…not out chasing stupid elk.

Well, what the hell, it was dangerous, wasn't it? What if they stampeded or something?

But of course he had to laugh at himself, remembering how extraordinarily capable Julie was; whom did he know that could take care of herself better in the out-of-doors? In fact, hadn't she once found and rescued him after he'd gotten himself hopelessly lost, confused, and miserable in the deep woods?

He was still thinking about that when he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

The following morning at 9 A.M. Gideon and John again appeared at the gendarmerie on the avenue Bruat. They were treated in the same supercilious manner by the same supercilious clerk, but this time made to wait half an hour before being admitted to Colonel Bertaud's presence. By the time they were seated in the commandant's office John was already steaming, not a good sign.

Bertaud was not in a good mood either. “And what have we this morning, gentlemen?” was his soft, steely greeting. “A new murder to report?” The folder in front of him remained open, the fountain pen remained between his fingers, poised to write.

"No, the same old one,” John said bluntly.

All things considered, Gideon thought, not an auspicious beginning.

"Colonel,” he said, “we're sorry to bother you again, but we've come up with something that I think will interest you. I looked at the photographs of Brian Scott's body yesterday, and in my opinion there's pretty good reason to think he was stabbed to death."

Bertaud screwed the cap on his pen. “The photographs?"

"These,” John said, and handed him the clasp-envelope across the desk.

Bertaud opened it and slid the contents out. “The top two,” Gideon said. “If you look at-"

"You made photocopies without asking for permission?” Bertaud said to John. “No doubt that is the way the FBI conducts itself in America, but-"

"If I asked for permission, would I have gotten it?” John shot back.

"Certainly not,” said Bertaud.

Gideon repressed a sigh. It was looking like a long morning. “Colonel,” he said, “with your permission I'd like to show you what I found."

"What you found,” Bertaud said, focusing his attention on him as if he hadn't really been aware of him before. “Forgive me, but you are…?"

"I'm a forensic anthropologist."

"Ah, you're the gentleman who was going to examine the body?"

"Yes,” Gideon said, surprised. He'd thought that Bertaud had understood as much.

"He's famous in America,” John pointed out as Gideon winced. “They call him the Skeleton Detective. The Bureau uses him all the time for its biggest cases."

This had the effect on Bertaud that Gideon might have predicted. One corner of a sleek gray eyebrow went up a few millimeters, the sharp, knowing eyes narrowed, the mobile lips pursed. “I see. Well, then, I am flattered that the great Skeleton Detective would concern himself in our small affairs. You were saying…?"

Gideon was starting to feel the way John did about Bertaud but where would it have gotten them to show it? The colonel held the cards, all fifty-two of them, and there was no point in antagonizing him any more than he already was. Gideon nodded politely and began to explain his findings. Impatient and preoccupied at first, Bertaud soon seemed to grow genuinely interested. After a few minutes he had the original file brought in, in hopes that the photographs might be sharper, but they were equally blurry. At one point Gideon had the impression that he was on the edge of swaying him, but in the end Bertaud remained unconvinced.

"No, Dr. Oliver,” he said with a sigh, “it's all extremely interesting but in the end simply not persuasive. What do we have after all is said and done?” He treated them to a full Gallic shrug-shoulders, mouth, chin, eyebrows, and hands. “A group of maggots that might or might not be-"

"A line of maggots,” John pointed out.

"A line, then. In any case it's simply not enough. I'm sorry, gentlemen. There will be no police interference. I cannot justify it."

The interview was over but John wouldn't say die. “Not enough for what?” he demanded. “We're not asking you to bring charges, we don't want you to arrest anybody, we just want the body dug up so that Dr. Oliver here can have a look at it. Then you take it from there. Or don't take, depending on what turns up. We'll be long gone. What do you say?"

Bertaud shook his head. “I'm sorry.” He fixed them each in turn with a long, unmistakably cautionary gaze. “And that, I trust,” he purred, “is the end of it."

"Well, that was sure a howling success,” Gideon said as they left the gendarmerie.

John shook his head with frustration. “God, that guy ticks me off. Did I tell you that before?"

"You told me before. But cheer up, you get under his skin too."

"Yeah, that's something, I guess.” He took in a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “Doc, what the hell do we do now?"

"Go get some lunch, would be my suggestion."

John responded with an abstracted nod. Inside his head he was obviously still arguing with Bertaud.

"Any suggestions as to where?” Gideon asked.

"What? No, we always stay out in Papara with Nick when we come over. We eat at his place. I don't know any restaurants. Where'd you eat yesterday?"

"I just grazed the stands at the market, but I remember a place on Pomare that used to be pretty good. Maybe it's still there."

"Fine, whatever,” John said listlessly.

The Acajou was still there, much as Gideon remembered it, a pleasant, tile-floored place with a shaded dining veranda separated by a line of potted shrubs from the clamor and bustle of the street. They ordered Hinanos and sat beside the plants. The menu was much the same as it had been three years earlier, and John cheered up as soon as he saw it, as Gideon had hoped he might.

"Hamburger?” John said. “I never knew you could get hamburgers in Tahiti. What do you know about that?"

It was more than he'd said on the entire four-block walk to the restaurant. John was a complex man in some ways, but not so complex that the likelihood of a decent hamburger couldn't be counted on to set him to rights.

The waitress, clad in a flowered pareu that highlighted firm, silky shoulders, came smiling to take their orders. Like so many Tahitian women she might have stepped out of a Gauguin painting: effortlessly graceful, strikingly handsome, skin like beaten copper, a giant hibiscus blossom in her black hair (was there anyplace but the South Pacific where a huge red flower tucked behind one ear looked perfectly natural?), and exuding a lazy, good-natured sexuality as artlessly as the hibiscus released its heavy scent.

Gideon asked for the omelette espagnole.

"Hamburger,” said John.

She looked up from her pad, frowning charmingly. "Pardon?"

"Hamburger,” John said again, "s'il vous plait."

The s'il vous plait didn't help. She shook her head.

Gideon took a hand. “Ahmboorgaire,” he explained.

"Ah, ahmboorgaire,” she said with a smile. "Avec le ketchup?"

"Ketchup!” John exclaimed, brightening even more. “Sure. You bet. Mais oui!"

The hamburger came on sliced French bread with an elegant dab of creamy sauce on it-Bearnaise, Gideon thought- and with a separate plate of fries. With barely a glance at the sauce, John scraped it off with a knife, poured on ketchup from the Del Monte bottle that the waitress had brought, and got happily to work. Gideon's Spanish omelet was more like a stir-fry mixed into some scrambled eggs, with tomato sauce on top, but there was a French flair to it and it tasted good, and it was a few minutes before the subject that was on both their minds came to the fore again.

"Doc, where do we go from here?” John said.

"Where is there to go? Look, I think Bertaud is wrong. But I could be wrong too."

John peered at him. “Where did this come from? You seemed pretty sure of yourself yesterday."

"I'm pretty sure today too. I think those maggots mean Brian was attacked with a knife. But I wouldn't swear to it, I wouldn't bet my life on it. All we saw were a few fuzzy photographs. We're dealing with probabilities here, John, not absolutes. To me, it seemed as if the probability of foul play was high enough to justify an exhumation; to Bertaud it didn't. I think he's wrong, but I can't really blame him.” He speared a piece of cooked celery and popped it into his mouth, “And this being French Polynesia, Bertaud gets the last word. Unless you think Nick could be swung around-"

John shook his head.

"-I don't see that we have any options."

"Mm,” John said and thoughtfully munched another couple of ketchup-logged fries. Gideon thought that was the end of it, but a moment later John spoke.

"We could always dig the body up ourselves,” he said offhandedly.

Gideon's celery nearly went down the wrong pipe. He managed to get it rerouted without choking, then stared at John. “You couldn't have said what I thought you said."

"I said we could always dig the body up ourselves."

"You can't be serious! What, in the dead of night? With hooded lanterns, and cloaks pulled over our faces? What the hell kind of thing is that to suggest? Christ, from an FBI agent yet!"

'Well, I don't hear anything better coming from you.” Gideon couldn't argue with that.

"Anyway,” John said, “it wouldn't be the dead of night.” He raised his eyebrows and looked quizzically at Gideon; a why-don't-we-just-talk-about-this-a-little-more kind of look.

Gideon started to say something, then thought better of it and took a slow, steadying sip of the coffee they'd ordered after their meal. The thing to do was simply to stare coldly at John, as he was now doing, making it clear from his stony expression that it was out of the question. To discuss it at all would be to suggest that it was within the realm of possibility, and that would be a mistake. He had done some damnfool things in his life, a rather high percentage of them at John's instigation, and he was sincerely afraid of getting himself talked into another. He more than understood his friend's point of view, after all-somebody had almost certainly murdered Brian Scott and was going to get clean away with it, and that galled Gideon too, who hadn't even known Brian. But, good God, he certainly wasn't going to go around digging up corpses on his own, particularly in the face of Bertaud's repeated warnings to mind their own business. It was crazy even to think about it, let alone talk about it.

He sighed. “What do you mean, not the dead of night?"

John smiled at him. “I mean-"

"And you can wipe that grin off your face. I'm just asking a question. I didn't say I'm going along with this. I'm not going along with this."

"Naturally, of course not, we're just talking theoretically,” John said, smiling some more, so that the skin around his eyes crinkled up. “What I mean is that the cemetery Brian's buried in is this old native graveyard in a back corner of the plantation. It's just this little place, maybe a quarter of an acre. Nobody goes near it from one year to the next. It's where they used to bury the copra workers in the old days. They don't even use it anymore; I think Brian's the first person to be buried there in ten years. And we can take a back road to it that doesn't go anywhere near the working part of the plantation. I'm telling you, even in the middle of the day there wouldn't be anybody to see us."

"Theoretically speaking,” Gideon said.

"Theoretically speaking,” agreed John. “So what do you say?"

"I say you're out of your mind. Aside from breaking the law-"

"That's not a problem. Look, we dig up the body, you have a look at it right there, check out that hand, see if it's what you think-"

"What do you mean, right there? At the grave?"

"At the grave, yes. If you don't find anything that means anything, we just cover him back up and leave quietly. But if you do, then we bring the police in on it. Bertaud would have to do something about it then. He wouldn't have any choice. You've got a reputation-"

"Yes, I know,” Gideon said. “The Skeleton Detective. I'm real famous in America. I remember how deeply it impressed him last time."

"Look, Doc, Brian's an American citizen; we could make an international incident out of it if they didn't do anything. And, believe me, Bertaud may be a jerk but if we can really convince him it's murder, he'll follow up. And he's not going to make a fuss about us breaking some health department regulation by digging up a grave.” He gulped down some coffee. “Theoretically."

"John,” Gideon said, “you're not seeing the whole picture. You're imagining we go get a couple of shovels, dig down six feet-"

"Not even six feet, probably."

"-and there he is in a box and all we have to do is pry the lid off. Well, they don't bury people that way anymore, not even here. The plain old hole in the ground went out with ‘Alas, poor Yorick.’ Those holes are lined with cement nowadays, or maybe cinder block, and they usually have a concrete cap on top. You need heavy equipment to get it off-a crane, a backhoe-"

John was shaking his head. “Not this grave, Doc. No concrete, no cinder block, not even a coffin. Not even a headstone. Brian was kind of a nut about Tahiti. He really fell in love with it, with the history. He always said he wanted to be buried in the old native cemetery, and he wanted his body treated the old native way. And that's just the way Therese handled it."

"I doubt that,” Gideon murmured, mostly to himself.

"What do you mean, you doubt it? I'm telling you."

"Well, the old Tahitian way was-you don't want to know."

"Sure, I want to know. What do you mean?"

"Well, what they used to do here, and in the Marquesas and the Tuamotus too, was to puncture the skin to let out the fluids, take out the brain, use a hook to remove the viscera by way of the anus, then mummify-"

John looked horrified. “Pikes! No! That's disgusting! I only meant there's no coffin, no concrete. And he's buried in sand, not dirt, just a few feet down. Therese hired an old Tahitian priest to do the burial. Nick took me up there yesterday; I saw for myself. It'd be a snap, Doc. Twenty minutes’ work."

Gideon shifted uneasily. “John, I'd like to help, you know that, but it just doesn't-"

John leaned earnestly across the table. “Look, I'd do it by myself, you know that, but what would I do with the body when I got it up?” He looked at the tabletop. “I need you. Brian needs you. I know you, Doc, you're like me; you can't just let something like this pass. It's not right."

Gideon sighed deeply and drained his cooling coffee. Brian needs you. How was it that Doug Ubelaker, the anthropologist at the Smithsonian, put it? We are the final chance for the voice of the victim to be heard. The Hippocratic oath of the forensic anthropologist.

He sighed again, even deeper this time, and rose. “I saw a quincaillerie on the way over here. On rue La Garde."

John looked at him, puzzled. “A…?"

"Hardware store,” Gideon said. “We can pick up a couple of shovels and whatever else we need."

John let loose a sigh of his own, then grinned and flopped back in his chair. “Whoo, I tell you, you had me worried there for a while."

"Sure, I'll just bet I did,” Gideon said with a faint smile. “Come on, let's go. We better get it over with before I return to my right mind."