Aaron Elkins - Little Tiny Teeth

“Not the stanchion itself,” John said, when there was no response, “the floor near it. Over here.”

“These spots, you mean?” Phil asked. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Damn right, that’s what I’m talking about. Doc, what do they look like to you?”

Gideon shrugged. “Could be anything.”

“Pretend you’re a famous forensic anthropologist. Pretend you’re looking for clues.”

“Well, I know what I’m supposed to think. I’m supposed to think that’s blood, right? And it could be blood, I guess.” Hands on his knees, he leaned closer. “Could also be old tomato juice or ketchup or-”

“What would ketchup be doing up here?” Phil asked. “They don’t even use ketchup in Peru.”

“That’s not the point,” John said petulantly. “The thing is, I’m betting it is blood, and I’m betting it’s Scofield’s. See, there’s some more spatter over here, right on the very edge. It was nighttime. Whoever did this wouldn’t have seen them and wouldn’t have worried about them anyway, because who’s going to notice a few spots on the floor?”

“But you did,” said Gideon.

“Damn right I did. I already took pictures, and I wanted you to witness the spots before I collected the blood. I’d be real surprised if a DNA test doesn’t show it’s Scofield’s.”

Gideon nodded doubtfully. “Well, a DNA test would settle it, all right. That’ll be a long time coming, though.”

“The blood’s all dry,” Phil said. “How do you collect dried blood?”

“Not a problem,” John said. “Watch and learn.”

From the manila envelope he took some things he had gotten from Vargas: a single-edged razor blade, several sheets of white paper, and a few letter-size envelopes, the latter items bearing an impressive, thickly embossed Amazonia Cruise Lines logo.

With the razor he scraped the crusty brown spots near the stanchion onto one of the sheets, and the ones near the edge of the roof onto another. Both sheets were then folded and refolded to keep the material inside, and put into the smaller envelopes, which were then placed in the larger manila one.

“You’ll notice that I didn’t seal the envelopes yet,” he explained for Phil’s benefit. “I’ll use some water from the sink instead of licking them. I don’t want to take a chance of contaminating them with my DNA.”

“I knew that,” Phil said.

The manila envelope and its contents were deposited on one of the alcove shelves in John’s cabin. His air-conditioner, which the heat-loving John had previously set at mid-range, was now turned up to maximo. “The cops better appreciate this,” he said. “I’m gonna freeze tonight.”

“Yeah,” Gideon said, “the temperature might plummet all the way down to ninety. Maybe Vargas can get you a couple of blankets.”

“I’m still having trouble with the pipe tobacco,” Phil said. “Maggie seemed pretty sure she smelled it.”

“After someone suggested it to her,” Gideon pointed out.

They had gone from John’s cabin, barely big enough to hold the three of them, to the deserted salon, first stopping at the dining room buffet table to bring out glasses of water and a basket of fruit to snack on – bananas, tangerines, and some objects that looked like cucumbers, but which Phil said had fluffy insides that tasted like lemon-flavored cotton candy, which they did.

“Yeah, someone,” John said, and looked meaningfully up at them from the tangerine he’d been peeling. “Mel.”

“But she even knew the brand,” Phil said.

“Sure, that’s what she thinks now. But you have to remember, she was in a state of shock at the time. She didn’t remember any smell until Mel brought it up.”

“So you’re voting for Mel?” Gideon said.

“No, but I wouldn’t rule him out either. He was pretty ticked off at him over the book, don’t forget that.”

“Tell me someone who wasn’t ticked off at him,” Phil said. “What about the screwing over he was giving Tim on his dissertation?”

“That’s true,” John agreed. “And Duayne had something against him too.”

“He did?” said Phil.

“Oh, sure, you could see it right off,” Gideon said. “When Scofield started talking about his daughter – Duayne’s daughter – Duayne looked as if he wanted to kill him then and there.”

“Oh yeah, you guys mentioned that before. I never noticed it.”

Gideon smiled. That was the way Phil was, quick to see the good side of people, unobservant to the point of obtuseness about seeing the other. “I assume she told her father some things about Scofield’s behavior that got him upset.”

“Not too hard to imagine what,” John said. “Okay, so if they all had it in for Scofield-”

“Yes, but who had it in for Maggie?” Gideon asked. “That’s the problem I’m having with this. Why try to get rid of her too? What was that all about? When we all thought it was Cisco, it made some sense because Cisco was batty enough to do anything. But now we know it wasn’t Cisco, and if your hypothesis is correct John – about Scofield’s having been dumped off the boat from the roof – then that means that whoever did it then came downstairs to the cabin deck and stood around making some kind of noise until Maggie came out of her room, at which point he grabbed her and tossed her in the river. Why? What kind of sense does that make? Now if Maggie-”

“The three best-looking guys on the ship talking about me?” said Maggie, who had come downstairs with her empty liter bottle of water. “Be still, my heart.”

John laughed. “How’s the ankle doing, Maggie? I see you took off the bandage.”

“Oh, that. It’s fine, not nearly as bad as it looked. See?” She put her foot up for inspection on a chair and indeed, with the blood wiped away, it could be seen to be a nice, clean gash, as gashes went: no abraded, torn edges, no nasty, radiating pink tentacles of infection, no deepening, blue-brown bruising of the surrounding skin.

“Looks good,” Gideon agreed. “But I’d still keep it covered, if I were you. It’s open, and a lot of strange things grow down here.”

“You’re telling me,” she said. “Well, I just came down to refill my water…” She paused awkwardly. “Uh, Gideon, I, uh, just want to thank you again.” It was one of the few things he’d heard her say with no tinge whatever of sarcasm or irony. “You saved my life. You risked yours to do it. I couldn’t have lasted two minutes.”

“Oh, heck-”

“And” – she offered a crooked grin – “I’m really sorry I socked you. How’s the lip?”

He laughed. “Forget it, Maggie, the lip’s fine. However,” and he leveled a finger at her, “you still owe me that beer.”

When she went into the dining room, Gideon sank into a pensive silence while Phil and John continued to toss around ideas. A grotesque thought, almost too bizarre to consider seriously, had begun noodling away at him. Was it possible that they had it wrong, that everybody had it wrong?

He got up, went to the railing without a word – “Have we offended the fellow in some way?” Phil asked John – and gazed outward toward the wall of darkening green, his hands trailing abstractedly back and forth over the ebony-stained teak rail, warm and smooth against his palms. The steaming, still rain forest, so much closer here on the Javaro than it had been on the Amazon, slid monotonously by. Below him, the brown river whispered against the metal side of the ship. Gideon didn’t see the jungle, didn’t hear the water. His mind was absorbed in poking like a prodding finger at this not yet wholly formed idea of his, probing for flaws, testing for soundness, searching for a place to put the piece that didn’t fit…