The Dark Place

Chapter 4

Gideon was in a good mood. He had, as usual, slept well, had risen about six, and had taken a tonic earlymorning walk along the misty footpaths on the hillside across the road from the lodge. Then, invigorated but damp and cold, he’d eaten a big breakfast of ham and eggs in the dining room and had sat over two cups of coffee, contentedly gazing across the placid lake.

Now, relaxed, full, and pleasantly sleepy, he slumped comfortably on a weatherbeaten wooden lawn chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The press conference had been going on for half an hour, and Julie, in the chair next to him, had so far handled most of the questions.

She was explaining in cool, professional tones to the three reporters that one of the skeletons found two days earlier had been tentatively identified as Eckert’s and that a bone spear was the probable instrument of death. Gideon poured himself more coffee from the silver server that had been brought out to the lawn from the dining room and leaned back again in his chair, drifting tranquilly and almost dozing. The questions and answers droned on; the golden morning sunlight was warm on his cheeks.

He opened his eyes suddenly to find the reporters looking brightly at him, pens poised.

"Uh," he said, "I’m afraid I missed the question."

"Well, now, I guess us country cousins have put the professor to sleep." The speaker was the oldest of the reporters, a heavyset, redheaded man of fifty who looked as if he might have been a hotshot cub reporter thirty years before, with pork-pie hat, bow tie, and appealing grin. The bow tie was still in place; the grin, too, but time had worn it into more of a sly smirk than a smile.

"Sorry," Gideon said, "I guess I was thinking of something else. If you’d repeat the question I’d be glad to answer it, Mr…"

"Hood’s my name and newspaperin’s my game, like I said before. My friends call me Nate. I tell you, Gideon, I don’t know much about bones and things, but it sure seems to me that it’d take one hell of a lot of power to put a bone spear through that poor fella’s breastbone… Is that its right name?"

"Sternum."

"Mmm, sternum, sternum. My, my." He sipped his coffee and crossed his thick legs, straining the double-knit fabric of his trousers and revealing in unpleasant detail the contours of a plump thigh. "Well, through his ster -num then, and through his heart and everything else in there, and still stick way down deep in his backbone."

"Vertebra. Seventh thoracic."

"Right, right. Numero seven. Anyway, the thing I keep wondering about is, you’d sure have to be one strong hombre to do that, wouldn’t you?"

"That’s good thinking, Mr. Hood. You’re quite right. The average person couldn’t do it. It would take extraordinary strength, superhuman strength, to drive that spear-that bone spear-in so deeply."

"What about Bigfoot?" The question came from one of the others, a gangling, nervous girl of twenty who had introduced herself tersely as Walker of the Globe.

Gideon smiled. "I suppose Bigfoot could have done it, assuming that he’s-what is it supposed to be, eight or nine feet tall, and built like a gorilla? But I think a lot of things would militate against drawing that conclusion, not the least of which is the fact that he almost certainly doesn’t exist."

"But-" the girl began.

"But something killed him," Hood interrupted. "Just what kind of thing is running around Quinault Valley? I mean, superhuman strength, carrying a bone spear…?"

Julie looked concerned and opened her mouth, but Gideon spoke first: "You said that, Mr. Hood, not I. I don’t know what killed Mr. Eckert, or rather who killed him, and I hope the article you write reflects that."

" If I write an article. You’re not giving us much to write about."

Walker of the Globe raised a three-inch nub of pencil in a childish hand with chewed, grubby fingernails. "Just what is the FBI doing to-"

This time Julie cut in. "I think we’ve covered everything we’re able to. I’m sorry Mr. Lau isn’t here to give you the FBI perspective, but I’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything to tell you."

When the reporters had left, Gideon poured two more cups of coffee from the silver pot. "That wasn’t too bad," he said. "My first press conference, did you know?"

"I’d never have guessed."

"What do you mean? I thought I did pretty well. How’d you like the way I handled that sleazy Hood character? I know what he was trying to do."

"Oh, great, wonderful. I’m going to love reading the papers."

"Come on, Julie. What did I do wrong? Aside from falling asleep."

She refused to elaborate, so they sipped their coffee in companionable silence, enjoying the sunlight and the sounds of hotel guests beginning to straggle down toward the lake for a day’s play.

"Gideon," Julie said after a while, "what do you think did kill him?"

" Who, not what."

"All right, who?"

"I can think of a few possibilities. First, that this was a ritual execution or a sacrifice. A cult, perhaps-the sort of thing we mentioned last night: stake driven through the heart and so forth."

"That’s horrible. Do you really think so?"

Gideon ran his finger around the rim of the empty cup. "Pretty doubtful. I’ve never heard of it happening before. Not that I know anything about cult murders. Or want to know."

"What are the other possibilities?"

"Well, that there might be a small band of Indians, primitive Indians, living in the rain forest-"

"I checked in my Ethnography of the Northwest Coast after dinner last night. Indians have never lived in the rain forest itself."

Gideon shrugged abstractedly, watching a noisy, laughing group of teenagers playing volleyball nearby, boys against girls. "Far be it from me," he said, "to quarrel with Ethnography of the Northwest Coast, but if they haven’t lived there they’ve certainly died there. Those basket burials, at least the ones I could determine race on, were American Indian to the core. And the baskets certainly look Amerind, even if they’re not local."

"Maybe…you know, you’re not the first one to suggest this. There was a graduate student from Alabama or Mississippi-Dennis Blackpath-who spent a couple of summers poking around Quinault researching his dissertation."

"Blackpath? That sounds like he’s an Indian himself."

"I think he is-or part Indian, anyhow. He had a theory that there was a lost Indian tribe in the rain forest."

"He did? Why didn’t you mention that before?"

"Well, this was six or seven years ago-before my time. The only reason I know about it is that he’s become kind of a joke to the other rangers over the years. I guess he was a first-class crackpot. He never found anything, of course."

"Still," Gideon said, "if he had some evidence…"

"Gideon," she said, leaning intently forward, "if there were a band of Indians wandering around in there, I’d know it. They’d have been seen, or left signs; there’d be rumors." She shook her head. "No, I just don’t see how it can be."

"I know," Gideon said glumly. "It isn’t very credible, is it?"

"Besides, what about that business of the superhuman strength?"

"What about it?"

"Indians aren’t any stronger than anyone else," she said. "Or are they?"

"No, of course not."

"So, Indians or not, you’re still left with the question of how the spear penetrated so deeply."

"Yes," he said. "I mean no. John’s left with it. My part in this is finished. Would you like me to get us some more coffee?"

"No, thanks. Will you get angry if I ask you something?"

"Probably. How do I know until you ask?"

Julie laughed, a bright, easy laugh that made Gideon feel they were friends. "My God, I didn’t even ask it, and he’s already cross."

"That," said Gideon, "is because some deeply perceptive part of my subconscious tells me it’s going to be about Bigfoot."

"Well, after all, ‘superhuman strength’ is your term-"

"To my growing regret."

"-and you don’t have any plausible theories of your own. Look, John’s due any minute. Couldn’t we all go and have a look at those footprints? Aren’t you even a teeny bit curious?"

There was a shout from the volleyball court, and the ball bounded squishily over the grass toward them. Gideon caught it in one hand, stood up, and batted it back with his fist, all in one movement, clearing the net some seventy feet away.

"Hey, great shot, mister!" shouted a tall, yellow-haired girl with long, brown legs. "Did you guys see that?"

"Big goddamn deal," muttered one of the boys loudly enough for Gideon to hear.

"Yeah, big goddamn deal," Julie said, smiling up at him. "Don’t look so smug, you show-off. It’s not talent, it’s just that macho shoulder girdle."

Standing there in the sunshine, looking down at her with the clean morning breeze riffling his hair and the lively sting of the volleyball still on his knuckles, Gideon was oddly happy. He reached for her hand and hauled her easily out of the chair, feeling powerful and in control.

"Okay," he said, laughing and holding both her hands, "let’s go see the monster footprints."

They drove east on South Shore Road among giant fir, hemlock, and spruce draped with mosses and spotted with lichens. Within a few miles the lake narrowed into the Upper Quinault River, and the paved road gave way to gravel and then to rutted dirt. The cab of the Park Service pickup truck was small for the three of them, and Gideon sat in the middle, jouncing and uncomfortably constricted, between Julie in the driver’s seat and John on the right. Julie drove fast and well, obviously at home at the wheel and in the forest.

Gideon had gotten over his initial reaction to the woods. The towering, increasingly dark forest with its filtered light now seemed majestic and beautiful.

"I take it," he said to Julie, "that this is the real rain forest?"

"It is," she said with proprietary pride. "What do you think of it?"

"Too damn dark," John muttered out the window.

"It’s beautiful," Gideon said simply.

Julie smiled at him, clearly pleased.

"Technically, what makes it a rain forest?" he asked her.

"Rains all the goddamn time, that’s what," grumbled John, still looking out the window. "It’s even worse than Seattle."

"Actually," Julie said, "it hardly rains at all from July to October. All the rain falls in the winter."

"How much rain does it get in a year?" Gideon asked, then quickly said, "Too goddamn much," in time with John’s growl.

They all laughed. Julie said, "Ten or fifteen feet a year; about a hundred forty-five inches." She waited for Gideon’s obligatory low whistle and went on. "Strictly speaking, it’s not a rain forest. The term technically applies to tropical forests with broadleaf trees and woody vines and clay soil. These trees are evergreen, and the soil is fantastically rich. You can dig through two or three feet of humus with your fingers. But it’s temperate and wet, and it has a pretty solid roof of treetops, and lots of ferns and flowers and mosses on the ground, and most botanists would agree nowadays that that qualifies it as a rain forest-the only one in the Northern Hemisphere, and the only coniferous one in the world."

"I am suitably impressed," Gideon said.

"Too much like Hawaii," said John. "Everything’s so damn wet and soggy it falls apart if you touch it."

"John," said Gideon, "you must be the only person in the world-certainly the only native-who hates Hawaii."

"Too damn wet," John said again. "I wish they’d assign me to Tucson."

After half an hour’s drive, they crossed over the river on a surprisingly modern bridge and followed a sign toward the North Fork Ranger Station. Julie swung the truck suddenly to the left shoulder of the road-until then, the shoulder had not been wide enough to park on-and stopped.

"Here we are," she said. "It’s up on that ridge."

They walked up the shallow incline on a narrow trail with frequent switchbacks. Gideon, who had poor woods sense, lost sight of the truck and the road in thirty seconds. Within two minutes, he had no idea of which direction it lay in. The trail was well cut and easy to walk on, however, and the fragrances and varied greens of the rain forest absorbed him.

They left the trail after twenty minutes, climbed a fifteen-foot slope, and stood in a small clearing. The trail was swallowed up at once; they might have been miles from the nearest path. Before them, a twenty-by-twenty-foot area had been stripped of undergrowth and pockmarked with deep trenches cut in right-angled patterns.

"Looks like a dig," Gideon said. "This is where they found the bodies?"

"Right," said John, "and here are the tracks." He went to the far edge of the clearing, with Gideon and Julie following, all three working their way carefully among the trenches. "The tracks apparently came from over there," John continued, "skirted the edge of the clearing, and then left through here."

"They’re pretty well trampled over, aren’t they?" Gideon said, frowning.

"Yeah, with the Sasquatch Society people and our own men making casts, I guess there isn’t much left."

Julie walked a few feet into the undergrowth in the direction from which the tracks had come. "Unless it’s been messed up since yesterday, there should be at least one good print… Here it is."

Cut crisply into the soft duff of the forest floor was a gigantic, splay-toed footprint, roughly human in form, but much elongated.

Gideon knelt and pulled out a tape measure.

"Eighteen and a quarter inches," Julie said, "by eight at its widest point."

Gideon quickly confirmed the measurements, then lay prone on the spongy, fragrant earth, supporting himself on his elbows and peering at the footprint, his nose a foot away from it. After a minute he got back to his knees and brushed himself off, still looking at the track.

"Sorry, folks," he said. "Believe me, I’d love to say this looks like it’s from a live creature." He looked up at John and shook his head. "It’s a fake."

He expected an argument, but the big man merely dropped to his own knees to see better. "How can you tell?" he asked quietly.

"There’s no sign of a stride, no dynamic. With a basically human foot like this, you’d expect a basically human stride that starts when the heel strikes the ground, runs down the lateral edge of the foot, swings to the ball, and then ends with a toe-off." He rose to his feet and gestured at the track. "But this print was put down all at once, flat, and then picked up heel first in a clumsy attempt to imitate a stride. I imagine a horse or deer would leave that sort of print, but of course I don’t know much about tracks-"

John, still on his knees, looked up. "You what?"

"More accurately, I don’t know anything about tracks. I couldn’t tell a bear print from a rabbit’s."

"Well, Jesus Christ, how can you be so godawful sure that this isn’t real?"

"It’s not a matter of footprints at all. It’s a question of the biomechanics of locomotion-"

John was on his feet, his hands chopping the air. "Oh, boy, Doc, whenever you start talking like that I know you don’t know what you’re talking about."

"That’s not true at all," Gideon said testily. "I can’t help it if you can’t follow perfectly direct scientific language for-"

"Now, boys," Julie said, sitting on a fallen log and beginning to take off her shoes, "I do know something about tracks, and I think Gideon has a point. But let’s test this empirically."

Her feet were strong and brown, as Gideon thought they would be, with square little toes, and wide at the base. "Ooh," she said, "this feels good; you guys ought to take your shoes off." She wiggled her toes. "Okay, what should I do?"

"Go across to the other side of the clearing, then walk back across it as normally as you can," Gideon said.

She did so and marched right up to Gideon. The top of her head was a little above his chin. "Now," he said, "next to that right footprint you left over there, stamp down your right foot hard."

They stood together looking at the prints. It was hardly necessary to explain anything, but Gideon explained anyway. "You will note," he said professorially, "that the single footprint stamped into the ground is clear and sharply delineated all around the edges. But look at the tracks made while walking. Only the heel and toe portions have any depth to them; the outside margins, while generally visible, are indistinct and shallow. The inside margins, between the ball of the foot and the heel, haven’t left any imprint." He looked at Julie and leered, twirling an imaginary moustache. "You have lovely arches, m’dear, lovely."

"Thank you," she said.

"Most important," Gideon went on, "the walking tracks have little ridges of earth just behind the toes. Those are thrown up when the toes push off on each step. Equally diagnostic, the toes make the deepest impression, the heel a shallower one, and the sole the shallowest of all. Whereas the stamped-in print-"

"Okay, okay, Doc," John said with resigned good humor, "you’re right. It’s a fake."

"It’s obvious, really," said Julie.

"Sure," Gideon muttered, "as Watson was always telling Holmes- a posteriori."

On the way back down the trail, a gray-white, lichen-spotted bone gleaming in the pearly light caught Gideon’s eye. He bent and picked it up.

"Probably an elk," Julie said. "There are plenty of them here."

"Probably," said Gideon. "It’s a femur from one of the Cervidae."

The three had continued walking while he turned the bone in his hand.

"What’s special about it?" John asked.

"I’m not sure anything is. It’s just…" He stopped, continuing to turn the bone, and the others stopped with him. "See how it’s split, with this big dent right here at the start of the split?"

They nodded, and Julie fingered the dent.

"That’s just what bones look like in ancient-man sites where they’ve been broken open with a stone chopper to get at the marrow. I’ve turned up a couple like this at the dig I’m working on."

"Couldn’t another animal have done it?" Julie asked. "Or a bullet? Or a fall?"

Gideon looked at the bone for another long second, and flung it over his shoulder into the woods. "You’re absolutely right. Even world-renowned authorities have one-track minds."

They continued down the trail, and emerged so suddenly onto the road that Gideon almost walked into the truck.