The Dark Place

'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.'