The Dark Place

'Don't get mad at me,” Abe said, his hands outspread. “I only asked a question.'

Linger smiled and tilted his handsome, silvered head to the side. “But isn't there evidence?” he said, addressing them all. “I've seen a thousand-year-old scalp in a Tibetan lamasery—more than a thousand years old, they say—that no scientist in the world has been able to identify.'

Gideon leaned forward. “If you give a decently sized piece of skin, in good condition, human or otherwise, to a laboratory, they'll be able to tell you what it is very quickly. But once it's tanned, or rotted, or simply desiccated from the passage of time, it becomes unidentifiable. The thing is, you have to remember there's a big difference between finding an unidentifiable piece of skin and saying it's from an unidentified species.'

'The yeti's beside the point anyway,” Chace said. “It's a different species altogether.” He turned toward Gideon, his face set, seemingly on the edge of anger. “I have in my files,” he said slowly, “verified and certified by me, personally'—he waited for a challenge—'hundreds of cases in which Bigfoot sightings or unmistakable Bigfoot tracks have been positively identified.'

'Yes,” said Gideon, “I saw some of those unmistakable tracks myself near Quinault a few days ago.'

Chace brushed the comment aside with a wave of his hand. “Pranks. Kids probably, amateurish, as I'm sure you know. I've already seen the casts and rejected them. I'm not one of your fanatics, Professor. I don't accept everything people tell me. When I certify something, it's real. And I'm telling you I've seen eighty clear, fresh sets of prints with my own eyes, in Washington and British Columbia alone.” He leaned back and waited for Gideon's reaction.

'Olas Murie once made a simple observation,” Gideon said. “He pointed out that where tracks are abundant, the animals that make them are abundant.” Chace looked warily at him, not sure where he was heading. Gideon continued, “You say you've seen all those Bigfoot tracks—eighty?'

Chace nodded. “Eighty-two, and another ten probables I didn't certify.'

'Well,” Gideon said, “how many bear tracks have you seen? I mean clear, fresh, unmistakable ones. Or mountain lion? How is it that a presumably rare creature can leave so many tracks? Are they more common than bears?'

'Maybe they are. We don't have an accurate count, but we know there are many populations of them.'

'You keep saying you know,” Gideon said, “not you think.'

'We know. The Bigfoots are there, watching us, hiding from us. No question about it.'

'Then why,” Gideon said, “hasn't anyone ever found a bone, a carcass? Don't they die and leave remains? Why hasn't a dog ever dragged a piece of a Bigfoot home with him?'

Chace sat quietly a while, then sighed. “It's like I told you, Roy. They'll deny the evidence even when it's right in front of them if it doesn't fit their theories.'

'What do you mean, they?” Abe said cheerfully to the room at large. “I'm denying something? I'm just sitting here listening.” He spoke good-humoredly to Chace: “Who's denying?'

Chace looked darkly at Abe for a long time, then noisily expelled air through his nostrils: an unambiguous snort of derision. The skin under Gideon's eyes grew taut; for the first time he was angry, angry at this shifty con man who derided Abraham Goldstein. Before he could speak, however, Abe went calmly on, still smiling: “All the same,” he said, “it's a funny thing... Where's the kids?'

Chace looked at Linger and shook his head slowly back and forth. Linger glanced at Gideon with a small, polite smile of commiseration. Gideon hadn't followed the question either, but he'd long ago given up wondering if Abe's mind ever wandered. It didn't.

'The kids,” Abe repeated patiently. “Aren't there any Bigfoot kids? All the tracks I ever heard of, they're sixteen, eighteen inches long. All the Bigfoots anybody ever sees, they're great big guys that scare the pants off everybody. No one ever sees a little baby Bigfoot? A medium-size teenager, even, say six feet high? How come?'

Gideon had never thought about it; it was a good question.

Chace didn't agree. “I don't see much point in continuing this,” he said. “You've obviously closed your minds. There's nothing I can say that would—'

'It's not a question of say,” Gideon said, “it's a question of show. It's evidence that's needed, not argument.'

'I have in my home,” Chace said slowly, with infinite patience—he was straining the limits of his tolerance to give it one more try—'a glass-walled box in a climate-controlled vault. In that box sits nearly two pounds of fecal matter. I can show you letters from the University of Michigan, the University of Arizona, and Cal Poly, all of which say that those feces cannot be identified as belonging to any scientifically known form of life.” He paused to let the weight of his words sink in. “They were found in 1974 in a cave...” When Gideon wearily closed his eyes and shook his head, he stopped. “You don't believe me?'

'Oh, I believe you,” Gideon said wearily, “but I'm sure you know quite well that once feces have dried, a lab analysis usually can't do more than identify the digested or undigested contents—grass, hairs, bits of bone. Determining species from old fecal matter is impossible except indirectly, through dietary analysis.'

'Goddamn it!” Chace exploded. “There is evidence, plenty of evidence! There are bones, tools...whole frozen bodies that have been sent to museums and colleges. They disappear! There have been hundreds of specimens that disappeared in museums, hundreds!'

Chace was on his feet, shouting and waving his arms. “You goddamn so-called scientists look at it for five minutes and you brand it a fake—” His rage choked him, and he turned his back on the others.

It was an argument Gideon had heard before but one which always astounded him: the strange belief that the scientists and academicians of the world had formed a sinister conspiracy to suppress knowledge of Bigfoot, or UFOs, or snaky monsters that lurked in lakes. As if there were a scientist anywhere who wouldn't give his right arm, both arms, to come up with definitive evidence of any of them.

'Well,” said Gideon, “I think maybe we're beginning to repeat ourselves.” He stood up, and Linger arose instantly, still gracious. “Thanks for your hospitality, Mr. Linger. I think we'd better be getting back; I have to be up early.” He turned to Chace and forced himself to smile. “Dr. Chace, if you do come up with hard evidence, I assure you I'd be more than glad to look at it.'