Page 64 of Silent Bones

A girl offered them festival wristbands and handed McKenzie a temporary tattoo of a Sasquatch riding a snowmobile. He stuck it to his forearm without hesitation.

“You look like a twelve-year-old on Mountain Dew,” Callie muttered.

“Aye, lassie, there are depths to me you haven’t plumbed,” he said with a grin. “But you’re welcome to.”

They passed a tent where a man was giving a talk on “vocal mimicry in primates and the potential of Sasquatch speech.” Noah kept walking. McKenzie paused, tilted his head thoughtfully, then caught up.

They finally found the man they were looking for, a grizzled figure hunched over a collapsible table beneath a vinyl sign that read:Langley Institute of Primate Studies.

In front of him were several large cast footprints, three swatches of fur under plastic, a trail cam, several books he’d written, and what appeared to be a colorful map of the Adirondacks dotted with red pushpins.

Albert Langley didn’t look up when they approached. He was adjusting the cam’s lens, his fingers were stained yellow with what looked like nicotine. He had a slight stoop, sun-spotted skin, and wire-rimmed glasses that sat low on his nose. He wore a short-brimmed canvas hat and a vest full of pockets.

“You Langley?” Noah asked.

“I’m whoever they need me to be,” the man said without looking up. “But yes. That’s the name they gave me.”

Langley glanced up, eyes sharp. “Wait. You’re the detective from State. Your department phoned and said you would be coming.”

Noah gave a small nod. “We have samples. Fur and markings from a crime scene.”

“I’ve already seen a couple of photos,” Langley said, gesturing toward the files on the table. “Courtesy of your tech analyst. Gupta, wasn’t it?”

“Rishi,” Callie said, stepping beside Noah.

Langley nodded like that confirmed something he already knew. “Smart kid. Doesn’t know his tracks from his tailpipe, but sharp with metadata.”

McKenzie picked up one of the footprint casts, holding it up to the light. “Ah, this looks… weird.”

Langley grunted. “That one’s real. From 1987. Picked up in the marsh east of here after a snowfall. Gait spacing was wrong for a hoax. Weight distribution said upright biped.”

“So you really believe this stuff?” Callie asked.

Langley shrugged. “I wouldn’t have written three books on the topic if I didn’t. I believe in patterns. I believe in misdirection. I believe people see what they want to see, and sometimes what they need to. I also believe that as a species we aren’t as smart as we claim to be. We certainly don’t know every inch of this planet or even what we are doing here. But we like to assert we do. It helps us sleep at night. Gives us a sense of control. And it stops us from losing our minds. So I guess it’s understandable.” He tapped the table. “Let me see what you brought.”

Noah pulled out a sealed folder and placed it in front of him. Inside were enlarged photos, close-ups of the claw marks, tufts of fur from the tent flap, and a scale comparison against known animal samples.

Langley adjusted his glasses. His fingers traced the claw image without touching the surface.

He murmured, “Interesting.”

Noah crossed his arms. “Initial thoughts?”

Langley smiled faintly. “You didn’t find a monster, detective. You found someone pretending to be one.”

Langley studied the photograph of the claw marks like it was a cipher waiting to be cracked.

“See this spacing here?” he said, tracing an arc across the tent canvas image. “Too uniform. A natural predator strike like a bear, cougar, hell, even Bigfoot is chaotic. You don’t get symmetry like this unless someonewantedsymmetry.”

Callie leaned closer. “So not an animal.”

“Not one I’ve ever dissected.” He reached for a second image. “Look here at the depth variation in the tears. The entry points are shallow at first, then deepen unnaturally. That’s someone dragging something across fabric with pressure, not an animal slashing in fury.”

“Claws?” McKenzie asked.

“Claws, sure. But I would assert they are manmade.Could be anything, welded steel, deer antlers, custom blades. I’ve seen hobbyists build rigs for Halloween that’d make your skin crawl.”

He picked up the fur swatch and gave a low grunt. “And this? Looks to me like a synthetic blend. You can tell by the texture, the way it reflects light. Natural fur diffuses; this catches.”