Little Bigfoot, Big City by Jennifer Weiner

Author:Jennifer Weiner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aladdin

Jeremy felt a quiver of unease, like a feather brushing against his back. He knows, he thought as he followed Dr. Johansson past a model of a Neanderthal, one of a velociraptor, a long table with ten seats pushed up around it, and a vending machine in the corner. It was dark, with all the high windows covered by shades, and a little spooky. Jeremy told himself that there was no way Dr. Johansson could know about Skip Carruthers. Nobody knew. Jeremy hadn’t told anyone anything. He’d kept his mouth shut.

“Have a seat,” said Dr. Johansson. They’d come to a fireplace, with a fire smoking inside of it, and a fancy-looking carpet and armchairs and a couch. Everyone found a seat, and Dr. Johansson passed around a cookie tin, then stood and started flicking switches.

When the lights were on, the room looked a lot less scary. A long wooden table stood against the wall. It held two laptops and a desktop computer, an old-fashioned-looking microscope, and an open family-size bag of pretzels. There were photographs on the wall, one of an incrementally smaller Marcus, in cap and gown, standing between two beaming people who were probably his parents, then another of a Marcus with no beard and bushier hair, in a different-colored cap and gown, with the same two people, only the man was less bald and the woman wasn’t wearing glasses. The third picture showed someone—Marcus, probably—in a football helmet and a green-and-silver uniform, his body airborne and apparently floating over the field, with one muscly, tattooed arm outstretched and one big hand cradling the ball against his body.

“College,” he said, tapping the young-Marcus cap-and-gown picture. “Lo these many years ago.”

“So this is where you’ve been,” said Jo, who still looked starry-eyed.

“Do you live here?” Alice blurted. Jeremy looked at her, feeling grateful, because he’d been wondering the same thing himself.

“Sometimes I do. Bedroom and kitchen are back there,” he said, pointing toward a door beside the fireplace. “When my friends and I saw which way the wind was blowing—when we realized that our new president not only wasn’t going to invest in the paranormal but he might even try to persuade me to use what I knew for . . . well, let’s just say the wrong causes—I thought it would be prudent to keep myself”—he gestured at the room around them—“out of the public eye. I have some friends who still believe in the cause, and I had a long-standing relationship with the museum. When they built their addition, I was able to talk them into putting up a false front. On paper, on the blueprints, this”—he waved his hand around the expansive rooms—“is just marked ‘storage.’ And so here I am.”

“But doesn’t the government know that Standish is one of the places where people say they’ve seen Bigfoots?” Jo asked. “Wouldn’t they look for you here?”

“I’m sure they’ve looked, but they haven’t found me yet,” said the doctor. He took a seat in the immense leather chair and picked up his pretzels.

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