Loch, The Read online

  “What’s this all about?”

  “You’ll find out when you get there.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  The judge nodded. “You can stay in your cell another day if you’d like. Give you and your father here more time to reminisce about old times.”

  “I’d rather eat haggis.” I laced up my shoes, stepped out of the cell, then, nodding at True, punched him as hard as I could in his stomach, nearly breaking my fist in the process.

  True grimaced but never buckled. “Well done, lad. We’re even then.”

  “We’re not even. That was for eating my breakfast.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Holmstrom handed me a black nylon Inverness Police jacket. “Put this on, we need tae pull a quick bait an’ switch. Castle grounds are congested wi’ dozens o’ news vans, television crews, an’ reporters, most o’ whom have been campin’ out since last night. Every reporter an’ his mother wants tae speak wi’ ye, an’ I can’t have them followin’ us tae the crime scene.”

  Crime scene?

  Before I could question him, he paraded me through a mezzanine filled with media, who swarmed upon me like hungry sharks. “Dr. Wallace, how large was the creature that bit you?”

  “Could you show us those scars?”

  “Dr. Wallace, are you planning to go after the monster then?”

  “Dr. Wallace, how do you respond to accusations about this whole thing being a ruse?”

  “Dr. Wallace ...”

  “Dr. Wallace ...”

  Holmstrom pushed me through the crowd. “Dr. Wallace is late for a meetin’ in North Inverness an’ has no comment at this time.”

  We exited the mezzanine through a side door, entering a private access way. A door to the right led outside to the police parking lot, the door to the left, an indoor garage.

  “All right, doctor, if you’ll give your jacket to Officer Johnston here, we’ll have you on your way.”

  Johnston, a man about my size and weight, placed the police jacket over his head, effectively hiding his face, then was hustled out to the parking lot by the six escorts to an awaiting police van.

  Sheriff Holmstrom ushered me inside the garage and an awaiting black Mercedes Benz. The vehicle’s windows were tinted, meant to keep nosey reporters from seeing inside.

  The driver waited ten minutes before driving off. As we rounded a bend outside the castle, we saw the last of the reporter’s vehicles pull­ing out of the parking lot to chase after the police van.

  Neither the driver nor his partner spoke to me as we followed the back roads south out of Inverness and onto the A82. Heavy gray rain clouds hung over the Great Glen, and the trees’ leaves blew upward, forecasting another rainfall.

  We continued south, escorted by that cursed Loch, then suddenly I was overcome by a terrible sense of dread. Crime scene? Oh, God, it’s Brandy! True said she was unstable. She must’ve committed suicide ... or maybe her crazy old man wigged out and stabbed her with his sword?

  “Was it Brandy Townson? Did something happen to her? Hey goons, I’m talking to you, answer me!”

  They said nothing, but I felt easier after we circled through Drumnadrochit and continued south past Urquhart Bay.

  Where were they taking me? What had happened?

  Another fifteen minutes passed before we entered the village of Invermoristan.

  The police lights told me we had arrived.

  A lay-by, camping area, and the entire southwestern tip of the Moriston Estuary into Loch Ness had been cordoned off by the police. Villagers were being lined up along the A82 and questioned. An ambulance was pulled off to the side of the highway, its driver standing on the roof of his vehicle, trying to see beyond the dense woods.

  We parked in the lay-by where a half dozen witnesses were giv­ing statements to police. I was escorted past a sobbing man in his late forties and two shocked teenage girls to a picnic table that served as a central information point.

  A tall man with brown hair and athletic build looked up from his notepad as we approached. “You’re Wallace? Michael Gajewski. I’m a scene o’ crime officer wi’ the Northern Constabulary in Inverness. Tell me, Doctor, have you had breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Come wi’ me.”

  I followed him through the campsite, then along a narrow wooded trail that descended towards the Loch. “What’s this all about, Officer?”

  “I’m hopin’ you’ll tell me.”

  We approached a small clearing where a police photographer was taking pictures. Garbage was strewn everywhere, apparently from a heavy trash barrel lying on its side.

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  There was little left of the victim to identify. Blood was splattered everywhere, on the ground, across the leaves, the barks of trees, the picnic table ... it was as if a dozen gallons of scarlet paint had been set in the clearing and detonated.

  The photographer aimed his camera at the lower branches of a fir tree, where the remains of a left arm, severed above the elbow, hung from its perch. More human shrapnel had been tossed into the underbrush. There were fingers, an ankle and foot, still wrapped in a wool sock, scraps of a navy sweatshirt, divots of human hair patches of torn-away flesh.

  I turned away, sickened.

  “A’ right, Dr. Wallace, ye’ve seen what ye’ve seen. So tell me, are we dealin’ wi’ an animal or a lunatic?”

  “God, I don’t know, I’m not a forensic specialist. If it was an animal, it looks more like the work of a grizzly than anything living in Loch Ness.”

  “It’s no’ a bear. Haven’t been bears in the Highlands for a thou­sand years.”

  I took a deep breath, fighting the nausea. The air held a strange raw scent, like the insides of a rotted intestine. “What is that odor?”

  “Again, we were hopin’ you’d know. Smells like bad anchovies.”

  “Or raw sewage. And what happened to the rest of the victim’s body?”

  “We don’t know. We’re still searchin’ the area, an’ a team’s on their way tae dredge the shoreline. ‘Course, if it ate her—”

  “Ate her? Officer, to cause this much widespread damage to an adult human being, the animal, assuming it was an animal, would have to be huge, at least fifty feet, with a bite radius larger than a great white shark’s.”

  “You say if it wis an animal. What else might it be?”

  “I don’t know.” I covered my nose, looking around. “It’s possible this entire gruesome scene could’ve simply been staged to make it look like an animal attack.”

  “Aye, we considered that. Perhaps, say, an ally of yer father’s?”

  Suddenly I felt relieved at having spent the night locked up in a cell.

  The police officer who drove me to Invermoriston approached. “Sir, two film crews jist showed up. We’re keepin’ them back by the road, but it willnae be long before they work their way ‘round on foot tae see intae the lay-by. The judge specifically said he disnae want the media knowin’ Dr. Wallace wis here.”

  “Sorry, Doctor, that means your time’s up.”

  “Officer, you brought me here, at least give me a few minutes to walk around the area and search for clues. If this was an animal, maybe it left behind some tracks.”

  “We’ve a’ready checked, didnae find a thing.”

  “How would you know what you’re looking for?”

  “I think we’d recognize an animal track if we saw one. Besides, nothin’ as big as ye described inhabits these glens. Personally, Dr. Wallace, I think we’ve got us a madman on the loose.”

  Chapter 16 Quotes

  « ^ »

  I had just pointed out Urquhart Castle to the children when one of them asked, “Is that a rock out there?” Glancing across the water, I saw something a third of the way out and knew it was no rock. Unable to see it clearly, we hurried down to the water’s edge, but by that time, it had gone. Still, it had left a terrific wash which hit the shoreline with such violence it caused one of the children
to run back in horror.

  —LADY MAUD BAILLE, C.B.E. COMMANDER OF THE A.T.S., 19 APRIL 1950

  It was midday and I was driving north on the A82 out of Fort Augustus. As I passed Cherry Island, I saw a great disturbance in the water, maybe 150 meters from shore. About two meters of a black object appeared along the surface, disappeared, then reappeared about 100 meters closer to shore. The speed of the movement was incredible.

  —COL. PATRICK GRANT, 13 NOVEMBER 1951

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  Inverness, Scottish Highlands

  I WAS BACK IN THE MERCEDES, heading north on the A82, the chief constable’s words echoing in my brain. Personally, Dr. Wallace, I think we’ve got a madman on the loose. A madman with a sword? Or a murderer with an accomplice, blaming his escapades on a fictitious dragon?

  The thought made me ill.

  Instead of being returned to Inverness Castle, I was taken to Town House for an emergency session of the Highland Council. By the time we arrived, rumors of a “new Nessie attack” were already circulating across the British airwaves.

  Judge Hannam was at the meeting, having called a one-day recess of Angus’s trial “to examine the validity of the defense’s claims.” The jury had been sequestered in a hotel, but few believed the developing events could be kept from them much longer.

  The Highlands were becoming a tinderbox, and Angus and his attorney were tossing matches.

  Owen James Hollifield, newly elected provost and head of the Highland Council, was a gentle man by nature, though he carried a power-lifter’s physique on his squat, six-foot frame. “Chairmen an’ Councillors, please ... I’d like tae call this meetin’ to order. We’ll dis­pense wi’ the minutes an’ get right at it, if that’s a’ right by you.”

  The room quieted.

  “By now, ye’ve a’ heard the rumors, so let’s see if we can dispel wi’ the fantasy an’ get tae the facts. Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Olmstead stood and read from his notepad. “At approxi­mately four-thirty this mornin’, the remains of the deceased were found by her husband along a wooded trail located at an Invermoriston campsite. The victim wis an American woman named Tiani Brueggert, identified by a weddin’ ring taken from the remains o’ a digit on her severed left hand. While we’ve found traces o’ other body parts an’ a large quantity o’ blood, the rest o’ the victim’s body remains missin’. This suggests the victim’s assailant either took the body with him for disposal, or tossed it intae the Loch. As we speak, two boats are dred­gin’ a two-kilometer area along Loch Ness’s shoreline. Technically, it is possible the woman is still alive.”

  “Sheriff, are you suggestin’ the victim was kidnapped?”

  “I’m only statin’ that, at this time, we have no body, only nonvital body parts. However, an’ this is only a preliminary report, medical examiners have determined that the woman’s left arm wis severed by an extremely sharp serrated instrument, possibly a long blade, an’ yes, possibly by an animal’s bite.”

  The room buzzed with opinion.

  “Quiet please! As our guest, Dr. Wallace, has pointed out, if it wis an animal, the bite radius wid be bigger than any species inhabitin’ our glen—”

  “Except for Nessie!”

  Murmurs filled the chamber.

  “Go on an’ ask him whit it wis, Olmstead, he should know!”

  “Come on, Wallace, wis it Nessie or no’?”

  The provost banged a thick palm against the table for quiet. “This is a Council meetin’, no’ a mob scene. Sheriff Olmstead’s tellin’ us whit he knows, no’ whit you want tae hear.”

  “An’ what is Nessie exactly?” the sheriff threw back at them. “Last I heard, legends don’t kill people. If it wis an amphibious beast, does that make it Nessie? An’ since when does Nessie attack humans?”

  One of the council rose, pointing at me. “Whit aboot him? He wis attacked.”

  “Not according to the physician’s report,” Judge Hannam retorted. “Now all of you, I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say, because how we react to these grave circumstances will determine how the rest of the world perceives this little community we call home. My courtroom’s already been turned into theater, and unless we keep a handle on this woman’s murder, this whole Nessie thing’s going to blow right up in our faces, just like all the expeditions did back in the 1960s.”

  Lorrie Paulsen, Deputy Chairman of Tourism, stood, address­ing the Council. “Before ye shut doon this story, Mr. Provost, there’s another issue we need tae consider, and that’s tourism. As everyone in this room kens a’ too well, tourism’s been way doon. But this trial, it’s already havin’ a positive impact on our economy. I’m receivin’ reports frae a’ ower the Great Glen that hotels an’ bed-’n’-breakfasts are fillip’ up fast, an’ most o’ that’s jist frea the media. Jist wait until season hits. This could be the best summer we’ve had in thirty years ... in fact, I spoke wi’ the airlines less than an hour ago, an’ flights comin’ in tae Inverness are already booked solid through June. Could be the best thing that’s happened tae the Highlands in a long time.”

  Murmurs of agreement.

  “Ridiculous,” said William Greene, convener of the Northern Joint Police Board. “We’re no’ dealin’ wi’ monster sightings here, this is multiple murders, at least one o’ which wis most likely committed by a man whose ravings aboot a water creature are based on lies an’ circumstantial evidence at best. As tae this recent death, who’s tae say Angus Wallace didnae hire an accomplice tae dae the deed an’ make it look like a monster? This whole thing stinks, if ye ask me.”

  More murmurs, with a few accusing glances aimed my way.

  Jesus ... I’ve got to get off this island before these lunatics lynch me.

  Owen Hollifield signaled for quiet. “Go on, Sheriff.”

  “I don’t disagree wi’ Convener Green’s analogy, but one way or another, we need tae dae somethin’. Whether it wis human or beast that killed that woman, tae me, a’ these summer tourists flockin’ tae Loch Ness jist means more potential victims. How dae we police seventy- six kilometers o’ shoreline? I simply don’t have the men or the means.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?” Judge Hannam offered.

  The provost nodded. “Please do, my lord.”

  “By involving the monster in his defense, Angus Wallace has opened a Pandora’s box on the High Court’s proceedings. Like it or not—and off the record I don’t—what’s done is done, but it’s still my job to see justice served. As such, the only way we’ll ever secure a fair and just verdict is to allow the authorities the opportunity to actually search the Loch. Now I’m not suggesting that a water beast killed John Cialino or this American woman. I’m only saying that the public, and the world, must at least perceive that we’re doing our due diligence to learn the truth, even concerning matters of proving, or, as the case may be, disproving a water beast exists.”

  “Council should offer a reward for proof demonstratin’ Nessie’s existence.” Lorrie Paulsen called out. “I think ten thousand pounds should show we’re serious.”

  Owen Hollifeld scoffed. “I could increase that tenfold wi’ a few phone calls. Discovery Channel an’ National Geographic both called this afternoon, wantin’ permits tae send film crews. Turned them a’ down. Told them we’re considerin’ offerin’ exclusive rights tae the highest bidder.”

  Loud murmurs of agreement.

  “Do as you need to do,” the judge countered, “but I’m only delay­ing the trial for two weeks. That’s about as long as I can keep this jury sequestered.”

  That sent the room abuzz once more.

  The provost banged his hand again. “Run yer trial as ye see fit, Neil, but I can’t allow dozens o’ monster hunters cruisin’ Loch Ness without rhyme or reason. It’s counterproductive, an’ it’s dangerous. Seen it all before. Amateurs start playin’ Moby Dick, comin’ out wi’ dynamite and home-made bombs. What we need is someone tae manage this whole affair, someone
whose credentials are unquestioned.”

  All eyes turned toward me, and I realized that this was why the judge had insisted I be at the meeting.

  “How about it, Dr. Wallace?”

  “Sorry, my lord, you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Actually, ye’re perfect,” William Greene declared. “Ye were born in the Highlands, yer reputation as a marine biologist precedes ye, an’ ye’re related tae the accused, which means ye’ll dae everything in yer power, as far as the public’s concerned, tae complete an efficient, yet comprehensive search. An’ those scars—”

  “What about them? Half the world thinks I was bitten by a beast, the rest think I doctored them in order to save my father. My reputa­tion as a scientist is being destroyed even as we speak.”

  “Then prove them wrong,” the provost said. “There’s somethin’ very real goin’ on in Loch Ness, has been ever since the A82 was blasted. Your testimony an’ involvement could finally separate fact from fantasy.”

  “Forget it. This whole affair’s been humiliating enough, and besides, there’s plenty of other qualified scientists out there. Kevin Gonzalez at Scripps, or that British scientist, Antony Chomley. And what about Robert Rines? Dr. Rines has far more experience than—”

  “Dr. Rines has been up and down the Loch a thousand times,” Judge Hannam retorted. “No, you were our first choice, Dr. Wallace. If Nessie’s really out there, then we’re convinced you’ll find her.”

  “And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me in contempt again? No, I don’t think so. See, I may have been born here, but I’m an American citizen now, and my government will have a few things to say to Parliament if the High Court of Inverness jails one of its more prominent scientists just because he refused to search your lake for monsters.”

  From the judge’s dour expression, I knew I had him.

  “Now, Lord Hannam, if you don’t mind, it’s been a bit too real and not much fun, but I need to make some quick flight arrangements if I’m to be back home in Florida by tomorrow night. Hasta la vista.”

  I made it halfway to the exit before Sheriff Olmstead stopped me. “Lord Hannam?”