Loch, The Page 25

  At that moment, I felt like Dorothy, lost in the land of Oz. Calum Forrest was my Scarecrow, pointing me toward the yellow brick road, warning me to ignore the wicked witch and stay focused on the path that lay ahead. Yet what he wasn’t saying seemed more important than what he was. Surrounded by clues, I was homing in on the truth, but still couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

  Calum Forrest. Blood of the MacDonald and Stewart clans, and no doubt a member of the Black Knights. He knows what Nessie is, but as a Black Knight, he can’t say. Still, as water bailiff it’s his sworn duty to pro­tect the Loch, but that’s causing a conflict with his blood oath to the Black Knights.

  “So he’s reaching out to me, hoping I’ll resolve the problem for him.”

  As if in response, the heavens growled, unleashing a flash of white lightning that disappeared over Aldourie Castle.

  “Okay, Dorothy, time to find the wizard.”

  Wait ... what was it Calum said about salmon? The spawning grounds ... he wanted me to take a look.

  Tightening the straps of my backpack, I jogged south, hoping to make it to Brackla and the Clansman Hotel before being struck by lightning.

  Clansman Hotel

  Brackla

  7:45 P.M.

  Vietnam veteran Pete Lindner sat on the transom of his seven­teen-meter cruise ship, Wiley, keeping an eye on the weather as he finished off the last of his prawns and white wine. Two years earlier, the former billing manager at Verizon had taken an early retirement when Jonathan Deval, an old war buddy in the Royal Navy, had offered him a partnership in his Great Glen touring business. Since then, Lindner had spent his winters in New York with the grandkids and his summers in the Highlands, ferrying passengers up and down the Caledonian Canal from Fort William to Inverness.

  But recent events had forced a change in plans. The business was clearly in Loch Ness, and the profits were too high to be wasting time and fuel trekking back and forth all the way to Fort William. So Lindner told his partner he’d stay put in the Loch, riding the tourism wave as long as he could, even if it meant mooring off Cherry Island.

  Locating an open berth at the Clansman was sheer luck, tougher than finding a parking space in Manhattan.

  Lindner finished off another prawn as a rental car screeched to a halt in the adjacent parking lot. Three men exited the vehicle, all in their early thirties, their laughter egged on by the alcohol moving through their bloodstream.

  The leader and oldest of the three was an American named Chuck Jones, a talented musician who had once toured with Lynyrd Skynyrd. Jones was on hiatus from his job in law enforcement, forced to the sidelines because of a severe neck injury. The man who had planned the vacation was his cousin, Ron Casey, who also worked for the police, but as a crime scene photographer. The youngest of the trio, Chad Brager, was a former USC ice hockey defenseman and Ron Casey’s best friend. The three had been on holiday in London when word of the Nessie attacks had broken. A road accident, a brainstorm­ing session, and a quick shopping spree provided them with equip­ment and a plan.

  Chuck Jones popped the trunk of the rental car, stepping aside to allow his more adept buddies to struggle with a heavy burlap bag and what looked like the carrying case for a trumpet.

  Amused, Lindner watched as the three made their way onto the pier, stopping at berth after berth to negotiate with the local boat captains. In succession, each shook his head no, forcing the Americans to continue their search.

  Eventually they came to the Wiley.

  “Evenin’,” said Jones. “That’s a fine boat you’ve got there. Twin die­sels. Hydraulic stabilizers. Classic displacement. Bet she’s a steady ride.”

  “Think you know your boats, do you?”

  Chad Brager smiled. “A fellow American, thank God. I swear, I can’t understand half the things these Highlanders say.”

  Lindner nodded. “So boys, what’re you up to?”

  “Actually,” said Jones, “we were hoping to do some night fishing.”

  “I’m a cruise ship, not a charter. What’s in the burlap bag?”

  “Bait.” The Americans laughed.

  Jones leaned in closer. “We don’t really need a charter, what we want is to do a little night trolling. You know, maybe catch Nessie on film.”

  Lindner sipped his wine, half-concealing his grin. “Show me what’s in the burlap bag.”

  Jones nodded to Brager, who untied the canvass, revealing a dead sheep, its hindquarters broken and disfigured. “Local farmer sold it to us. Said a tourist backed over it this morning as he pulled out of a lay-by.”

  Jones pointed to the transom. “We’ve brought plenty of cable. Be easy to rig to your boat.”

  Lindner chuckled. “Boys, there’s thousands of people lining the banks of Loch Ness trying to photograph this creature. What makes you think you’re gonna capture it on film, and at night, no less?”

  “I’m a professional photographer,” Ron Casey said, patting his carrying case. “Do most of my work at night. Even with the cloud cover, we’ll have a nice full moon in a few hours, with plenty of light to do some long exposures.”

  “We’ve got the bait, that’s half the battle.” Jones said, growing serious. “We’re willing to pay a little extra ... if you can handle the pressure.”

  “Save the psychology, I’m immune.” Lindner looked them over, estimating their worth. “Four hundred for the night, and that’s pounds, not dollars. Plus I get 10 percent of anything you make from these photos, assuming you get lucky.”

  “Ten percent?” Chad shook his head. “No sale.”

  Jones checked his wallet for cash. “Tell you what, we’ll bump it to four-fifty, but you’ll get nothing from the photos.”

  Lindner drained the rest of his wine, casually glancing at the weather. Though the Loch was still smooth, the wind was picking up. With any luck, the rain would come, and it’d be an early night.

  “Okay, gentlemen, but I wanna see cash up front. And keep that dead animal in its bag until after we hit deep water. I don’t need the water bailiff hassling me.”

  Clansman Hotel

  10:45 P.M.

  The full moon was just peaking over the eastern mountains by the time I staggered up the tarmac leading into the Clansman Hotel. I called True on my cell phone, leaving him a message to meet me in the lobby as soon as he could. I was tired and sore and hungry, and I smelled something awful, plus my skin itched from dried peat. Heading inside, I figured I’d use the public rest room, clean myself up a bit, then get some take-out food while I waited.

  Bad move.

  The banquet room was cordoned off for a private party, packed with celebrities and media and local officials.

  I approached the maitre d’, who looked at me like I had just crawled out of a sewer. “Sorry, sir, this is invitation only.”

  “That’s okay, I just want to order some takeout. Where can I—”

  “This is the Clansman Hotel, sir, no’ a McDonald’s. Why don’t ye try a local farmhouse.”

  “Zachary Wallace!”

  It was David Caldwell, dressed in a tuxedo, surrounded by report­ers. He approached with his entourage, wasting no time in baiting me. “Jesus, Zack, you smell like something the cow just shit. What’ve you been doing for work since the University fired you? Cleaning outhouses?”

  My mind screamed at me to walk away, but my ego, ignoring the left side of my brain, instead chose to step in the proffered dung. “David, how’s your face?”

  “Bruises heal, Zack. Too bad the same doesn’t apply to damaged reputations.”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t be long before the locals see you for the phony you are.”

  “Days, Zack. In a few days I’ll have captured a legend, and you’ll be nothing more than a speed bump on my road to fame and fortune.” He turned to his right and waved. “Over here, babe.”

  My eyes widened as Brandy approached. She was wearing an ebony cocktail dress with a plunging neckline that revealed the swell of her deeply tann
ed breasts. She moved like she knew she belonged.

  “Brandy, you’ve met my former colleague, Zachary Wallace.”

  “Aye, though I’ve smelled him in better days. Did ye get lost on the moors then, Zack?”

  My mind searched for a witty retort.

  “Maybe.”

  Brilliant.

  Brandy slipped her arm around David’s waist, her accent strain­ing to be more American than Scottish. “So, have you heard? David’s selected the Nessie III to be the lead vessel in his quest to capture the monster. We’ll be spending quite a lot of time together.”

  The Gael in my blood boiled. “Yeah? Well this time, I hope you’re heavily insured.”

  That one put the fury of the Highlands back in her. “At least I willnae be havin’ tae worry about bunkin’ down alone at night.”

  David smirked. “Brandy told me about that whole impotence thing. Geez, Zack, tough break. I can only thank God I don’t have that kind of problem.” He winked, patting Brandy’s buttocks. “If you see the Nessie III rockin’, don’t come a-knockin.”

  I leaped for him, fingers splayed, aiming to crush his birdlike windpipe—only I forgot about that cursed velvet rope.

  My knees caught and, unable to right my balance beneath the weight of my backpack, I fell face-first to the floor.

  David stepped back and laughed. Patrons circled, a few photographers even snapping pictures. Before I could react, I was lifted off the floor by two large security guards and physically escorted out the rear exit.

  Loch Ness

  12:02 A.M.

  The moon was high in the midnight sky, its rays filtered behind a thin veil of cirrus clouds.

  Ron Casey stood behind the Wiley’s transom, his camera poised atop the Bogen Manfrotto wilderness-style tripod. He rubbed at his eyes, tired after four hours of peering through the Nikon F3HP. Through the 300mm f4.5 telephoto lens, he could still see the dead sheep as it bounded along the surface, several hundred feet off the stern. One end of the heavy-steel cable had been rigged to a cleat located behind the twin engines’ mount, the other was attached to their bait. Chuck had slit the animal’s belly open just before he’d released it, and in the near- perfect nocturnal light and powerful zoom lens, Casey could just make out what remained of the sheep’s floating entrails.

  What Chuck and Ron had failed to mention to the Wiley’s cap­tain was that the cable was attached to the carcass by a seven-inch steel hook, its barbed end threaded between the sheep’s rib cage and out its mouth.

  Chad Brager drained the rest of his beer and belched. “So? Still floating?”

  “Barely. I’ll wait a few more minutes before I shoot another series of 30-second exposures.”

  “You sure this high-speed film’ll work?”

  “I’m not using it, I told you that three hours ago. Faster speeds aren’t better for long exposures, the images come out too grainy. Drink your beer, I know what I’m doing.”

  Chuck Jones leaned in to whisper. “Forget that nonsense, I’m out to hook that sum’bitch. You guys can take all the photos you want after we haul its dead ass back to port.”

  “Yeah, well I’d settle for one blurred shot at this point. You sure this captain knows what he’s doing?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Jones stumbled forward, entering the pilothouse. “So what’s the story, skipper? Been four frickin’ hours and we still haven’t seen a goldfish on that fish finder of yours. You sure that thing’s working?”

  “It’s working fine. Maybe that full-proof bait of yours is scaring the fish away.”

  “Or maybe we should try another spot?”

  “It’s your money, I just figured you’d want to create a nice scent trail.” Lindner pointed to the ship’s navigational console and a real- time GPS chart representing Loch Ness. “We’ve been cruising back and forth between Brackla and Urquhart Bay. The area’s a hot spot for Nessie sightings. Better to keep the scent strong in one locale ... unless you think otherwise.”

  “No, guess that makes sense. Hey, what’re all these bright objects on your screen?”

  “Sonar buoys. Power pack gives off thermal radiation. The Loch’s lined with ‘em now, but I don’t think they’ve become active yet. Just as well. All that pinging scares away the big fish.”

  Clansman Wharf

  12:20 A.M.

  Dr. Michael Newman, associate director at the National Institute of Standards and Technology, waited impatiently on the dock as two local delivery men stacked the last of the seven aluminum crates into the Nessie III’s pilothouse. Newman scrawled his name in triplicate on the offered invoice, then turned as David Caldwell and the local woman made their way, arm in arm, toward the berth.

  “Ah, there’s Dr. Newman now. So, Doctor, is everything hooked up and ready to go?”

  “No, everything’s not hooked up and ready to go. The equipment just arrived, it took six hours just to get it out of customs, and another two hours to find a delivery company, all of which you were supposed to handle. We need to speak.”

  “Speak.”

  “In private.”

  “It’s okay,” Brandy said, “I’ll see ye on board.” As the two men watched, she removed her spiked heels, hitched up her dress, then climbed over the rail.

  David watched her climb aboard the Nessie III. “God, what a package. So Newman, what’s up?”

  “I can see what’s up. Look, Caldwell, when you came to the NIST seeking help, we agreed to lend you our equipment, not risk it.”

  “How are you risking it?”

  “Are you kidding? This boat’s older than dirt and about as buoyant. The engine’s on its last legs, the interior’s way too small for our needs, the electrical system’s been hot-wired and it’s totally inadequate, the bilge pump’s shot, and I’ve seen logs with better stability.”

  “Yes, but you’re forgetting the importance of keeping the locals involved. It’s good PR, plus it opens doors.”

  “I know what door it’s opening. I’ve also seen plenty of local fish­ing boats that would easily meet our needs.”

  “Maybe, but I’m dealing with television and the global media, and the Nessie III’s owner’s got a body on her that can boil water.”

  Newman slammed his clipboard against a piling. “Listen here, Caldwell, I will not risk tens of thousands of dollars worth of state- of-the-art sonar equipment just so you can get laid.”

  “Shh, geez, calm down. Look, first thing in the morning, I’ll get the Inverness Council guy to requisition a new generator. That’ll solve your power needs, the rest we’ll figure out as we go.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “It’ll all work out, trust me. Meanwhile, go check in. Order some room service and a movie or something, then get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  12:25 A.M.

  I remained hidden beneath a grove of pine trees, watching David converse with his obviously agitated companion.

  He was not the only one who was seething.

  First, David had used me as a scapegoat, costing me my job with FAU. Then my so-called colleague had taken credit for my Architeuthis lure at his press conference.

  Now he was stealing my girl!

  Okay, maybe Brandy wasn’t exactly my girl, but she certainly didn’t belong with that scumbag.

  I ground my teeth, watching as the man David had been talking to left Brandy’s boat and headed down the dock to the hotel. David waved half-heartedly, then climbed aboard the Nessie III.

  “Look at that cocky bastard. Now he thinks he’s gonna sleep with her.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and tried calling True again, but there was still no answer at the lodge. Probably getting hammered at Sniddles.

  Or maybe it’s a sign, the right side of my brain whispered to me. Don’t just sit around and let this candy-ass move in on your girl. Get off your butt and do something about it!

  Leaving my backpack beneath the trees, I hurried down the hill, then crept quietly onto the
pier.

  Loch Ness

  12:32 A.M.

  Pete Lindner’s heart jumped a few beats as the red blip materialized on his fish finder. “Hey ... hey!” He banged on the back window of his pilothouse, getting Chad Brager’s attention. “We’ve got company.”

  Brager hurried into the pilothouse. “What is it?”

  “Hard to tell. Look for yourself.” He pointed to the screen where a red blip was shadowing the Wiley. “It’s pretty deep, two, maybe three hundred feet down and still a ways back, but we’ve got its attention.”

  “Jesus. How big’s this thing?”

  “Big, too big, which is why you shouldn’t get too excited yet. It’s prob­ably just a school of char, they like it about those depths. Just the same, tell your photographer buddy to keep shooting, maybe he’ll get lucky.”

  Chad hurried from the pilothouse and returned to the stern. “Captain says there’s something big following the bait. It’s either a school of fish, or ... “

  “Yeah!” Jones pumped his fists. “A hundred and fifty thousand pounds. What’s that in dollars, Casey?”

  “Who cares? Will you quit jumping!” Casey hunched over his camera, his right thumb pressed against the free end of the cable lock, keeping the telephoto lens open. “Damn it, we’re starting to bounce again. Chad, go tell the captain to cut his speed.”

  “What am I, your errand boy?”

  “Just do it.”

  Ron Casey returned his right eye to the telephoto lens. As he watched, the bait suddenly disappeared.

  “Whoa.”

  “Whoa what?”

  “Either our bait sank, or it was just snatched.”

  “Look!” Jones pointed to the length of steel cable as it strained against the cleat. “We hooked it, baby!”

  Fiberglass moaned, then began cracking along the edges of the cleat.

  Casey looked at Jones, a lump in his throat. “I thought you said this boat could handle a big load?”

  “It can, I mean it should. The monster must’ve gone deep. Maybe the—”

  Captain Lindner bounded from the pilothouse. “What the hell’s going on back here?”