Loch, The Read online

  “Enough! Ye think it wis God who created these monsters? ‘Twis Satan for sure, an’ noo they shall dae oor biddin’. Hand me the Bruce’s casket.”

  MacDonald had widened a fissure in the rock face jist above the entry that had brought us tae this hellhole. Gently, he placed the silver container ontae the newly-crafted shelf, then covered it wi’ Templar Cloth. “May the Bruce’s divine spirit keep Satan at bay, and may his Holy Grail be returned to the light when God so determines Scotland shall again be free.”

  I pause noo frae writin’ this entry. Sir Keef has announced the gate is ready tae be lowered intae its frame, a task that will require oor combined strength.

  God willin’, my next entry shall be made by light o’ day.

  Chapter 24 Quotes

  « ^ »

  My friend, James Cameron, and I were fishing in a small boat about two hundred meters off Tor Point, close to Aldourie Castle. It was about 10:00 PM. when the boat started rocking on calm water. Suddenly, the head and neck of a large animal reared from the Loch, not more than 30 meters from us. A moment later it descended, leaving much commotion in the water. The head I saw was wide and ugly and continuous with the curve of the neck, and it looked like it had a brown-black mane.

  —DAN MCINTOSH, DORES, JULY 1963

  My brother-in-law, James, and I went our from Inverness that evening, our intention—to walk from Dores to Tor Point. And then we saw it! Paddling across the Loch was this black creature. There was almost no commotion in the water and it made great speed.

  —MISS E.M. J. KEITH, HEADMISTRESS, ROTHIENORMAN SCHOOL, ABERDEENSHIRE, 30 MARCH 1965

  The head was similar to that of a python, the neck was elongated and thickened as it tapered back. I could not see the body, but whatever moved it through the water was a strong method of propulsion. I was fascinated and thrilled ... and, at the same time, frightened.

  —JAMES BALLANTYNE (BROTHER-IN-LAW), 30 MARCH 1965

  Chapter 24

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  MY LEFT ANKLE ACHED as I rode the Harley-Davidson north on the A82, heading for Inverness. X-rays had revealed no broken bones, but the ankle was badly bruised and swollen, and required more than forty stitches to close wounds inflicted by the Anguilla’s barbed vomerine teeth. My bandaged foot was now immobilized in a walking boot, a contraption consisting of sacs filled with compressed air and a series of Velcro straps.

  True had left a half dozen messages on my cell phone, but I was avoiding his calls. The Black Knights had found me too easily the night before, and while I was grateful for being rescued, I felt sure it had been True who had tipped them off to look for me.

  I thought of Calum Forrest’s words: Be fair warned, Young Wallace, when it comes tae Loch Ness trust nae one, for there’s far mair at stake than ye can possibly imagine.

  I trusted True with my life, but decided to keep him in the dark about my new plans, beginning with the autopsy and toxicology report on the eel’s remains.

  Bypassing the sheriff’s department left me few choices in regards to locating a lab. Forensic pathology in Scotland is usually contracted out through universities. The Northern Constabulary used Aberdeen University’s toxicology department, while the Grampian Police sent samples to their lab in Aberdeen. In both cases, results still had to cross the sheriff’s desk. Raigmore Hospital had a lab, but the chances of gaining access without calling attention to myself were slim to none.

  That left me one last option.

  Tidwell Animal Center was a small redbrick building located on Perth Road, not far from Raigmore Hospital. Earlier that morning I had phoned the proprietor and head veterinarian, a woman named Mary Tidwell. I described myself as visiting pathologist, hired by my cousin, a local farmer, to investigate the slaughter of one of his prized sheep. As it was a Sunday, she agreed to rent me use of her lab for a few hours, then send out for blood work on Monday.

  Parking the Harley around back, I removed the bloodied burlap sack and my cane from the motorcycle’s boot, tucked my baseball cap over my head, and hobbled to the side entrance.

  Mary Tidwell greeted me at the door. A transplanted American in her late forties, her accent revealed a Midwestern upbringing.

  “Dr. Botchin?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, nearly forgetting my alias. “Really appreciate this. And please, call me Spencer.”

  “Anything for a fellow American, Spencer. My, what happened to your foot?”

  “Dog bite. Damn pit bulls. Once they get hold of you ... well, you know.”

  “The sheep remains are in that bag?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It seems rather heavy and quite bloody. May I see it?”

  “Wish I could, because personally, I’d love your opinion, but I gave my cousin my word about keeping things quiet.”

  “I respect that. Come in.”

  She led me through a linoleum-floored hallway reeking of animal feces, then to a green-tiled surgical chamber. “That’ll be forty pounds for use of the lab and another thirty for the blood toxicology report.” I dug through my pocket, handing her a wad of bills.

  “Of course, Spencer, if there’s any chance the sheep has contracted anthrax—”

  “No, ma’am, I assure you, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Still, Dr. Wallace, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on exam­ining whatever’s in the bag.”

  “Dr. Wallace?”

  She gave me a disarming smile. “Come now, Zachary, surely you don’t think that cap’s a suitable disguise. Your face has been on every tele­cast and newspaper for weeks. Now level with me, what’s in the bag?”

  I decided Mary Tidwell was someone I could trust, mostly because I had little choice, but being American, I knew she held no ties to any clans. I told her about my investigation and how I’d been attacked, leaving out all references to the Black Knights. She agreed to help me, and within minutes, we had donned surgical gloves, masks, eye shields, and gowns and were extracting vials of blood from the lower torso of the decapitated Anguilla eel’s remains.

  “I’ll have to send these samples out to the lab for analysis,” she told me, “but I’ll keep everything under my name. They’ll do an ini­tial test using an immunoassay kit, isolating negative specimens from potentially positive ones. If toxins are present, a second test, using a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer should tell us what’s present.”

  “If it’s okay, I want to examine the Anguilla’s brain,” I said, remov­ing the football-sized head from the sac.

  Dr. Tidwell handed me a scalpel, and I began cutting through the thick, rubbery flesh, peeling it away until I reached the skull. She took over with an electric saw, making several transverse cuts through the dense bone. Prying open the incisions, she was able to remove the cross sections, exposing the eel’s brain.

  The small organ, about as narrow as the spinal cord to which it was connected, resembled six hen eggs, set in two rows of three.

  Dr. Tidwell pointed to the numerous pustulant brown lesions that covered the creature’s brain. “This animal’s definitely been exposed to toxins, and judging by the extent of these lesions, it’s been over a prolonged period of time.”

  “How could it have survived?”

  “Oh, these Anguilla are hardy animals, able to inhabit fresh and salt water, even in heavily polluted areas. When it comes to injuries of the central nervous system, they have the ability to effect repairs by regenerating axons from cell bodies located in the brain. What concerns me are these lesions here, in the forebrain. They’ll have destroyed the eel’s traits of initiative and caution.”

  “Resulting in overly aggressive behavior?”

  “Definitely. Considering how nasty this fish is to begin with, I’d say you were lucky to only sustain minor injuries.”

  “Then, assuming Loch Ness’s largest inhabitant was affected by these same lesions—”

  “Yes, that might explain why it’s been on a rampage of late ... assuming, of course, the monster, whate
ver it is, has a similar nervous systems and was exposed to the same sort of toxins.”

  She collected a few samples of brain tissue, then bagged the skull. “I have a friend who’s a technician at the lab. I’ll give her a call, maybe she can get the results back to me within the next few days. Where can I reach you?”

  I gave her my hotel and cell phone number. “Mary, I’d appreciate it if you said nothing about this to anyone. There’s a political under­current that seems to control things in the Highlands, and—”

  She nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I was weaving in and out of traffic again, this time racing the Harley south on the A82, heading back to Drumnadrochit. Pieces of the Loch Nessie puzzle whirled in my mind like a centrifuge. A solution was forming, but there were still a few important clues missing, and to acquire the next one meant con­fronting a ghost from my past.

  Entering the village, I pulled off the side of the road leading up to Glen Urquhart and the Drumnadrochit Lodge, then phoned True.

  “Zack, geezus, lad, where’ve ye been?”

  “I had a little accident last night, but I’m all right. Can you meet me at the Clansman Wharf as soon as possible? I need to speak with your sister.”

  “Sure, sure, be there in twenty.”

  Several minutes later, True’s pickup truck drove by, accelerating past my hiding place and onto the main highway.

  Maybe it was the anxiety of confronting the Crabbit, maybe it was the fact that I was getting closer to learning the truth, but as I waited until the dust settled, subliminal images splayed across my mind’s eye like a photographer’s flash—strange, shattered memories from the first time I had drowned.

  Dark water, as cold as death. My scrawny limbs, heavy as lead, unable to move. A nightmarish presence ... rising beneath me to finish its meal, then something else ... a second boat and a light.

  I closed my eyes and tried to remain calm, willing the shunted memories to come, hoping to catch a glimpse of a past that continued to elude me.

  And then the long-sought image came into focus.

  It was a light, appearing next to an approaching boat, far above my head and just below the surface, and it cast its heavenly glow into the depths, parting the curtains of blackness—revealing the monster! It was dark and frightening and as large as any whale, and its terrible jaw was open, poised around my waist, The points of its teeth pressed against my frail body, tasting my flesh, unsure if I was edible prey. But the light was now passing directly overhead, the brightness of its blessed beacon burning into those freakish jaundice-yellow eyes. The hideous creature darted away, releasing me to another light ...

  A warm feeling came over me then, as I vaguely recalled see­ing old man MacDonald in his rowboat as my spirit hovered over him. He was drenched in my blood, his bearded mouth pumping my purple lips with his life-giving breaths, until I gagged and wretched at the sudden, agonizing pain and opened my eyes, staring up into his shaggy, pit bull face.

  I had cried as I bled in his arms, then passed out as he carried me through the woods to the nearest doctor.

  He had saved my life, but did I ever thank him? The only thing I could recall was waking in my own bed days later, feverish and sore from having been stitched back together.

  In the weeks to come, my body would heal, my mind choosing to bury the truth of my near-death experience with my childhood.

  * * *

  I found Alban MacDonald in his private room behind the lobby desk. He was whittling a piece of hickory with his Sgian Dubh. The dangerous—looking blade of the stainless steel knife was capped with a staghorn handle.

  The sight of the weapon let a bit of air out of my ballooning con­fidence. Gripping my cane, I entered his domain.

  “Mr. MacDonald, do you have a minute?”

  “No.”

  “The Anguilla’s brain was filled with lesions.”

  “Dinnae ken nothin’ aboot any eel.”

  “The lesions are affecting their behavior, sir, making them unnat­urally aggressive. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Go away. I dinnae have time for yer blethers.”

  “Whatever’s causing the lesions in the eel population is probably affecting the monster’s behavior, too.”

  He ignored me, continuing his whittling.

  “We need to talk.” I hobbled toward him, refusing to cower, even as he rose to his feet, brandishing the knife.

  “I said go away!”

  “You want to stab me? Go ahead. I already owe you my life, it’s yours to take back if you want it. But I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”

  He stared at me for a god-awful minute, then lowered the blade, slipping it back into its leather sheath as he fell slowly back into his rocking chair. “Whit is it ye want?”

  “Seventeen years ago, when you saved my life, you knew the creature that attacked me was afraid of bright light. How did you know?”

  “I served as water bailiff a long time. I ken whit I ken.”

  “What else can you tell me about the creature?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “It’s trapped in Loch Ness, isn’t it?”

  The old man looked up at me then, his expression of concern confirming my suspicions. “Go ask yer rabbittin’ faither, seein’ as he’s the one that’s been fillin’ yer heid.”

  “You’re wrong about Angus. He refuses to tell me anything, and it’s his life that’s at stake.”

  MacDonald scoffed.

  “What was the sworn mission of the Black Knights, Mr. MacDonald? How does it relate to the creature?”

  He stood, his patience shot. “I think it’s high time ye were gone.”

  “I’ll go, but those monster hunters won’t be leaving. This time they’ll stay until they’ve captured the creature, or are forced to kill it. Either way, it’ll be on your head.”

  I hobbled out of his chamber, then out the lodge to the Harley. I climbed on the bike and was about to gun the engine when I saw the old man emerge.

  For a moment, I wondered if he meant to talk or stab me.

  “I have yer word as kin o’ Sir William Wallace that ye’ll no’ speak o’ this tae anyone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He fidgeted, still contemplating his decision. “Dinnae ask me again aboot the Black Knights, that I take wi’ me tae the grave. As tae the monster, I dinnae ken whit she is, I’ve only caught glimpses o’ her twice, a’ I ken is she’s the last o’ her kind, though whit kind, again, I cannae say. She’s big, though, bigger’n any afore her, an’ that’s ‘cause she’s been trapped a long time, unable tae leave the Loch Ness tae spawn. Nature took ower an’ jist let her grow. Born in blackness, she’ll aye prefer the deep, at least she aye did ‘til jist this past winter. At first I thought it wis a’ the blastin’ at that damn resort that sent her topside, jist like it did when she attacked ye seventeen years ago. But I wis wrong. Somethin’ isnae right wi’ the Loch, an’ it’s affected her mind an’ her appetite, jist as it’s affected the eels. Lesions, ye say?”

  “Caused by some kind of toxin in the water. I don’t know where it’s originating from or why it hasn’t been detected up until now, but it’s definitely affecting the wildlife.”

  “Aye, but there’s a more immediate problem. The creature’s tasted human flesh again, an’ that makes her very dangerous. Same sort o’ thing happened long ago with another o’ her kind, back when I was a lad. Still, I dinnae want tae see her put doon, she’s served us well.”

  Served who well? The Black Knights?

  “Dae ye think ye can free her to the sea?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s the Loch’s underwater access route into the Moray Firth?”

  He shook his head. “Off wi’ ye now, laddie. Godspeed.”

  I started the engine, then shut it off. “Mr. MacDonald, thank you for saving my life.”

  He hesitated, then shook my offered hand. “Make it a life worth savin’.
One mair thing. Her eyes may be weak frae aye livin’ in the dark, but her sense o’ smell’s unequaled. That’s how she hunts. It’s said she can sense a man by smellin’ the terror in his blood. So take heed.”

  I nodded, then gunned the engine and drove off, feeling as if an old scar had finally been picked clean to heal.

  Clansman Hotel

  True was waiting for me in the parking lot when I rolled in ten minutes later. “Ye’re late. Sweet Jesus, whit happened tae yer foot?”

  “I fed it to an Anguilla eel.” I glanced over his shoulder to the wharf and a hub of activity. “What’s going on down there?”

  “‘trucks arrived this mornin’ wi’ some steel nettin’. A’ the boats are bein’ fitted wi’ them. Urquhart Bay’s been cordoned off intae a giant pen. Now whit’s this aboot an eel?”

  “Later. Is Caldwell down there?”

  “Aye. Playin’ head honcho for the cameras.”

  “Playing’s the word. Can you call Brandy on her cell phone? Ask her to join us up here, I need to speak with her away from Caldwell.”

  Leaning back against a pine tree, I could see Brandy as she swag­gered down the wharf in all her glory, waving to television crews and journalists. True waited for her at the end of the pier, and I watched as brother and sister spoke.

  * * *

  “So, Brandy, then it’s true?”

  “What’re ye talkin’ about?”

  “Zack says ye’re sleepin’ wi’ this Caldwell fella.”

  “Is this what ye called me out for? Tae discuss who I’m buckin’?”

  “I’m concerned, that’s a’. Wi’ a’ ye’ve been through–”

  “Listen here, bro, there isnae anythin’ between David an’ me ‘cept some heavy flirtin’, an’ most o’ that’s for the cameras.”

  “An’ one Zachary Wallace as well, aye? I heard whit happened at the Clansman. Ye’re rubbin’ it in his face, are ye no’?”

  “Aye. An’ if ye let on about it, I’ll smack ye so hard, it’ll kill the fuc’in’ Crabbitt!”

  * * *