The Loch

Chapter 15

True MacDonald arrived early the next morning, bundles of newspapers tucked under each of his burly arms. He pushed my breakfast cart away from my cell door, then shoved a stack of papers in between the iron bars. "Wake up, Zack, there's work to be done."

I pinched sleep from my eyes, then rolled over in bed to the smell of powdered eggs and bad aftershave. "Aren't you a little old to be working a paper route?"

"No' when my best mate's the toast o' Scotland." He handed me an Inverness Courier. "Go on, take a' look at this."

It was hard to tell which was the more shocking, the photo of me standing on the witness chair, exposing part of my buttocks, or the story's headline.

"What a load of crap! I never said I was bitten, and what's with the psychiatric bit? Yes, I saw a shrink, but that doesn't mean I'm nuts. I went one time and—"

"Whit dae ye expect? This is Nessie news. Since when dae facts count for anythin'?"

"You don't understand, True, this is exactly the kind of nonsense that'll destroy my reputation, at least whatever's left of it."

"Why? It wisnae yer fault ye got bitten."

"I wasn't bitten!"

"Sure, sure, but it's better if ye jist say ye cannae remember. Now start signin' the newspapers, I've customers waitin'."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Hey, business is business. Right now, ye're mair popular than Bonnie Prince Charlie. Strike while the iron's hot, that's what I say." He tossed me a felt-tip marker. "Sign them anywhere but across the headlines. We'll get ten pounds sterling fer each, maybe twelve."

"Unbelievable."

True removed a camera from his jacket pocket. "Now I'll be needin' ye tae drop yer pants. The Examiner offered me two hundred pounds for a clear close-up, but I ken I can get more."

"Forget it."

"Why? Ye mooned 'em for free yesterday."

"I said forget it! I'm sick of everyone exploiting this Nessie crap. And you… you're supposed to be my friend. You're as bad as your sister."

"Brandy… I'd almost forgot. I've a message frae her. Come closer so I don't wake Angus."

I leaned in like a dummy, thinking he was going to whisper it in my ear.

Wump! True's fist caught me flush in the breadbasket, dropping me to the concrete floor.

I sat up, fighting to catch my wind. "You big lummoxe, what the hell was that for?"

"That's for steppin' on my sister's heart. Did I no' warn ye Brandy's been havin' an awfy hard time? Last thing she needed wis mair rejection."

"I wasn't rejecting her."

"Ye led her on, then ran off is what I heard."

"Maybe he's no' man enough tae handle yer sister," Angus said, greeting the day with a burst of flatulence.

"Lovely."

"At least I fart like a man, Gertrude, whit's your excuse?"

"Ignore him," I said. "He's a dead man talking."

"Give it a rest, you two. Brandy's condition's nothin' tae joke aboot. Wis bad enough when Alban kicked her oot, but this last go-around in the States, I think somethin' snapped in her pretty little heid."

"What do you mean?"

"When she first got back, I had her stayin' wi' me. One day I found blood a' ower her sheets. She claimed it wis her woman's time, but I found razors tucked inside the mattress. She'd been usin' the blades tae carve up her legs."

"Jesus …"

True helped himself to my breakfast. "Psychiatrist fella, he called it self-mutilation. Says it's part o' Brandy's whole fear o' abandonment thing. Her mood swings like a pendulum, calm one moment, a storm the next."

"So I've noticed."

"Doctors had her on pills, but God only knows if she's still takin' them. I worry aboot her, Zack. Last thing she needs now is another guy steppin' on her heart."

Angus pressed his face between the bars. "Trust me, True, ye dinnae need yer sister hangin' oot wi' the likes o' Zachary. The laddie's battlin' his ain childhood demons, an' he's still feart tae face them."

True looked confused. "Whit's he talkin' aboot?"

"Ignore him."

"Wish I could've ignored thae bloody screams," Angus said. "A' night, yellin' like a lunatic, jist like he did after the first accident. Head doctors had a fancy name for it… post-traumatic somethin' somethin', but I just called it what it was — bein' feart. Waste o' time, a' that analysis, I should've jist tossed him right back in the Loch the day after it happened. That wid have nicked it in the arse, right there an' then."

I shook my head. "Growing up with a father like you, it's a wonder they haven't locked me up in a mental ward by now."

"Boo-hoo. Jist remember, Gretchen, it's you who has tae live wi' these nightmares, an' ye're the only one who can stop them."

"How's that?" asked True, finishing off my breakfast.

"By findin' the monster, o' course. Zachary may be feart, but he kens how this monster thinks. That's how he brought the De'il tae the surface the first time."

"You're insane."

"At least my memory works, as does Nessie's, an' believe you me, now that the dragon's tasted human flesh again, it'll be comin' up tae feed a lot main"

True's eyes widened. "Nessie's a dragon?"

Angus nodded. "Maybe no' a dragon as we ken it, but these Guivres have got the blood o' a dragon in them."

"What did you call them?"

"A Guivre, Mister Marine Biologist. Accordin' tae lore, Guivres were wingless dragons, resemblin' giant sea serpents. The beasts once resided in a' the Great Glen's lochs, but in winters when food wis scarce, they'd cross countrysides, too, in search o' anythin' they could swallow. Back when I was a lad, yer grandfaither, Logan, taught me a' aboot them. Said they didnae breathe fire like other dragons, but their oily skin spewed noxious vapors, bad enough tae cause vegetation to shrivel an' rot. They're the De'il, they are, but—"

"Butts are for crapping, Angus, and your tale's a load if there ever was one, a pathetic alibi designed to use Nessie's popularity to take the spotlight away from your guilt."

"An' ye're a disgrace tae the tartan an' a' who bore the Wallace name. Since the time o' Saint Columba these De'il's have stalked oor Glen, feastin' off the flesh o' those that droop, yer ain grandfaither among them. You'd be deid, too, if no' for some miracle. Keep ignorin' the truth, but ye cannae run away frae yer fear forever."

"Whit're ye suggestin', Angus?" True asked.

"It's Zachary's callin'. He needs tae help us find this beast an' kill it."

"I'm a scientist, Angus, not a monster hunter."

"Then be a scientist an' find that creature! It's oot there, Zachary, I swear that on my faither's soul, an' ye're the only one that can find it an prove my innocence."

"You swear? Your word means nothing to me. The moment that asshole judge releases me, I'm on the next plane back to Miami."

True cringed as he looked down the corridor. "Uh, Zack—"

"What?"

"The asshole's back," Judge Hannam announced, as he led Sheriff Brian Holmstrom and six brutes dressed in police uniforms toward our cells. "You may release Dr. Wallace, Sheriff, provided he cooperates."

"Cooperates? How?"

Holmstrom, a no-nonsense fellow carrying a muscular build on his smallish frame, opened the cell door, but blocked my exit. "Dr. Wallace, I'm requestin' that ye accompany these men. You will not speak o' anythin' ye see or hear tae anyone other than my inspector, or I shall be forced tae incarcerate ye until ye're as auld an' stupid a man as yer faither."

"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."