The Loch

Chapter 22

Within the hour, I found myself on the northeasternmost point of Loch Ness. From here, I could either find a means to cross the channel known as the Bona Narrows, bringing me again to Loch Ness's western shoreline, or I could continue on following the eastern bank another twelve twisting miles, passing Loch Dochfour and the River Ness — a winding route that would eventually lead to Inverness and the Moray Firth.

The thought of being back on the Loch in a boat unnerved me, so I continued trudging along the eastern shoreline in my wet hiking boots, prepared to walk all the way to Inverness if I had to.

The powers-that-be were about to intercede.

As I approached the Bona lighthouse, I saw the water bailiffs motorboat suddenly race across the channel, then veer sharply towards me.

Calum Forrest waved at me from the pilothouse. "Michty aye, Dr. Wallace. Ye do get a'roond, dae ye no'?"

"So they tell me. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Perhaps there's somethin' I can dae for you. Come aboard, I'll ta' ye across."

"No thanks. I, uh, I think I'll walk."

"What? A' the way tae Dochfour Weir? Dinnae be daft."

Before I could respond, he drove the bow of his vessel onto the gravel shoreline.

I hesitated, my pulse racing.

"C'mon, there's nae need tae worry aboot you-know-who."

His conviction, combined with the size of his boat, gave me the comfort I needed. Pushing the craft's bow away from the shallows, I climbed aboard.

"Just for the record, how can you be so sure our friend won't show up?"

"Gie me a wee bit o' credit. I may no' have yer degrees, doctor, but I've been on these waters since afore ye were in nappies. The big 'uns, they dinnae like the shallows, 'cept lately, 'course, but only after dark."

"Big ones? Then you've seen them?"

"Nah." Calum aimed the boat for the western shoreline, keeping the motor at a low idle so we could speak. "A' I've seen wis the imprint that big female left on Invermoriston beach. Same as you, yeah?"

Female? How did he know it was a female? My eyes darted back and forth between the old man and the water's surface. "But how—"

"I'm the water bailiff, Doc. 'Tis my job tae ken whit goes on in Loch Ness."

"And how do you know it was a female?"

"A quid guess, that's all."

I didn't believe him. "Why didn't you mention any of this in court?"

"Well then, naebody asked me, did they, so stuff them, says I. As for bein' there in the first place, yer faither's bastard barrister sup'ineed me. I said what I had tae, but far as I'm concerned, he can burn in Hell if he thinks any o' us wearin' the tartan'll support Angus's nonsense."

"Then I take it you don't believe my father's story?"

"Nor dae ye, but no' 'cause o' whit I said. So keep at it, young Wallace, yer daein' fine. An' ye're right in focusin' on the Loch as a whole, for the answers tae a' ye seek lie here, no' in chasin' ghosts. But be fair warned, when it comes tae Loch Ness trust nae one, for there's far mair at stake than ye can possibly imagine."

"If you know so much then help me."

He shook his head. "I cannae dae that, laddie. I've taken a blood oath, dae ye ken whit I mean?"

"No, I don't ken… I don't understand. If there's so much at stake—"

"My grandfaither, God rest his soul, wis John Reid Forrest. His mother wis Clan Stewart, his wife, my mum, Clan MacDonald."

Message received. The Forrests were descendants from two of the largest clans in the Highlands. I'd sooner budge a mountain than move Calum Forrest. "And the Black Knights? Were they also part of your heritage?"

"Black Knights? Never heard o' them." He accelerated across the Bona Narrows, barely avoiding a tree stump.

"What separates the Black Knights from the rest of the Templar, Mr. Forrest? What's their mission?"

Calum yanked back on the throttle, then pushed his face in mine, so close I could taste his last meal under his breath. "I dinnae ken nothin' aboot no Black Knights, see, an' dinnae ask me that again."

We rode in silence until we reached the western shore. The old man wiped spray from his brow, then thought for a long moment. "Tell me, lad, have ye been salmon fishin' since ye've been back?"

"Salmon fishing? No. Why? Catch any big ones lately?"

"Naw. I've been too busy wi' a' this trial nonsense. One o' these days, I'll have tae get ower tae their spawnin' grounds an' have a wee look. Or maybe ye should have a look, aye?"

His eyes held mine, ensuring the message was delivered, then he guided us closer to shore, throttling back as the hull scrapped against the shallows.

"Go wi' God, young Wallace. May Sir William's courage flourish in yer heart."

I jumped down to the beach, then watched him speed away without so much as a nod.

I was back in Lochend, the tranquillity of the Great Glen lost amidst the heavy traffic of the A82 at my back. To the south, Loch Ness's waters reached across the valley like the shadow of a giant serpent. Her black waves lapped at my feet, and her distant thunder rumbled above her mountains, threatening an evening shower.

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.

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."

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 tanned 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.

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."

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."

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.

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?"

Casey pointed to the line. "We think we hooked Nessie."

"Hooked? You never said anything about catching it!"

The boat lurched, causing the tripod to tip.

Casey caught the camera as the stern dipped hard to starboard.

The captain fell sideways against one of the outboards, then held on tightly as he examined the cleat. "Are you assholes crazy? The transom's not made to drag this kind of weight."

The boat rolled back to port, the steel cable catching the starboard engine's propeller, sheering off two of its blades.

"Son of a bitch! I just had that prop rebuilt!" The captain hurried back to the pilothouse, Chuck Jones trailing.

"Skipper, relax, you're about to be famous. All we have to do is haul this monster in, and we'll have enough money to buy you a dozen new props."

Lindner shut down the starboard engine, then pushed down on the port throttle, his vessel straining to move against the ungodly force. "Haul it, Mr. Jones? Haul it where?"

"Into the shallows. The Bona Narrows."

"By the time we reach the narrows, this boat'll be kindling."

The vessel rolled hard to starboard again, sending both men caroming across the navigational console.

The captain grabbed hold of the wheel, yanking it hard to port. Pushing down on the throttle, he accelerated, his lone engine fighting to achieve six knots. "Your plan's got a few holes in it, hotshot. For one, whatever you hooked weighs more than my whole damn boat. For another, it ain't too crazy about having a hook in its mouth."

A screech of wrenching steel pierced the night as the cleat and part of the transom wall behind the outboard motors began peeling away from the hull's mainframe.

"Christ, it's tearing my vessel apart!" The captain grabbed the radio. "Mayday, Mayday, this is the Wiley! Mayday… "

Having made it to the Nessie III's berth, I hid behind a piling to listen. I could hear voices belowdecks, but they were muffled.

Seeking a better vantage, I climbed over the rail, creeping forward into the pilothouse.

The tiny cabin was crammed with aluminum equipment cases, stacked high along the back wall, partially covered by a gray tarp. Curious, I pulled back the covering, reading one of the invoice tags in the dim light.

It was equipment for the sonar arrays' master analysis station.

"…David, stop!"

Hearing Brandy's voice, I dropped to my knees and pressed my ear to the deck.

"What's wrong?" David cooed.

"Slow down a wee bit, I'm no' yer whore!"

"Whore? Brandy, you and me, we're a team, partners on a great adventure. When viewers see me, they'll see you. That's the association I'm going for… unless you aren't up to it? I mean, if that's the case, tell me now, because there must've been a hundred applicants dying to be my partner on this gig, but I picked you."

"Why? So ye could get intae my knickers?"

"Of course not. You and me, we have a chemistry. I know you feel it, too, don't you, babe?"

I clenched my fists, ready to storm her cabin.

"Maybe if ye'd slow down a bit, I'd feel it more, yeah?"

"Okay, I'll slow down, but this is the fast track to stardom. You and me, we're gonna be famous. We'll be Hollywood's next power couple. You, uh, do want that, don't you?"

My veins burned as I heard them moaning and kissing.

And then I heard something else — a mob of people, running down the pier.

It was the captains and crew of the three research vessels, all hurrying to make way. A dozen more civilians were heading for the Nessie III, led by the Highland provost.

I was trapped.

Wedging myself into the far back corner of the pilothouse, I dragged the metal cases around me to form a blind, then draped the gray tarp over the top of the stacks.

"Dr. Caldwell! Dr. Caldwell, are ye aboard?"

I heard David stumble up the stairs. "This really isn't a good time, Owen."

"We jist received a Mayday call from a local cruise ship. They claim they've hooked Nessie!"

From a slit between the stacks I saw Brandy dart inside the pilothouse, her shapely legs exposed clear up to the tail of David's dress shirt, which barely covered her buttocks.

The engine sputtered twice, belched a cloud of noxious fumes, then chortled, rattling my skull against the back wall. David entered the pilothouse, shirtless, followed by Owen Hollifield, who barked out orders to Brandy. "Head south, their last reported position wis jist north of Urquhart Bay."

The notion that maybe they'd made a big mistake was firmly planted in Ron Casey's mind as he watched sections of plank tear away from the transom, the rotting fibers disguised behind a fresh coat of paint.

"Chad, hit it again!"

Exhaust billowed from the port outboard as Chad Brager took another whack at the steel cable with the hand axe. "No good, I can't get any leverage, it just keeps bouncing off. If we can …"

Chad paused, he and Ron staring at the cable, which had suddenly gone slack. "What happened?"

"Don't know. Either the cable snapped underwater, or …"

Free of its biological anchor, the Wiley leaped forward and accelerated.

Chad and Ron looked at one another, unsure, then backed away from the transom, their eyes searching the water.

Chuck Jones leaned over the captain's shoulder, staring at the red blip chasing after them on the fish finder. "What do you mean it's rising?"

"Look for yourself, hotshot. It can't free itself by going deep, so now it's coming after us."

The captain stared at the fish finder's depth gauge as its numbers rapidly spun backwards… 43 meters… 29 meters… 14 meters… "Sweet Jesus… hold on!"

Captain Lindner veered hard to port.

Wha-boom! The starboard flank exploded out of the water as if struck by a tank, the blow driving the already listing boat beyond its center of gravity.

The vessel rolled, sending its captain falling sideways as a wall of frigid black water burst through the pilothouse windows. He tumbled in blindness, unable to right himself as the Wiley continued to roll hard to port, seeking its new equilibrium.

Wood and steel groaned in his ears, was muffled, and then the pilothouse settled underwater beneath its breached hull.

The captain pulled himself to his feet, stunned to see the inverted pilothouse filling rapidly with water. Heart pounding, his hands and arms burning from the cold, he pressed his face to the floorboards above his head and sucked in several desperate breaths of air, his mind racing.

Sparks of light sizzled in protest along the navigational consoles. Cans of beer free-floated past his face, startling him in the darkening cabin. The water level continued rising, forcing him to swim in order to breathe. Somewhere below his kicking feet was the ceiling and the sound of a creaking door — his escape route.

Below and to the right.

Captain Lindner ducked his head and kicked for the cabin door. Feeling for the knob, he managed to push it open, then froze.

It was passing beneath the boat, its form revealed in the moonlight. The thickly muscled back was chocolate brown in color, adorned with a horsehair dorsal fin that tapered back to a finless rounded tail. As long and wide as two tour buses connected end to end, the creature moved left, then right, left, then right as it swam, twisting with snakelike undulations.

It passed quickly, and though he had just missed seeing its head, Pete Lindner knew he had seen a sea serpent, as cold as the devil, as ancient as time itself.

His heart thundered in his chest and his lungs threatened to burst, but still the captain refused to venture out, intent on giving the dreadful animal another twenty seconds to vacate the area.

Instead, the cabin, along with his exit, spun counterclockwise and out from under him, and then the capsized boat lurched forward, dragged stern-first through the water by the powerful creature still leashed to its transom.

Trapped underwater, enveloped in darkness, Lindner groped at the suddenly alien walls, desperate to relocate an air pocket that no longer existed. His palms banged awkwardly against the inverted forward windshield, and then he gagged, belching bubbles as he fought blindly to untangle himself from the languid remains of Chuck Jones.

Unable to reason, unable to see, he clawed in ever-tightening circles, fumbling through the suffocating blackness for an exit.

Spent lungs expelled primal gurgles.

Arms stopped moving, eyes ceased seeing.

Silence took the Wiley as the Loch's icy claws reached out once more to claim its dead.

Chad Brager surfaced fifty feet from the capsized boat. Years of playing ice hockey on frozen lakes had acclimated him to the sudden cold, and his lifeguard training at USC kept him from panicking. Treading water, he called out for his companions.

"Chucky! Ron!"

Steam dissipated from his head, his body losing heat rapidly. Gotta get out of this cold water before hypothermia sets in.

He turned to swim back to the boat, then realized the capsized hull was spinning, the boat moving towards him!

"Oh shit …"

Brager turned and swam, his arms and legs barely moving through the layers of clothing. Pausing, he forcibly yanked off his shoes, allowing himself a quick glance back.

The boat's hull was coming at him stern first now, the fractured transom and its cursed steel cable just visible above the waterline.

Brager tore off his windbreaker jacket, then launched himself into a rapid crawl stroke.

Two hundred feet… it's got two hundred feet of goddam cable!

His heart jumped as he registered the gunshot twang of snapping steel line-its echo as clear as the opening trapdoor of a gallows.

A dam-bursting wave of adrenaline ignited Brager's muscles, propelling him through the water — even as searing pain ignited his half- frozen nerve cells as he was jolted forward… then mercifully released from consciousness, his spine crushed and severed, his torso savagely ripped apart and swallowed.

The Nessie III slowed.

I stood quietly, nudging the tarp away so I could see.

The Nothosaur had arrived first, judging by its proximity to the capsized boat. The other two vessels circled close by, their spotlights aimed at the black water.

David fumbled with the radio, Brandy finally grabbing it from him. "Nothosaur, this is the Nessie III. Come in."

"This is Hoagland. We were too late. Three bodies went into the water, the Galon's recovered the lone survivor. He's babbling, but in shock. A chopper's flying in to transport him to Inverness."

David took the microphone. "Hoagland, this is Caldwell. Did he say what happened to the others?"

"Negative, but we found the remains of a forearm floating in a jacket sleeve. I think we can assume the rest of him's warming the belly of our friend."

I slumped to the deck, bile rising towards the lump in my throat. And there, but for the grace of God, go I …