Loch, The

by Steve Alten

  “Shh. Listen.”

  Justin listened, then he heard it ... splashing sounds, followed by strange whimpers, coming toward them from their right. “Sounds almost like a baby crying.”

  Amber leaned out over the bow. “Oh my God, look! It’s a deer ... no, it’s a herd of deer.”

  Justin moved next to her as the heads and slender necks of a half dozen Sika deer appeared out of the fog. “Excellent. The deer know their way, we’ll just follow them in to shore. Told you I’d get us back to Foyers.”

  “How do you know they’re headed to Foyers? They could be swimming towards the western shore.”

  “At this point, who cares?”

  The first two deer paddled past the Zodiac’s bow, their hoofs churning water in a frenzy of movement, their nostrils lathered in foam with the effort.

  “Justin, do they seemed frightened?”

  “They’re probably cold.”

  Another deer appeared from out of the fog. Suddenly the animal let out a high-pitched, “nehhhh—” tossed its head back ... and disap­peared in a froth of waves.

  Amber clutched Justin’s arm. “Did you see that? Oh my God, something huge just dragged that deer underwater!”

  Justin searched the surface. “No. It ... it must’ve got tired and drowned, that’s all.”

  “It didn’t drown! Something ate it!”

  “Easy, girl. I was just teasing you before about Nessie. There’s no such thing.”

  “Hey, I’m not stupid. I’m telling you, something big just took that deer. Start the engine!”

  They grabbed one another as the Zodiac rocked violently, then spun counterclockwise several quick revolutions before drifting side­ways.

  “Okay, what the hell was that?”

  Now Justin was trembling. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “Justin, watch out!”

  Emerging from the mist, a panicking buck veered for the Zodiac, lung­ing its front hoofs out of the water and over the edge of the rubber raft.

  “Shit!” Grabbing the wild animal by its neck and antlers, Justin fought to shove the two-hundred-pound beast back into the water without being lanced. “Amber, help—”

  The buck continued thrashing and kicking, intent on climbing out of the water, when it was seized by its hindquarters by an unseen force and dragged below.

  Pulled off-balance, Justin Wagner tumbled overboard after it.

  “Justin!” Amber knelt on her bench seat, looking in every direc­tion. “Justin? Justin, where are you?!” She heard splashing sounds behind her and turned to the source. “Justin?”

  “Ambhhhhhh—” Justin’s head poked free of the freezing waters, his arms slapping frantically at the fog-covered surface. “It’s fuuuuck­innng freeeezing!”

  “Hold on!” Amber climbed back to the stern. “Okay, you can do this.” She pushed the tiller out of her way, then stood behind the out­board and attacked the starter cord with both hands.

  It took her several awkward jerks before the engine started. But as the revving propeller caught water, the bent tiller sent the raft lurch­ing sideways, spilling Amber Korpela headfirst into the Loch.

  The bone-chilling water, combined with his soaked clothing, were zapping Justin’s strength. Through blurred vision he saw Amber fall overboard, the now-empty Zodiac left to cut wide circles across the surface.

  Pathetic. Okay, boat first, then Amber...

  He kicked for the vessel, never hearing the whines and yelps from the deer, his heart skipping a beat at Amber’s bloodcurdling scream.

  “Amber?” Justin stopped swimming and spun to his left. Through the fog-laced surface he saw something dark and massive breach a half dozen boat lengths away, rolling and twisting in a frenzy of movement that whipped icy water and warm fleshy shrapnel at his face.

  A column of deer swam past him, whimpering and gasping with their exertion.

  Justin tried to move, but couldn’t, not until the attack ended with one final heavy splash.

  The silence that followed was petrifying.

  With trembling hand, Justin touched his forehead, smearing away gobs of blood and bone fragments.

  “Amber ...”

  The whine of the approaching Zodiac grew louder, snapping him into action. Justin swam as hard as he could, then lunged for the pass­ing water craft, his chest bouncing off the inflatable’s side, his fingers managing to catch the raft’s trim line.

  Too weak to pull himself on board, Justin managed to loop his wrists around the rope, his weight counterbalancing the Zodiac’s trajectory.

  The motorized raft raced away, towing its semiconscious passen­ger along with it.

  Chapter 19 Quotes

  « ^ »

  I’m fifty-nine years old, lived here all my life. When I was fourteen, we had a local farm, down here at Drumnadrochit. My late brother and late mother were in the car with me, and we were headed to Inverness. I was looking out at the Loch, its surface flat and calm, when I yelled, “Stop the car!” My brother stopped, and we all saw this huge commotion right in the center of the Loch, just opposite Aldourie Castle. The monster was gray-brown, and massive, the size of a bus. It flipped over, just flipped right over like that, crashing down. You could see it, and the waves from that point were about three feet high and ebbed to each side of the Loch.

  —RONALD MACKINTOSH, RETIRED SALESMAN

  I was making a routine road report call to my office using the AA box at Brackla when I turned and saw, across the water and a few hundred yards out, a head and neck and broad humped body moving from side to side. It was something out of this world, as if a dinosaur had reared up out of the Loch. After seeing it, I swore never again to venture out on Loch Ness in a small boat.

  —HAMISH MACKINTOSH, AUTOMOBILE ASSOCIATION PATROLMAN, 2 FEBRUARY 1959

  Chapter 19

  « ^ »

  I AM SOARING THROUGH DARKNESS, the world deaf and silent. I am underwater ... entering a cave. I am floating. Free.

  Below me lies the body of a man, stretched out on jagged rock. Naked and broken. A lifeless soul. I hover closer.

  It is me.

  “No! No!”

  Entangled in the sleeping bag, I kicked my way out and half crawled, half stumbled from the tent into the pre-dawn gray, my rac­ing heart threatening to leap out of my chest.

  Calm down! Breathe! You’re okay, Wallace ... just another dream.

  I paced the campsite, frantically speaking my thoughts, forcing myself to refocus on the images of this bizarre new night terror. “I was underwater ... but not as a child, this time as an adult. And I was dead. How did I die? Why was I naked? Was it a vision?”

  I stared at my hands, which were still trembling, then suddenly I froze.

  Something was moving through the woods!

  Like a frightened deer, I looked left to right, right to left, the for­est damp and still. Traces of gray mist still cloaked the ground, waiting to be burned away by dawn’s first light.

  And then my eyes caught movement.

  There were three of them, shadowy figures, all cloaked in black, following the stream in the direction of the Loch.

  I searched for my hiking boots. Shoving them over my bare feet, I tugged on the laces, then hurried after the three intruders.

  They were well ahead of me, their dark tunics the perfect camou­flage, though every now and then I caught a glimpse of a flashlight’s beam.

  The Black Knights?

  The mountainside steepened now, the creek widening as it raced to empty into Loch Ness. The leaves were wet, the rocks by the stream covered in heavy moss, making the going treacherous. I rolled my ankle, yelping in pain, then paused, quickly tying my laces for more support.

  That’s when I noticed the blood.

  Patches of crimson streaked the tops of several rocks, as if a bleed­ing corpse were being dragged along the brook’s path.

  I hurried on, jogging down the slope, then heard the telltale whine of an outboard motor.

  By the
time I emerged from the forest, the Zodiac was racing away from shore. In the dim light I made out three men aboard the craft, all dressed in black, a heavy burlap sack between them, soaked in blood.

  * * *

  The eastern bank of Loch Ness is so long and straight that, look­ing north on a clear day, one can see the surface meet the sky. This view stayed with me over the next three hours as I followed the tree- lined shore, making my way slowly toward the village of Foyers.

  In my backpack were several swabs of blood taken from the rocks. The lab in Inverness would tell me if it came from an animal or human, and then I’d confront Alban MacDonald.

  In due course, the sun’s rays crept over the Monadhliath Mountains, taking the chill off the crisp morning air. From the south, a dull throbbing echo bellowed into thunder as the research vessel, Nothosaur, rumbled by, its twin engines sending heavy mud-colored wakes crashing to shore. As the boat passed, I could make out several dozen sonar buoys lined up behind the transom. Hoagland’s crew were launching the underwater listening devices every mile or so, cre­ating their own sonar array. I knew they were not alone, that at least two other expeditions were completing similar tasks.

  By nightfall, Loch Ness would be “Loch Mess,” pinging like an amusement park video game gallery, distorting every underwater contact for miles.

  I arrived at a boathouse around eight-thirty that morning, already feeling exhausted from lack of sleep. With Foyers still several miles ahead, I decided to stop for breakfast. As I sat on the edge of a pier, munching on processed cheese and crackers, a small fishing boat approached from the north, two local women on board.

  The craft made a wide turn toward shore, then docked along the boathouse pier.

  “Morning, ladies. How’s the fishing?”

  “Fish are no’ bitin’,” replied the shoulder length-blonde. “They havenae been bitin’ a’ season.”

  “Hey, Marti, is he no’ that scientist? Ye ken, the one in the paper.”

  The blonde perked up. “Oh aye, ye’re right! Pleased tae meet ye, Dr. Wallace. I’m Marti Evans, an’ this is my friend, Tina. Ye headin’ tae Foyers then?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve jist been. Best be hurryin’, afore the Polis remove the body.”

  My skin crawled. “Body? What body?”

  * * *

  I could see the crowd a quarter mile away as I neared the Foyers River Inlet, and it took me several minutes to pick my way through the throng of locals. Reaching the police barrier, I waved at Sheriff Holmstrom to get his attention.

  Holmstrom lifted the police tape to allow me through. “Dr. Wallace. Can’t say I’m surprised. Seems every time we meet, some­one’s been butchered.”

  “What happened?”

  He led me toward the water’s edge to where a beached Zodiac was surrounded by crime scene investigators. The bow had been tied off, a gray tarpaulin tossed over the left side of the raft. The soaked ends of the tarp floated in the water, revealing a slowly spreading scarlet stain, pooling in the shallows.

  “Yesterday, at approximately 4:45 P.M., two Alaskan tourists, Amber Joy Korpela, age twenty-four, and her companion, Justin Thomas Wagner, age twenty-five, rented this watercraft from a boathouse in Lower Foyers. The couple were last seen circlin’ Cherry Island, sometime around nine. Accordin’ tae witnesses, the Zodiac beached itsel’ between six an’ seven this mornin’. Prepare yoursel’. This one’s gruesome; even worse than the last, but I think ye’ll want tae see.”

  The sheriff lifted the edge of the tarp.

  “Oh, Jesus...”

  Unable to pull himself from the frigid water, Justin Wagner had managed to loop both his wrists around the Zodiac’s guide rope. His upper torso had dangled alongside the raft as it motored, pilotless, across the Loch, his lower torso dragging through the water. There was no telling how long the victim had been in the water, but the exposed flesh on his arms, neck, and face appeared bluish, bordering on translucent.

  What was frightening was Wagner’s facial expression, a frozen mask, revealing both pain and terror. The glazed eyes were open and bulging, the purplish mouth grimacing, the teeth bared.

  The rest of the victim’s body was covered by the raft.

  Holmstrom nodded to one of his men, who, with gloved hands, pushed aside the raft while carefully lifting the remains of Wagner’s shirt, exposing his waistline.

  The sight caused me to gag.

  There was no lower torso. Whatever had bitten Justin Wagner had consumed his hips, buttocks, and legs in one devastating bite, its teeth leaving behind puncture marks along the circumference of the jagged wound. A trail of unraveled waterlogged intestines drifted back and forth in the wash, the rest of the victim’s internal organs having fallen away long ago from the void where Wagner’s waist had once been.

  I staggered back, the scene sending the blood rushing from my face. Holmstrom signaled for the tarp to be lowered, then followed me up the embankment. “Are ye okay?”

  I shook my head. “I’m about a million miles from okay.”

  “Those teeth marks?”

  I nodded, feeling nauseous. “Yes, Sheriff, the pattern’s identical to the scars around my waist. And no, I have no clue why I’m still alive.”

  “Ye’ll help us find it then?”

  I nodded, sucking in several deep breaths, fighting to keep my breakfast down. “I’ll help you, only let’s keep it between us for now. Folklore’s one thing, but you’ve got an apex predator that’s gone on a rampage.”

  ‘Agreed.”

  Waves pounded the shoreline, causing us to turn. Another research vessel was slowly rumbling by, three tourist boats following in its wake.

  Holmstrom spit. “This place is turnin’ intae a bloody zoo. The A82’s backed up from Drumnadrochit tae Inverness wi’ campers, an’ God knows whit it’ll be like when word of this latest killin’ spreads.”

  I nodded. “Worse, the Loch’s becoming jammed with sonar buoys.”

  “The judge gave ye the opportunity tae run things. It’s no’ too late.”

  “It’s not my style.”

  “Whit’s yer plan then?”

  “First, I need to finish my own investigation of the Loch. You can help by giving me access to your crime lab.”

  “Crime lab? Whit for?”

  I reached into my backpack, handing him the plastic bags holding the swabs of blood. “Have these analyzed. I need to know if they’re animal or human.”

  “Done. How can I reach ye?”

  “I’ll reach you. Give me your cell number.

  He handed me a business card. “My mobile phone’s on the back, it’s always on.” He gazed out at the Loch, then looked me in the eye. “Guess I wis one o’ those that laughed ... ye know, after hearin’ you were afraid tae get near the water an’ all. But after seein’ that body, well ... I can’t say I blame ye.”

  “Analyze those samples, Sheriff. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  True showed up thirty minutes later, cursing up a storm about all the traffic around Loch Ness. The good news was the lodge was booked solid, the bad being his father now needed him back in Drumnadrochit by early evening. He agreed to accompany me along the eastern bank until his sister picked him up later by boat.

  Things were looking up for Brandy as well. She had doubled her tours and tripled her prices, and still the Nessie III was sold out for the remainder of the week.

  The monster craze was alive and well, and the Highland locals were cashing in on what was shaping up to be a record-setting tourist season.

  By noon, word of the latest attack had spread across Great Britain like wildfire. By then, True and I had arrived in Inverfarigaig, a village of homes scattered among managed forests of spruce and Douglas fir. As in Foyers, the rocky embankments of Inverfarigaig were clogged with thrill-seekers, their cameras and zoom lenses mounted on tri­pods, their camcorders and binoculars scanning every wave and shad­ow that skirted the surface of Loch Ness. Vans and campers, park
ed along General Wade’s Military Road, lined the single lane tarmac clear to Dores, and many a tourist could be seen standing on their car roofs to gain a better vantage.

  It was a “braw day” on the Loch, the sky high and blue, free of cloud cover, and the approaching summer beat down upon us unmer­cifully.

  Seeking a break from the sun, we followed a footpath into the Farigaig Forest, its heavy canopy embracing us in cooler temperatures. Diverting from the path, we followed the twisting banks of a brook as it trickled down the mountain side. A carpet of moss was spotted with bluebells, foxgloves, and other wildflowers, and the scents and sounds soothed my spent nerves.

  I didn’t see the squirrel as much as I tripped over it.

  The forests of the Great Glen are populated with red squirrels, fast creatures that feed on seeds, chestnuts, and pine nuts. This one was lying on its side by the creek, its tiny chest heaving as it gasped each labored breath.

  As we watched, the suffering animal seized and died.

  True bent down to give it a nudge. “Poor wee thing—”

  “Don’t touch it!” Setting down my backpack, I retrieved a pair of rubber gloves, a jar, and a plastic specimen bag. “Remember what I said yesterday about the Loch’s food chain? This might be an impor­tant clue. Take this jar and fill it with water from the brook, while I bag our little friend here.”

  We collected the specimens, then continued following the stream as it backtracked up a steep terrain slick with vegetation and heavy in jagged rocks. Along the way we found more dead animals, including a half dozen osprey and a peregrine. True stumbled upon a burrow and was immediately attacked by a fox, the agitated creature circling and growling as it snapped at his boots. We managed to chase it away, but only after resorting to striking it several times with a stick.

  “I’ve never seen a fox act like that before. Dae ye think it wis rabid?”

  “Maybe. But I suspect there’s something else going on, something that’s affecting this whole ecosystem. Come on, let’s keep climbing.”