by Steve Alten
"Quiet please! As our guest, Dr. Wallace, has pointed out, if it wis an animal, the bite radius wid be bigger than any species inhabitin' our glen—"
"Except for Nessie!"
Murmurs filled the chamber.
"Go on an' ask him whit it wis, Olmstead, he should know!"
"Come on, Wallace, wis it Nessie or no'?"
The provost banged a thick palm against the table for quiet. "This is a Council meetin', no' a mob scene. Sheriff Olmstead's tellin' us whit he knows, no' whit you want tae hear."
"An' what is Nessie exactly?" the sheriff threw back at them. "Last I heard, legends don't kill people. If it wis an amphibious beast, does that make it Nessie? An' since when does Nessie attack humans?"
One of the council rose, pointing at me. "Whit aboot him? He wis attacked."
"Not according to the physician's report," Judge Hannam retorted. "Now all of you, I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say, because how we react to these grave circumstances will determine how the rest of the world perceives this little community we call home. My courtroom's already been turned into theater, and unless we keep a handle on this woman's murder, this whole Nessie thing's going to blow right up in our faces, just like all the expeditions did back in the 1960s."
Lorrie Paulsen, Deputy Chairman of Tourism, stood, addressing the Council. "Before ye shut doon this story, Mr. Provost, there's another issue we need tae consider, and that's tourism. As everyone in this room kens a' too well, tourism's been way doon. But this trial, it's already havin' a positive impact on our economy. I'm receivin' reports frae a' ower the Great Glen that hotels an' bed-'n'-breakfasts are fillip' up fast, an' most o' that's jist frea the media. Jist wait until season hits. This could be the best summer we've had in thirty years… in fact, I spoke wi' the airlines less than an hour ago, an' flights comin' in tae Inverness are already booked solid through June. Could be the best thing that's happened tae the Highlands in a long time."
Murmurs of agreement.
"Ridiculous," said William Greene, convener of the Northern Joint Police Board. "We're no' dealin' wi' monster sightings here, this is multiple murders, at least one o' which wis most likely committed by a man whose ravings aboot a water creature are based on lies an' circumstantial evidence at best. As tae this recent death, who's tae say Angus Wallace didnae hire an accomplice tae dae the deed an' make it look like a monster? This whole thing stinks, if ye ask me."
More murmurs, with a few accusing glances aimed my way.
Jesus… I've got to get off this island before these lunatics lynch me.
Owen Hollifield signaled for quiet. "Go on, Sheriff."
"I don't disagree wi' Convener Green's analogy, but one way or another, we need tae dae somethin'. Whether it wis human or beast that killed that woman, tae me, a' these summer tourists flockin' tae Loch Ness jist means more potential victims. How dae we police seventy- six kilometers o' shoreline? I simply don't have the men or the means."
"Might I make a suggestion?" Judge Hannam offered.
The provost nodded. "Please do, my lord."
"By involving the monster in his defense, Angus Wallace has opened a Pandora's box on the High Court's proceedings. Like it or not—and off the record I don't—what's done is done, but it's still my job to see justice served. As such, the only way we'll ever secure a fair and just verdict is to allow the authorities the opportunity to actually search the Loch. Now I'm not suggesting that a water beast killed John Cialino or this American woman. I'm only saying that the public, and the world, must at least perceive that we're doing our due diligence to learn the truth, even concerning matters of proving, or, as the case may be, disproving a water beast exists."
"Council should offer a reward for proof demonstratin' Nessie's existence." Lorrie Paulsen called out. "I think ten thousand pounds should show we're serious."
Owen Hollifeld scoffed. "I could increase that tenfold wi' a few phone calls. Discovery Channel an' National Geographic both called this afternoon, wantin' permits tae send film crews. Turned them a' down. Told them we're considerin' offerin' exclusive rights tae the highest bidder."
Loud murmurs of agreement.
"Do as you need to do," the judge countered, "but I'm only delaying the trial for two weeks. That's about as long as I can keep this jury sequestered."
That sent the room abuzz once more.
The provost banged his hand again. "Run yer trial as ye see fit, Neil, but I can't allow dozens o' monster hunters cruisin' Loch Ness without rhyme or reason. It's counterproductive, an' it's dangerous. Seen it all before. Amateurs start playin' Moby Dick, comin' out wi' dynamite and home-made bombs. What we need is someone tae manage this whole affair, someone whose credentials are unquestioned."
All eyes turned toward me, and I realized that this was why the judge had insisted I be at the meeting.
"How about it, Dr. Wallace?"
"Sorry, my lord, you've got the wrong man."
"Actually, ye're perfect," William Greene declared. "Ye were born in the Highlands, yer reputation as a marine biologist precedes ye, an' ye're related tae the accused, which means ye'll dae everything in yer power, as far as the public's concerned, tae complete an efficient, yet comprehensive search. An' those scars—"
"What about them? Half the world thinks I was bitten by a beast, the rest think I doctored them in order to save my father. My reputation as a scientist is being destroyed even as we speak."
"Then prove them wrong," the provost said. "There's somethin' very real goin' on in Loch Ness, has been ever since the A82 was blasted. Your testimony an' involvement could finally separate fact from fantasy."
"Forget it. This whole affair's been humiliating enough, and besides, there's plenty of other qualified scientists out there. Kevin Gonzalez at Scripps, or that British scientist, Antony Chomley. And what about Robert Rines? Dr. Rines has far more experience than—"
"Dr. Rines has been up and down the Loch a thousand times," Judge Hannam retorted. "No, you were our first choice, Dr. Wallace. If Nessie's really out there, then we're convinced you'll find her."
"And if I refuse? What will you do? Hold me in contempt again? No, I don't think so. See, I may have been born here, but I'm an American citizen now, and my government will have a few things to say to Parliament if the High Court of Inverness jails one of its more prominent scientists just because he refused to search your lake for monsters."
From the judge's dour expression, I knew I had him.
"Now, Lord Hannam, if you don't mind, it's been a bit too real and not much fun, but I need to make some quick flight arrangements if I'm to be back home in Florida by tomorrow night. Hasta la vista."
I made it halfway to the exit before Sheriff Olmstead stopped me. "Lord Hannam?"
The judge thought for a moment. "Dr. Wallace is right, of course. We certainly can't force him to organize our search. For now, we'll just have to allow the researchers to organize themselves, God knows the media attention should draw them to Loch Ness in droves. However, Doctor, bear in mind you're still a witness in a murder trial, which means you can't just leave the country either, at least not until the prosecution's had a chance to cross-examine your testimony. Confiscate his passport, Sheriff, then you can release him."
The bastard took my passport, then showed me the door.
* * *
"I dinnae understand," said True, slogging down his third lager in the last half hour. "Seems tae me they're offerin' ye a chance of a lifetime. Why no' jist dae it?"
I poured another shot down my throat, the burning sensation now a warm friend. "If I tell you, and you repeat this to another living soul, then you and me as best friends …pffftt."
He leaned in with his big shaggy Viking head. "Go on, I'm listenin'."
I pointed to my temple. "Angus was right about one thing. I'm screwed up, right here in the brain. Ever since that Sargasso thing, I can't get near the damn water."
"Meanin'?"
"Meaning? Meaning I'm a
fraid to get near the water, ya dumb bastard, what the fuck did you think I mean?"
"Why? Whit's wrong wi' the water?"
"Nothing's wrong with the water, ya dullard, I just can't get near it. Jesus, why do ya think I didn't boff your sister Friday night? Outta respect for your whacked-out old man? Geez Louise, give me a little credit."
"Wait a minute… are ye sayin' ye're feart o' the water?"
"Yes, shit-for-brains, yes!" I stood upon my chair, teetering like a drunken fool. "Now hear this! I, Zachary Wallace, marine fucking biologist, son of Angus the drunken murdering bastard, distant cousin to Sir William Wallace the Braveheart, am deathly afraid of the water!"
The rest of the drunks at Sniddles rose and applauded.
I took a wobbly bow, then fell sideways into my friend's brawny arms. "Was I clear this time, True? Are you getting the whole picture?"
"Aye, lad, but dinnae ye worry, I willnae tell a soul."
* * *
Afraid to sleep, I found myself greeting the dawn at the summit of Drumnadrochit's highest peak, sobriety returning fast as I contemplated my existence.
What had happened to me? In six short months, I had gone from goal-oriented bastion of science to a sulking shell of a man, afraid of his own shadow, afraid of his own life.
A former teetotaler, I was well on the road to becoming an alcoholic. A former thinker, I was now afraid to reason, making pathetic excuses for my new-found phobia… and a long-lost fear that seemed to be reappearing in my dreams.
I was burnt out and exhausted. I hated myself, I hated my life, and there was no way to escape from my own head.
Except one.
Removing the vial of prescription drugs from my pocket, I stared at the pills, debating a fatal overdose.
How many times had I considered suicide since my ninth birthday? Six times? A dozen? With the help of my teachers and coaches, I had reinvented myself, but deep inside, I knew I was still Angus's runt.
What was keeping me alive? What did I have to live for? What did I have to lose?
I had spent the last six months poisoning myself slowly with alcohol. Why not just get it over with now?
Do it, Zachary! Swallow the pills! End the pain and fear and humiliation, once and for all.
I cupped the pills in my hand, but there was still one thing preventing me from offing myself on that beautiful mountainside. This time it wasn't fear—it was anger.
I was angry at Angus for forcing me to return, for forcing me to take a harsh look at myself. And having looked, I now realized that as disgusting as my father was, he was just a convenient excuse for my pain.
In truth, I was angry at myself, because Angus was right. I had been living a lie.
With each passing night terror, fragments of long-buried memories were moving into the light. As frightening as they were, I finally realized the dreams were serving a purpose—to shake loose my false foundation of reality.
As much as I tried to fight it, I now knew that something monstrous had grabbed me in the Loch seventeen years earlier. Unable to cope with the truth, my child's mind had buried it. Somehow, my second drowning in the Sargasso Sea had released these long-dormant memories, and now I had a choice; take the coward's way out and kill myself, or track down the very being that was responsible for my pain.
The dragon can sense fear, he can smell it in yer blood. Will ye stand and fight the dragon like a warrior, or will ye cower and run, lettin' him haunt ye for the rest of yer days?
"No!"
The echo of my voice crackled across the Glen like gunfire.
Leaping to my feet, I tossed the vial of pills as far as I could into the bushes. "No more cowering. No more running. If I'm going to die, then let my death serve a purpose!"
Standing beneath that gray morning sky, I looked down upon the ancient waters of Loch Ness, my words growling beneath my breath, sending shivers down my spine. "Okay, beast, whatever you are, you've haunted my existence long enough. Now I'm coming, do you hear me?
"I'm coming after you!"
Chapter 17 Quotes
Police Sergeant George Mackenzie and I were standing among a group of people near Altsigh Youth Hostel watching two humps travel up the Loch doing ten knots. It was obvious these two humps were part of one animate long object, making it at least thirteen meters [42.6 feet]!"
—POLICE INSPECTOR HENRY HENDERSON, INVERNESS, 13 OCTOBER 1971
Suddenly there was a terrific disturbance in the Loch. In the midst of this commotion, my friend (Mr. Roger Pugh) and I saw quite distinctly the neck of the beast standing out of the water at a height we later calculated to be about three meters (ten feet). It swam towards us at a slight angle, then thankfully disappeared.
—FATHER GREGORY BRUSEY, FORT AUGUSTUS ABBEY, 14 OCTOBER 1971
Chapter 17
Drumnadrochlit, Loch Ness
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt a true sense of purpose. Feeling reborn, my long-dormant mind focused upon my mission like a laser.
As to my hydrophobia, I wasn't quite ready to rush back into the water. Still, I convinced myself that logic and reason would provide me with the courage needed when the time came… if it came.
First things first, I needed information.
I knew there were hordes of self-proclaimed monster hunters on the way to Loch Ness, and they'd be well equipped and financed, armed with the latest sonar buoys and remotely operated vehicles, underwater listening devices and high-speed cameras, strobe lights and depth sounders. They'd probe the Loch from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn, just as they had for decades. They'd talk about capturing the beast in a net (though technically Nessie was still protected by Highland law) and brag about selling underwater photos to Time magazine and Life and the Times of London. As my stepfather, Charlie, would say, they were the embodiment of insanity, performing the same rituals over and over again, yet always expecting different results. Though each was willing to sell their souls for a fleeting glimpse of a fin or a passing signal on sonar, in the end, they'd fare no better than the rest.
Nessie hunters were like bad golfers who lose their ball out of bounds, yet always search the most advantageous rough for their shot.
Whatever lurked in Loch Ness might be a semiamphibious species, but it still preferred the deep. Locating a creature in a lake that was twenty-three miles long, a mile wide, and seven-to-eight hundred feet deep was equivalent to finding garter snakes in an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with black ink. As history attested, it was purely hit-and-miss… mostly miss, especially with the public anticipating glimpses of the monster along the surface.
As a scientist, I needed to narrow those odds considerably by understanding my quarry. To do that, I had to attack the challenge from a completely different angle.
What would Alfred Wallace do?
Rather than focus on locating an elusive and quite mobile creature, I decided to analyze Loch Ness as a whole. Granted, the waterway was a unique body of fresh water, its surface waters running into the North Sea (and perhaps, at one time, its deeper recesses as well) but the Loch was still an isolated ecosystem, supporting a variety of different species. At least one of these, presumably an apex predator or predators, had suddenly changed its behavioral pattern and, as a result, its diet. To me, that meant something within the food chain itself had been disturbed.
The first task would be to figure out what was off-kilter.
The second would be to use this information in order to track down the creature… and find a means to lure it up from the deep.
I spent most of that morning in the village buying supplies, and everywhere I went, people were talking about the monster. Word had spread that two large fishing trawlers were already making their way south through the Moray Firth, while another research vessel was coming north up the Caledonian Canal from Fort William. Later in the day, a tractor trailer loaded with sonar buoys was expected to arrive at the Clansman Hotel, this part of an American expedition funded by AMCO Produc
tions, out of Cleveland.
The circus had officially come to town, but I refused to play the clown.
The "strongman" was awake by the time I returned.
"Whit's a' this then?" True demanded, seeing the brown paper bags in my arms.
"I've decided to resolve this whole Nessie thing, once and for all."
"YES!" He grabbed me beneath my armpits and lifted me to the ceiling. "This is bloody brilliant, Zachary, an' I'm wi' ye every step o' the way. So we'll need a boat then, yeah? I'll ring Brandy first thing an' tell her tae cancel all her tours—"
"No boat."
"No boat?"
"Clues and info first. I want to walk as much of the shoreline of Loch Ness as I can, beginning with the Invermoriston site where that woman was killed."
"Walk the shoreline? Why?"
"Because I'm not interested in blindly searching the largest body of water in Europe, hoping to get a blip on sonar. What we need, True, is hard evidence that'll tell us what's going on down there."
"Yeah… sure, I guess we can walk. But I'm bringin' my binoculars an' camera, jist in case."
From my shopping bags I retrieved glass jars, rubber gloves, flashlights, plastic bags, bottled water, and some snacks, then started packing my knapsack. "We'll need sleeping bags, we'll probably have to camp out a few nights."
"Christ, Zachary, whit's the plan then? Tae drop cookies along the shoreline an' hope Nessie hops in one o' these jars like a bloody bullfrog?"
"Actually, the cookies were for you."
* * *
An hour later we arrived at the Invermoriston boating dock. Police had closed down the launch, and had cordoned off the campsite and trail, but when they saw who I was, they allowed us to negotiate the shoreline.
From the Moriston River inlet, we followed the Loch to the south as far as the pier, True playing the part of my impatient shadow. Like most of Loch Ness's beaches, the ground was covered in smooth, rounded stones, which served to camouflage anything but the most obvious tracks.
