Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "Couldn't wait to see you."

  She poured him a lager. "How was the day?"

  "Interesting."

  She moved from the bar carrying a tray and glasses. She was dressed in a tartan skirt and white ruffled blouse. He liked the look. Very innocent. Very feminine.

  "You seem very preoccupied," she said, returning to her position behind the counter.

  He pressed his cheek to hers. "I want your body."

  "Shh. There are people."

  "They can't hear. And besides, they don't care."

  "You're such an American."

  Several patrons ordered. She catered to them. He noticed a box with a ribbon behind the bar.

  "What's that?" he asked, pointing.

  "A present for you," she said nonchalantly, as if she gave him a present every day.

  He broke a smile. "For me? Why?"

  "Because I love you," she whispered.

  "Let me open it."

  She handed him the box. He removed the wrapping, lifted the top ever so gently, and peeked inside. A magnificent plaid kilt, kilt jacket, bonnet, belt, and shirt lay in tissue.

  "I don't believe it," he said incredulously.

  "Now you'll be able to wear the sporran," she advised.

  "I'll be laughed out of the country if I'm seen in this."

  "Nonsense."

  He motioned her close once more. "What about underpants?" he asked, whispering.

  She was shocked. "Underpants?" she whispered back. "You can't wear such things. It's not done."

  "I'll freeze my balls off!"

  She glanced nervously at the patrons. "You'll find the strength. My father wore his kilt all the time, even in blizzards."

  Once again, he looked inside the box, then moved his mouth up to her ear. "Must I really put this on?" he asked.

  "Well, if you want my body," she replied sotto voce, "you're going to have to pay the price." She pointed to the box.

  "Damn!" He burrowed into thought. "All right," he finally said.

  Her expression was her reply.

  Happy.

  She sat on the edge of her bed. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. Her eyes were wide open. She was wearing an especially childlike smile.

  "What's taking so long?" she called.

  His voice tumbled out of the bathroom. "This is not easy, goddamnit."

  "You're just making excuses."

  "The hell I am."

  Something dropped. Something rustled. She listened, trying to stifle inadvertent laughter that would only discourage him. But she could tell he was flopping all over the place. She only wished she could see the confusion and watch him twist himself into a knot.

  His face appeared moments later, peeking around the bathroom door, and then, head slouched, he stepped out, dressed in the kilt and accompanying outfit.

  "Well, darnnit, how do I look?" he asked, blushing, feeling momentarily guilty about wallowing in levity in the midst of death and terror.

  She walked around him, palms to cheeks, pressing her effusive smile into an oval. "I think you look wonderful."

  "I do?"

  "Yes." She adjusted his jacket. "For some reason, I wasn't sure I'd get you to put the kilt on."

  "Well, I did, and now you see me exposed. So laugh at me."

  "You don't laugh at those you love."

  He turned toward the wall mirror and broke into hysterics. "The hell! I'm ridiculous!"

  She looked into the mirror, too, studying the powerful long legs that descended beneath the kilt bottom and the look of pain in his face.

  "I love you very much," she said as she began to laugh as well.

  The rush stripped him bare. He'd never felt like this with a woman before. Nor had he ever experienced such intensity, the conquest of the unconquerable.

  He pressed himself between her legs. Her arms were wrapped around him, biting into his body like scissors. No more did he fee! the fear, the reluctance, the inhibition. She was totally committed. As was he.

  They reached orgasm. Their bodies fused; perspiration flowed together. Their breathing quieted.

  Then silence.

  He continued to look blankly into space, as if she wasn't even there.

  "Something is wrong," she said as she moved her head on to his chest. "You've been off somewhere for the last ten minutes."

  He said nothing.

  "Is something wrong'?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Is it me?"

  "No, of course not." He could feel her heart suddenly begin to pound. "Superintendent MacGregor will probably ask you some questions."

  "About what?"

  "About do you know where I was last night at three o'clock in the morning."

  "Why will he ask that?"

  "Because Hugh Sutherland was murdered. At three. And I'm the prime suspect."

  She jerked upward. "That's impossible."

  "You heard me."

  "Some suspect. You were here. In bed with me. You didn't leave to go home until three-thirty."

  He grabbed her wrist. "That's the last thing I want you to tell him. Because that's the last thing someone in your position need announce. Can you picture it? The number-one opponent of the loch project having an affair and sharing a bed with the number-two man at Geminii. I love you. I don't want you injured. And in this medieval place, populated by all these medieval minds, that's exactly what will happen."

  "My career is one thing. This is another."

  He kissed her again and again. "I know. But I want you to promise you won't say anything. I didn't do it. The police will realize it without your help."

  She turned on the bed light. "Mr. Bruce. This is me you're talking to. Don't you ever forget it. Nobody tells mc what to do. Ever. If I can't come forward for a man I love, then I'm not worth the very salt in the sea. So if I decide to come forward, no one, and that includes you, is going to stop me. Understand?"

  He rubbed his eyes, kissed her. "I love you," he said, then closed the light once more.

  He left the inn at three-thirty, arriving home at four, managing three hours' sleep.

  Noting he had another dive-planning session at ten, he showered, dressed quickly, then hustled down into the kitchen. Mrs. Munro, who had already prepared breakfast, was glancing out the window, her view impeded by a thick frost.

  "The spring just doesn't seem to want to come, Mr. Bruce," she declared as she shuffled dishes from right to left, then back. "Ay, it's right cold this morning."

  He buttered some toast, nibbled at his eggs. "It looks cold."

  Mrs. Munro was exasperated. "Now isn't that what I just said? Lord help me, you'll never learn to listen. And I'm not a mite surprised. Coming in at all hours of the night isn't good for the senses. Numbs them."

  Shaking his head, he continued to eat, glancing quickly over the lead articles on the front page of the International Herald Tribune. Behind him, Mrs. Munro put on her coat, intent on starting and warming up the jeep, as she did each day.

  "I'll give the gas a good pumping today, Mr. Bruce," she said as she glided through the door. "The jeep'Il be warmer than a goblin's fire."

  "I appreciate it, Mrs. Munro."

  She walked out the front door. He left the dining room for the den. Reaching the front of the hall, he heard the first turn of the engine.

  Then a terrible explosion.

  The door blew open. The windows shattered. Plaster fell.

  Shocked, he ran out the front door. The smoke was incredibly thick. Debris lay all around. The jeep was burning with the rage of a sun. Mrs. Munro's charred remains were in the front seat.

  Sickened, senses ravaged, he stumbled back against the wall of Travis House. Mrs. Munro was dead. That was the only impulse that registered.

  It took him several minutes to come to grips with the fact that she had not been the target.

  Chapter 28

  Detective Chief Inspector MacKintosh and a detachment of homicide police arrived shortly after the explosion. MacK
intosh conveyed an apology to Scotty from MacGregor—the superintendent had unavoidably been detained on another matter but would be there as soon as he could—then proceeded to question him extensively while a squad of police searched the house and car. Scotty had nothing to say because he knew nothing.

  The medical examiners arrived.

  Then Whittenfeld.

  "I was just told!" Whittenfeld explained as he marched into TraVis House.

  "I appreciate your coming," Scotty said, noticing that Whittenfeld was wearing a light-colored tie for the first time he could remember. "And your concern."

  "Concern alone is worthless," Whittenfeld countered. "We're going to do something about this!"

  They entered the den. MacKintosh was speaking on the phone. They waited while MacKintosh finished the call. Then Whittenfeld swooped in on him, demanding the apprehension of the men who had planted the bomb.

  "We will do the best we can," MacKintosh declared.

  "So far, your best has been very inadequate," Whittenfeld scolded as he pressed down his lapels, adjusted his tie, twisted his watch band, mannerisms designed to distract.

  "I'm sorry you feel that way."

  "Where is MacGregor?"

  "At the constabularly, involved in an important matter."

  "Nothing is more important than this!"

  "I have kept him informed, and he will be here as soon as he is able to come."

  "Are there any clues?"

  "As of this moment, no. However, the bomb squad has recovered most of the bomb fragments and a good portion of the capping mechanism, and we will be subjecting it to intense scrutiny."

  "People!"

  "Excuse me?"

  Whittenfeld pointed out at the jeep. "If you had placed people under the intense scrutiny you will claim for the fragments, then this wouldn't have happened."

  The phone rang. MacGregor was on the line, informing MacKintosh that he was on his way. MacKintosh relayed the message.

  "I suggest you wait for the superintendent," MacKintosh mumbled.

  "I certainly will," Whittenfeld declared.

  MacKintosh left the den.

  "Why was your house lady in the car?" Whittenfeld asked, turning to Scotty.

  "She was warming it for me," Scotty replied.

  "Did she do it every day?"

  "Yes. She enjoyed it. Just like she enjoyed doing everything else around here."

  "Then perhaps the bomb was meant for her."

  Scotty whooshed a breathless laugh. "You're reaching. 'Cause the goddamn bomb was meant for me. Meant to blow my brains and gizzards all over Scotland!"

  Whittenfeld seemed genuinely pttzzled. "But why would anyone want to do that?" he asked.

  Scotty lit a cigar. "That's exactly what I'd like to know," he replied, staring suspiciously at his superior.

  Detective Superintendent MacGregor arrived a half hour later.

  "We seem to be spending a great deal of time together, Mr. Bruce," MacGregor said as he opened his raincoat and sat on one of the lounges.

  "I would rather it were otherwise," Scotty observed.

  "I'm sure you do," MacGregor agreed, turning to Whittenfeld. "You know, until Geminii arrived in Inverness, this was a quiet place. Murder was uncommon. In fact, unnatural death of any kind was doled out sparingly." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, times have changed for the worse."

  "What do you mean by that!" Whittenfeld challenged.

  "Just a thought posed by a long-term resident who cannot help but be disturbed by the painful turn of events. And I can predict your reaction, Mr. Whittenfeld. You will challenge me once again. If the police were doing their job, you will say, this would not have happened."

  "Precisely."

  "It is always the police. The poor police." He laughed, gestured to Scotty. "I might have been better off following Rob Roy's lead, Mr. Bruce."

  Scotty didn't reply. Whittenfeld impatiently shuffled across the floor. MacGregor removed a telegram from his pocket.

  "I was detained on an important matter. A matter related to the bombing." He waved the telegram. "This telegram was received at constabularly headquarters a short time after you had called, Mr. Bruce, informing us of the death of Mrs. Munro. The transmitter claims responsibility for the bombing and indicates the bomb was planted to avenge the death of Hugh Sutherland."

  "Why the hell me?" Scotty challenged. "I had nothing to do with Sutherland's death!"

  MacGregor seemed embarrassed; he handed the telegram to Scotty. "The transmitter was aware we suspect you of the crime—how, I don't know. But one way or the other, the transmitter claimed to defer to the department's expertise. Since we suspected you, they were satisfied with your guilt."

  "Great," Whittenfeld commented bitingly.

  Scotty handed the telegram to Whittenfeld. Whittenfeld read it.

  "The sender identifies himself as a Jacobite," MacGregor began again. "We have spent the last several hours trying to verify the missive's authenticity. That is why I was not able to appear here earlier."

  "What have you concluded?" Scotty asked.

  MacGregor stood. There was a Rand-McNally road map of Scotland pinned to the wall. He placed his finger on Glasgow.

  "The telegram was sent from a precinct on the north side of Glasgow. We located the particular office and questioned the clerk. The clerk remembers the man who sent the telegram, a working man, muscular, stern-faced, lowest of class, Unfortunately, Glasgow is filled with such men."

  "Why didn't the clerk notify the police when he saw the

  telegram?" Whittenfeld asked.

  "Precisely my first query," MacGregor replied. "But you will notice the cryptic language. My associates in Glasgow informed me the clerk was of meager intellect—a veritable twit—so you can imagine his difficulty with words posed in such a manner."

  "What else did you uncover, detective?" Whittenfeld asked, interrupting the detective's train of thought.

  "We spoke to our informants," MacGregor declared. "They confirmed that Sutherland's death invoked a great deal of anger among known Jacobite sympathizers and operatives. But we were unable to uncover any evidence of planned reprisal. Nevertheless, the reprisal came very quickly—within the day—which only supports a suspicion of legitimacy to the Jacobite message. The Jacobites are particularly capable of mounting a strike on short notice due to the widespread nature of their organization and its top-heavy inclusion of zealots."

  "So far, you've told us nothing," Whittenfeld declared.

  "I'm sorry you feel that way," MacGregor said.

  "What do you intend to do now?"

  "Follow the leads. Examine the bomb fragments. Discover the identity of the man or men who did this."

  "What about my executives? How will you protect them?"

  MacGregor lit a cigarette and breathed deeply, inhaling the harsh tobacco fumes. "Apart from Mr. Bruce, I can only protect them through diligence and a thorough investigation. I trust your Mr. Lefebre can provide for internal cover. However, we will supply Mr. Bruce with an escort."

  "Forget it," Scotty said. "I don't want an escort. I would prefer to protect myself. So far, because of your efforts, I am now both a murder suspect and an assassination target."

  MacGregor raised his brow disconcertedly. "As you wish," he said, preparing to leave.

  "There is one more thing," Whittenfeld declared.

  "What?"

  "I would like our people to assist you in the investigation."

  "Absolutely not!"

  "Lefebre and his team in particular."

  MacGregor fumed. "This is the province of the Criminal Investigation Division. I will tolerate no interference from private parties."

  "We can be of great help," Whittenfeld advised. "We have ways—"

  "I'm sure you do. But you will dream about them." He pivoted to Whittenfeld. "I will not tolerate a repetition of the worker-melee incident. Nor will anyone else in an official capacity around here. You will keep your security men within the co
nfines of Geminii base. They are not to sortie out into the general area. Nor are they to engage in any pursuits properly within the jurisdiction of the police." His expression was hard, definitive. "I trust I make myself clear. But if I don't and your security people do roam where they should not be, I will have them arrested, and I will ask the procurator to prosecute. Understand?"

  Whittenfeld did not reply. MacGregor left Travis House.

  Angry, Whittenfeld departed a short time later. Scotty called Jerry Foster and asked him to expedite the shipment of Mrs. Munro's remains back to her home. Foster advised he had already contacted Mrs. Munro's immediate family and had arranged to send the body out on the eight P.M. train.

  Scotty then contacted Mary MacKenzie at the Cam Dearg and told her what had happened. She was shaken; she wanted to come right over. He stopped her, preferring she meet him at the railroad station that evening.

  Shortly before eight, he drove a company car through the darkness and a damp, penetrating mist to the terminal, situated in the center of the city. Jerry Foster had already left after seeing to the particulars. Mary MacKenzie was still there.

  She embraced him, squeezing tight, refusing to let go, tears running down her face.

  "I'm scared for you," she mumbled. "And ashamed for Scotland."

  They stood in the mist together, then walked to the northbound train. An empty hearse was sitting next to a freight car. They looked into the car. Mrs. Munro's coffin was inside, propped securely.

  "The poor woman," Mary MacKenzie said. "I can still hear her voice. You know, she was very un-Scottish in many ways. Her sternness better fit a big Irishwoman. Yes, she had an Irish way about her."

  The train belched a cloud of smoke; it began to move.

  "She was some piece of work," Scotty said as a requiem. "I'll miss her."

  Scotty and Mary MacKenzie spent the night together again at the Carn Dearg Inn. He stayed until the morning, leaving the inn at seven A.M. and arriving at Geminii base shortly after nine.

  A message from Bill Nunn was waiting. He had hit pay dirt, a hard chert-silica formation, and was on his way to shore. Scotty summoned Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo.

  The two researchers arrived at the complex just after Nunn; Scotty immediately forbade discussion of the assassination, attempt.