"Goddamnit," Whittenfeld said.
Dr. Rubinstein suddenly felt as if someone had encased him in ice. It was his recurring fear translated to fact, the constant threat of interruption, something going wrong. As he watched the police launch approach the command barge, he could see all his years of work passing before him like an escaping cloud of gas.
"We've got to get them out of here!" he said.
"I know," Scotty replied. "I'll find out what they want." He pointed to the trap monitors. "Turn those off."
Dr. Rubinstein ordered the technicians to deactivate the cameras.
"Could they know about the operation?" he asked.
"Anything's possible," Scotty said, shrugging.
They walked out of the cabin as the launch pulled up. The command barge crew tied mooring lines. Superintendent MacGregor and Chief Inspector MacKintosh climbed on to the barge.
"You seem to have a big operation going," MacGregor said, without his usual smile.
"The web," Scotty declared.
MacGregor glanced at the shore installation. A police helicopter was hovering over one of the helipads. "I hope you're not essential to its fulfillment, Mr. Bruce," he added.
"I'm not," Scotty said.
"We'd like you to come with us."
"Is this an invitation, too?"
"No, it's a demand!"
Scotty turned to Dr. Rubinstein. "You'll have to begin without me."
"I'd prefer we didn't have to. But we must start."
Scotty moved toward the launch. "What's this about, MacGregor?"
MacGregor sighed. "I'd like to wait until we reach our destination to give you an explanation, and I'd appreciate it if you would accommodate me."
Scotty dropped on to the launch. He knew the explanation already, knew it suddenly with a tremor of fear and horror. But he had to get the police out of there. He could not press now.
The police officers followed him on to the vessel, The mooring lines were cast off. The launch pulled away,
The police helicopter moved south past the loch. Scotty was seated directly across from MacGregor. Since he'd joined the officers, no one had said a word.
The chopper crossed the shore's rising mountains. He could see a small, high-altitude loch ahead. The chopper slowed over an isolated meadow. He looked down. A group of constables were moving near a gravel path. Most of the activity, however, was hidden under a cluster of trees. There were no cars. Everyone had obviously been transported to the site by the helicopter.
The chopper landed; the pilot opened the chopper door.
"Would you please step down, Mr. Bruce?" MacGregor suggested.
Scotty left the helicopter.
MacGregor and MacKintosh followed. MacGregor pointed up the road to the cluster of trees. They walked ahead.
A body lay on the gravel, covered by a sheet. Nearby was a mound of dirt next to an excavated grave. MacGregor glared at the covered corpse, then back at Scotty, saying nothing.
Suddenly, Scotty couldn't breathe.
A constable removed the shroud.
Mary MacKenzie lay naked, her throat slashed, her body covered with blood and dirt, her death mask crying defiance.
Scotty held in the scream that suddenly tried to escape from his throat. The suffocating feeling became so intense he felt as if he were going to die. Tears poured down his cheeks.
MacGregor ordered the body covered once more.
"We were lucky to find her," MacGregor explained. "The grave was expertly concealed. Unfortunately for the murderer or murderers, a young shepherd boy happened by on the footpath high above during the final stages of interment and saw a solitary man dropping the body into the excavation."
Scotty said nothing, trying to stop himself from grabbing Mary's body and embracing it one last time. Had she died hating him?
"Who did it?" MacGregor asked.
Scotty looked at the superintendent. He knew the answer. But he was going to say nothing to the police right now. He could not allow the police to race back on to the loch and possibly dangerously interfere with the trap operation. But, more importantly, he was going to be the instrument of revenge for Mary MacKenzie's death—not the police.
"You don't suspect me of this, do you?" he finalIy asked.
"Officially, I must suspect everyone," MacGregor replied. "So must the procurator's office. But unofficially, no. Of course not."
"Then I can go?"
"Unfortunately not. We want to talk to you. So do the procurator's people. You may be able to help us. We will fly back to Inverness and talk for a while. Then, of course, you may go. And Mr. Bruce. I want you to know I understand the hurt you feel."
"I have to go back to the loch. It's a dangerous operation. Let me finish and I'll then come in for all the questions you want to ask."
"But you said you weren't needed."
"I am."
"I'm sorry. It will have to wait."
Scotty looked at the officers. No one seemed to be wearing guns.
"If you please," MacGregor said. "We will return to the helicopter."
Joined by Inspector MacKintosh, they walked back to the makeshift landing pad. MacKintosh held out his arm to assist Scotty into the chopper. Scotty pushed the inspector back against MacGregor, causing both men to fall. Several constables ran toward them. Scotty jumped into the chopper, closed and locked its door.
The pilot rose from his seat. Scotty punched him, knocking him unconscious, then strapped himself into the pilot's seat. MacGregor moved in front of the helicopter, screaming. Several officers tried unsuccessfully to open the chopper's door. Scotty checked the controls—the pilot had already started the engines—and took the chopper into the air. He looked down. The police had no cars. No radios. It would take them a good hour to reach civilization. That would give him just enough time.
He brought the chopper down a good distance away, eased out the unconscious pilot, then lifted the chopper into the air again, headed toward Loch Ness, raised Geminii base on the chopper's mike, and asked the director of helicopter operations to inquire if Girard had returned to base. Moments later, the director informed him that Girard had indeed shown up and could be found in Lefebre's office.
He turned the helicopter toward Dores.
Girard had disappeared just after Mary MacKenzie had left Travis House and had reappeared subsequent to the discovery of her body.
He clenched his teeth as tears ran down his cheeks. He felt his entire body tremble with hatred and loss.
He would speak to Girard.
Chapter 40
Girard stood as Scotty Bruce entered Lefebre's office, unannounced.
"Mr. Bruce," Girard said, surprised. "I thought you were out on the loch."
"I was," Scotty declared emotionlessly as he placed a small tape recorder on Lefebre's desk.
"Can I help you with anything?" Girard asked, staring at the machine.
"The police took me off the loch," Scotty said, turning on the recorder. "They flew me up to Loch Duntelchaig. They showed me a dead body. Councilwoman Mary MacKenzie. Murdered."
Girard seemed shocked. "That's terrible!"
"Where've you been the last two days, Girard?"
"Working."
"On what?"
"Well-site security."
Scotty meandered around the side of the desk. "Tell me about Houghton."
"Who's Houghton?"
Scotty walked behind Girard. Girard continued to look ahead.
"John Leslie Houghton?"
"I don't know the man."
Quickly, Scotty jolted Girard toward the window, rammed Girard's head through the glass, then forced his throat down on the shattered spikes.
Girard screamed. Scotty pressed. Blood flowed.
"One move and I slit your throat!" Scotty warned.
"Please," Girard begged, choking.
"I'm going to ask you questions," Scotty growled. "And you're going to answer. You're going to tell me the truth." He shook Girard hard;
Girard cried out. Scotty wanted the recording, especially if anything happened to him, he wanted a record for the police.
"Understand?"
"Yes."
"Do you know Houghton?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I'd never met the man before. I was contacted by an intermediary. Someone I had worked for in London. A professional hit man. He told me to speak to Houghton or else. I went to Houghton's farm. Houghton assured me our talk would remain confidential. I answered his questions."
"Who killed Barrett?"
Girard hesitated. Scotty pressed Girard's neck against the glass.
"Lefebre!"
"The divers?"
"Lefebre!"
"Sutherland?"
"Lefebre!"
"Mrs. Munro?"
"Lefebre!"
"MacKenzie?"
"Lefebre!"
"And your involvement?"
"I didn't do anything."
Scotty pressed harder. "You're lying!"
Girard choked; his body was a sponge of sweat. "I intercepted MacKenzie on her way to Edinburgh." His voice rose. "But I had no idea Lefebre was going to kill her."
"Barrett? The divers? Sutherland? Munro? You had no idea?"
"Please . . ."
"Who took the gelatin dynamite?"
"Whittenfeld."
"Why?"
"They've rigged the trap. The trap is timed. Ten minutes after they catch the thing, the trap will blow!"
Scotty felt a wave of dizziness. It's ours, Mary MacKenzie had said! Whatever is in the loch belongs to Scotland, and Gemini, is not going to harm it! He shook with fury. Whittenfeld had destroyed everything in his path. Now the beast was next.
"Phony evidence has been planted," Girard declared. "The destruction of the trap will be blamed on the Jacobites."
"You fucking filthy scum bastards!" Scotty screamed, nearing a frenzy.
He pulled Girard off the glass and smashed Girard's head into the wall. Girard recoiled, groggy, trying to resist. Scotty hurled him down Lefebre's work table, through a row of ivory carvings. Pieces of ivory shattered to the floor. Girard fell unconscious.
Scotty propped Girard up in Lefebre's desk chair, shut off the recorder, then contacted security and ordered them to come immediately to Lefebre's office and place Girard under arrest.
Closed transmissions between the sonar tugs, the command barge, and the Magellan began with Captain Harrigan's first alarm.
"We've spotted it!" he advised. "In the trench!"
Soon all three sonar tugs had picked up the target. The communication channels were suddenly filled with a hiss of voices, including the voices of Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo, who began rapidly exchanging information.
As of the last transmission, which had suggested that the beast was angrily twisting in the trench, everyone in the Magellan command room had taken a position in front of the project controls.
It had begun!
The helicopter rose into the air over the Geminii complex. Moments before, Scotty had locked the tape recorder in his office.
He did not like the view he faced. The sky was dark. The wind had already shifted around toward the west and the fog bank had started to move rapidly over the loch. It was as if Satan, the beast, controlled the elements.
He swooped toward the Urquhart Bay installation, trying to overtake the weather. The fog swallowed the Magellan, then the barges and tugs. He pivoted to one of the landing pads. Then, suddenly, the pad disappeared, too, buried.
He looked over the surrounding terrain. Everything flat was encased. The higher ground was unusable. It was getting darker. He had to get down.
Eyes fixed on instruments, he started a descent. The chopper entered the fog, pushed off trajectory by the light wind. Silent mushrooms of white billowed before him. It got darker. He watched his radar altimeter, his pitch and roll gauges. He held tight to his vertical controls. He was almost down. The tail caught something. The chopper lurched violently. He frantically tried to right it, but couldn't. The chopper came down tilted on one of its runners; the support collapsed; sparks exploded in the cabin. Desperate, he lunged through the exit door as a fire broke out. He ran from the pad.
The chopper exploded.
"It's rising out of the trench!" Captain Harrigan cried, his voice echoing out of the receiver. "It's starting to move toward the Magellan."
Dr. Rubinstein acknowledged the communication and checked his sonar screens and monitors. There! They had it, too.
The object seemed to be moving, then stopping, turning around, almost as if it were delaying allowing its anger to build.
He informed the Magellan's operations room that the target had started to veer toward the drill ship.
"We've got it!" Dr. Fiammengo called out.
Bill Nunn and Mike Grabowski studied the high-frequency sonar screen.
"That's it!" Grabowski said. "Christ!"
Dr. Fiammengo called Captain Harrigan. Harrigan estimated the target object to be two hundred feet beneath the surface.
Dr. Fiammengo listened. The tension in the room was almost audible, and there were none who had been spared the strain, except perhaps Pierre Lefebre, who, since the start of the operation, had sat arms folded, looking straight ahead, oblivious, almost as if he'd known the final outcome from the first.
Scotty rushed down the installation's main path. Behind him raged an inferno of Dante, the firelight spread like a fan by the breeze.
He reached the operations building, obtained a rifle and a compass, then ran down to the marina. A guard was stationed near the launches.
"Are they fueled?" Scotty asked, gasping.
"Yes, Mr. Bruce," the guard said. "All of them."
Scotty jumped into the smallest launch and started its engine. The security guard untied the moor line..Scotty laid the compass on the console, planning to navigate by use of the compass and the sounds of the Magellan's pumps and rotary.
He would certainly be able to hear both. Although the night fog had rolled in with a vengeance, it had not been accompanied by high surface winds or foul weather. In fact, the surface of the loch was relatively smooth, and there were few sounds. It was as if he was about to move into a vacuum.
The target object was less than two hundred yards off the Magellan's marine riser, closing fast.
Dr. Rubinstein ordered the Magellan to shut down her rotary. Seconds later, an affirmation returned; the rotary was dead.
He ran past an array of visuals, examining digital readouts and electronic pictorials. The creature had suddenly stopped its angered rush toward the drill ship and was lying still, no doubt confused. He waited several minutes, then punched on the broadcast system.
He held his breath—one minute, two—and then the target object, twisting angrily again, changed directions and started moving toward the trap.
He swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and voraciously bit his nails.
It would not be long.
The launch funneled through the thick fog like a sharpened knife. Scotty could barely see five feet in front of him and following the Magellan's generated sounds for guidance had suddenly proved difficult. Only seconds before, he'd heard the rotary die. Although he could still hear the drill ship's mud pumps, he could not tell where the sounds were coming from. Confused by the crossing echoes and the lack of vision, the sounds seemed to swarm directionlessly around him.
He cut the launch engine and listened. Apart from the echoes, the loch was almost supernaturally quiet. Yet he was aware that the beast was being lured into the trap.
Glancing at the compass, he headed southeast and drew alongside flotation raft number 30.
He tried to remember the chart. The 30 raft, he recalled, was just past the position of the command barge, and to the south. Or was it?
He might already have passed by the Magellan.
Holding the compass, he turned the launch 90 degrees to the right.
Dr. Rubinstein watched the trap's
outer television and sonar monitors; the intent of the target was unmistakable.
The target was underneath the trap and was trying desperately to puncture the steel web to get to the interior broadcast cone.
"We'll just have to wait," Dr. Rubinstein said, answering
Whittenfeld, who had nervously called from the Magellan.
"What if it doesn't come over the sides?"
"It will!"
Dr. Rubinstein looked out the command barge window as he listened to the incredible noises and vibrations picked up by the trap's sonic receivers. Everything was black, though the drifting fog was very discernible in the light of the barge's floods.
It seemed so peaceful and serene outside.
Jerry Foster moved up. "What's it doing?" he asked.
"Trying to tear all our work to ribbons," Dr. Rubinstein replied.
Dr. Fiammengo shot to her feet as whole columns of console lights went dark.
"What the hell?" she exclaimed as she carefully checked the instruments, joined by one of Geminii's electrical engineers.
Whittenfeld and Lefebre rushed over.
"What's wrong?" Whittenfeld asked.
"I think the creature ripped one of our lines!"
"What do you mean?"
Dr. Fiammengo pointed to the flow chart over her position. "Two hookups run from the Magellan to the trap. One carries the electrical cables, the other our television and sonar lines." She looked up at the monitors; everything seemed fine. "We lost electrical."
"What does that mean?" Lefebre asked.
"It means we can't operate the trap from here!"
Aware of the control failure on the Magellan, Dr. Rubinstein quickly moved in front of the trap's interior camera monitors and the computer pictorial display screen as they began to record the entrance of the creature into the trap's jaws.
The creature hung up near the top, and then, responding to the continued transmissions, attacked the broadcast cone, which was suspended between the number II spokes. Noise crackled back.
"Close the spokes," Dr. Rubinstein ordered.
A technician hit a switch; the spokes started to close.
It took just seconds to ensnare the target.
Waving his arms wildly, screaming his ecstasy, listening to cries of emotion from the Magellan, Dr. Rubinstein checked every parameter to ensure they had the target encased, then hit the activation switch, which joined the spoke clamps. A flashing red light indicated the clamps had locked.
Monster: Tale Loch Ness Page 38
