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.
"So, Sherlock Holmes, whit're we lookin' for then? Nessie turds?"
"Sure, Nessie turds would be great." I took a long scan of the shoreline, then began retracing my steps back toward the river.
True shook his head. "This science stuff, it's pretty borin', yeah?"
"Well, it's not deep diving off a North Sea oil rig, but it beats aimlessly searching the Loch."
"Maybe, but I've had better times watchin' grass grow. Now whit're ye doin'?"
On hands and knees I crawled by the water, pausing occasionally to press my nose to the rocky surface.
"Zachary, please, yer embarrassin' me. Ye think ye're a bloodhound now?"
"I detected a rancid odor yesterday. I'm hoping to catch another whiff."
"Sweet Jesus. Tell ye what, how 'bout I blah blah blah blah blah …"
I closed my eyes and inhaled, my mind absorbed in my "zone."
"… back wi' a few cold ones an some lunch. Okay? I said okay? Hey, Zack?"
I stood, moving to another section of shoreline, repeating the exercise.
"Ken whit? I think ye've lost yer marbles."
We both heard the rumble and looked up as a motorboat maneuvered close to shore, blasting its horn at us. "Hah, it's Brandy, shouldae known. Hey, Brandy girl!"
The Nessie III was again overloaded with passengers, all aiming their cameras at the now-legendary campsite. Brandy was visible in the wheelhouse, as was her string bikini top. She waved at her brother, then, seeing me, flipped me the middle finger.
"Look's like she's still pissed at ye."
"Hell hash no fury like a Highland woman scorned."
"Amen."
I returned to my work, my mind, tainted with the vision of Brandy in her bathing suit, fighting to refocus.
"A sandwich then?"
"Huh?"
"Are ye deaf? I asked if ye wanted a sandwich? Thought I'd grab us some lunch while ye finished polishin' thae rocks wi' yer belly."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever."
He turned and walked away, then stumbled, the toe of his right boot catching the lip of a slight depression in the geography.
I stared at the spot, my heart racing.
"Whit? Dae ye see somethin' then?"
There were three of them — S-shaped depressions, each eight feet long, five feet wide, and three to four inches deep. They were angled from the water's edge up across the embankment and into the forest, and were so broad and sweeping that the pattern looked natural to the untrained eye.
On hands and knees, I inhaled the imprint, gagging at the lingering stench.
"Is it the monster then?" True dropped down and inhaled. "Phew, smells like a girl I once knew."
"I can't speak for your social life, but something biological was definitely here, and it left behind its slime."
"Slime?"
"At least that's what it feels like. Rain washed most of it away, but its slickness still lingers." Retrieving a glass jar from my backpack, I took a soil sample, the sudden rush of adrenaline tingling my bladder.
True and I continued walking south along the western shoreline, the discovery of the impressions having reinvigorated my friend's excitement. "Okay, Zack, let's say it wis an animal that left thae impressions. To crush the earth like that, how heavy wid ye say it'd have tae be?"
"I don't know, maybe ten thousand pounds or more, but that's just a rough guess."
"Whit did Angus call it then? A Guivre?"
"True, there's no such species as a Guivre. It's just folklore."
"Then how'd ye explain—"
"Easy, big guy, let's not repeat the same mistakes other explorers at Loch Ness make. They create some preconceived idea of what might be out there, then spend all their time attempting to prove they're right by only searching for their imaginary beast."
"Ye mean, like the plesiosaur guys?"
"Exactly. A dinosaur in Loch Ness is a romantic notion, but it's not science, it's just myth-building. We'll let the lab results tell us what this creature is… or isn't."
I stopped. Taking out an empty glass jar and my gardening shovel, I bent down and took another soil sample by the water's edge.
"Now what're ye doin?"
"Checking the worm population."
"Worms? It wisnae a worm that made thae tracks, I'll tell ye that for now."
"Your Guivre has to eat, right? Before it allegedly added humans to its diet, it must have subsisted on food from the Loch."
"Aye. Makes sense."
"Loch Ness's food chain begins with microscopic vegetation called phytoplankton. From there, it progresses to zooplankton, then worms and small fish, tadpoles, minnows, and so on and so forth. Then you've got your bigger fish, salmon, sea trout, brown trout, charr, pike, lamprey, eel, and sturgeon, some of which can weigh in at several hundred pounds. Somewhere along that food chain is a major break in one or more of its links. I want to know where it is, and what caused it."
"An' this'll tell ye where oor Guivre's hidin', aye?"
I shook my head. "You know, you really have to ease up on those deep dives. Cuts off oxygen to the brain."
"Okay, take yer jabs, Dr. Doolittle, as long as ye're no' playin' in the mud jist tae avoid gettin' yer feet wet."
Maybe he wasn't such a dumb strongman after all.
We walked all morning and late into the afternoon, passing Port Clair and Cherry Island until we eventually rounded the southern tip of the Loch. We passed the old pier at Bunoch, arriving finally at Fort Augustus, the largest town on the waterway.
The village was immersed in a carnival atmosphere, overflowing with locals and tourists and scores of media. True headed off to the nearest pub for a pint of Guinness while I followed the crowd to the wharf and the just-arriving Nothosaur, a forty-two-foot research vessel named after a long-necked, sharp-toothed member of the plesiosaur family that had lived during the Triassic Period.
The boat's name alone told me everything I needed to know about its owner.