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.
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?"