David circled the group again like a young Patton. "In a few days, we'll be supplying your vessels with extra-heavy fishing nets, which should arrive in Inverness later this week. By then, we expect to have most of the mouth of Urquhart Bay cordoned off Once the monster is targeted by our sonar grid, all boats will converge upon its location and we'll net it."
Meghan Talley shook her head. "Simple as that, huh?"
"Look, lady, we're dealing with a big predator living in a big lake, but it's still just a lake. I mean, where else is this thing gonna go? We locate it, we net it, we pen it. It's cut-and-dried."
"What about the museum?" Dr. Shah asked.
"Once we capture the monster, we'll begin fielding applications from curators and other scientists to study Nessie."
"Applications? You expect us to apply?"
"This is business, Mrs. Talley. And let's get a few things clear. When it comes to the press, all interviews go through me. And I don't want to hear any talk about Nessie being a sturgeon, or your application may just find its way to the bottom of our pile. Capiche?"
Meghan Talley started to say something, but her husband grabbed her arm.
"No more questions? Good. Redistribute your sonar buoys, boys and girls, Nessie hunting season just began."
Gray skies cast a pall over the Great Glen. The dark water was as smooth as glass, blemished by occasional wisps of fog that rolled across the surface like tumbleweed.
I hiked north along the eastern bank of Loch Ness, continuing my search for clues, my T-shirt soaked from a late afternoon downpour that had scattered many of the tourists. By five-thirty I found myself along the banks of Aldourie Pier and a galley-stance that had once supplied a British garrison more than a century ago. A battered aluminum canoe was beached in the tall grass, its exposed bottom covered in algae. There was no one else around.
I continued on, approaching the grounds of Aldourie Castle. The ancient baronial mansion was set several hundred yards back from the Loch, surrounded by open acres of land. Four-story spires topped the abandoned estate, its silhouette dwarfed by a backdrop of emerald green forested slopes carpeted in pine and larch.
Aldourie Castle had been reconstructed several times since its main tower had been built in 1626. The most recent work completed a cement pad that separated the foundation from the first floor. At the time, its owner, Colonel William Fraser-Tytler, claimed it was done to fireproof the estate. According to locals, the colonel was more concerned about "finally putting to rest the ghost of the lady in gray," a spirit said to be haunting the castle grounds.
If childhood memories were the spirits that haunted me, then Castle Aldourie was certainly a part of them, for this was the site where Angus had seeded in me his superstitions about devils and dragons.
I moved to the edge of the bank where my father had dangled his young son. Had the drunken bastard been clairvoyant, or was he just playing me as he'd always done?
Perhaps as he was doing now …
Staring below into those dark waters, I seriously began to wonder. And then I looked up and saw the object.
It was a pale figure, bobbing along the surface several hundred yards away. Had the water not been so smooth, I'd have never seen it, but its movement was causing ripples along the Loch's otherwise tranquil surface.
Was it a deer?
With visibility poor and the fog thickening, I couldn't be certain, but it looked to me… like a body!
There was no one else around, no boats in sight.
What to do?
I looked back at the canoe, my heart pounding.
Okay, Wallace, you swore you'd take action when the time came, well, the clock's ticking.
I jogged back to the canoe, my muscles moving like liquid lead, my bladder tingling with fear. Reaching down, I flipped the algae- infested boat over, exposing a rotted wooden paddle and a dozen or so angry bullfrogs.
"Sorry, boys."
The inside of the canoe reeked of standing water. Using the waterlogged paddle, I pushed away curtains of cobwebs, then dragged the vessel over the grass toward the small pier.
Underwater… lungs on fire, the shadow rising with me… get to the light!
"Whoa!" I shook my head, fighting to clear the subliminal image. "Stay calm. Better to face your fear in daylight."
The Great Glen rumbled with thunder, its placid waters challenging me to violate their serenity.
Lowering the canoe into the water, I tried to imagine what William Wallace and his band of followers must have felt while they waited at Stirling to confront Longshanks's army. Outnumbered, they had confronted their fear head-on and, in doing so, won a decisive battle.
"Fear? Maybe the dragon represented fear? Maybe that's what Angus was trying to tell me. Everyone must face their own personal dragon at some point."
Idiot. Since when did Angus Wallace ever speak philosophically?
I checked the canoe, verified there were no leaks, then, leaving my backpack on the dock, climbed down a small wooded ladder and eased myself into the boat. Balancing myself; I gripped the rotted oar and began paddling away from shore in water deeper than the North Sea.
So far so good. You can do this.
With the fog rolling in, it took me a long moment before I could relocate the bobbing object. My shoulder muscles knotted as I paddled, ending each stroke by tracing a J in the water to keep the canoe moving along a straight course.
Two hundred yards away, the ripples increased in intensity.
Within minutes, the chill of Loch Ness began filtering through the bottom of the aluminum boat, numbing my feet. Ignoring the cold, I switched sides and continued paddling, the canoe's bow pushing through the thickening veils of fog.
I was close now, maybe twenty boat lengths away, when I heard splashing noises up ahead.
Something was struggling in the water… whatever was out there was still alive!
"Hello?"
I paddled harder, my imagination racing. Was it a capsized boater? How long could someone stay afloat in these frigid waters?
I thought I saw a head go under then rise again, perhaps arms slapping at the fog-strewn surface. "Hang on, I'm almost there!"
Reaching the body, I executed a wide C stroke, spun the bow around and leaned over.
"Oh, geez."
It wasn't a person and it wasn't alive. It was a massive fish, a sturgeon, seventeen feet long, only it was covered in dozens of gushing bite marks, each bloody divot measuring eight to ten inches around, four inches deep.
As I watched and stared, the carcass was dragged under again and attacked, as if by a school of piranha.
"Christ, what the hell's happening?"
Whomp!
My heart leaped as something heavy struck the bottom of the canoe, its impact reverberating through my bones.
Whomp… whomp-whomp!
More strikes, in staggered succession. I was being attacked!