"No thanks. I, uh, I think I'll walk."
"What? A' the way tae Dochfour Weir? Dinnae be daft."
Before I could respond, he drove the bow of his vessel onto the gravel shoreline.
I hesitated, my pulse racing.
"C'mon, there's nae need tae worry aboot you-know-who."
His conviction, combined with the size of his boat, gave me the comfort I needed. Pushing the craft's bow away from the shallows, I climbed aboard.
"Just for the record, how can you be so sure our friend won't show up?"
"Gie me a wee bit o' credit. I may no' have yer degrees, doctor, but I've been on these waters since afore ye were in nappies. The big 'uns, they dinnae like the shallows, 'cept lately, 'course, but only after dark."
"Big ones? Then you've seen them?"
"Nah." Calum aimed the boat for the western shoreline, keeping the motor at a low idle so we could speak. "A' I've seen wis the imprint that big female left on Invermoriston beach. Same as you, yeah?"
Female? How did he know it was a female? My eyes darted back and forth between the old man and the water's surface. "But how—"
"I'm the water bailiff, Doc. 'Tis my job tae ken whit goes on in Loch Ness."
"And how do you know it was a female?"
"A quid guess, that's all."
I didn't believe him. "Why didn't you mention any of this in court?"
"Well then, naebody asked me, did they, so stuff them, says I. As for bein' there in the first place, yer faither's bastard barrister sup'ineed me. I said what I had tae, but far as I'm concerned, he can burn in Hell if he thinks any o' us wearin' the tartan'll support Angus's nonsense."
"Then I take it you don't believe my father's story?"
"Nor dae ye, but no' 'cause o' whit I said. So keep at it, young Wallace, yer daein' fine. An' ye're right in focusin' on the Loch as a whole, for the answers tae a' ye seek lie here, no' in chasin' ghosts. But be fair warned, when it comes tae Loch Ness trust nae one, for there's far mair at stake than ye can possibly imagine."
"If you know so much then help me."
He shook his head. "I cannae dae that, laddie. I've taken a blood oath, dae ye ken whit I mean?"
"No, I don't ken… I don't understand. If there's so much at stake—"
"My grandfaither, God rest his soul, wis John Reid Forrest. His mother wis Clan Stewart, his wife, my mum, Clan MacDonald."
Message received. The Forrests were descendants from two of the largest clans in the Highlands. I'd sooner budge a mountain than move Calum Forrest. "And the Black Knights? Were they also part of your heritage?"
"Black Knights? Never heard o' them." He accelerated across the Bona Narrows, barely avoiding a tree stump.
"What separates the Black Knights from the rest of the Templar, Mr. Forrest? What's their mission?"
Calum yanked back on the throttle, then pushed his face in mine, so close I could taste his last meal under his breath. "I dinnae ken nothin' aboot no Black Knights, see, an' dinnae ask me that again."
We rode in silence until we reached the western shore. The old man wiped spray from his brow, then thought for a long moment. "Tell me, lad, have ye been salmon fishin' since ye've been back?"
"Salmon fishing? No. Why? Catch any big ones lately?"
"Naw. I've been too busy wi' a' this trial nonsense. One o' these days, I'll have tae get ower tae their spawnin' grounds an' have a wee look. Or maybe ye should have a look, aye?"
His eyes held mine, ensuring the message was delivered, then he guided us closer to shore, throttling back as the hull scrapped against the shallows.
"Go wi' God, young Wallace. May Sir William's courage flourish in yer heart."
I jumped down to the beach, then watched him speed away without so much as a nod.
I was back in Lochend, the tranquillity of the Great Glen lost amidst the heavy traffic of the A82 at my back. To the south, Loch Ness's waters reached across the valley like the shadow of a giant serpent. Her black waves lapped at my feet, and her distant thunder rumbled above her mountains, threatening an evening shower.
At that moment, I felt like Dorothy, lost in the land of Oz. Calum Forrest was my Scarecrow, pointing me toward the yellow brick road, warning me to ignore the wicked witch and stay focused on the path that lay ahead. Yet what he wasn't saying seemed more important than what he was. Surrounded by clues, I was homing in on the truth, but still couldn't see the forest for the trees.
Calum Forrest. Blood of the MacDonald and Stewart clans, and no doubt a member of the Black Knights. He knows what Nessie is, but as a Black Knight, he can't say. Still, as water bailiff it's his sworn duty to protect the Loch, but that's causing a conflict with his blood oath to the Black Knights.
"So he's reaching out to me, hoping I'll resolve the problem for him."
As if in response, the heavens growled, unleashing a flash of white lightning that disappeared over Aldourie Castle.
"Okay, Dorothy, time to find the wizard."
Wait… what was it Calum said about salmon? The spawning grounds… he wanted me to take a look.
Tightening the straps of my backpack, I jogged south, hoping to make it to Brackla and the Clansman Hotel before being struck by lightning.
Vietnam veteran Pete Lindner sat on the transom of his seventeen-meter cruise ship, Wiley, keeping an eye on the weather as he finished off the last of his prawns and white wine. Two years earlier, the former billing manager at Verizon had taken an early retirement when Jonathan Deval, an old war buddy in the Royal Navy, had offered him a partnership in his Great Glen touring business. Since then, Lindner had spent his winters in New York with the grandkids and his summers in the Highlands, ferrying passengers up and down the Caledonian Canal from Fort William to Inverness.
But recent events had forced a change in plans. The business was clearly in Loch Ness, and the profits were too high to be wasting time and fuel trekking back and forth all the way to Fort William. So Lindner told his partner he'd stay put in the Loch, riding the tourism wave as long as he could, even if it meant mooring off Cherry Island.
Locating an open berth at the Clansman was sheer luck, tougher than finding a parking space in Manhattan.
Lindner finished off another prawn as a rental car screeched to a halt in the adjacent parking lot. Three men exited the vehicle, all in their early thirties, their laughter egged on by the alcohol moving through their bloodstream.
The leader and oldest of the three was an American named Chuck Jones, a talented musician who had once toured with Lynyrd Skynyrd. Jones was on hiatus from his job in law enforcement, forced to the sidelines because of a severe neck injury. The man who had planned the vacation was his cousin, Ron Casey, who also worked for the police, but as a crime scene photographer. The youngest of the trio, Chad Brager, was a former USC ice hockey defenseman and Ron Casey's best friend. The three had been on holiday in London when word of the Nessie attacks had broken. A road accident, a brainstorming session, and a quick shopping spree provided them with equipment and a plan.
Chuck Jones popped the trunk of the rental car, stepping aside to allow his more adept buddies to struggle with a heavy burlap bag and what looked like the carrying case for a trumpet.
Amused, Lindner watched as the three made their way onto the pier, stopping at berth after berth to negotiate with the local boat captains. In succession, each shook his head no, forcing the Americans to continue their search.
Eventually they came to the Wiley.
"Evenin'," said Jones. "That's a fine boat you've got there. Twin diesels. Hydraulic stabilizers. Classic displacement. Bet she's a steady ride."