"Of course, Spencer, if there's any chance the sheep has contracted anthrax—"
"No, ma'am, I assure you, it's nothing like that."
"Still, Dr. Wallace, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on examining whatever's in the bag."
"Dr. Wallace?"
She gave me a disarming smile. "Come now, Zachary, surely you don't think that cap's a suitable disguise. Your face has been on every telecast and newspaper for weeks. Now level with me, what's in the bag?"
I decided Mary Tidwell was someone I could trust, mostly because I had little choice, but being American, I knew she held no ties to any clans. I told her about my investigation and how I'd been attacked, leaving out all references to the Black Knights. She agreed to help me, and within minutes, we had donned surgical gloves, masks, eye shields, and gowns and were extracting vials of blood from the lower torso of the decapitated Anguilla eel's remains.
"I'll have to send these samples out to the lab for analysis," she told me, "but I'll keep everything under my name. They'll do an initial test using an immunoassay kit, isolating negative specimens from potentially positive ones. If toxins are present, a second test, using a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer should tell us what's present."
"If it's okay, I want to examine the Anguilla's brain," I said, removing the football-sized head from the sac.
Dr. Tidwell handed me a scalpel, and I began cutting through the thick, rubbery flesh, peeling it away until I reached the skull. She took over with an electric saw, making several transverse cuts through the dense bone. Prying open the incisions, she was able to remove the cross sections, exposing the eel's brain.
The small organ, about as narrow as the spinal cord to which it was connected, resembled six hen eggs, set in two rows of three.
Dr. Tidwell pointed to the numerous pustulant brown lesions that covered the creature's brain. "This animal's definitely been exposed to toxins, and judging by the extent of these lesions, it's been over a prolonged period of time."
"How could it have survived?"
"Oh, these Anguilla are hardy animals, able to inhabit fresh and salt water, even in heavily polluted areas. When it comes to injuries of the central nervous system, they have the ability to effect repairs by regenerating axons from cell bodies located in the brain. What concerns me are these lesions here, in the forebrain. They'll have destroyed the eel's traits of initiative and caution."
"Resulting in overly aggressive behavior?"
"Definitely. Considering how nasty this fish is to begin with, I'd say you were lucky to only sustain minor injuries."
"Then, assuming Loch Ness's largest inhabitant was affected by these same lesions—"
"Yes, that might explain why it's been on a rampage of late… assuming, of course, the monster, whatever it is, has a similar nervous systems and was exposed to the same sort of toxins."
She collected a few samples of brain tissue, then bagged the skull. "I have a friend who's a technician at the lab. I'll give her a call, maybe she can get the results back to me within the next few days. Where can I reach you?"
I gave her my hotel and cell phone number. "Mary, I'd appreciate it if you said nothing about this to anyone. There's a political undercurrent that seems to control things in the Highlands, and—"
She nodded. "I won't say a word."
Twenty minutes later, I was weaving in and out of traffic again, this time racing the Harley south on the A82, heading back to Drumnadrochit. Pieces of the Loch Nessie puzzle whirled in my mind like a centrifuge. A solution was forming, but there were still a few important clues missing, and to acquire the next one meant confronting a ghost from my past.
Entering the village, I pulled off the side of the road leading up to Glen Urquhart and the Drumnadrochit Lodge, then phoned True.
"Zack, geezus, lad, where've ye been?"
"I had a little accident last night, but I'm all right. Can you meet me at the Clansman Wharf as soon as possible? I need to speak with your sister."
"Sure, sure, be there in twenty."
Several minutes later, True's pickup truck drove by, accelerating past my hiding place and onto the main highway.
Maybe it was the anxiety of confronting the Crabbit, maybe it was the fact that I was getting closer to learning the truth, but as I waited until the dust settled, subliminal images splayed across my mind's eye like a photographer's flash — strange, shattered memories from the first time I had drowned.
Dark water, as cold as death. My scrawny limbs, heavy as lead, unable to move. A nightmarish presence… rising beneath me to finish its meal, then something else… a second boat and a light.
I closed my eyes and tried to remain calm, willing the shunted memories to come, hoping to catch a glimpse of a past that continued to elude me.
And then the long-sought image came into focus.
It was a light, appearing next to an approaching boat, far above my head and just below the surface, and it cast its heavenly glow into the depths, parting the curtains of blackness — revealing the monster! It was dark and frightening and as large as any whale, and its terrible jaw was open, poised around my waist, The points of its teeth pressed against my frail body, tasting my flesh, unsure if I was edible prey. But the light was now passing directly overhead, the brightness of its blessed beacon burning into those freakish jaundice-yellow eyes. The hideous creature darted away, releasing me to another light …
A warm feeling came over me then, as I vaguely recalled seeing old man MacDonald in his rowboat as my spirit hovered over him. He was drenched in my blood, his bearded mouth pumping my purple lips with his life-giving breaths, until I gagged and wretched at the sudden, agonizing pain and opened my eyes, staring up into his shaggy, pit bull face.
I had cried as I bled in his arms, then passed out as he carried me through the woods to the nearest doctor.
He had saved my life, but did I ever thank him? The only thing I could recall was waking in my own bed days later, feverish and sore from having been stitched back together.
In the weeks to come, my body would heal, my mind choosing to bury the truth of my near-death experience with my childhood.
I found Alban MacDonald in his private room behind the lobby desk. He was whittling a piece of hickory with his Sgian Dubh. The dangerous — looking blade of the stainless steel knife was capped with a staghorn handle.
The sight of the weapon let a bit of air out of my ballooning confidence. Gripping my cane, I entered his domain.
"Mr. MacDonald, do you have a minute?"
"No."
"The Anguilla's brain was filled with lesions."
"Dinnae ken nothin' aboot any eel."
"The lesions are affecting their behavior, sir, making them unnaturally aggressive. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
"Go away. I dinnae have time for yer blethers."
"Whatever's causing the lesions in the eel population is probably affecting the monster's behavior, too."
He ignored me, continuing his whittling.
"We need to talk." I hobbled toward him, refusing to cower, even as he rose to his feet, brandishing the knife.
"I said go away!"
"You want to stab me? Go ahead. I already owe you my life, it's yours to take back if you want it. But I'm not leaving until I get some answers."
He stared at me for a god-awful minute, then lowered the blade, slipping it back into its leather sheath as he fell slowly back into his rocking chair. "Whit is it ye want?"
"Seventeen years ago, when you saved my life, you knew the creature that attacked me was afraid of bright light. How did you know?"