It'll be the most extensive search and capture ever undertaken, and when it's done, the monster will be locked safely in her pen."
David Caldwell stood at the podium of the outdoor sound stage, Brandy at his side, as he addressed members of the Highland Council. Upward of a thousand locals and tourists listened, along with scores of reporters, news personalities, and their camera crews.
"Would you break down this plan for us, Dr. Caldwell?"
"That's why we're here. As you can see, the pontoon bridge has been completed in record time. What you can't see is below the waterline, where two-thirds of the steel fencing is now in place. The remaining third, located close to the northern shore, is purposely being left open."
David pointed to the Nessie III and the Nothosaur, both vessels now positioned inside the perimeter of the arcing pontoon bridge. "The first phase of our plan was to ready the pen while using our active sonar to keep Nessie within her lair. Lives saved, mission accomplished. Now it's time for phase two, actually capturing the monster. Now that she's good and hungry, we'll set our trap. Once it gets dark, we'll be lowering one more buoy into the water — only this one will be located in the middle of Urquhart Bay, well inside the pen. Attached to it will be loads of juicy bait. Once the monster enters, the crew of the Nothosaur will net the creature while our construction team lowers the remaining fence into position, sealing off the pen."
I stood near the back of the grandstand and listened as dozens of reporters yelled out their questions over one another, David focusing on the few he hoped he could answer.
"Dr. Caldwell, assuming you do capture the monster, what's going to prevent it from simply escaping by land?"
"Eventually we'll be adding perimeter fencing. For now, we're in the process of lining the shoreline with underwater speakers. I've discovered Nessie avoids loud sounds. Once the monster's captured, we'll turn up the volume along the shoreline's speakers and that'll be that."
"Won't that aggravate the creature?"
"Nah. We'll play Mozart or something mellow, like "Auld Lang Syne.'"
The crowd laughed, David basking in their adoration.
"Dr. Caldwell, once she's inside, how long will it take to seal off the pen?"
"According to the crane operator and his team, they'll be able to complete the job in less than fifteen minutes."
"What happens after you capture her?"
"First we'll make sure her pen's good and tight, then we'll use remotely operated submersibles to get a good look at her. Once she gets used to her new habitat, we'll open it up to the public."
"Don't you mean the paying public?"
"Hey, you pay to get into the zoo, don't you? That's what this'll be, only like no other zoo in the world."
There were a hundred questions I wanted to shout, but what was the point? Besides, I had no stomach for it; the revelation of my father's crime eating me up inside.
Mentally, I felt fried, and if I hadn't sent True on an errand to his oil rig in the North Sea, I'd have probably been on the next flight back to Miami.
But before I could leave with a clear conscience, there was one last thing I had to do.
Grabbing my cane, I limped away from the fairgrounds, making my way through the growing throng. The hillsides surrounding Urquhart Bay were already packed with hundreds of people staking out their vantage for the evening's spectacle-to-come. There were blankets and chairs, sleeping bags and tents, barbecues and spits, and folding tables covered with food. Vendors hocked their wares, and musicians dressed in minstrel costumes played, their tunes in sharp contrast to the heavy metal music coming from boom boxes and CD players across the main lawn.
It was the event of the year, perhaps of the century if the guest of honor chose tonight to make her appearance, but I had other plans.
Climbing aboard my motorcycle, I gunned the engine, heading south toward Invermoriston.
Despite my father's "confession," there was still an undercurrent of lies, deceit, and secrecy surrounding the Loch Ness predator that prevented me from just walking away. And when it came to keeping secrets in the Highlands, one need look no farther than the Clans.
While the ancient Scottish lowlands were ruled by its border chiefs and lords, the Highland geography, with its mountains and glens, lochs and islands, forced populations to congregate in smaller clusters, known as Clans. Clan is a Gaelic word that translates to "children" or more appropriately, "family." Each Highland "family" was run by a chief, whose name his followers took. The chief served as supreme leader and lawgiver and all clansmen swore their allegiance as "kin." Each clan had a coat of arms and tartan, which distinguished rank, not by the plaid, but by the number of colors in the weave. In the harsh environment of the Highlands, the clan represented solidarity, a form of government, and protection against enemies.
Over the centuries, the size of the clan chief's estate grew, and he'd often sublet the land to his clansmen for farming, a practice later known as crofting.
The clans' rule came to an abrupt end in 1746 with the last Jacobite uprising and the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie at the Battle of Culloden. King George's "Disarming Act" outlawed the tartan and the clans' system of government, paving the way for a Highland central authority. Crofters, tenants of the land, lost their stability, although subsequent crofting acts were eventually established to protect the rights of rural farmers. Still, the once-powerful clans and their centuries-old ways gradually faded into the shadows.
The Black Knights of the Templar were operating in these shadows, and from what I surmised, their members had come from the most established of the old clans.
The question I needed answered: What was their objective?
Calum Forrest was kin to both Clan Stewart and Clan MacDonald, two of Scotland's most powerful families, a fact further made evident by the location of the water bailiff's croft. The nearest crofting community was in Grotaig, set high above the Loch through dense Scots pine, but Calum's scenic ten hectares, like the land my father had sold to John Cialino, were located right on the Ness's banks, just south of Invermoristion.
It took me twenty minutes before I finally found the single lane dirt access road that led me to Calum's lakeside croft. Barbed-wire fencing marked the property, and its one-story farmhouse and barn were set far back from the water's edge. Six hundred sheep, all congregating close to the dwellings, dotted the fenced-off grassland.
As I rode closer, I noticed a small wooden pier jutting out into the Loch. The water bailiff's boat was nowhere in sight.
Following the unpaved road into the Forrest's driveway, I parked next to an old tractor re-painted lime green, which had seen better days, and walked over to the farmhouse.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I walked around back and peeked in the kitchen door window, but it was dark inside, no one home.
Wind blew off the Loch, whistling through the farm's fence. The wooden posts that supported the barbed wire were gray and rotting, in desperate need of repair.
Most crofters were poor, the land never intended to provide locals with a living. Crofters had to find additional employment in order to support their families, in Calum Forrest's case, it meant working as water bailiff. Still, it helped that he was raising sheep. Highland sheep farms were subsidized by the government. Without these monies most farmers would go bankrupt, a reality blamed on poor soil conditions, harsh weather, and the distance to major markets.
Leaving the farmhouse, I walked to the nearest gate of the grazing fence, staring out at the magnificent view. A late-afternoon storm was brewing, kicking lather off the surface, and even at this distance, I could feel its spray on my face. It must have bothered the sheep, for the animals remained huddled in the near corner of the acreage.