“Right, uh, what are we talking about?”
“We’re talking about finding the truth by thinking outside the box. For instance, that giant croc — what if it’s still alive?”
“Purussaurus? Not likely. It was a saltwater species. Vostok’s fresh water. Besides, the pressure would have crushed its lungs long ago.”
“What about those fossils Ming’s crew dragged out of the crevasse?”
“There was no epic battle in Vostok millions of years ago; a python that size could never kill a Purussaurus. I’d wager good money the Crocodylia was already dead when that giant snake found it lying on an Antarctic shoreline and choked attempting to eat it before another predator could claim its prize.”
“Ming said they traced the ice that held those two creatures back to Vostok.”
“Translated: the ice sheet dragged it into Vostok and probably across a dozen other subglacial lakes en route to the Amery Ice Shelf. It doesn’t mean the lake was populated with giant crocs and pythons.”
“Then you think this whole expedition is a waste of time and money?”
“Not at all. Vostok presents scientists with an incredible opportunity to study what our planet was like during the Miocene. I think there’s a good chance some sort of microbial life has survived. I’m sure the paleo guys will be studying water samples for years.”
“Be honest, Doc. Why did you really turn down Dr. Liao’s offer?”
“I thought I made that clear. I don’t want to be away from my family for six months, especially in minus-forty-degree temperatures.”
“It’s all about that Sargasso Sea incident, isn’t it? In your memoir you wrote about nearly drowning to save your cameraman.”
“Did drown.”
“My point is you’d think they’d honor that kind of sacrifice. Instead they blamed you for the crewman you didn’t save. What kills me is the same thing is happening to you again, here in Drumnadrochit. The creature was killing people; she was a serious threat to every villager around Loch Ness, not to mention the tourists. You resolved the problem and risked your life doing it and this is how they repay you — by turning you into a recluse?”
I felt my blood pressure rise, as if Hintzmann’s words had flipped a switch on an internal furnace. “Where’s this going, Ben?”
“You and I have a lot in common, Doc. We’ve both made sacrifices. We both answered the call of duty, and now we’re both on the outs. And don’t tell me you always wanted to teach. The man who solved the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster isn’t going to feel satisfied grading papers. Will those challenges fulfill you for the rest of your days, or will you wake up one morning old and gray, wondering what might have been? See, I get what you’re going through — it sucks being the ugly girl at the dance. But that’s no reason to skip the prom, no reason to settle for a life of mediocrity. For a marine biologist, Vostok is the moon landing. Don’t pass it up. The world remembers Neil Armstrong; no one gives a damn about the back-up astronauts who stayed behind.”
“Are you done, Hintzmann? Or are there a few more metaphors you’d like to recite? No? Well here’s one to mull over as you leave my home: don’t blame the dog after you step in shit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Give it time. I suspect it’ll come to you.”
4
“Fools look to tomorrow. Wise men use tonight.”
The hamlet of Invermoriston lies ten miles south of Drumnadrochit on the A82 roadway at the junction of the A887, which cuts west through some of the lushest woodlands in the Great Glen. Snaking its way east through the forest’s rocky ravines is the mighty River Moriston. Approaching Invermoriston, the waterway churns into rapids and flows over a series of falls before it passes under the two-hundred-year-old Telford Bridge to empty into Loch Ness.
It was after eight o’clock at night when a Nessie’s Lair mini-van driven by True MacDonald pulled into a scenic lay-by off the A82. In the front passenger seat was my father. In the back seats were Dr. Liao, Dr. Ahmed, and George McFarland, the engineer from Stone Aerospace.
Red-and-blue strobe lights from a police vehicle cut across a campground nestled between the highway and shoreline as Deputy Sheriff Mark Plumley made his way up a steep trail to greet Angus.
“Ye heard, then? This new monster is a hungry one.”
“Aye. Who found the remains?”
“Esther Jacobs. She was walking by the water at sunset when it washed ashore. My brother Chris is takin’ photos of whit’s left. Who’s all this, then?”
“Scientists. They arrived yesterday on business wit’ Zachary. Mind if they ’ave a look?”
“Jist watch yer step on the rocks. Lots of blood.”
Plumley shone his flashlight on the trail that cut through the campsite, leading Angus and his entourage to the shoreline.
Twenty-two months earlier, an American tourist named Tiani Brueggert had arrived at this very destination with her husband, Joel, and their two teenage daughters. Having spent the day hiking the forest trails, Tiani left her tent late that night to soak her swollen feet in the loch’s frigid waters. While returning to the campsite, she was attacked by an amphibious creature more than forty feet in length. It spread her remains across the clearing like an exploded melon. My father made sure he relayed these gruesome details to his guests on their way down to the water.
The shoreline was covered in smooth rounded stones. Dark waves lapped beneath a barren pier that extended thirty feet into the loch, the boats stored indoors for the winter.
Chris Plumley, the assistant fire chief and EMS supervisor in Inverness, was busy positioning battery-powered lanterns around the remains of a European red stag. The buck’s four-foot-long antlers were wedged sideways into the ground, the deer’s head propped at an awkward angle facing the heavens. The animal’s hind quarters were missing, its stomach eviscerated.
The deputy sheriff shone his light on the wound. “Took it in one bite from below as it crossed the loch. This was a big buck, too. Had to weigh forty to fifty stone.”
Liao covered her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the half-eaten elk’s spilled innards. “What could have done this? Surely it had to be the same species as the one discovered by your son?”
“Ye mean a guivre?” Angus shook his head. “The guivre was amphibious. This creature stays in the water. Ain’t that right, Sheriff Plumley?”
“Aye. This wasn’t a guivre. Big like a guivre, but no’ a guivre, right, Chris?”
“Absolutely. If this was a guivre like ol’ Nessie, she would have come ashore tae finish her meal.”
“Good point,” Angus chimed back. “Whitever this one is, she’s big but stays tae the water. She’s not a threat tae the locals.”
“Agreed,” the Plumley brothers said.
Dr. Ahmed attempted to interrupt the mental circle jerk. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but how can you possibly surmise all this without having performed a necropsy?”
“Performed a whit?”
“A necropsy. An examination of the elk’s remains in order to determine the cause of death.”
Angus eyeballed the Pakistani as if he had just cursed the Wallace clan. “Are ye daft? Do ye need a bloody examination tae see that the poor animal got his arse bitten off by a water monster?”
Before Dr. Ahmed could reply, the scene was invaded by three reporters and two photographers, all of whom seemed to appear out of a fog bank.