The Loch (28 page)

"Good. Then we can ease yer suspicions aboot my faither, once an' for a'."

The sound of a boat's horn drifted up to us from below.

"That'll be Brandy. How aboot I talk her intae picking ye up on the return trip. If ye ask me, I think it's yer destiny tae get back intae her guid graces."

"I hope I live that long."

"She usually circles back past Tor Point around dusk. Try tae make it there by then."

He waved, then bounded down the path.

I watched him disappear into the forest, my mind drifting back to the image of Justin Wagner's remains.

Seventeen years ago I had survived a similar attack. Had I done something to lure the creature up from the depths? And what had I done, consciously or unconsciously, to prevent it from devouring me?

Alban MacDonald had rescued me, perhaps he knew. But old Crabbit was concealing his own secrets.

Who were the Black Knights? What were they doing out at night? And what, if anything, did all this have to do with the attacks on the Loch?

I gathered my belongings and headed down the mountain path, determined to find out.

The Diary of Sir Adam Wallace

Translated by Logan W. Wallace

Entry: 25 October 1330

I scrawl these words by ember's glow, as hours pass like days, an' my sanity remains lost in this hellhole.

At some point sleep must have taken me, for when next I opened my eyes, the gate was nearly finished. Tis an enormous structure, weighin' no less than fifty stone, its width conformin' tae the size o' the river narrow that allows the Loch tae escape tae the sea. Sir Iain has sharpened the bottom flanges intae fierce points. They are meant tae be driven intae the river's bed, an' once set afore the openin', MacDonald claims the current alone should keep the gate frae movin'.

When the last bolts were tightened, MacDonald gathered us in a circle, then brought me taae its center.
"Ecce quam bonum et quam lucundum habitare fratres in unum
—Behold how good an' how pleasant it is for brethren tae dwell together in unity. Adam Zachary Wallace, dae ye believe in God, who hasnae died an' will never die?"

"Aye."

"Dae ye, through fear o' the flames of Hell, swear total obedience tae oor Master, Jesus Christ?"

"Aye."

"Dae ye gie up yer ain free will as a soldier o' Christ?"

"Aye."

"The soldier o' Christ kills safely; he dies the mair safely. He serves his ain interests in dyin', an' Christ's interests in killin'. The warrior is gentler than lambs an' fiercer than lions, bearin' the mildness o' the monk an' the valor o' the knight. Oor Order adorned the Temple o' Solomon wi' weapons instead o' gems, wi' shields instead o' crowns o' gold. Oors is eager for victory, no' fame, for battle no' pomp. We abhor wasteful speech, unnecessary action, unmeasured laughter, gossip an' chatter.

We despise a' things vain, an' live in one house accordin' tae one rule, wi' one soul an' one heart."

Reachin' oot, he took my hand, then opened my flesh wi' his sword. "Adam Zachary Wallace, wi' this blood oath, dae ye swear allegiance tae the Order o' the Knight?"

"Aye."

"Brethren o' the Templar, are there any objections tae acceptin' this novice intae the Order?"

None responded.

MacDonald reviewed the rules o' the Order, then asked whether I had a wife an' family, debts or disease, or if I owed allegiance tae any other master. "None," I replied.

As prompted, I knelt, askin' tae become a servant an' slave of the Temple, swearin' obedience tae God an' the Virgin Mary.

MacDonald recited Psalm 133, then said, "Arise, Sir Adam, for as o' this day an' forever mair, ye are a Templar Knight. Noo, my bretren, as we stand here by the Gate o' Hell, fashioned by oor ain hands, there is one mair allegiance which a' o' us must make."

MacDonald removed the silver casket frae roond my neck an' held it up in the light. "In the name o' Robert the Bruce, oor one an' true Ring, we take this blood oath. Like those who came afore us, sworn in secrecy tae protect the Ark o' the Covenant, so too must we keep the contents o' this silver casket safe. Tae dae so, we willfully join leagues wi' the De'il, usin' evil tae stand guard against evil, so that we may preserve the guid. By this heinous coven, the white tunic shall be replaced by the black, the cross o' Sir Galahad wi' the Braveheart, an X symbolizin' oor contract wi' Satan. Oor followers shall be few, o' noble birth an' born only tae oor Clans, an' we shall take oor secrets tae the grave an' beyond."

An' so, in the depths o' the earth, on the threshold o' Hell, oor blood wis shared an' oor coven wis made, the coven o' the Black Knights.

I ken noo that I shall ne'er again see the light o' day…

The modern theory of evolution does not require gradual change. A new species can arise when a small segment of the ancestral population is isolated at the periphery of the ancestral range. Large, stable central populations exert a strong homogenizing influence. New and favorable mutations are diluted by the sheer bulk of the population through which they must spread. They may build slowly in frequency, but changing environments usually cancel their selective value long before they reach fixation. But small, peripherally isolated groups are cut off from their parental stock. They live as tiny populations in geographic corners of the ancestral range. Small peripheral isolates are a laboratory of evolutionary change.

—
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, 1980

Urquhart Bay, Loch Ness

T
he research vessel,
Nothosaur
, drifted in 730 feet of water, adding to the picturesque backdrop of Urquhart Castle. The banks of the ruins were lined with tourists, the scene recorded by a half dozen TV camera crews, the footage destined to be used in news reports around the globe as B-role.

Michael Hoagland remained on deck to shout imaginary orders to his crew until the last camera was finally lowered, then he hurried inside to the control room and the ship's sonar system.

* * *

Sonar systems function by emitting ultrasonic pulses from an acoustic projector. Hydrophones then analyze these reflected signals to determine if an obstacle or object is present within the field.

There are two basic types of sonar: passive and active. Passive sonar, used aboard submarines, analyzes incoming noises without creating its own sounds so as not to give away the vessel's location. Active sonar emits loud "pings" that can be set at different frequencies, bearings, or angles. Pings travel at a speed of approximately fifteen hundred meters per second. If an object lies in the beam's path, it will be detected on echo-ranging sonar.

While more aggressive, the limitation of active sonar is that it takes time to adjust the projector, emit a ping, and listen for an echo. To combat this challenge, engineers developed the sonar buoy, a free- floating unit that emits its own system of pings, allowing operators to detect objects moving through its acoustical field.

The Portable Acoustic Measurement System, known as PAMS, consists of an array of sonar buoys, distributed along the surface in a preset pattern. PAMS signals are linked to an acoustic data acquisition system, a GPS receiver, and a radio telemetry sub system. Positional data is then transmitted by way of a UHF radio link to the analysis station where signals are evaluated.

* * *

Over the last nine hours, the
Nothosaur
's crew had deployed sonar buoys every two kilometers, beginning in the waters off Fort Augustus. Consisting of two parallel rows, the array ran north to Tor Point, where the Loch's width narrowed and the field was reduced to a single row of buoys which concluded at Lochend and the Bona Narrows.

Now it was time to reap the fruits of their labor.

Hoagland stalked the control room while his sonar expert, Victor Cellers, finished checking the
Nothosaur
's buoy field. Victor was Hoagland's brother-in-law and the Nessie Hunter felt fortunate to have him on board. The forty-two-year-old American with cystic fibrosis was strictly "on loan" to him from his sister, Deborah, who expected the former Navy man back at his Seattle-based video company in two weeks… and in one piece.

"So, Victor, the field is operational, yes?"

"Operational and reliable are two different things. The buoys are pinging and I'm receiving data, but the signal's loaded with tons of garbage."

"Garbage?"

"Noise interference." Victor pointed to his main monitor, displaying a GPS image of Loch Ness and the
Nothosaur
's sonar buoys. "Everything from Foyers south to Fort Augustus is congested with pinging sounds. I'm picking up signals from at least two other active sonar buoy fields, and they're positioned too close to ours to allow an undistorted signal analysis. It's the equivalent of trying to peer at the stars using a telescope in the middle of Manhattan. Face it, Michael, we're not the only game in town. There's just too much interference to acquire an accurate reading."

Hoagland muttered a string of curses in German.

"The good news is, if they're interfering with us, then we're interfering with them as well."

"Then all of us are wasting our time and money."

"In a nutshell, yes."

"Victor, contact the other vessel's captains. Organize a sit-down at the Clansman Hotel for later tonight to discuss the situation. Either the Highland Council resolves this matter, or we're all leaving."

Dores

It was a ten-mile hike from Inverfarigaig to Dores, another two if I were to meet Brandy and True at Tor Point. Added to the eight miles I had already logged earlier that day, I was exhausted by the time I reached Dores Beach, a pebbled shoreline that stretched back to grassy, wide-open knolls and General Wade's Military Road.

The area was packed with locals, tourists, and media. Limping up the gravel beach to the grass, I dropped my backpack and collapsed, careful to keep my head low so as not to be recognized. The moment I sat down, I realized the last hour of walking on pebbled beaches had done me in.

The village of Dores sits on the easternmost corner of Loch Ness where the lake suddenly narrows to half its mile width. Follow the shoreline west and you reach Tor Point. From there, the Loch runs north again until it bleeds into the River Ness.

Tourists and locals alike had gathered on Dores Beach to watch two dozen daring windsurfers, their sailboards whipping across the Loch's windblown surface. Powerful gusts were coming in from the southwest and were harshest inland, forcing the daredevils to keep a dangerous distance from shore.

I wondered if they'd be so brave had they seen Justin Wagner's remains.

From Dores Beach, the Loch ran south as far as the eye could see. Mountainous walls bordered her on either side, and the sun was just beginning to dip behind the peaks to the west.

Behind me, a large contingent had gathered by the roadside to listen to the exploits of famed Nessie watcher Steve Feltham. Years earlier, Feltham had sold his home in England to stalk the monster on film. Now he lived in a converted van, his dedication making him a legend of sorts, though his toil, while adding to the monster lore, had proven nothing.

Feeling my back muscles stiffen, I gathered my belongings and left the beach, limping up the hill to the Dores Pub, hoping a quick beer might lessen my pain.

Big mistake.

"Look, there he is!" A petite blonde dressed in a hideous blue blazer ran towards me with her microphone, dragging her inebriated cameraman with her. "Dr. Wallace, hi! Shar Bonanno, for the BBC. Can we get your reaction to today's Highland Council meeting?"

"I wasn't there, so I have no idea what—"

"They're talking about rescinding the law that protects Nessie. You think it's true?"

"Do I think what's true?"

"That the Council wants to capture the monster."

No comment."

"The Council's also hired an American scientist to organize the search. He's en route as we speak."

"Good for him. Look, I just came in for a quick beer."

"You look like you've hiked quite a ways. Have you been tracking the monster?"

I pushed her microphone out of my face and entered the bar. "A Guinness, cold as you've got."

An older, inebriated Scot who looked like he'd been sitting on his bar stool all day looked me up and down, then smelled the air. "Heh, neebr, goat a deid an'mal in yer bac'pac, or iz it ye tha' bloody stinks?"

My brain took a moment to translate. "Actually, yes, there is a dead animal in my backpack, but I probably stink, too."

He waved at the air, then moved aside for two police officers. "Dr. Wallace?"

"I know, I know, I'm dropping them off at the lab."

They looked at one another, momentarily confused. "Sir, Sheriff Holmstrom sent us. We're tae escort ye back tae Inverness Castle."

"Now what for? Is the judge locking me up again?"

"No, sir. It's yer faither. Seems there's been an accident."

* * *

The dungeon had been transformed into a Hollywood movie set, portable lighting lining the back corner of the ancient cellblock, removing every "annoying" shadow from Angus's chamber. Two film crews were packing up their equipment as I arrived, along with what remained of an Emergency Medical Team.