Monster: Tale Loch Ness (20 page)

"Then you should understand the difference between the corporation and the individual."

She ran her tongue against her lips. "I've developed a terrible fear for the individual, Mr. Bruce. A premonition he has been swallowed by something far more powerful."

"The beast?"

She grinned diabolically. "Perhaps. But perhaps you should admit there are times when corporate policy or your own corporate survival prevents you from saying the things you would like to say. Prevents you from defending the truth until you've become so programmed, you cannot even identify it."

He bristled. "You've got the wrong guy, lady. And the wrong malady. Hell, I made a career out of fighting corporations. I made a career out of defending the 'so-called' truth. I didn't just turn on the football owners. No way. It accelerated from there. I liked the feel of martyrdom. And I have a whole list of conquests. I rebelled against the oil industry when I felt it was about to endanger restricted areas in the Santa Barbara Channel off the California coast. I sniffed out executives—senior execs—who were taking kickbacks. And to this day I defend those actions. They were worthwhile. With worthwhile rewards. And yes, the accolades poured in from the public. I ate up the tribute. And suddenly, Christ, I found causes everywhere. Good ones. Bad ones. I became a clearing house for crusades. I got to the point where every word spoken and every move made had a sinister motive behind it. There were conspirators and conspiracies everywhere. I smelled rats in all the woodwork. I became a walking blood-hound, even if it meant identifying evils that didn't exist. I was just like a sixties, anti-Vietnam war-flower child, protesting everything that was protestable. And lady, you remind me of me!"

"But you're no longer you. You've changed! Abandoned your crusades."

"Right."

"You let the corporations win."

"Wrong. I chose to regain my soul. I chose not to remain a cause-spouting zombie. I re-established contact with reality."

"Reality?" she asked angrily. "Try this reality on for size, A drill ship and a tug lie at the bottom of the loch. Soon, armadas of surface support vessels, loaded with chemicals and dangerous equipment, are going to swarm over the graveyard, desecrating the dead. And I'm not saying that should not be so. The wreckage must come up. The water must be deansed. The precise cause of the disaster must be discovered. But look what has happened. A beautiful loch, a national treasure, has been turned into a grotesque junkyard and battleground, and an important part of our heritage has been stomped on like so many blades of grass."

"Don't you realize I understand? Why is this so hard for you to accept?"

"Because I've heard the rhetoric too many times."

"Well, then. Perhaps you're the one who can't recognize the truth. Perhaps you've so buried yourself in utopian dogma, you've lost the ability to see the forest from the trees. . . . I did!"

She tried to walk away; he grabbed her by the arm.

"Running?" he asked. "Hiding?"

"No!" she replied. "Trying to leave this room so I can go about my work."

"You want Geminii out. I want Geminii in." He paused "I know there's a middle ground."

"You were convinced Geminii was occupying a middle ground before."

"I might have been wrong. There's a possibility our investigation will prove so, and I'll be the first to admit it. But you should also be aware the investigation may uncover some very incriminating facts. Facts which may point a finger at the Scots. Facts suggesting sabotage and murder."

"Nonsense."

He tried to organize his thoughts. "Look, you. Why the hell can't you be a woman for just one goddamn minute?"

She was indignant. "I am a woman, and because I'm a woman, I have to work that much harder to defend what is right."

"Yes. I know all about it. I know all about the feminine burden. But no burden should allow a woman to turn herself into a Sherman tank. Christ, let some human warmth get out! Then maybe you'll be able to tell when a man is trying to be a man, not a machine, a corporate number. I'm crying inside because of what's happened! If you'd just look for one minute, you'd see it."

She stood tall, staring back at him, lowering her voice. "This is a hard country, Mr. Bruce. We've all grown up with a little bit of stone in us. Poverty, war, the climate, the rape of the nation, the usurpation of our identity—all of it has served to petrify a portion of our innards. There is very little left."

"Christ. I know all this! I'm not asking you to abandon your crusade. I'm the last person who could do that. I'm just asking you to become a little more human, understanding, open."

"I do not have the right."

"Says who?"

"Says the dead men in the loch. Says all that was once Scotland but is no more. We have sworn away the privileges of the unburdened."

She started to walk again; he followed.

"So you're going to get in your car once more and speed away," he said, moving close, trying to stick his face in front of hers.

"You're in my way."

"There's more to be said!"

"No, there isn't. There are no words to be passed between you and me. Out of personal choice and out of duty. I have been nominated to sit on the investigation commission panel. As such, I can have nothing to do with anyone at Geminii until the commission has issued its findings."

"Bullshit."

She turned, her anger building even further, and then burst through the council building door out into the parking lot.

He watched her disappear. "Damn woman," he said.

The sight made him sick. Urquhart Bay, Drumnadrochit, the entire north shore of Loch Ness, overrun with tourists.

Why the hell couldn't they appreciate the horror—the
Columbus
down, his best friend dead, the crew buried beneath hundreds of feet of water! Why the hell couldn't they all have stayed away!

Resigned, he drove along the north shore, past Urquhart Bay and the still visible top of the marine riser, and arrived in Fort Augustus at the west end of the loch about a half hour later. Pausing to watch a boat enter a chamber on the St. Augustus track of the Caledonian Canal, he meandered from one lock to another, then returned to the jeep, drove by the St. Augustus Abbey, and rumbled out of Fort Augustus along the south highway. Passing an endless extent of sheep meadow, he headed toward Foyers on a narrow road, barely capable of handling one car, then returned to Inverness, arriving at his home exhausted, his frustrations purged.

Detective Superintendent MacGregor was waiting, seated on the mansion's front porch.

"I thought you'd never return," MacGregor said.

"If I'd known I had a reception committee," Scotty said, "I would have hurried back sooner."

"No matter," MacGregor advised, displaying a very melodic brogue. "I enjoyed the rest. You know, resting and waiting are part of the job. If you can't get used to both, you might as well leave the constabulary." He smiled, pointing northward. "Besides, I've had a good view of the Black Isle, and it's one right soothing view for the eyes after a long day."

Scotty looked down from the hill, past the city and the Beauly Firth—a heavy fog lay over the water—and toward a green expanse of farmland rising in the distance.

"I assume," MacGregor said, "you've been there."

"Yes. We have an exploratory well at Munlochy."

"Of course. I've passed it many times on my way to Cromarty."

"Cromarty?" Scotty asked, Puzzled why the superintendent would be spending much time in the little village.

"I have a good amount of family there," MacGregor said as he pulled some nuts from his jacket pocket and popped them into his mouth. "Some of whom work over at Nigg."

"Are you from Cromarty, too?"

MacGregor shook his head. "Kessock," he announced, pointing toward the near shore of the Black Isle. "There's Kessock, right across from Clachnaharry. It used to be the Black Isle docking point for the ferry from Inverness." His expression turned slightly wistful. "Before they built the big bridge, there was a ferry route, and it was right well needed because to get to the isle without the boat necessitated a thirty-mile drive around the Beauly Firth through Beauly. Ay, and the ferry was one fun thing, especially for us kids. I used to ride it all the time when I wasn't out stealing fruit and vegetables from the big-corporation farms."

Scotty laughed. "You? Stealing?"

Superintendent MacGregor laughed, too. "I'm not such a saint that I've never erred. Rob Roy, who was the most famous Highland outlaw of all time, was a MacGregor. When my cousins and I were children, we all wanted to be just like him. I even had my father take me down to Balquhidder near Loch Tay when I was twelve years old so I could see Rob Roy's grave dug right in the soil of Clan MacGregor country." He tossed some more nuts into his mouth, then stood. "Ay, up until my midteens, I wanted to be an outlaw like Rob Roy."

"But you became a detective instead," Scotty said facetiously.

"What better man to deal with crime than a criminal at heart."

Scotty invited the superintendent inside. MacGregor demurred, preferring to stay on the porch. The day was pleasant; he did not want to waste it, especially since the weather service had predicted that the offshore fog would move in rapidly once the wind had changed.

"So?" Scotty asked. "What can I do for you?"

MacGregor adjusted his tweed jacket. "You can answer a few questions," he said.

"Fire."

"Besides the current tragedy and the previous attack on the
Columbus
, I've learned another suspicious accident occurred aboard the drill ship. A drowning. I'm told you're familiar with the particulars."

Scotty sat on the porch railing. "I was there."

"Tell me about it."

Scotty recapped the events.

"Why wasn't the drowning reported to the police?" MacGregor asked.

"There was nothing to report," Scotty replied. "It was an accident."

"A matter for the procurator fiscal to determine."

"We thought we could handle the whole thing internally. Cause less of a stir."

"In retrospect, do you think that was wise?"

"I can't answer that."

"I see."

"Why the sudden interest?"

MacGregor smiled; he had sparkling white teeth, an aggressive face. "I'm trying to fill in background."

"A paycheck well earned?"

MacGregor waffled about in place, thinking. "Did anyone try to ascertain what caused the jolt which threw the crewman off the helipad?"

"Of course. We checked the ship. There was no damage and no clues left behind. I wish there had been." He decided not to mention the sonar tracings; why create the inference he was a bit off his rocker? "I doubt the drowning incident had any relation to the blowout."

MacGregor waxed ambivalent. "Maybe. Maybe not." He took another nut from his pocket, tossed it into the air, and caught it dramatically in his mouth. "Well done," he said, complimenting himself.

"Is there anything else?" Scotty asked impatiently.

"Yes," MacGregor replied. "I'd like to backtrack to the 'so-called' attack on the ship several weeks ago."

"All right."

"You were there?"

"You know I was because I'm sure you've read the
Columbus
report."

MacGregor smirked, caught. "It was very interesting. So were your conclusions."

"They were educated guesses."

"Do you think they were accurate?"

"What I think is irrelevant. What I know for a fact carries weight."

"And?"

"I honestly can't answer your question."

"Do you think your educated guesses might be applicable to the current tragedy?"

"I don't know. I may never know."

MacGregor paused, thinking. "When all is said and the police may have no involvement here. These strange tragic events may be explained away naturally. No crime may have been committed, nor may there have been criminal malfeasance. I may very well be wasting my sniffing for the unsniffable."

"Could be," Scotty said with a smile.

MacGregor walked to the porch staircase. "Yes, could be," he said. "But I doubt it. Something tells me the police will heavily involved." He smiled. "Thank you for the information, Mr. Bruce. You've saved me considerable time and effort."

"My pleasure," Scotty declared.

The detective departed.

Scotty drove into town alone that night through the heavy fog that had raced in over the Great Glen like an express train just before sundown. He also ate dinner alone, had a lager or two, then returned to Travis House shortly after nine.

"He just insisted he had to talk to you and wouldn't leave," Mrs. Munro was saying as she indignantly followed Scotty through the foyer. "I told him I don't approve of such things. Uninvited visits are not proper, and I know proper from not proper 'cause I got a good mind for manners. But he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I tell you, Mr. Bruce, he's a bit of hard head 'cause he stood up to me and pushed into the house even though I had a fire stoker in my hand."

"There's no need for any violence, Mrs. Munro," Scotty said, moving to the den. "You know Mr. Foster!"

"Don't matter a bit if I know him or not. Right is right."

"Thank you, Mrs. Munro!"

Mrs. Munro retreated with a huff. Scotty entered the dern. Foster was seated in the armchair; his expression was serious

"What's up?" Scotty asked as Foster stood.

"More bad news," Foster said. "I thought I would bring it to you personally." He shook his head. "I know you didn't know the man, but I do know you've been interested in his progress."

"What are you talking about?"

"Jim Barrett died last night."

Scotty sat behind the desk puffing heavily on a Havana cigar. It was late. The room was deadly quiet. The window glass was covered with a gray mist; the fog still hung heavy. He heard Mrs. Munro lumber across her room, then began sifting through a stack of photos—underwater pictures taken by the diving crews of the remains of the
Columbus
and the sonar tug. The prints were precise and grotesque, making his skin crawl. He put the stack to the side and began to examine three large charts. One was a schematic-composite diagram of the derelicts, drawn from the referenced pictures. There were several large red marks near the drill floor and deck lines representing the crucial material the divers had not been able to locate—the blowout preventer control hoses and the guide wires. Preliminary inspection suggested the missing parts had been burned off their surface connections by the blaze. Damn, he was convinced the parts would be needed if they were ever going to know the true cause of the disaster. Hopefully, though, the parts had been pinned beneath the drill ship rather than having spun free into oblivion. He examined the other two diagrams. The first was a plan chart of the salvage operation that set the position of the salvage vessels and diving barges. The second was an operational plan depicting the stages of the underwater recovery. They were not futures; they were immediate. All the salvage vessels were on their way and would soon arrive. Recovery would start in a week. Though the operation was not going to be easy, he was anxious as hell to get on with it.