Monster: Tale Loch Ness (33 page)

Hugh Sutherland opened the car door and stepped out. A line of autos stretched behind him. He held up his hand. Other doors opened. Men appeared holding pipes and bats, then moved forward, gathering around the lead car. Sutherland pointed toward the drill ship.

"There is your trophy," he cried. "We take that ship, we bring the oil company to its knees. We take her, we seize the media. We take her, we seize history." He looked around;

there was no one in sight. "Hold your clubs ready. They will fight!"

They reached the marina perimeter moments later.

The marina fence was lined with security guards. Lefebre stood in front. Whittenfeld sat in the rear of a guarded sedan, parked off to the side. Spinelli and Grabowski were standing helplessly nearby.

"I would suggest you return to your cars," Lefebre announced, once more dangling a Gitanes between his lips, his hands wrapped around a club. "Although I would personally like to crack your skull, Sutherland, we must put Geminii first. Go home. Take these fools with you and let them return to their families."

No one moved; Sutherland stepped forward.

"Get away from the fence!" he cried.

"Go home," Lefebre ordered. "We do not want to see anyone hurt."

Suther!and inched forward again and raised his club.

"We're going to take the ship," he warned. "Step aside or we go over you."

Lefebre tightened his grip on his club. A smile creased his lips. The wind tossed his hair. His face twitched angrily.

Sutherland looked behind him at the workers. He had driven them into a frenzy, and now their anger was waiting to explode.

He pointed out toward the drill ship. "Take that sacrilege!" he cried. "For Scotland!"

A wild whoop erupted. Clubs raised high, the men stormed toward the gates, Highland clansmen reborn, screaming for blood.

Lefebre and the security police moved forward. Suddenly, bodies melded. Clubs flashed. Blood trickled, flowed. Men dropped to the ground. Wails rose. Hell broke out.

Whittenfeld locked the door of the sedan. But he couldn't lock out the sounds. Moments after the battle started, he heard it, the scream of police sirens.

Captain Harrigan stood watching on the deck of the lead sonar tug. He was wearing a holstered automatic pistol. Two crewmen, holding rifles, were next to him. Set on either side of the lead tug were the other two guard vessels.

He'd taken a position to intercept. However, he doubted they would be forced to act.

Although he could see the violence, no one had reached the boats and barges, and there was still a reserve force of security men positioned behind the lines on the docks.

Most important, a large detachment of constabulary police had already left their vans and were proceeding toward the melee.

The first officer moved to his side. "What do we do now?" he asked.

"We hold," Harrigan replied.

Scotty peered down from the helipad. A lifeboat moved away from the side of the drill ship, heading toward MacPherson and his raft, its crew prepared to stop the priest from reaching his objective.

He watched the launch pitch headlong into the breakers. There were six men on board.

He placed the binoculars back to his eyes.

The chant of voices melted into the wind as the raft moved ahead. The tiller man frantically held to the rudder; the oarsmen stroked. Father James MacPherson stood upright, his right arm pointed straight toward the drill ship, the confusing stimulus of converging lights on shore nothing more than a momentary distraction.

"The Lord did anoint His Son to carry the battle to Satan," he was crying. "And the Son did obey, mounting His Father's holy chariot. The chariot did convey Him to the horse. On the horse, He led forth His army. And we are part of His army, for in us, we have the power of the Almighty! We shall destroy the drill ship, for it is foretold in the book of the living."

The raft turned heavily into a side wash of whitecaps. Water rushed over the sides. The raft spun about.

"Give us a sign of your power, Lord," MacPherson called. "Show us your sword so my people might not fear for your ascendancy."

MacPherson beckoned to the black, unanswering sky. Then, suddenly, the raft jerked wildly around, moving back against the current, rocking partway into the water. Terrified, the torchbearers moved to the center.

"Do not fear," MacPherson cried. "God has given us His sign."

The raft shifted again. The water around it began to churn and wave into eddies. The raft turned wildly, as if it had been caught in a maelstrom. The water rose even more and parted as if something had surfaced.

A huge black object moved amid the waves.

"It is the beast!" MacPherson suddenly thundered.

Terrified, the torchbearers wailed. The object moved under the raft, pitching it upward. Three men fell into the water. One grabbed to the raft's edge as the raft rocked askew. The other two disappeared beneath a surge of foam.

"The Lord has brought us face to face with the beast!" MacPherson called. "Praise be His name. He has honored us. He has chosen us to destroy the beast." He pulled an old dagger from a sheath and waved it in the air. "I challenge you, Satan. Summon you forth."

The water stopped churning. The raft ceased to pitch. The current caught them once more. They waited.

Then the jolt hit!

Torches fell. Robes caught fire. The putrid smell of burning flesh spread. People dropped into the water. The churning began again, sucking the living under.

"Strength!" MacPherson cried, violently pummeled about. "Believe in Him and we shall prevail . . ."

MacPherson fell on to the wet planks. He looked around. The torchbearers were helpless. A terrible sound split the air. The raft began to rise. Something was lifting it. Up it went, tilting, crashing down; bodies fell into the loch. A black object rose, poised to attack, and then crashed down, smashing the raft into pieces. Survivors held on to the free planks, but the black object came crashing down again and again, vengefully crushing everything below.

The current pulled the debris down. The survivors screamed, flailed at the water, and then sunk, enveloped by the horrible, wet darkness.

Trembling, Scotty lowered the binoculars. He did not hear the sirens. Nor did he see the arrival of the police vans. He was too stunned. MacPherson and all the others were gone, sucked down into the loch. But it wasn't just their deaths. He'd seen it all through the infrareds; he had seen the thing. It had come up under the raft and had lifted it from the water. It had thrown its enormous tail into the air and had smashed it down.

Yes, he'd seen it, highlighted in the torchlight. This huge, black glistening beast, this horror.

He'd seen it.

And he was the only one.

Scotty eased the jeep into his parking space in the Geminii base parking complex, killed the engine, and followed Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo out of the vehicle.

The ground was wet; it had rained early that morning. Although Dr. Rubinstein was wearing a large pair of galoshes, both bottoms of his baggy corduroy pants dragged on the ground, and the sun, which had finally broken through the overcast, reflected brilliantly off the bald spot on the top of his head.

"This will be a momentous day, Mr. Bruce," he said. He began to move in an awkward, storklike canter toward the main building.

"Maybe," Scotty remarked, his powerful athletic stride in vivid contrast to Dr. Rubinstein's comic gait.

They entered the building, checked through reception, and proceeded down the hall toward the elevators.

Detective Superintendent MacGregor intercepted them.

"Mr. Bruce," he said. "Just the man I want to see."

MacGregor smiled; he was particularly well dressed this day, almost as if he were about to go on the political stump.

Scotty introduced the police officer to Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo, referring to them merely as associates. MacGregor guided Scotty off to the side.

"Have you been in seclusion, Mr. Bruce?" MacGregor asked.

"No," Scotty replied. "Why would you think that?"

"I've been trying to find you for the last two days. Even Mr. Whittenfeld has apparently been ignorant of your whereabouts."

"I've been busy."

MacGregor lifted his heavy brow. "You'd think you would have wanted to be about here at a time like this." He waved his arms. "This has been an exciting week, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't use those exact words."

"No? That's curious. One hundred or more religious fanatics die in the loch. A massive brawl erupts in Urquhart Bay between Geminii security and the resident unemployed. You don't think that's exciting?"

"No," Scotty said, releasing a whoosh of breath. "I think it's tragic."

"That, too! Most definitely so, Mr. Bruce."

"Look, Superintendent—"

"Yes. Yes. I know. You've been busy."

"If you have any questions—?"

"A few."

"I'm all ears." He did not want to be curt or edgy, but he was in no mood for this. More human beings had died, and after two days of preparation, he was about to strike at the indirect cause.

"I've come to understand you took no part in the civil unrest," MacGregor declared.

"Correct," Scotty affirmed.

MacGregor skeptically clapped his massive hands together. "Geminii should have informed the authorities of the approach of the radical aggrieved and should have let the authorities handle the matter. There is also the question of excessive force. But, of course, no one was critically injured, and I suppose—"

"I wasn't involved in any of the decisions, either."

MacGregor gestured curiously. "Yes. Yes. I know. But it's neither here nor there. I don't want to question you about the melee. I want you to tell me about Father MacPherson and his deceased associates."

"They drowned."

"Precisely."

"What else?"

"I spoke to several crew members who told me you were watching the priest with infrared binoculars."

"That's right."

"What did you see?"

"I saw MacPherson and his parishioners on a very unstable raft. I saw the raft caught up in the current."

"And you dispatched a launch."

"Yes. But it reached the raft too late, after the raft had capsized. The men aboard the launch found no survivors. The water was ice cold. The current was ferocious."

MacGregor leaned against the wall. "The men and women on the raft had voiced clear threats against Geminii and the drill ship—at the tribunal heatings in particular."

"So what?"

"You knew that!"

"Of course, I did."

"Tell me about the parish. Tell me what happened."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The parish church in Loch Meiklie was ransacked, and you happened by to see the remains."

"How do you know that?"

"I spoke to Councilwoman MacKenzie this morning. She had a surprise for me. She told me about the church. She said she'd been there with you."

"Then you know everything there is to know."

"You heard the priest threaten to attack the ship again."

"All right. You've got me."

"Your attitude, Mr. Bruce. It is surprisingly antagonistic."

"As is your own."

"You were well aware of Father MacPherson's threats. You were well aware of the approach of his raft. I submit the hunch you dispatched sunk the raft under your orders to protect the drill ship."

Scotty started to laugh. "You've got to be kidding."

"No."

"Did someone in the crew tell you this?"

"No. But I wouldn't think they would even if they knew."

"Superintendent, I've grown to respect you. I think you're intelligent. Dedicated. Serious. Please don't destroy my impressions. Now is that all?"

"Where is Sutherland?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"I'm taking a stab."

"Sorry. No blood."

"Think hard."

"Still zero."

MacGregor smiled accommodatingly. "If you find out by chance, you, of course, will let me know. I would most like to talk to him."

"I promise," Scotty said, knowing full well that MacGregor was baiting him across the board. But damn if he was about to bite and open up to the authorities yet. He was well aware he alone had seen the creature destroy the raft. There had been no corroborating witnesses, and no physical evidence had been left behind. The fears of
Phoenix
had been forgotten—this time the danger was real—but not all the lessons. Apart from his own isolated testimony, he had no more usable proof than he'd had before. Their personal observations, their suspicions, and the photographs of the hose were insufficient and certainly open to rebuttal, and Scotty was still very cognizant of Dr. Rubinstein's warning: they could not blow their trump before obtaining irrefutable evidence! Besides, he hoped that after obtaining solid proof and backing Whittenfeld against the wall, he'd be able to persuade Whittenfeld to shut down the project without a public spectacle. Whittenfeld and Lefebre would have to deal with the fraudulent hose and the death of the divers, but those were secondary considerations compared to the welfare of the drill ship and her crew, and no matter what proof they might be able to obtain concerning the creature, he doubted such proof would be of any use in firming up the circumstantial nature of the Furst murder considerations. No, the options and his choices were fairly clear. "Now is that all, superintendent?" he concluded after an almost interminable period of thought, remembering MacGregor was watching.

MacGregor stared, then suddenly walked toward the front entrance, disdaining to look back. "This time, Mr. Bruce," he said. "That's all."

William Whittenfeld pivoted away from the picture window and walked along the conference table behind Lefebre.

"You have a wonderful imagination, Dr. Rubinstein. Extraordinary. In fact, you would make a sensational novelist. But I must deal with the real world. I run an oil company, not a publishing firm. Therefore, I can't waste company time on fiction."

Dr. Rubinstein chafed. "This isn't fiction. This is scientific fact!"