Monster: Tale Loch Ness (37 page)

"I want you to answer a question."

"All right."

"Where were you last night at three in the morning?"

Exasperated, Scotty replied, "For the last time, in bed."

MacGregor stared hard. "Thank you, Mr. Bruce. You may go.

MacGregor signaled the driver; the patrol car pulled away.

Scotty liked the prospect of noise. It would help him forget the incredible pressures. Goddamn day had just crawled. MacGregor had set the snail's pace. Nothing had altered it. Not even a planning session for the next dive.

He crossed the parking lot toward the pub door of the Carn Dearg Inn. The windows were ablaze with light. There was movement, too.

He entered. The pub was jammed, as it always was at nine, evening time. He grabbed the only available bar stool. Mary MacKenzie was standing over a booth. She did not see him.

He called to her, but she did not hear him. He noted the paradox—she was one of the region's most powerful political figures, but she was also an innkeeper, bartender, barmaid. Only in Scotland, he thought.

She suddenly approached the bar. "I didn't think you'd be here so early," she said, pleasantly surprised.

"Couldn't wait to see you."

She poured him a lager. "How was the day?"

"Interesting."

She moved from the bar carrying a tray and glasses. She was dressed in a tartan skirt and white ruffled blouse. He liked the look. Very innocent. Very feminine.

"You seem very preoccupied," she said, returning to her position behind the counter.

He pressed his cheek to hers. "I want your body."

"Shh. There are people."

"They can't hear. And besides, they don't care."

"You're such an American."

Several patrons ordered. She catered to them. He noticed a box with a ribbon behind the bar.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing.

"A present for you," she said nonchalantly, as if she gave him a present every day.

He broke a smile. "For me? Why?"

"Because I love you," she whispered.

"Let me open it."

She handed him the box. He removed the wrapping, lifted the top ever so gently, and peeked inside. A magnificent plaid kilt, kilt jacket, bonnet, belt, and shirt lay in tissue.

"I don't believe it," he said incredulously.

"Now you'll be able to wear the sporran," she advised.

"I'll be laughed out of the country if I'm seen in this."

"Nonsense."

He motioned her close once more. "What about underpants?" he asked, whispering.

She was shocked. "Underpants?" she whispered back. "You can't wear such things. It's not done."

"I'll freeze my balls off!"

She glanced nervously at the patrons. "You'll find the strength. My father wore his kilt all the time, even in blizzards."

Once again, he looked inside the box, then moved his mouth up to her ear. "Must I really put this on?" he asked.

"Well, if you want my body," she replied
sotto voce
, "you're going to have to pay the price." She pointed to the box.

"Damn!" He burrowed into thought. "All right," he finally said.

Her expression was her reply.

Happy.

She sat on the edge of her bed. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. Her eyes were wide open. She was wearing an especially childlike smile.

"What's taking so long?" she called.

His voice tumbled out of the bathroom. "This is not easy, goddamnit."

"You're just making excuses."

"The hell I am."

Something dropped. Something rustled. She listened, trying to stifle inadvertent laughter that would only discourage him. But she could tell he was flopping all over the place. She only wished she could see the confusion and watch him twist himself into a knot.

His face appeared moments later, peeking around the bathroom door, and then, head slouched, he stepped out, dressed in the kilt and accompanying outfit.

"Well, darnnit, how do I look?" he asked, blushing, feeling momentarily guilty about wallowing in levity in the midst of death and terror.

She walked around him, palms to cheeks, pressing her effusive smile into an oval. "I think you look wonderful."

"I do?"

"Yes." She adjusted his jacket. "For some reason, I wasn't sure I'd get you to put the kilt on."

"Well, I did, and now you see me exposed. So laugh at me."

"You don't laugh at those you love."

He turned toward the wall mirror and broke into hysterics. "The hell! I'm ridiculous!"

She looked into the mirror, too, studying the powerful long legs that descended beneath the kilt bottom and the look of pain in his face.

"I love you very much," she said as she began to laugh as well.

The rush stripped him bare. He'd never felt like this with a woman before. Nor had he ever experienced such intensity, the conquest of the unconquerable.

He pressed himself between her legs. Her arms were wrapped around him, biting into his body like scissors. No more did he fee! the fear, the reluctance, the inhibition. She was totally committed. As was he.

They reached orgasm. Their bodies fused; perspiration flowed together. Their breathing quieted.

Then silence.

He continued to look blankly into space, as if she wasn't even there.

"Something is wrong," she said as she moved her head on to his chest. "You've been off somewhere for the last ten minutes."

He said nothing.

"Is something wrong'?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Is it me?"

"No, of course not." He could feel her heart suddenly begin to pound. "Superintendent MacGregor will probably ask you some questions."

"About what?"

"About do you know where I was last night at three o'clock in the morning."

"Why will he ask that?"

"Because Hugh Sutherland was murdered. At three. And I'm the prime suspect."

She jerked upward. "That's impossible."

"You heard me."

"Some suspect. You were here. In bed with me. You didn't leave to go home until three-thirty."

He grabbed her wrist. "That's the last thing I want you to tell him. Because that's the last thing someone in your position need announce. Can you picture it? The number-one opponent of the loch project having an affair and sharing a bed with the number-two man at Geminii. I love you. I don't want you injured. And in this medieval place, populated by all these medieval minds, that's exactly what will happen."

"My career is one thing. This is another."

He kissed her again and again. "I know. But I want you to promise you won't say anything. I didn't do it. The police will realize it without your help."

She turned on the bed light. "Mr. Bruce. This is me you're talking to. Don't you ever forget it. Nobody tells mc what to do. Ever. If I can't come forward for a man I love, then I'm not worth the very salt in the sea. So if I decide to come forward, no one, and that includes you, is going to stop me. Understand?"

He rubbed his eyes, kissed her. "I love you," he said, then closed the light once more.

He left the inn at three-thirty, arriving home at four, managing three hours' sleep.

Noting he had another dive-planning session at ten, he showered, dressed quickly, then hustled down into the kitchen. Mrs. Munro, who had already prepared breakfast, was glancing out the window, her view impeded by a thick frost.

"The spring just doesn't seem to want to come, Mr. Bruce," she declared as she shuffled dishes from right to left, then back. "Ay, it's right cold this morning."

He buttered some toast, nibbled at his eggs. "It looks cold."

Mrs. Munro was exasperated. "Now isn't that what I just said? Lord help me, you'll never learn to listen. And I'm not a mite surprised. Coming in at all hours of the night isn't good for the senses. Numbs them."

Shaking his head, he continued to eat, glancing quickly over the lead articles on the front page of the
International Herald Tribune
. Behind him, Mrs. Munro put on her coat, intent on starting and warming up the jeep, as she did each day.

"I'll give the gas a good pumping today, Mr. Bruce," she said as she glided through the door. "The jeep'Il be warmer than a goblin's fire."

"I appreciate it, Mrs. Munro."

She walked out the front door. He left the dining room for the den. Reaching the front of the hall, he heard the first turn of the engine.

Then a terrible explosion.

The door blew open. The windows shattered. Plaster fell.

Shocked, he ran out the front door. The smoke was incredibly thick. Debris lay all around. The jeep was burning with the rage of a sun. Mrs. Munro's charred remains were in the front seat.

Sickened, senses ravaged, he stumbled back against the wall of Travis House. Mrs. Munro was dead. That was the only impulse that registered.

It took him several minutes to come to grips with the fact that she had not been the target.

Detective Chief Inspector MacKintosh and a detachment of homicide police arrived shortly after the explosion. MacKintosh conveyed an apology to Scotty from MacGregor—the superintendent had unavoidably been detained on another matter but would be there as soon as he could—then proceeded to question him extensively while a squad of police searched the house and car. Scotty had nothing to say because he knew nothing.

The medical examiners arrived.

Then Whittenfeld.

"I was just told!" Whittenfeld explained as he marched into TraVis House.

"I appreciate your coming," Scotty said, noticing that Whittenfeld was wearing a light-colored tie for the first time he could remember. "And your concern."

"Concern alone is worthless," Whittenfeld countered. "We're going to do something about this!"

They entered the den. MacKintosh was speaking on the phone. They waited while MacKintosh finished the call. Then Whittenfeld swooped in on him, demanding the apprehension of the men who had planted the bomb.

"We will do the best we can," MacKintosh declared.

"So far, your best has been very inadequate," Whittenfeld scolded as he pressed down his lapels, adjusted his tie, twisted his watch band, mannerisms designed to distract.

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Where is MacGregor?"

"At the constabularly, involved in an important matter."

"Nothing is more important than this!"

"I have kept him informed, and he will be here as soon as he is able to come."

"Are there any clues?"

"As of this moment, no. However, the bomb squad has recovered most of the bomb fragments and a good portion of the capping mechanism, and we will be subjecting it to intense scrutiny."

"People!"

"Excuse me?"

Whittenfeld pointed out at the jeep. "If you had placed people under the intense scrutiny you will claim for the fragments, then this wouldn't have happened."

The phone rang. MacGregor was on the line, informing MacKintosh that he was on his way. MacKintosh relayed the message.

"I suggest you wait for the superintendent," MacKintosh mumbled.

"I certainly will," Whittenfeld declared.

MacKintosh left the den.

"Why was your house lady in the car?" Whittenfeld asked, turning to Scotty.

"She was warming it for me," Scotty replied.

"Did she do it every day?"

"Yes. She enjoyed it. Just like she enjoyed doing everything else around here."

"Then perhaps the bomb was meant for her."

Scotty whooshed a breathless laugh. "You're reaching. 'Cause the goddamn bomb was meant for me. Meant to blow my brains and gizzards all over Scotland!"

Whittenfeld seemed genuinely pttzzled. "But why would anyone want to do that?" he asked.

Scotty lit a cigar. "That's exactly what I'd like to know," he replied, staring suspiciously at his superior.

Detective Superintendent MacGregor arrived a half hour later.

"We seem to be spending a great deal of time together, Mr. Bruce," MacGregor said as he opened his raincoat and sat on one of the lounges.

"I would rather it were otherwise," Scotty observed.

"I'm sure you do," MacGregor agreed, turning to Whittenfeld. "You know, until Geminii arrived in Inverness, this was a quiet place. Murder was uncommon. In fact, unnatural death of any kind was doled out sparingly." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, times have changed for the worse."

"What do you mean by that!" Whittenfeld challenged.

"Just a thought posed by a long-term resident who cannot help but be disturbed by the painful turn of events. And I can predict your reaction, Mr. Whittenfeld. You will challenge me once again. If the police were doing their job, you will say, this would not have happened."

"Precisely."

"It is always the police. The poor police." He laughed, gestured to Scotty. "I might have been better off following Rob Roy's lead, Mr. Bruce."

Scotty didn't reply. Whittenfeld impatiently shuffled across the floor. MacGregor removed a telegram from his pocket.

"I was detained on an important matter. A matter related to the bombing." He waved the telegram. "This telegram was received at constabularly headquarters a short time after you had called, Mr. Bruce, informing us of the death of Mrs. Munro. The transmitter claims responsibility for the bombing and indicates the bomb was planted to avenge the death of Hugh Sutherland."

"Why the hell me?" Scotty challenged. "I had nothing to do with Sutherland's death!"

MacGregor seemed embarrassed; he handed the telegram to Scotty. "The transmitter was aware we suspect you of the crime—how, I don't know. But one way or the other, the transmitter claimed to defer to the department's expertise. Since we suspected you, they were satisfied with your guilt."

"Great," Whittenfeld commented bitingly.

Scotty handed the telegram to Whittenfeld. Whittenfeld read it.

"The sender identifies himself as a Jacobite," MacGregor began again. "We have spent the last several hours trying to verify the missive's authenticity. That is why I was not able to appear here earlier."

"What have you concluded?" Scotty asked.

MacGregor stood. There was a Rand-McNally road map of Scotland pinned to the wall. He placed his finger on Glasgow.