Monster: Tale Loch Ness (52 page)

The door opened.

Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo entered. He had not seen them since the evening before, and that meeting, according to his own wishes, had been short and unceremonious.

"They just told us you're to be released," Dr. Fiammengo said.

"So I've been informed," Scotty agreed.

"How do you feel?"

Scotty didn't reply.

"Scotty," Dr. Rubinstein declared, "we know what you think about us, about everything. But it's over. Finished."

"Is it?" Scotty asked bitingly.

"Yes," Dr. Fiammengo said. "What's done has been done!"

"Yes," Scotty declared. "The scientific expedition has ended. The research project has been drawn to a close. On to the next! But you've left a memorable legacy, my friends—death and destruction. You're as responsible for the hell as anyone. Write about it in a journal."

The two researchers looked at each other. There was nothing more to be said. They left the room.

A constabulary lorry picked Scotty up shortly after one and carted him across the highway to police headquarters. Superintendent MacGregor, he was told, was on his way up from the city.

However, John Fallworth and senior execs from New York were already there.

Their meeting was brief. Fallworth short-circuited any interrogation by announcing he knew everything, including the truth about Furst and Blasingame and the substitution of the false hose.

Scotty was puzzled. No one had heard the tape of Girard's confession because the police had been unable to find it. Someone had broken into his office, ransacking it, stealing the tape, and no one had been able to find Girard, who, obviously with the complicity of Lefebre's security officers, had fled the base soon after his arrest.

How the hell could Fallworth have gotten the information?

"I take responsibility for this entire thing," John Fallworth said. "I let Whittenfeld deceive me, convince me he had found evidence of a creature while pursuing a real submersible. I let him convince me to allow him to try and catch the creature. Though I had no idea of the true facts, I must solely accept the blame. And, Scotty, I let Whittenfeld convince me you were to be isolated. He showed me pictures, documentation, proving your involvement with the councilwoman and the Jacobites. He convinced me to ice you."

Scotty said nothing.

The Geminii staff left the building.

Inspector Superintendent MacGregor arrived shortly thereafter.

It was obvious from the first that MacGregor's tone had changed since their last meeting in the hospital. MacGregor seemed accommodating, even contrite, suddenly so desirous of avoiding any discussion of lies and even Scotty's felonious escape from custody.

"You're free to go, Mr. Bruce," MacGregor concluded after some banter.

The police had not found the tape. Nor Girard. Yet they now apparently believed him about everything. Why?

He didn't ask.

"Come around for some tea if you have a chance," he said, just to say something.

And MacGregor smiled.

The next day, Scotty returned to Travis House. The following week, he would return to the States. Staying in Scotland would be too hard, too painful.

Shortly before nine P.M., a car drew into the Travis House driveway.

Scotty looked through the den window. John Leslie Houghton's limousine was idling behind the jeep.

He limped outside, assisted by crutches. Houghton rolled down his rear window.

"My office called. They said you wanted to see me."

"Yes," Scotty said, leaning. "I want to thank you." Realistically, he had not needed Houghton, but Houghton had made everything easier.

"For what?"

"For going to the police. The government. Geminii."

"How do you know I did such a thing?"

Scotty smiled. "It could only have been you."

Houghton placed a cigarette into his holder. "I could deny it."

"You could."

Houghton smiled. "I told you I had grown to like you," he finally said.

"You also told me you only work for remuneration. Did anyone pay you to come forward?"

"Directly? No."

"What about indirectly?"

Houghton lit his cigarette and drew deeply. "Not yet. But one never knows."

"I don't understand."

Houghton slid closer to the window. "Suppose one day I come to you—wherever you are, I'm sure in a high position in the oil industry—and I ask you to do me a favor, even a little one. What would you say?"

Scotty stared. "I don't know. Depends what you ask. Depends the purpose. Depends what good would come of it."

Houghton nodded. "Well, then, there you have it. If you cannot accept my altruism, you can certainly accept that!"

Scotty stared.

"Good-by, Mr. Bruce."

The limousine backed out of the driveway and disappeared.

He gazed at the lights of Inverness below, shook his head, then hobbled back into the house.

A golden descending sun splashed spears of colored light across his face. The wind blew his hair. The warm evening air seemed to kiss his skin.

He stood transfixed, staring down at the gravestones. Behind him was the Carn Dearg Inn. Its windows were dark.

"My father and mother are buried here," she had said. "I will be buried here, too!"

Her stone was simple, dignified. It befit her. The dirt hadn't settled yet.

"I love you," he said.

He looked out at the loch. She had loved it. She would always be near it, its glistening blue waters, the green surrounding mountains.

He looked back at the stone, tears roiling down his face.

He had thought after seeing her body near Loch Duntelchaig that he would never cry again.

He'd been wrong.