Sail of Stone

“First think of how many times,” said Winter.

“Two.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” A second of silence. “Completely sure.”

“Axel got three calls,” said Winter. “At least according to the woman who runs the place. Three calls and it was a woman every time.”

40

These streets. The first time he was here. The bus from the sea had been late and he had walked south from the station and it was night, one of the warm ones.

He had turned around several times but no one had been following him.

He was someone else.

The street looked like it had then. It smelled like it had then, a smell that had been heavy not long ago.

Was it the same room? It was the same view. Guest rooms changed places. People came and went. Wars came and went. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall, and there had been that time too, the first time. He had fallen to his knees and tried to say something to Jesus. He hadn’t gotten an answer. He knew why.

Jesus!

The woman had looked at him, studied him. He had handed over his letter.

It was time.

Jesus had answered. No. It was someone else.

He wandered back and forth across the bridges. Waited. He tried to listen, to wait again. At a pub in a nice hotel he had looked at his hands when the bartender looked at them.

He had looked as though he knew. His hands around the rope.

Around the neck.

He received his ale and watched it clear up.

The sea had been crazy that night, it had been c-r-a-z-y. They had all been crazy. Crazy.

It wasn’t just the money. Or the women.

Or God.

On the last night he took the bus to the southern point of the sea.

He wandered up in the mountains.

He found a place that could be a peaceful place. If the wind were right. If the light would just disappear.

In the evening he waited. Someone had lit a bonfire on the beach. He saw the faces like flecks. Someone was banging on a guitar, a ragged sound that floated out on the water. He thought he saw a movement out there.

At night he cried. He tried to write a new letter, in the old language. He tried to sort his memories into different piles, far away from one another. Before it became day, he planned to take out some of those damn piles and throw them on the fire and let them burn up. He heard his thoughts, the strong words he’d never articulated but was thinking now.

Words were nothing compared to actions. Words could hurt, but not like that, never like that.

There was one memory he kept at bay.

He had said that it didn’t concern him: This doesn’t have to do with you.

It was a good day.

Stay on land, he had said. Stay here.

I don’t want to. Why should I do that?

Stay.

No.

Stay.

But…

You’re not going on board. You’re not going on board. You’re not coming along.

It hadn’t ended up that way.

The car was green like the algae he’d held in his hand three days earlier.

Jesus! Take me away from here!

41

Winter saw the lake for the first time at Lochend. It looked like a fjord; the mountains were high on the other side of the water, which was black and white, in layers.

“How’s it going with the monster?” Winter asked. He thought he saw a movement on the surface of the water, a waving movement. He pointed.

“Nessie?” Macdonald followed his gaze. “She stays away.”

“Does she exist?”

“Naturally,” said Macdonald.

“You have to say that,” said Winter. “The tourist industry here rises and falls on the monster.” He saw road signs that announced the Loch Ness Monster Exhibition in Drumnadrochit three miles down the road. The water to the left was still black and white.

“It’s not that simple,” said Macdonald.

“What do you mean by that?”

Macdonald didn’t answer. He looked serious.

Winter let out a laugh.

“Come on, Steve.”

Macdonald looked out across the lake, which was wider here.

“There are places,” he said.

“What kind of places? Places where you can see?”

Macdonald nodded slightly.

“Do you know something no one else knows?”

“Maybe,” Macdonald said.

“But you don’t want to reveal it?”

“Certain secrets must remain secret,” said Macdonald.

“The first rule of the chief inspector,” said Winter.

“Nessie hasn’t been accused of anything, as far as I know,” said Macdonald.

Winter looked at him, turning around in his seat.

“You like the monster, don’t you, Steve. You really believe this.”

“She has always existed,” Macdonald said with an innocent expression, and Winter couldn’t tell what was serious and what was some kind of subtle joke. “Nessie is part of my youth.” He turned to Winter. “I’ll show you something another time.”

“Why not now?” Winter asked.

“Wrong season.” He looked out over the water. “Maybe the wrong season.”

Winter saw the monster center emerge just before the city limits of Drumnadrochit. No passerby could avoid it. The water was still visible to the left. Far to the south where the lake ended and turned into the river Oich, Axel Osvald had met his death, possibly in a confused state. Most likely. What was it? Was there something evil down there, beyond exhibits and the idiotic tourist industry and legends of monsters and medieval ruins that stood like mangled sand castles around Loch Ness? Did it exist? Had Axel Osvald met it? What had he met, whom? Why here? Why right here?

“I’m thirsty,” Macdonald said, turning off and parking outside Hunter’s Bar and Restaurant, which was right