The snake’s rocky head is shaped like a piece of pie, with its eyes on the sides of the wedge like on an eagle’s. The pupils are vertical slits.
The snake’s teeth don’t look like snake teeth, though. They’re serrated triangles, with just their tips pressing into his flesh.
Right then and there Brisson pretty much loses his mind. He thrashes, and the snake hisses and bites down, snapping bone. Brisson’s body tries to throw itself down the other side of the spit, into Lake Garner and away from White Lake.
The snake doesn’t let him go. It raises its body partly out of the water to gain leverage.
It’s no snake. It’s got shoulders.
Whatever the fuck it is, it slowly moves its head side to side, scissoring its teeth through what’s left of Brisson’s leg. Already blacking out, Brisson falls backward toward Lake Garner.
Which is essentially all he remembers until he wakes up in the hospital.
But fuck: he sure as hell remembers that much. Remembers it clearly.
And if you don’t believe him, he’s got something to show you.
4
Portland, Oregon
Still Monday, 13 August
The video pans down the front of the old man’s pants. His left leg is tied off in a stump. The video ends.
Rec Bill turns the lights back on.
“What do you think?” Rec Bill says after a moment.
My entire fucking skin is crawling with sharkiness. Bullshit though this guy’s story clearly is, it was brilliantly told. That old man wasn’t acting. Nobody can act that well. And if he was lying, which is the only other option, he’s perfect at it. He’s a full-on psychopath.
“About what?” I say.
“Wait. Read this,” Rec Bill says. He slides the padded envelope across to me.
I pull it off the table with my palm so it won’t be so obvious that my hands are shaking. Turn it over in my lap. There’s no postmark.
So much for not leaving fingerprints. I pull out a folded piece of paper:
Reginald Trager
CFS Outfitters
15 Rte 6
Ford, MN 57731
July 1st
CONFIDENTIAL.
YOUR COMPLETE CONFIDENTIALITY IS REQUESTED AND EXPECTED.
Dear Mr. Bill:
I would like to take this opportunity to invite you may well turn out to be the adventure of a lifetime.
You may have heard legends of the White Lake Monster. If not, please find enclosed a preliminary version of a soon to be completed documentary on that subject (enclosed).
On Saturday, the 15th of September, I will personally be leading an expedition to search for and observe the Monster. So certain am I from recent events that this expedition will be a success that I am offering to provide all reasonable costs of transportation to Ford, as well as on-site outfitting, guidance, and lodging including one night at the CFS Lodge and an estimated four to twelve nights in the field, at no cost to you unless the Monster is found and determined as below (see below) to be a previously unidentified, unnaturally large marine animal similar to that of the legend.
If the Monster is in fact spotted in accordance with the below agreement, you will be charged the amount of one million dollars U.S.D. ($1,000,000) for yourself and an additional one million dollars U.S.D. ($1,000,000) for anyone you choose to bring with you, the full amount to be paid into an escrow account immediately prior to the expedition setting out.
To ensure fair agreement on whether the Monster has or has not been seen to a degree fulfilling the conditions requiring payment, I am pleased to say that a very high ranking Member of the U.S. Federal Government has agreed to serve as Referee. Out of respect for the privacy of this individual, his or her identity will be divulged only upon his or her arrival at the CFS Lodge on the evening before the Party is to set out, eg Friday the 14th of September. (This person is not the Congressman who forwarded you this letter.) At that time you will be free to accept this individual as Referee or not, and to put funds into the escrow account at that time, or else to leave at no cost to you guaranteed. However, I am 100% confident you will approve of this person as Referee.
Because the Monster is a limited natural resource belonging to the town of Ford, we will require that you bring no photographic or video equipment along on the trip, including no cell phones with camera functions etc. Also, as White Lake is in an undisclosed location (it is part of another Lake and is not on most maps) we require that you bring no direction finding equipment, including any form of GPS (Global Positioning System). For the safety of the Monster and the party participants, no weapons will be allowed. The Monster is not believed to be dangerous to large groups, but the guides will carry sufficient arms to defend the party in the event of an attack. However, as the Monster is presumed to be a unpredictable and possibly aggressive wild animal, guests will be required to sign a waiver indemnifying the organizers of the trip against any injury or loss of life. If any of these rules are broken, subject to the opinion of the Referee, the person breaking the rules shall forfeit all funds in escrow.
To ensure the private and respectful nature of the viewing, the Party will be limited to no more than six (8) Guests, on a first come first serve basis, and all recipients of this letter are asked to keep its contents confidential so that those who do embark on this journey are able to do so safely and successfully.
In the event that you do in fact become one of the Guests, I look forward to making your acquaintance.
Sincerely,
Reginald Trager
CEO, CFS Outfitters & Lodge
The signature at the bottom says “Reggie” instead of Reginald.
“So,” Rec Bill says. “Any chance it’s real?”
He seems serious.
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Yes. I am.”
I mean, the video did get to me a bit. But I have shark issues.
“Is this why you have a paleontologist?”
“No,” he says. “This has nothing to do with that.”
“Then why do you have a paleontologist?”
“That’s proprietary.”
Whatever. “No. There is no chance this is real. If you’re not bullshitting me, then someone’s bullshitting you. Or trying to scam you. Or kidnap you.”
Rec Bill smiles. “Reggie Trager checks out clean. No criminal record.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“And even if he is running some kind of scam, that doesn’t prove the creature doesn’t exist.”
“It doesn’t need to. The creature does not exist.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
Fair question.
The real answer is that, like for most scientists, lake monsters, ghosts, superpowers, and UFOs are part of what got me interested in science in the first place. So my heart’s been broken for that shit for years. You get old enough, you make your choice: you accept what science actually is and decide to do it anyway, or you go find something that lets you keep the illusions you have left. It’s a cold hard world, love, and these are cold hard times.*
What I say to Rec Bill is “A million reasons. If there’s a creature, what’s it eating? And don’t give me that bullshit about dogs and livestock—how’s it getting livestock if it lives in a lake? And where are the bones of these livestock? Where are the bones of the creature’s ancestors, for that matter? If there have been sightings, how come they’re not on YouTube? Why can’t you see the creature on Google Earth?”
Rec Bill keeps smiling.
“What?” I ask him.
“The Boundary Waters have two point five million acres of lake-land that you’re not allowed to take a motorboat into or even fly a plane over. Most of that has partial tree cover. There are animals all over it that a large predator could eat without anyone noticing. The area’s been protected since 1910 or something—a friend of Teddy Roosevelt’s went there on vacation and liked it.* And on top of all that it’s surrounded by a
national forest, a national park, and a Canadian provincial park, and it’s contiguous with Lake Superior.”
“Then it doesn’t matter how big or protected it is,” I say. “Any place contiguous with Lake Superior has had fur trappers all over it. If they had found a monster there, they would have made a felt hat out of it.”
“Maybe the monster wasn’t there at that time. Or wasn’t awake. Maybe it hid out. People have been all over the surface of Loch Ness, and we still don’t know what’s down there.”
“Of course we do. Every inch of Loch Ness has been mapped by sonar.”
“Not the tunnels and caves in the walls.”
“Those are a myth. The walls of Loch Ness are sheer basalt, and the bottom’s flat. We know how many golf balls are on it.* You should ask your paleontologist about these things. If she’s not too busy doing whatever it is she does for you.”
He ignores that. “So what about the old man in the video?”
I’d like to stop thinking about that guy now. “I admit he tells a good story. That doesn’t mean he can survive getting his leg bitten off with no one around to tourniquet it.”
“Maybe he tourniqueted it himself. We know he had a bungee cord.”
“He says he had one. Maybe he did use it as a tourniquet. And maybe his leg got crushed so hard that his popliteal and femoral arteries fused shut. But neither of those things is likely. Most untrained people who try to tourniquet a limb don’t manage to cut off the arterial flow—they just cut off the venous return near the surface, which makes things worse. Most people who are sober.” I look around for a clock. Don’t see one. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“Are we? You don’t seem very open to alternative viewpoints.”
“I’m not.”
“In fact, you seem angry.”
Good point. I am fucking angry.
Irrationality annoys the shit out of me always, but to get it from Rec Bill? A guy way too rich to be this stupid on a regular basis, but who, when he does choose to get all whimsical, somehow calls me? Knowing that I, like everyone else, will drop everything to meet him because I think I might get a job out of this bullshit?
Which, really, is the problem. This isn’t Rec Bill’s fault. He’s not the delusional one in this scenario.
“Look,” I say. “How long have you been in remission?”
It startles him. “Professor Marmoset told you that?”
“No. He never would.”
“How did you find out?”
“I’m a doctor.* Stomach or colon?”
“Colon,” Rec Bill says. “Stage III-C. Six years out.”
“So you’ve beaten the odds.”
“So far.” He knocks on the glass of the desk.
“But you’ve also realized that everyone eventually dies. Unless it turns out there’s some kind of magic in the world.”
A flash of imperiousness crosses his face. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Are you in the Singularity Movement?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘Exactly’?”*
I say “Testing the edges of reality is nothing to be embarrassed about. But bullshit like the White Lake Monster isn’t the way to do it. The physical world has rules, and physical objects in it tend to obey those rules. The only things that don’t are emotions and experiences. You want magic, you should try meditating. Or starting a children’s hospital.”
“You don’t think that’s a bit condescending?”
“Like I say, I’m a doctor. If you want to see a rare living creature, go look at a polar bear. Or date someone from Stockholm.”
“I did my junior year in Stockholm.”
“Then try North Dakota. But if you want my advice, here it is: do not do this stupid thing.”
He sits back, smiling. “I’m not planning to. I’m going to send someone else. If it’s real, I’ll go along on the next trip.”
“That’s not going to work. Anyone stupid enough to take that job is stupid enough to get fooled by whatever this scam turns out to be.”
Rec Bill points at me. “Okay. See, that is where I think you’re wrong. And Professor Marmoset was right. You’re perfect for this.”
“Me?” I say. “To go on your dumbass expedition?”
“Yes.”
“You’re claiming Professor Marmoset recommended me for something this stupid?”
“I didn’t tell him the details,” Rec Bill says. “I just asked him for someone smart enough to evaluate what seemed like a potentially compelling scientific mystery but tough enough to deal with it if it turned out to be a criminal enterprise.”
“What do you mean, ‘deal with it’?”
If this is the part where Rec Bill tells me he’s looking for someone willing to punish whoever’s behind this once it turns out to be bullshit, it’s also the part where I tell him to fuck off. Which would be unfortunate from the perspective of making sure he pays for my cab back to the airport, but would at least get me out of his office.
“Keep people from getting hurt,” he says.
Fuck. He got that one right.
“Listen,” he says. “I just want you to go on this expedition for me. Find out if it’s real.”
“It isn’t. And any further effort you put into it is going to lead to disappointment, or worse. Thanks for considering me.”
“I know it’s unlikely. It’s erring on the side of credulity. And if you go and decide the whole thing is a hoax, I’ll accept that. In the meantime, what’s the harm?”
“You mean besides my wasting my time? I’m not sure, but I guarantee you there will be some. Six people at a million dollars apiece—or eight people, or whatever it is—is a lot of money, believe it or not. And whoever’s behind this has some reason to think they’re going to get it.”
“What about the independent referee?”
“The independent referee doesn’t mean shit. You think you can’t buy someone—what was it, ‘high up in federal government’?—for part of six million dollars? You can buy those people by having their deck weatherproofed. How much do you think they paid your congressman to forward the letter?”
“Five hundred dollars,” Rec Bill says. “I checked. But if the referee doesn’t turn out to be a whole lot more impressive than my congressman, we’ll just back out.”
“I’m guessing it’s more complicated than that. Why are they demanding that you not bring guns or communication equipment?”
Rec Bill throws his hands up. “Because they’re criminals who are trying to rip me off, and I’m an idiot for even considering the possibility that they’re not. I understand that. What I need to know is how much you’re going to charge me to go to Minnesota and check it out.”
I don’t know what to say.
I try “More than you would be willing to pay.”
“How would you know?”
“All right. Eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“Eighty-five thousand?”
“Yes.”
I’ve chosen this number randomly, but it does fit certain criteria. One is that if I ever figure out a way to get the Sicilian and Russian mafias off my ass, it will almost certainly be expensive.* Another is that I’ve been hearing for weeks—and not just from Violet Hurst—how cheap Rec Bill is, so I know he’ll never go for it.
Just to make sure, I say “And that’s not a negotiation. That’s take it or leave it. And it doesn’t include expenses. Which could double it.”
Rec Bill looks horrified. “How could you possibly spend eighty-five thousand dollars on expenses?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“This is to go camping. For a week.”
“Even if it was,” I say, “it would be a week of trying to save you a million dollars you don’t need to gamble in the first place. And it would require ongoing coverage on my ship, after which I might or might not get my job back.* If you can’t afford it, get some of your S
ingularity Movement people to chip in. If they haven’t already.”
Rec Bill mutters something I can’t quite hear. I ask him to repeat it.
“I said fine,” he says, looking ill. “Eighty-five thousand. Plus another eighty-five thousand for expenses that have legitimate receipts.”
“What?” I say.
“You need me to say it again?”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Fuck.”
He still looks queasy. “You and me both.”
I don’t feel so good myself.
“Fuck,” I say again. “Well at least you’re not sending Violet Hurst.”
Rec Bill looks surprised. “I am sending Violet Hurst. I’m worried about her. That’s why you’re going.”
SECOND THEORY:
MURDER
5
U.S. Route 53, Minnesota
Thursday, 13 September
“Do you think we’re going to fuck?” Violet says. “I’m not offering. I’m just asking your opinion.”
I’m driving. “Are you drunk?”
Over the tops of her sunglasses: “No, I’m not, thank you, Doctor.”
Maybe she isn’t. Right after we passed Duluth, which turns out to be a bunch of freeway exchanges between new-looking paper factories, every one of them pumping smog as big and opaque as clouds out its stacks, we stopped at a Dairy Queen for lunch. Violet got two beers from the gas station next door, and when I didn’t want one she drank both of them. But that was an hour ago.
Maybe there’s just someone who talks like this. That’d be cool.
“Yeah, probably,” I say.
“How dare you. Why?”
“We don’t know each other, we’ll be in a strange place for a few days. There’s nothing sexier you can say to someone than ‘You’ll never see me again after next week.’ ”