With pride, I acknowledge the invaluable contributions of investigator Bill McDonald (www.AlienUFOart.com) and crypzoologist Richard Freeman who generously made available their new theories regarding the chief resident of Loch Ness.

Thanks also to Calum Forrest, copy editors Bob and Sara Schwager, Bill Raby, editor Claire Wilson (Scotland) and storyboard artist Rikin Parekh (England) for their contributions. A very special thanks to Vincent Guastini.

To my assistant, Leisa Cotner-Cobbs, for her talent and expertise in updating the www.SteveAlten.com website as well as all her work in the Adopt-An-Author program, to Michelle Przystas, my computer "savior" at Southeast Business Solutions, and to Erik Hollander, for his tremendous cover design and graphic artistry.

Last, to my wife and partner, Kim, for all her support, to my parents for always being there, and to my readers: Thank you for your correspondence and contributions. Your comments are always a welcome treat, your input means so much, and you remain this author's greatest asset.

—Steve Alten, Ed.D.

Nature is often obscure or impenetrable, but she is not, like Man, deceitful.

—C.G. JUNG

Shadows walk. What is… isn't. What isn't… may be.

—GAY MALIN

It was July 13, the summer of 2000. My husband and I were on holiday in Scotland, on the shores of Loch Ness. We'd stopped to take a picture of the lake, just to have something to show my friends. I was using my little Kodak with a 23mm lens. The shot I snapped was taken near Boleskin House, by one of the deepest parts of the lake. The Loch was glassy calm, and there were no boats around. When we saw the developed photo, well… we were shocked.

—MELISSA BAVISTER, TOURIST

The object is definitely on the film, it's not a mark on the negative.

—ALISTAIR BOWIE, INVERNESS PHOTO LAB TECHNICIAN

Prologue

Moray Firth
Scottish Highlands
25 September 1330

The deep blue waters of the Moray Firth crashed violently against the jagged shoreline below. William Calder, second Thane of Cawdor, stood on an outcropping of rock just beyond the point where the boiling North Sea met the mouth of the River Ness. Looking to the south, he could just make out the single-sheeted Spanish galley. The tall ship had been in port since dawn, its crew exchanging silver pieces for wool and cod.

Calder's daughter, Helen, joined him on the lookout. "Ye're needed. A wounded man's come ashore, a soldier. He's demandin' tae see a Templar."

* * *

The young man had been left on a grassy knoll. His face was pale and unshaven, his blue-gray eyes glassy with fever. His battle dress, composed of chain mail, was stained crimson along the left quadrant of his stomach. A long sword lay by his side, its blade smeared in blood.

A silver casket, the size of a small melon, hung from his unshaven neck by a gold chain.

William Calder stood over the soldier, joined by two more of his clan. "Who are ye, laddie?"

"I need tae speak wi' a Templar."