AN: Not much going on here, but preparing the way for a bit of action next chapter!

Thanks to un-signed in reviewers; and to NCISfan who not only wrote us a lovely review for this one, but also a very touching one for my (scouse's) oneshot yesterday.

Slainthe Mhath

Chapter 2

Tony looked at the mountains sweeping down on the other side of the loch, a palette of browns and greens, greys and purples, and sighed. He hadn't been aware that he'd been enjoying the warmth of the sun on his back and shoulders, until an internal shiver at the policeman's words took it all away. He spared a silent wince of sympathy for whoever had had to visit Cadet Kyle Hooper's parents. He was almost prepared to bet that of the five of them sitting there, he was the one with the most experience of bringing bad news to a family. Well, OK, he didn't know about the Scottish cop; he was about the same age as him, and who knew what he'd seen as he came up through the ranks?

McGee? Hardly. He'd seen the younger man's guilty look at his screen; he was clearly still Gemcitying, and thinking of real-life parents of a real-life dead young man. Tony really hoped that he'd learned his lesson and wasn't Gemcitying them. Bad, bad idea, Timmy...

Gibbs? This was one thing he was pretty certain he out-ranked the Boss on; great. It couldn't have been something more pos – concentrate, dammit. Ducky and the Sergeant were continuing to sum up the story so far. Very bad, bad idea to miss anything. He pulled himself out of the woolly and irrational mood that he'd felt himself falling into over the past days; it took a hell of an effort.

Cadet Hooper had last been seen a little before sunset, in the boat's galley, two nights ago now, and his absence hadn't been noticed until next morning when he hadn't appeared for breakfast or first watch. The youth in the bunk above had said he'd turned in early and hadn't noticed whether Kyle had slept in his berth or not. He'd been found around noon the following day.

"As he was in the water for quite some while, I can't be too specific about time of death, although it was before the boats hove to for the night – more of that in a moment; but he'd been dead at least twelve hours when he was found, so, the evening some time. I can however, be specific about the cause of death; in spite of the slash wounds to his neck, back and upper arms," he found the appropriate photos, "the unfortunate young man drowned."

"The dog walker who found him could see at once that he was looking at a dead body, so he did no more than wade in and bring it to shore so it would not drift away again, then called us," Sergeant Willoughby added. "Unfortunately some of Cadet Hooper's blood – there was still a little although the water had taken a good deal – transferred to his clothes, and when he answered concerned passers-by that it was the corpse's blood not his, it was soon supposed that the poor lad had been chewed by our monster. I should mention that only a very few folks hold with that view."

He shook his head ruefully. "We've interviewed everyone on shore – no-one but Mr Young, the dog-walker –" he nodded towards another picnic set, where a fair haired young man was feeding yoghurt to a little girl sitting on the table, while a Border Collie dozed at his feet, " –saw anything at all useful; we left the people on the boats to you."

"Indeed," Ducky agreed. "I can offer a more plausible explanation than Nessie. There was very little wind two days ago, which, I have to say is unusual, and the three boats were moving in echelon up the loch, under power. They were heading for Dores, near the head of the loch, where the crews were invited to a ceilidh which was to have taken place last night, but of course it was cancelled out of respect. Cadet Hooper was assigned to the second boat. How and why he fell overboard I cannot tell you – except to mention that his blood alcohol level was .08."

"Ya certain of that, Duck?" Gibbs wondered just how tight a ship – or three – the Cadets' leaders had been running.

It was the Sergeant who answered, with a grim chuckle. "I can assure ye, our lab in Elgin is very capable and thorough, Agent Gibbs. The lad had enough good scotch whiskey in him to have a boy of his age and build three sheets tae the wind."

As he digested this information, Tony observed Tim's resolute refusal to let his hands steal back to his lap-top to record the expression. He was concerned that Gibbs might be noticing what could be taken for a high level of distraction in his partner, (which he recognised easily since he'd had to pull himself out of the same state not five minutes ago,) so he spoke quickly.

"So... he fell overboard because he was drunk – and if the boats were moving in echelon, as you say, it'd be possible for him to go under the vessel behind, and tangle with the propeller? Is that what you meant when you said he died before the boats tied up for the night, Ducky? To do the damage the prop had to be turning?"

To his enormous relief, Tim added, "Were the slashes consistent with a propeller?"

"They were. A police motorcyclist raced a spare one over from the boats' home berth in Oban, which confirmed it; it fitted the wounds perfectly. I took the liberty of requesting a police frogman to go down and inspect the propeller of the third boat; it was fortunate that the journey was almost over for the day when Cadet Hooper fell. A fragment of his t-shirt was found, which would perhaps have dislodged with time if the voyage had been longer."

The ME sighed as Tony had done, and just as Tony had done, he glanced round at the beautiful setting and thought of the young life snuffed out here. "He may have been conscious, but would certainly have been too disorientated to do much to save himself as he went under the boat; his bruises would suggest that he bounced along under the keel, and I would suggest that he was already unconscious before he received the injuries from the turning blades – already drowning, in fact."

Gibbs nodded seriously. "So we know how he died; we need to know what happened up to that point. McGee – go talk to Mr – Young, was it? Get him to show you where he found the body, and talk you through it." He shot the young agent a sly look. "Take your camera. DiNozzo, talk to the rest of them. Keep it short." He gestured towards a landing, where a young woman in US Naval uniform sat at the tiller of a small dinghy with an outboard motor. "Me an' Ducky'll be on boat two." He shook hands with the Scottish cop. "Obliged for your help, Sergeant. We'll keep you posted."

Willoughby smiled amiably "I'll leave you two constables and a vehicle in case you need them; they'll be happy to sit in the sun and drink tea in the mean time. Och... the men, not the car. Good day, gentlemen." He ambled off towards his transport.

Tony looked at Tim, who was regarding his camera thoughtfully. "How many shots does Abby require?"

Tim groaned. "Don't ask."

"Not asking. But –"

"What?"

"Those notes you were taking... the Sergeant had an interesting way of talking, didn't he."

Tim sighed, and stress made him suddenly belligerent. "Yes, I was gathering impressions, OK? I still want to write. Why shouldn't I? But no, I'm not writing about us anymore. I told you. You're going to ask where my head is."

"Well I don't know, Probie... I mean, how about 'thank you Tony for not dropping me in it with Gibbs?'" He held up a weary hand as Tim took a deep breath ready to continue the attack which was the best form of defence. "Look... only because I'm having a hell of a time keeping my own mind on the job just lately. Not your fault."

Tim subsided. "It's difficult, isn't it? You going to be OK, Tony?"

"I expect so. You?"

"I guess. And thanks for not ratting me out to Gibbs."

Tony grinned, rather sadly . "The case first Tim; the case. And you're welcome." He sauntered away towards the few witnesses, feeling as unlike sauntering as he could remember. He hoped Tim realised that no matter how he might rag him, he'd never deliberately get him in trouble with Gibbs. Well, he wasn't going to point it out if the Probie didn't know, goody-two-shoes he wasn't. He joined the group of waiting people, wincing inside as he recalled the Sergeant's assessment of them. Thanks, Boss...

Tim went to talk to the dog-walker. "Mr Young? Special Agent Tim McGee, NCIS. That's –"

The young father held a cheerful hand out to forestall him. "Whish, I know what that is, we've all found out over the last what... thirty-six hours." He held out a hand, completely at ease. "Neil Young. Yes, that's right. I cannae sing a note. This is Grace, she's eleven months old – and this is Clover." The sheepdog at his feet waggled an ear, but showed no other interest. "Now, how can I help ye?"

Tim grasped the proffered hand. "Thanks for coming back, and waiting, Neil. Hello, Grace." The little girl giggled, and hid her face against her dad's shoulder.

"My pleasure – I should be in work today, but here I am instead," he said, waving a hand at the beautiful view around them. Tim explained what he needed, and Neil smiled.

"Surely. I'll just put wee Grace in her buggy."

Tim blinked, looking for some sort of vehicle, then mentally slapped himself. Stroller. Less than a minute's walk, with the now excited collie covering about four times the distance, brought them to the place.

"It was Clover who spotted him, " Neil said. "She likes to come along this path to chase water-fowl; never catches one. She started to bark, but it wasn't her usual thing, you know? She sounded upset. I saw what she was looking at – just out by that branch that comes down... I was shocked. It wasnae something I was expecting tae see here. I could see right away t'was a body, not a living person, and the tree had snagged it. There's a river current through the loch, ye see, and I thought it might carry it away again, so I brought it to shore. I didn't handle him much, just pulled him under his shoulders and laid him on the gravel bank here. Scarce more than a child. And cut to shreds all over his back. I stayed until the police arrived, gave them my statement, as they say, and as I was standing by my car, calling my wife to tell her not to worry... well, that was when someone else walking their dog noticed the blood..." He shrugged ruefully. "My guard was down. I blabbed. Now half the county thinks Nessie killed him."

Tim thought of the couple of media cars he'd seen, that the police weren't letting any nearer. "Half the county believes in Nessie?" He tried not to sound disparaging as well as surprised.

"Figure of speech. I don't know... unless it's lived for thousands of years, there'd have to be a whole family of them to go on breeding – what would they live on? I'm sceptical, so are most I think – but I won't ridicule those who truly believe... or those who may."

"Who may? Or may not?" Tim was taking pictures as he spoke. He clicked one of a smiling Grace for good measure, now out of her buggy and sitting on her dad's arm again.

"Well, there's Ronnie McHarg, for instance. Poet, storyteller, makes a good living by entertaining the tourists all along the loch... very... er ... poetical, but as sane a man as you'd wish to meet – until he tells you that somewhere at the bottom of the loch, there's a portal to another dimension, that Nessie uses to visit us. She – she of course – comes to warn us at times of dire foreboding, he says. She's his living, mind, so he would say that."

"Maybe I'll get to meet him," Tim said, hoping he might; he'd be someone interesting to tell Abby about. "Is there anything else you can add? You often come here, you said."

Neil thought for a moment. "I do... the water tends to carry things to this point because of the cross current, and they stay for a while, just circulating. I've had some nice bits of driftwood for the garden... I don't know where the lad would have ended up else..." He shrugged ruefully. "It won't be the same now, coming here... poor kid."

Tim agreed ruefully, and shook the friendly Scot's hand again. Neil went on his way, with Grace still on his arm and towing the empty baby carriage one handed behind him. The eager sheepdog went off ahead of them, came back, went ahead... Tim turned back to the loch and took a whole slew of photos of the calm water and the mountains. No sign of the monster. He found room for a small, internal smile; Gibbs clearly knew he was acting as a double agent for Abby; somehow he would know about her demands. As he took a few more photos up and down the margins, he stiffened at what he saw through the lens. He lowered the camera and went closer, recalling what Neil had said about things drifting to this point.

It was a whisky bottle, twelve year old single malt, no less, the top missing, and about half full. Tim took pictures of the location, pulled out gloves and retrieved it, managing to only get one foot slightly wet. He sniffed; he was no expert on Scotch, diluted or otherwise, but he thought some water had got in there, fortunately not enough to sink the bottle. Kyle's blood had been full of Scotch... It may have been nothing more than coincidence, but he didn't really believe that. He had this weird vision of Nessie retrieving the bottle delicately in huge jaws, and bringing it carefully to the bank for him to find... He shook himself, plugged the neck as best he could with a spare glove, unfolded the only evidence bag he was carrying, and took the bottle into custody.

Tony had told himself firmly not to judge people on the word of another person, even a local who knew them; there could be something of importance in someone's information, and they'd all had the decency to return, but as he talked to one after another, he was beginning to anticipate a head-slap for finding nothing.

The lady dog-walker, whose only information was that she'd been by the cars when Neil had come by covered in blood, seemed more interested in him than the case, and he had to be very tactful and very firm before he could speak to the last person who was waiting.

Luck was finally with him. The man had driven up as he was interviewing the other witnesses, and he'd certainly have spoken to him first if he could have done. He climbed out of a newish, expensive looking FWD, which had an impressive array of radar, and camera mountings bolted to the roof. The logo on the doors was a moonlit loch scene, with a monster's graceful neck arching out of the water. The Celtic style gold legend read 'Ronald McHarg, Poet and Monster Hunter'.

The man himself was tall and imposing, with grey eyes full of a razor sharp intelligence, and a clipped, greying beard and neat hair, as if resisting the idea that a poet had to look wild and slightly crazy. He was resplendent in silver-buttoned jacket, kilt, thick stockings with dirk tucked down the right one, strong hob-nailed boots, and a fur sporran with an eagle feather tucked in the clasp. Tony, recalling a wonderful Native American story-teller at a young friend's birthday party many years ago, couldn't help being impressed as well as amused, and the poet seemed to like the reaction.

"Good day to ye, Sir... ye'll be one of the investigators?"

Tony stuck out his hand. "Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, at your service, Mr McHarg." (Well, two can play at the impressing game.) "What can I do for you?"

"Weel now, it may be nothing, but I am the sort who collects information, ye ken, and I have sharp eyes." He glanced down at his eagle's feather, as if inviting Tony to surmise that was how he'd come by the precious golden thing, which Tony duly did, but knew he wasn't required to comment.

"Let me get you a coffee, Mr. McHarg. Or a cup of tea."

"Tea would be delightful."

They sat at one of the picnic tables, and Tony said, "You have a tale to tell."

"Indeed. I get around these parts, in my work, ye ken. Now, I know nothing about the young man's death, except that it wasnae Nessie. The Lady of the Loch isnae like that."

Feeling better than he had in weeks, Tony resisted the urge to ask what the Highland poet did know, and wished Ducky was here.

"But, I was in Fort Augustus, at the south-western end of the loch, twa days ago, in the morn's morn, when those braw boats came up through the canal... I parked my vehicle and waited to see if anyone was interested; it's what I do. I sold a few of my poetry books... and I saw a few things. Such as, a few of the young men from those boats, buying what they thought was fine single malt, 'for their fathers'... out of the back of a van." He paused to wave and call a greeting to Neil Young as he went by towards his car, and Tony said, "Ah. Tell me how you know it wasn't fine single malt. I can imagine the 'for their fathers' bit myself."

Ronald McHarg laughed. "I see you were young once too. Weel, no doubt their leaders have been watching them like hawks, but the desire to experiment is so strong in the young, they can be quite underhand, ye ken! As to the malt... I know what Tom Struther gets up to – whish, he doesnae even steal it! The scunner collects bottles from hotel skips, fills them wi' the cheap stuff, fakes a seal, and makes a handsome profit. I dinna like to think what the health hazards are to what he does."

Tony wished he were at liberty to tell the shrewd Scotsman the autopsy result; well, he'd probably find out soon enough.

"So this Tom Struther would be of interest to us. That's very useful information, Mr McHarg –"

"Ronnie."

"Ronnie – where would we find him?"

"Just now, I'm not sure. Wherever the nearest tourists are, I shouldnae wonder." He passed a slip of paper over. "That's the registration of his ratty auld van – how anyone, even a tourist, could be gullible enough to buy out of the back of that, I cannae tell. Och, now you're thinking that I con the tourists as weel."

"I am not," Tony told him firmly. "I was thinking the opposite. You're up front; you're not selling a fake. The local police are aware of him?"

"They are indeed – but he's seldom caught. His nickname locally is Hoppy – because he's always one jump ahead of them. I heard him say he'd bring more up to Dores for last night, but I know that the ceilidh was cancelled. A shame... I was planning to give a wee poetry reading there, but needs must respect... weel, I wouldnae be surprised if he turns up again before the boats reach Inverness, he never could resist an – I'll be conflummixed," he broke off in shock. "That's him!"