Now it was time to reap the fruits of their labor.

Hoagland stalked the control room while his sonar expert, Victor Cellers, finished checking the Nothosaur's buoy field. Victor was Hoagland's brother-in-law and the Nessie Hunter felt fortunate to have him on board. The forty-two-year-old American with cystic fibrosis was strictly "on loan" to him from his sister, Deborah, who expected the former Navy man back at his Seattle-based video company in two weeks… and in one piece.

"So, Victor, the field is operational, yes?"

"Operational and reliable are two different things. The buoys are pinging and I'm receiving data, but the signal's loaded with tons of garbage."

"Garbage?"

"Noise interference." Victor pointed to his main monitor, displaying a GPS image of Loch Ness and the Nothosaur's sonar buoys. "Everything from Foyers south to Fort Augustus is congested with pinging sounds. I'm picking up signals from at least two other active sonar buoy fields, and they're positioned too close to ours to allow an undistorted signal analysis. It's the equivalent of trying to peer at the stars using a telescope in the middle of Manhattan. Face it, Michael, we're not the only game in town. There's just too much interference to acquire an accurate reading."

Hoagland muttered a string of curses in German.

"The good news is, if they're interfering with us, then we're interfering with them as well."

"Then all of us are wasting our time and money."

"In a nutshell, yes."

"Victor, contact the other vessel's captains. Organize a sit-down at the Clansman Hotel for later tonight to discuss the situation. Either the Highland Council resolves this matter, or we're all leaving."

Dores

It was a ten-mile hike from Inverfarigaig to Dores, another two if I were to meet Brandy and True at Tor Point. Added to the eight miles I had already logged earlier that day, I was exhausted by the time I reached Dores Beach, a pebbled shoreline that stretched back to grassy, wide-open knolls and General Wade's Military Road.

The area was packed with locals, tourists, and media. Limping up the gravel beach to the grass, I dropped my backpack and collapsed, careful to keep my head low so as not to be recognized. The moment I sat down, I realized the last hour of walking on pebbled beaches had done me in.

The village of Dores sits on the easternmost corner of Loch Ness where the lake suddenly narrows to half its mile width. Follow the shoreline west and you reach Tor Point. From there, the Loch runs north again until it bleeds into the River Ness.

Tourists and locals alike had gathered on Dores Beach to watch two dozen daring windsurfers, their sailboards whipping across the Loch's windblown surface. Powerful gusts were coming in from the southwest and were harshest inland, forcing the daredevils to keep a dangerous distance from shore.

I wondered if they'd be so brave had they seen Justin Wagner's remains.