From Dores Beach, the Loch ran south as far as the eye could see. Mountainous walls bordered her on either side, and the sun was just beginning to dip behind the peaks to the west.

Behind me, a large contingent had gathered by the roadside to listen to the exploits of famed Nessie watcher Steve Feltham. Years earlier, Feltham had sold his home in England to stalk the monster on film. Now he lived in a converted van, his dedication making him a legend of sorts, though his toil, while adding to the monster lore, had proven nothing.

Feeling my back muscles stiffen, I gathered my belongings and left the beach, limping up the hill to the Dores Pub, hoping a quick beer might lessen my pain.

Big mistake.

"Look, there he is!" A petite blonde dressed in a hideous blue blazer ran towards me with her microphone, dragging her inebriated cameraman with her. "Dr. Wallace, hi! Shar Bonanno, for the BBC. Can we get your reaction to today's Highland Council meeting?"

"I wasn't there, so I have no idea what—"

"They're talking about rescinding the law that protects Nessie. You think it's true?"

"Do I think what's true?"

"That the Council wants to capture the monster."

No comment."

"The Council's also hired an American scientist to organize the search. He's en route as we speak."

"Good for him. Look, I just came in for a quick beer."

"You look like you've hiked quite a ways. Have you been tracking the monster?"

I pushed her microphone out of my face and entered the bar. "A Guinness, cold as you've got."

An older, inebriated Scot who looked like he'd been sitting on his bar stool all day looked me up and down, then smelled the air. "Heh, neebr, goat a deid an'mal in yer bac'pac, or iz it ye tha' bloody stinks?"

My brain took a moment to translate. "Actually, yes, there is a dead animal in my backpack, but I probably stink, too."

He waved at the air, then moved aside for two police officers. "Dr. Wallace?"

"I know, I know, I'm dropping them off at the lab."

They looked at one another, momentarily confused. "Sir, Sheriff Holmstrom sent us. We're tae escort ye back tae Inverness Castle."

"Now what for? Is the judge locking me up again?"

"No, sir. It's yer faither. Seems there's been an accident."

* * *

The dungeon had been transformed into a Hollywood movie set, portable lighting lining the back corner of the ancient cellblock, removing every "annoying" shadow from Angus's chamber. Two film crews were packing up their equipment as I arrived, along with what remained of an Emergency Medical Team.