"I'm a professional photographer," Ron Casey said, patting his carrying case. "Do most of my work at night. Even with the cloud cover, we'll have a nice full moon in a few hours, with plenty of light to do some long exposures."

"We've got the bait, that's half the battle." Jones said, growing serious. "We're willing to pay a little extra… if you can handle the pressure."

"Save the psychology, I'm immune." Lindner looked them over, estimating their worth. "Four hundred for the night, and that's pounds, not dollars. Plus I get 10 percent of anything you make from these photos, assuming you get lucky."

"Ten percent?" Chad shook his head. "No sale."

Jones checked his wallet for cash. "Tell you what, we'll bump it to four-fifty, but you'll get nothing from the photos."

Lindner drained the rest of his wine, casually glancing at the weather. Though the Loch was still smooth, the wind was picking up. With any luck, the rain would come, and it'd be an early night.

"Okay, gentlemen, but I wanna see cash up front. And keep that dead animal in its bag until after we hit deep water. I don't need the water bailiff hassling me."

Clansman Hotel
10:45 P.M.

The full moon was just peaking over the eastern mountains by the time I staggered up the tarmac leading into the Clansman Hotel. I called True on my cell phone, leaving him a message to meet me in the lobby as soon as he could. I was tired and sore and hungry, and I smelled something awful, plus my skin itched from dried peat. Heading inside, I figured I'd use the public rest room, clean myself up a bit, then get some take-out food while I waited.

Bad move.

The banquet room was cordoned off for a private party, packed with celebrities and media and local officials.

I approached the maitre d', who looked at me like I had just crawled out of a sewer. "Sorry, sir, this is invitation only."

"That's okay, I just want to order some takeout. Where can I—"

"This is the Clansman Hotel, sir, no' a McDonald's. Why don't ye try a local farmhouse."

"Zachary Wallace!"

It was David Caldwell, dressed in a tuxedo, surrounded by reporters. He approached with his entourage, wasting no time in baiting me. "Jesus, Zack, you smell like something the cow just shit. What've you been doing for work since the University fired you? Cleaning outhouses?"

My mind screamed at me to walk away, but my ego, ignoring the left side of my brain, instead chose to step in the proffered dung. "David, how's your face?"

"Bruises heal, Zack. Too bad the same doesn't apply to damaged reputations."

"Don't worry. It won't be long before the locals see you for the phony you are."