Tidwell Animal Center was a small redbrick building located on Perth Road, not far from Raigmore Hospital. Earlier that morning I had phoned the proprietor and head veterinarian, a woman named Mary Tidwell. I described myself as visiting pathologist, hired by my cousin, a local farmer, to investigate the slaughter of one of his prized sheep. As it was a Sunday, she agreed to rent me use of her lab for a few hours, then send out for blood work on Monday.

Parking the Harley around back, I removed the bloodied burlap sack and my cane from the motorcycle's boot, tucked my baseball cap over my head, and hobbled to the side entrance.

Mary Tidwell greeted me at the door. A transplanted American in her late forties, her accent revealed a Midwestern upbringing.

"Dr. Botchin?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, nearly forgetting my alias. "Really appreciate this. And please, call me Spencer."

"Anything for a fellow American, Spencer. My, what happened to your foot?"

"Dog bite. Damn pit bulls. Once they get hold of you… well, you know."

"The sheep remains are in that bag?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"It seems rather heavy and quite bloody. May I see it?"

"Wish I could, because personally, I'd love your opinion, but I gave my cousin my word about keeping things quiet."

"I respect that. Come in."

She led me through a linoleum-floored hallway reeking of animal feces, then to a green-tiled surgical chamber. "That'll be forty pounds for use of the lab and another thirty for the blood toxicology report." I dug through my pocket, handing her a wad of bills.

"Of course, Spencer, if there's any chance the sheep has contracted anthrax—"

"No, ma'am, I assure you, it's nothing like that."

"Still, Dr. Wallace, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on examining whatever's in the bag."

"Dr. Wallace?"

She gave me a disarming smile. "Come now, Zachary, surely you don't think that cap's a suitable disguise. Your face has been on every telecast and newspaper for weeks. Now level with me, what's in the bag?"

I decided Mary Tidwell was someone I could trust, mostly because I had little choice, but being American, I knew she held no ties to any clans. I told her about my investigation and how I'd been attacked, leaving out all references to the Black Knights. She agreed to help me, and within minutes, we had donned surgical gloves, masks, eye shields, and gowns and were extracting vials of blood from the lower torso of the decapitated Anguilla eel's remains.

"I'll have to send these samples out to the lab for analysis," she told me, "but I'll keep everything under my name. They'll do an initial test using an immunoassay kit, isolating negative specimens from potentially positive ones. If toxins are present, a second test, using a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer should tell us what's present."

"If it's okay, I want to examine the Anguilla's brain," I said, removing the football-sized head from the sac.