The Guivre was gone, but I could see its telltale air bubbles and current as it glided underwater, moving toward the opposite shore.

The blaze began to extinguish, all but that one precious blue flame that burned along the ceiling above the dam of rubble. Somewhere high above the fractured geology was a broken pipeline, and it was leaking crude down into the aquifer, poisoning the lifeblood of the Great Glen and her largest inhabitant.

So much oil had poured into the aquifer that it was now seeping out of the passage and into Loch Ness. It had to be flushed out.

I knew what I had to do.

Tying the belt of explosives around my waist, I began climbing over piles of rocks, making my way quickly toward the eastern end of the chamber. There were animal bones everywhere, some of them fossilized, others still covered by clumps of meat and fur. I stumbled upon a rotting pile of rags and flesh, wedged between two large rocks, and I gagged at its stench.

"Oh, Jesus—"

The victim's face was ashen gray and purple, the remains of the body—twisted and broken. Massive teeth marks riddled the corpse, resembling black tarry holes the size of my fist. Both arms were gone, chewed down to the bone, and the legs had been taken just above the knees. The lower vertebrae of the spinal column protruded hideously out the back of the ebony-colored Italian silk shirt and matching Armani sports jacket, the corpse's cream-colored tie still knotted.

The stitched red monogram was clearly visible along the left hand sleeve: J. S. C.

John Cialino.

The remains of Johnny C.'s flesh was not bloated like a drowning victim; he had clearly died as a result of his attack.

The revelation that Angus had been telling the truth seemed to both sicken and invigorate me. I was the guilty party, not he. If there was a way out of this hellhole, then I had to find it, if only to prove my father's innocence.

I inhaled deeply, coughed, then dragged Cialino's corpse out from between the rocks.

The stench was overwhelming.

I hurried over the outcropping to the dam, my body trembling with adrenaline and fear. With Cialino's ghastly corpse tucked under my left arm, I reached out with my right, felt for a secure handhold, then stepped carefully out along the pile of boulders and debris that were blocking the underground river.

The going was treacherous, the rock slick with oil. Step by careful step, I made my way across the obstruction, praying the dying flames above my head would burn just a little bit longer. Hugging a boulder, I inched my right leg around some debris, searching for a foothold, when I slipped, my right hand grabbing blindly overhead, finding a cold, flat piece of metal.