"Think you know your boats, do you?"
Chad Brager smiled. "A fellow American, thank God. I swear, I can't understand half the things these Highlanders say."
Lindner nodded. "So boys, what're you up to?"
"Actually," said Jones, "we were hoping to do some night fishing."
"I'm a cruise ship, not a charter. What's in the burlap bag?"
"Bait." The Americans laughed.
Jones leaned in closer. "We don't really need a charter, what we want is to do a little night trolling. You know, maybe catch Nessie on film."
Lindner sipped his wine, half-concealing his grin. "Show me what's in the burlap bag."
Jones nodded to Brager, who untied the canvass, revealing a dead sheep, its hindquarters broken and disfigured. "Local farmer sold it to us. Said a tourist backed over it this morning as he pulled out of a lay-by."
Jones pointed to the transom. "We've brought plenty of cable. Be easy to rig to your boat."
Lindner chuckled. "Boys, there's thousands of people lining the banks of Loch Ness trying to photograph this creature. What makes you think you're gonna capture it on film, and at night, no less?"
"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."
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."
"Days, Zack. In a few days I'll have captured a legend, and you'll be nothing more than a speed bump on my road to fame and fortune." He turned to his right and waved. "Over here, babe."
My eyes widened as Brandy approached. She was wearing an ebony cocktail dress with a plunging neckline that revealed the swell of her deeply tanned breasts. She moved like she knew she belonged.
"Brandy, you've met my former colleague, Zachary Wallace."
"Aye, though I've smelled him in better days. Did ye get lost on the moors then, Zack?"
My mind searched for a witty retort.
"Maybe."
Brilliant.
Brandy slipped her arm around David's waist, her accent straining to be more American than Scottish. "So, have you heard? David's selected the Nessie III to be the lead vessel in his quest to capture the monster. We'll be spending quite a lot of time together."
The Gael in my blood boiled. "Yeah? Well this time, I hope you're heavily insured."
That one put the fury of the Highlands back in her. "At least I willnae be havin' tae worry about bunkin' down alone at night."
David smirked. "Brandy told me about that whole impotence thing. Geez, Zack, tough break. I can only thank God I don't have that kind of problem." He winked, patting Brandy's buttocks. "If you see the Nessie III rockin', don't come a-knockin."
I leaped for him, fingers splayed, aiming to crush his birdlike windpipe — only I forgot about that cursed velvet rope.
My knees caught and, unable to right my balance beneath the weight of my backpack, I fell face-first to the floor.
David stepped back and laughed. Patrons circled, a few photographers even snapping pictures. Before I could react, I was lifted off the floor by two large security guards and physically escorted out the rear exit.
The moon was high in the midnight sky, its rays filtered behind a thin veil of cirrus clouds.
Ron Casey stood behind the Wiley's transom, his camera poised atop the Bogen Manfrotto wilderness-style tripod. He rubbed at his eyes, tired after four hours of peering through the Nikon F3HP. Through the 300mm f4.5 telephoto lens, he could still see the dead sheep as it bounded along the surface, several hundred feet off the stern. One end of the heavy-steel cable had been rigged to a cleat located behind the twin engines' mount, the other was attached to their bait. Chuck had slit the animal's belly open just before he'd released it, and in the near- perfect nocturnal light and powerful zoom lens, Casey could just make out what remained of the sheep's floating entrails.
What Chuck and Ron had failed to mention to the Wiley's captain was that the cable was attached to the carcass by a seven-inch steel hook, its barbed end threaded between the sheep's rib cage and out its mouth.
Chad Brager drained the rest of his beer and belched. "So? Still floating?"
"Barely. I'll wait a few more minutes before I shoot another series of 30-second exposures."
"You sure this high-speed film'll work?"
"I'm not using it, I told you that three hours ago. Faster speeds aren't better for long exposures, the images come out too grainy. Drink your beer, I know what I'm doing."
Chuck Jones leaned in to whisper. "Forget that nonsense, I'm out to hook that sum'bitch. You guys can take all the photos you want after we haul its dead ass back to port."
"Yeah, well I'd settle for one blurred shot at this point. You sure this captain knows what he's doing?"
"Let's find out."
Jones stumbled forward, entering the pilothouse. "So what's the story, skipper? Been four frickin' hours and we still haven't seen a goldfish on that fish finder of yours. You sure that thing's working?"
"It's working fine. Maybe that full-proof bait of yours is scaring the fish away."
"Or maybe we should try another spot?"
"It's your money, I just figured you'd want to create a nice scent trail." Lindner pointed to the ship's navigational console and a real- time GPS chart representing Loch Ness. "We've been cruising back and forth between Brackla and Urquhart Bay. The area's a hot spot for Nessie sightings. Better to keep the scent strong in one locale… unless you think otherwise."