The Loch (13 page)

Of course, Drumnadrochit would always be Angus Wallace and his mind games, and pretending not to hear Mom's tears. As a child, I couldn't wait to leave, if only to be at peace with myself.

Seventeen years later, the nightmares of my childhood had returned… and so had I.

I drove through the village green and past the petrol station where I used to hang out. I idled by Blarmor's Bar until I could smell the chicken and fish, then passed the Sniddles Club, my father's favorite watering hole.

I parked and stretched my legs, my groin feeling numb. The post office was nearby, and I entered, just as it was about to close.

There was one clerk on duty, an old man in his eighties who had taught me history back in grammar school. "May I help ye?"

"I'm looking for an old friend, his name is MacDonald, F. True MacDonald."

"Dae ye mean Alban MacDonald's laddie?"

"That's him. Know where I can find him?"

"Usually in the North Sea. Dives off one o' them oil rigs, but this month an' next he's back in toon. Stays wi' his faither, who works up at the lodge, I'd check there first."

"Thanks."

The old man squinted at me through a pair of copper-rimmed spectacles. "Ye look a wee bit familiar. Dae I ken ye?"

"You did. Thanks, Mr. Stewart, I gotta run."

I made it halfway out the door before he shouted, "Ye're Angus Wallace's laddie, the big-shot scientist. Had tae come hame tae look for yer monster, didn't ye?"

"The only monster I know of, Mr. Stewart, is locked up in Inverness Castle."

I hopped on the Harley and drove south, accelerating up a steep gravel path that led into the hills.

The lodges at Drumnadrochit were a series of private cottages and chalets set high above the village on a mountainside overlooking Loch Ness. I parked, then entered the main office, hoping to find True before I ran into his father.

Too late.

Alban Malcolm MacDonald, known to the bairns (children) of Drumnadrochit as "Crabbit MacDonald," looked as gruesome and bad-tempered as I ever remembered. His moon-shaped Norseman's face remained half-concealed behind a thick, graying auburn goatee and sideburns, neither doing much to hide the scars left behind from a childhood ridden with smallpox. Fog-gray eyes stared at me as I entered his dwelling, his thickly callused fingers and yellowed nails tapping the wooden check-in desk in rhythm.

"Mr. MacDonald, good to see you, sir," I lied. "Do you remember me?"

He removed a toothpick hanging from his liver lips, his crooked, yellowed teeth revealing themselves as he spat, "Zachary Wallace."

"Yes, sir. I can't believe you remembered."

"Didn't. Saw yer photo in the papers five months back."

"Oh, right. Is, uh, is True here?"

"Nah."

"No? How about Brandy? Gosh, last time I saw your daughter, she must've been five, maybe six years—"

"Go back tae the States, Zachary Wallace, there's nowt here for ye."

"My father's here. I came to lend my support."

"Since when does he ask for it? Men like yer faither cannae be trusted. They're ruinin' the Great Glen, dae ye ken whit I mean? Him, an' a' thae bastards like them that selt their namesake's land. Let them spend their money in hell, says I."

"Grrraaah!" Air wheezed from my chest as I was hoisted clear off the floor by two burly, auburn-furred arms that wrapped around me from behind.

Old man MacDonald shook his great head and went back to work.

"Zachary Wallace, returned to us from the dead!" He put me down, spun me around, and embraced me again.

The last time I had seen Finlay True MacDonald, he was a skinny runt, with freckles and wild burnt-orange hair. No one ever called True by his real first name, his middle name, passed down from his late mother's side, being far more interesting. We'd kept in touch for a while after I'd moved to the States, and always called each other on birthdays, but it had been a good ten years since I'd seen a current photo.

The imposing giant with the auburn ponytail who stood before me now was six-foot-five and heavily muscled, weighing close to 260 pounds. "Jesus, True, you're as big as a friggin' horse."

"Aye. An' listen tae
you
, wi' yer snooty American accent, ye sound like ye're talking' oot o' yer nose. Ye're no runt any mair, I see, an' by God, it's guid tae see ye."

"I hear you've been working out on the oil rigs. What happened to the career in the Royal Navy?"

"Had my fill. Her Majesty's Navy wis guid enough tae train me tae work in atmospheric dive suits, an' the pay in the private sector's a whole lot better."

"I didn't know they made dive suits large enough to fit the likes of you."

"Aye, well, it can be a squeeze, right enough! Have ye ever been doon in one?"

"I climbed inside one once. Every step was like carrying a ton of bricks."

"Probably one o' thae auld JIM suits. We use nothin' but WASPs an' the new Newt Suits on the rigs nowadays. Both have thrusters that propel ye along. Much easier on the legs. Now I spend four hours a day, nine months a year skimmin' the bottom o' the North Sea, checkin' the lines an' doin' repairs. High stress, but the pay's guid, so I cannae complain. Lots o' folk in the Highlands are barely makin' it these days."

"How long are you off for?"

"Another three an' a half weeks. Then I'm back for four months, or until the winter seas get ower rough."

"Guess you heard about my father."

"Aye, an' every pub frae Lochend tae Fort Augustus's toastin' his name. Tourism's been doon ye ken, thanks tae the whole terrorist thing. Maybe the trial'll drive some business this way. That, or the new resort."

"You think Angus meant to kill Johnny C.?"

True mulled it over. "No, but I think he meant tae teach him a lesson. You an' me both ken yer faither carries a fierce temper, especially when it comes tae money. This Johnny C. wis English, an' a big-shot developer, no less, and I'll wager he didnae get that way toein' the line for the likes of us Highlanders. Angus most likely caught him tryin' tae pull a fast one an' decked him guid. I'd have done the same, 'cept no' on the cliffs off Urquhart Bay, an' sure no' in front o' witnesses."

"They're talking about the death penalty"

'Aye, but I widnae fret much aboot that. Angus is still as slippery as an Anguilla eel, an' this is still the Highlands. We tend no' tae hang one o' oor own. Anyway, enough aboot the trial. Am I right in that ye're freed for the weekend?"

"Yes. But I have to be back in Inverness Monday morning."

"Which gi'es us plenty o' time tae poison oor livers. First things first, ye'll need a bed." He reached behind his father's desk and grabbed a room key.

"True, I really didn't plan on staying, I wasn't even sure I'd find you. I left all my clothes back in Inverness."

"So ye'll borrow. Ye're stayin', an' that's a' there is tae it. Ye seem a bit stressed. First things first, we'll blow off some steam, jist like we used tae dae when we were laddies."

Before I could respond, True had me around the shoulders and was sweeping me out the door.

* * *

The ruins of Castle Urquhart stand on Strone Point, a rocky promontory set along the southern shores of Urquhart Bay, one of the deepest parts of the Loch. The castle's origins can be traced back to a Pict fort built in the fifth century, and it was there that Saint Columba, Abbot of Iona, first visited the Pictish Kingdom in A.D. 565.

Eight hundred years later, the English fortified the settlement, following Longshanks's victory over the Scots at Dunbar. William Wallace and Andrew Moray eventually attacked the castle, securing it for Scotland. Years later, another bloody siege ensued, with Longshank's invading army starving the Scot occupants into submission. The castle remained under England's control until Robert the Bruce retook it in 1306.

The Scots controlled the castle for the next four centuries, until the English used explosives to demolish most of the fortress in order to keep it out of the hands of the Jacobites.

What remains today of Urquhart Castle are the upper bailey, sections of its fortifying wall, and part of its five-storey tower house. While there are certainly more impressive structures along the Loch, none are as popular as this haunting castle ruins, surrounded on three sides by deep water known for its frequent Nessie sightings.

* * *

It was after ten and summer's dusk was nearly upon us, the mountains fading into rolling purple shadows, the bleeding scarlet horizon graying into night. True and I wandered along the perimeter of Urquhart Castle, each of us carrying a golf club and a small bucket of practice balls. Moving south along the grass-covered knoll, I paused to look down upon the steep twenty-foot drop on our left.

Below, a foreboding black surf rolled against the rocky vertical embankment, cloaking the Ness's extreme depths.

"This is where it must've happened," I said.

"Aye. It's a survivable fa' though, dependin' upon where he goes off. 'Course, he could have hit his head on one o' thae rocks, an' that wid have been that. Come on then."

True lead me to a hill that overlooked the castle parking lot. To the south was the lighted construction site of what would soon be Cialino's five-star resort. "Nice, huh? Fancy pools an' restaurants, an' a' its rooms wi' a Loch view. They're even sellin' time-shares, so I hear. Johnny C. would have made a killin' on that place if only he'd have lived tae see it."

"There's still the merry widow."

"Aye. From whit I hear, she gets everything. An' she's no' exactly hard on the eyes, yeah?" True removed a golf tee from his pocket, grabbed a ball from his bucket, then addressed the shot. "Okay, the construction fence's 220 yards, the patio's 227, the pool 235, an' if ye plunk it doon in the hot tub, ye automatically win. We'll start the pot at ten pounds an' raise it two pounds a shot."

I teed up to his left, giving those long arms of his plenty of space. "True, what did your father mean when he said those bastards are ruining the Great Glen?"

True swung, his ball soaring high over the construction fence, ricocheting off a bulldozer. "Forget my faither, he's strictly auld school. Alban MacDonald wid sooner bash a computer wi' a cricket bat than learn how tae use it. In my mind, it's plain hypocritical no tae encourage development. The auld Clans have aye held ontae the best acreage around Loch Ness, yer faither bein' among the first tae sell. More will follow, wait an' see. Go on then, take a swing."

I gripped the driver, took a few practice swings, then wound up and struck the ball, watching it rise, then curve left into Loch Ness.

"Jesus, Zack. My Auntie Griselda hits a better ball, an' she's doon tae one leg."

"Blow me." I teed another ball.

True hit his next shot, a line drive that disappeared over the bulldozer. "Ye heard they selt Aldourie Castle, aye? Word is some big firm's comin' in, convertin' the whole place intae an exclusive country club, sort o' like they did wi' Skibo. Figure one day I'll retire frae oil rig divin' an' get a job there as a golf pro."

"You'd make a better parking lot attendant." I hit another drive, this one skidding off the grass before hitting a rock and ricocheting into the water.

True grinned, then struck another ball, a moon shot that bounced twice off the brick balcony before plunking into the whirlpool. "Like I said, golf pro."

"Since when do golf pros wear ponytails?" I retorted, slicing yet another ball into the drink.

He fingered the thick lock of hair. "Dinnae knock my tail, it drives the birds right intae my bed. Go on, I'll gie ye one last shot tae tie or make it an even fourteen pounds, then we best be gettin' ower tae Sniddles. Brandy'll be waitin'."

I hit my final shot, which soared toward the heavens before banana-curving into Loch Ness. "I hate this flicking game," I said, threatening to toss my driver over the cliff.

"Temper, temper," True cooed, draping a burly arm across my shoulder. "See, when oor ancestors invented the bloody game, they understood two things. First, it takes exactly eighteen shots tae polish off a fifth o' a bottle o' Scotch, thus, a game o' golf equates tae eighteen holes. Second, yer game's ultimately a measurin' stick of how well ye deal wi' life's shits and giggles. Like yer game, yer life needs work."

"Okay, Mister Golf Pro, what's your advice?"

"That's easy. Any man who cannae keep his balls oot o' the water needs tae get laid. Come on, let's find my sister."

* * *

It was a Friday night and the club was packed, the tables filled with tourists, the bar four deep in regulars. There were darts and lager and music and lager and laughter… and did I mention lager?

True entered and the crowd was forced to part, me following in his wake. He shook a dozen hands and kissed a half dozen women, and I was thankful he didn't introduce me.

And then he waved to a raven-haired beauty who was waving back at us from a corner table, and I was smitten.

Claire MacDonald, who preferred her American middle name, Brandy (mostly to spite her father) was the kind of girl shy guys like me daydreamed about in high school and stayed up at night thinking about, but never had the nerve nor the credentials to ask out. These were girls reserved for the star quarterback and the guys who drove sports convertibles, and when they got older, they became trophy wives—arm-candy to the rich and powerful.

To me, Brandy was a swan, and I was a duck, and as a basic rule of nature, as my great uncle Alfred might have said, ducks and swans don't mate.

But in her own mind, Brandy was tarnished goods. When she was sixteen, her high school heartthrob had gotten her pregnant, right before his family abruptly relocated to Edinburgh. Old man MacDonald wasn't too keen about his daughter's obvious lack of celibacy and promptly threw her out of his house, forcing her to move into a shelter. Though she'd lost the child at the start of the second trimester and eventually returned to high school, Brandy was on her own, having never been invited back in her bitter father's home again.