To the 813 residents who depend upon tourism to earn their wages, Drumnadrochit is six months feast and six months famine, a pattern that follows the extremes of tourism and the length of its days. Because the Highlands are located so far to the north, summer days at Loch Ness can run from three in the morning until as late as eleven at night. Conversely, midwinter days are reduced to six-hour slots, from nine-thirty in the morning to only three in the afternoon. Living in Drumnadrochit was like living in Alaska, only with more moderate temperatures and less snow, old world charm and nosey neighbors, everyone seeking a livelihood among some of Mother Nature's greatest works.
To a young Zachary Wallace, growing up in a Highland village so far from civilization meant antiquated textbooks, third-run movies, wrath-of-God sermons, and closed-minded teachers. It meant excessive schooling in farming and the ways of crofting, and hanging out at the petrol station with friends. It was stealing the gnomes from old lady Dougall's garden and living in a place few outsiders could spell, let alone pronounce, and its isolation from the rest of the world seemed to impose a ceiling on my ability to garner knowledge about the rest of the world… at least until I was old enough to sneak bus rides into Inverness.
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?"