Sobriety greeted me with migrainelike symptoms. Pulling myself up by the porcelain, I spewed the prior night's toxins into the toilet bowl (is there a worse stench than Jack Daniel's over tacos?), then crawled toward the door.
The pounding awakened my escort from the previous night, a buxom rinsed-out blonde whose name never registered. Stumbling out of bed, totally naked, she unchained the door as the two of us confronted the stranger.
"Zachary Wallace? My name is Max Rael. How'd you do?"
He was a tall man in his late twenties, English, with strawberry blond hair, short and spiked, and his green eyes were highlighted by black eyeliner. Though temperatures were in the mid-eighties, he wore a heavy black trench coat and slacks, giving him a Gothic look.
In any other city he'd have been gawked at, but this was South Beach.
"What do you want? I'm paid up for the week."
"No worries, brar, I'm not with the hotel. Actually, I work for your father." He pushed past the blonde, then turned up his nose. "This room stinks of gunge. Pay off the bird and get dressed, we need to talk."
An hour later, I found myself facing the Englishman on a park bench, hiding behind dark sunglasses.
"If you don't mind me saying so, you look like you've come out on the wrong side of a swedge."
"A swedge?"
"A fight. So who's the battle with? Drugs? Booze? Women? Or all of the above?"
"Dragons. State your business, Mr. Rael. You said you work for my father?"
"I'm his barrister, his attorney. Your father's been arrested for murder."
"Murder?" I felt myself sober up. "Did he do it?"
"No. But it's complicated. There were witnesses."
"What happened? Who's he accused of killing?"
"John Cialino Jr. Recognize the name?"
"Cialino… wait, isn't there a big real estate company in Britain—"
"Cialino Ventures. One of the largest in Europe. Angus was doing business with Johnny C. himself"
"That makes no sense. What would a man as wealthy as John Cialino want with my father?"
"The company's building a fancy resort and health spa along the northwestern bank of Loch Ness, just south of Urquhart Bay. Angus held title to the land and—"
"Whoa… My father owns land on Loch Ness?"
"Passed down to him from his paternal ancestors."
"Funny how that never came up in my mother's divorce settlement."
"The land was unsellable for commercial use until a recent change in zoning. Anyway, Angus sold the land to Johnny C., but on the day in question, the two of 'em got into a big squabble on a bluff overlooking the Loch. Witnesses saw your father take a swing at Cialino, who fell into Loch Ness. They're still looking for the body, but with the depths and cold temperatures… well, the Loch's known for not giving up her dead."
"Sounds more like an accident than murder."
"Like I said, it's complicated. There's rumors that Angus and Johnny C's wife were carrying on a bit under the sheets."
And there it was. The moment Max mentioned the affair, I knew my father was guilty as charged.
"He was probably drunk," I said, ignoring my own fall from grace. "Guess the numbers finally caught up with him, not that I'm surprised. Anyway, best of luck. I hope you're a better lawyer than you are a hair stylist."
"I'm not here as a messenger, Zachary. I've come to Miami to bring you back to Scotland. Angus needs you, he needs your emotional support."
I blurted out a laugh, the sudden movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my hung over brain. "Emotional support? Since when does Angus Wallace need anyone's emotional support? Where was my emotional support? Hell, the man hasn't so much as sent me a birthday card in seventeen years. As far as I'm concerned, he can use a few years in prison. Maybe next time he'll think twice before screwing around with another man's wife."
Max shot me a stern look. "If Angus's found guilty of murder in the first, he's looking at the death penalty."
"Death penalty? I thought Europe abolished capital punishment?"
"Britain's quietly changed their view since that last series of terrorist attacks. Make no mistake, the Cialinos are a powerful, well- connected family. The murder's become our equivalent of your O.J. Simpson trial. It's in every paper, on every TV station. If Angus is found guilty, he'll hang."
I sat back and stared at the passing beach-goers, feeling a bit lost. "Max, I haven't spoken with my father since I was nine. Why would he want me with him after all this time?"
"Maybe he sees it as his last chance to make some sort of restitution."
"Toward me? You obviously don't know my father. The man's a liar and a cheat and that's on his best days. The man never gave a damn about anyone but himself"
Max stunned me with a hard slap across the top of my skull. "That'll be quite enough negativity After all, the man is our father."
I balled my fists, until the Englishman's words sank in.
"That's right, little brother. Angus is my father, too. Knocked up my mum three years before leaving her and marrying yours. Maybe he did me a favor, seein' as how you turned out. But people change as they get older, and, in my book, they deserve a second chance. No doubt Angus did us both some wrong, but he's made amends with me, and now he's reachin' out to you. So now it's up to you. Will ye be there for him in his time of need, or do you prefer to take your anger with you to the grave?"
Two hours later, Max and I boarded a Continental Airlines flight out of Miami, bound for Inverness.
Chapter 5
I was seated on a rock, above Abriachan, just watching the water when I saw what I took to be a log coming across the Loch. Instead of going towards the river, as I expected, it suddenly came to life and went at great speed, wriggling and churning towards Urquhart Castle.
I regularly traveled on the mail steamer from Abriachan from Inverness. During the early morning hours, just before the dawn, I'd often see a strange, huge, salamanderlike creature frolicking along the surface.
It was an eight-hour flight to Gatwick Airport, where we would have to switch planes to fly on to Scotland. We would not arrive in Inverness until seven in the morning, local time.
I was already exhausted, but determined to stay awake, fearing sleep and the possibilities of experiencing a night terror while on the plane. With the ongoing threat of terrorist attacks still keeping most Western travelers on edge, I knew that one bloodcurdling scream at forty thousand feet might result in an intense, free-for-all beating.
With Max snoring next to me, I remained awake, sobriety forcing me to think. Avoiding all thoughts of the Sargasso, I tried focusing my mind on Scotland, a land I scarcely remembered.
My mother had barely been out of college when she traveled to Britain with two friends and first laid eyes on my father. Angus Wallace was brash and handsome and larger-than-life to twenty-six-year-old Andrea McKnown, and the fact that she had recently lost her father and Angus was twenty-seven years her senior no doubt added to her infatuation. Their courtship lasted barely six weeks before he insisted they marry. Andrea said yes, partly because there was nothing waiting for her back home, partly because she was pregnant and couldn't bear to face her mother, a strict Catholic. To this day, mom still insists I was born nine weeks prematurely instead of only three.