The Loch

Chapter 11

Nearly two hours after docking in Fort Augustus, I emerged from the men's public bathroom, drained and pale, the effects of the migraine still lingering like a bad morning hangover. I was in no shape, physically or mentally, to manage a return trip up the Loch, and yet I knew I was in deep shit with Brandy.

Honesty's the best policy, Zack. Tell her about your phobia, and she'll have to forgive you.

Rehearsing my speech, I walked slowly back to the Nessie III. Brandy was out on deck, cleaning. Before I could get in a word edgewise, she launched her attack from the starboard rail.

"Well, look who decided tae come home. First, ye blow me off last night, then ye ruin my bloody tour."

"Ruined?"

"Do ye see anyone besides us standin' here? Ye dumb bastard, ye chased them all away! Never tell payin' customers there's no Nessie. What the hell were ye thinkin'?"

"Wait, I didn't say that."

"Tae hell ye didnae. No, Miss Kate, that's a wave. No, Mister James, that's a duck. No, Mr. Nova-Producer, I'd never risk my bloody Albert Einstein reputation by investigatin' a ridiculous Highland legend like Nessie. Twenty-three tourists, my best load all season, an' ye sent every one o' them off tae ride home wi' my competition."

"Brandy, I'm sorry, but see, ever since the Sargasso thing I …"

"Fuck yersel', Zachary Wallace! I never want tae see ye again, dae ye hear? Far as I'm concerned, ye can crawl back tae Inverness an' hang wi' yer no good faither."

Having worked herself into a good lather, she proceeded to toss things at me. First it was her bucket and sponge, then her shoes, one of which caught me across the shoulder. Still not satisfied, she hustled down to the galley, emerging moments later with a cast-iron frying pan, which barely missed my head.

When she went for the anchor, I took off running.

I left the waterfront and hailed a taxi. Forty minutes later, the driver dropped me off at the Clansman Hotel, where I picked up my motorcycle and rode back to Drumnadrochit.

True was gone, probably fishing somewhere. I considered waiting for him, but the thought of being alone at the lodge while Crabbit stalked the mountainside in his thirteenth-century pajamas and sword was clearly not an option. So I left True a note, included my contact information in Inverness, then drove off, convinced this would be my last appearance in the village of my birth.

There was a note waiting for me at my hotel when I returned.

The thought of my father, isolated from society, alone in his cell, sober and grateful to have me by his side after so many years brought tears to my eyes.

Had I known then what Angus had in store for me, I'd have been on the next plane home to Miami.