The Loch (11 page)

"We're not going to Portfield Prison?"

The attorney-slash-Goth freak shook his spiked head. "Portfield's overcrowded, and the labdicks don't want to mix an accused murderer in with the rest of the remands, most of the wankers being held for nothing more than bar brawls. So the High Court plucked our father from Her Majesty's Prison and shoved him inside the bowels of the Sheriff Court."

By "Sheriff Court," Max meant Inverness Castle.

Originally built in the twelfth century, Inverness Castle was reconstructed in 1835 after nearly being razed by Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1746. Besides being a popular tourist attraction, the enormous Victorian red sandstone, sitting majestically on a low-lying cliff overlooking River Ness, also housed the Sheriff Court.

"Sheriffdom" dates back eight centuries to when the sheriff, an officer of the king, presided over all judicial matters in his district. Today, there are six sheriffs in Scotland, each a legally qualified judge overseeing civil cases in his region.

Angus's case involved murder, so its jurisdiction was left to the High Court, but the castle still had ample jail space to house the accused.

Max parked and we followed a flower-lined path to the main entrance. A bronze statue of Flora MacDonald, the woman who aided the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie, stood on a stone pedestal on the castle lawn. Entering the castle gate, we bypassed the tourist line for the "Garrison Encounter," and headed for the Sheriff Court.

After twenty minutes of paperwork and an embarrassing body cavity search using a metal detector, a prison guard led us down a century's old winding stone stairwell into the bowels of the castle. Modern lighting mixed with ancient iron fittings as we approached another officer guarding a corridor of holding cells.

"Here tae see oor Angus, I take it. That'd be the honeymoon suite, last cell."

"You go on," Max said, "I'll meet you outside. Got a few calls to make."

The guard slid open the barred door, allowing me to pass. The first six cells on either side were empty.

The last one on the left held my father.

He was lying on a mattress, his back against the wall, reading a copy of the
Inverness Courier.
The years had turned his mane of jet-black hair to silver, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, more salt than pepper, had replaced his goatee. Liver spots blotched his tan skin, crow's-feet cornering his eyes, but his gray-blue irises were still piercing and animated, his physique still imposing, though his waistline showed a slight paunch.

I stood outside his locked cell door, my body trembling from nerves and fatigue.

"Bloody daft reporters. Must've telt that coffin-dodgin' slag at least ten times aboot us bein' direct kin tae Sir William Wallace, but does he mention it? Hell no! Well, that's the last he gets oot o' me, I tell ye."

"Nice to see you, too," I managed.

He rolled off the mattress and stood, still light on his feet, but no longer a giant. "Ye sound like a Yank, but ye look like hell. Yer eyes are blood-red an' hollow, and I can smell the stench o' whisky in yer sweat."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"Aye, since the accident. Read aboot that. That's twice ye've drooned an' been brought back. Best be careful, Nancy, I hear three times is the kicker."

Thirty seconds, and he'd already picked the scab clean off our old wounds.

"If you've got nothing else to say—"

"Now, now, dinnae get yer skirt in a ruffle. Let me have a look at ye." He reached through the bars, placing his hands on my shoulders. Powerful fingers kneaded my deltoids, working their way down to my biceps.

I clenched subconsciously.

He gave me a half grin. "Nae longer a runt, are ye? Thank Christ the Wallace men 'aye resilient genes. So tell me, whit dae ye think o' my bastard, Maxie? I ken he's half-English but—"

"He's a nutcase. Are you deliberately trying to piss off the judge?"

"Is that how we determine whae's innocent an' whae's guilty these days? By their barrister's appearance?"

"This isn't a game, Angus. Max says the Cialinos are pushing for the death penalty."

"A' men die, Zachary. Funny though, how I'm the one facin' the death penalty, an' ye're the one whae's feart. They can only hang me once, but ye'll die a thoosan' deaths afore they put me six feet under."

"I'm not afraid."

"Bollocks. I can smell the fear crawlin' in yer belly like I can smell my ain farts."

"What have I got to be afraid of?"

"I think we baith ken the answer tae that. Seventeen years is a long time tae keep somethin' tucked inside ye."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Angus, but I moved on long ago."

"Have ye? Then why have ye no' gone back tae the Sargasso?"

"Expeditions cost money, and no one's interested. I'd go back in a heartbeat, but—"

"Butts're for crappin'. Maxie's done some checkin'. The Royal Navy contacted ye six weeks ago, interested in financin' a voyage tae locate thae Bloop thing-a-mah-jingies. Word is they offered ye a research vessel an' another sub, but ye turned them doon."

I ground my teeth, confronted by the truth. The Royal Navy
had
tried to contact me, but I had refused their calls, still struggling with my hydrophobia. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'll go back to sea when I'm good and ready."

"No ye willnae. The longer ye wait, the harder it'll be. Look how long it's been since ye returned hame tae yer auld man."

"First, Scotland's not my home, at least not anymore. Second, you've never been much more to me than a sperm donor. I was always your runt, the disappointment God gave you to carry on the Wallace name. You want to give me one final lecture before they hang you, go ahead, it's your time, your dime."

"So ye think yer auld man's guilty, is that it?"

"Honestly, Angus, I don't know what you're capable of anymore."

That stung, I could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Zachary, I ken ye're ashamed o' me, but as far as these charges, I didnae dae it. Johnny C. an' me were pals. Sure, we had words, just as we aye had, but whit happened wis an accident. No matter whit ye may think o' me son, I'm no' a murderer."

Son. I couldn't ever remember him referring to me as his son.

"What is it you want?"

"Nothin' more than yer support. The morn, when I walk intae that courtroom, it'd make me proud tae have both o' my laddies by my side."

Maybe it was fatigue, but when he got choked up I lost it, too, the tears streaming down my cheeks as I embraced him through the bars. "Okay, Angus, I'll be there."

My wife and I were returning to Drumnadrochit from Inverness, driving along the old narrow road near the seven-mile stone. As we passed Aldourie Castle, she suddenly shouted at me to stop, claiming she saw an enormous black body, rolling up and down in the water. By the time I pulled over, all that was left were ripples, but you could tell something big was out there. Moments later, a huge wake became visible, caused by something moving just below the surface. The wake headed toward Aldourie Pier, then its source submerged, showing us two black humps, one after the next. It rose and sank in an undulating manner, circled sharply to port, then disappeared.

—
J
OHN
M
ACKAY,
M
ARCH 1933 (
F
IRST MODERN-DAY SIGHTING SINCE
S
AINT
C
OLUMBA)

Inverness, Scottish Highlands
Scotland
7:15 A.M.

I
woke up screaming, limbs quivering, my boxer shorts and T-shirt drenched in sweat. For a terrifying moment, I wasn't sure where I was, and then the empty hotel room yawned back at me, the television still displaying BBC2 from the night before.

You're okay… you're okay… you're okay …

I kicked off the blankets, stripped off my soggy undergarments, and climbed into a hot shower.

A furious banging on the outside door forced me to abandon the shower prematurely. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I left the bathroom, dripping wet. "For Chrissakes, hold on—"

It was the manager, accompanied by hotel security. "Everythin' a'right here, sir?"

"Uh, fine. Is something wrong?"

The security man pushed his way in. "Some o' the guests reported hearin' an awfy scream. Said it sounded like someone wis bein' stabbed."

"Stabbed? Oh, uh, sorry, that must've been the television, you know, one of those American shows. Woke me up as well."

The manager seemed relieved.

Security continued searching for a body.

"Morning." Max entered, dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and matching tie, his spiked hair slicked back, the mascara gone. "There a problem?"

"They heard someone screaming. It was just the television."

"Course it was. Don't say another word."

"Nothin' here," the security man announced. "But if it happens again, I'll write ye up for disturbin' the peace." He shot me a look, then pushed his way out the door, followed by the manager.

"Wanker. He's not even a real bobby." Max pushed me towards the bedroom. "Get dressed, little brar, the High Court awaits."

* * *

The High Court of Justiciary is the supreme criminal court in Scotland. Because the only purpose-built High Courts are in Edinburgh and Glasgow, all murder trials taking place outside these cities are held in Sheriff Court buildings. Inverness Castle accommodated the High Court in Inverness, providing its own unique medieval setting to the proceedings.

There were two prosecutors: Mitchell Obrecht, a tall, stocky man with light brown hair that formed an imposing "V" shape on his forehead, and his assistant, a short-haired blonde in a navy business suit named Jennifer Shaw.

Angus was dressed in an old brown wool suit, seated in the dock, an area behind the prosecutors. Max was at another table, facing the judge's bench. Fifteen jurors were seated in the jury box, three police constables at their posts, one by my father. The rest of us—reporters, family, friends, and the nosey—were packed into rows of wooden benches at the rear of the courtroom.

Johnny C.'s widow, Theresa Cialino, an athletic-looking beauty with long, wavy auburn hair, sat three benches ahead of me, an angel tattoo exposed on her left shoulder blade. By the way her dark brown eyes kept focusing on Angus, I felt certain they'd been lovers.

At 9:03, the Clerk of the Court signaled us to rise.

"The High Court of Justiciary is now in session, Lord Neil Hannam presiding."

The judge, a short, fit-looking man with olive-tan skin and dark, slicked-back hair, took his place behind his bench, nodding to his clerk to continue.

"Case number C93-04, Angus William Wallace versus Her Majesty's Advocate in the case of murder in the first degree. The accused has entered a plea of not guilty."

"Lord Advocate, your opening remarks."

Mitchell Obrecht stood and faced the jury. "On February 15 of this year, the accused, Mr. Angus William Wallace of Drumnadrochit, met with the deceased, Mr. John Cialino Jr., of Cialino Ventures, London, on the grounds of the soon-to-be-opened Nessie's Retreat and Entertainment Center. Her Majesty's Advocate shall show that Mr. Wallace had owned some of the acreage along Loch Ness and had sold it to Mr. Cialino's real estate firm for development some eighteen months prior.

"At approximately four-thirty that evening, no less than a dozen people witnessed Mr. Wallace and Mr. Cialino engaged in a heated argument, which ended when Mr. Wallace struck Mr. Cialino directly in the face with his fist, sending him caroming seven meters into the unforgiving six-degree Celsius waters of the Loch. If Mr. Cialino was not dead when he struck the water, then he drowned minutes later. The waters surrounding Urquhart Castle are in excess of two hundred meters, and it is doubtful we'll ever find the body.

"Her Majesty's Advocate intends to prove that Mr. Wallace is not only guilty of Mr. Cialino's murder, but that the act was premeditated, murder in the first degree."

Murmurs filled the courthouse as the prosecutor returned to his seat. I watched the faces of the jury, and from what I could tell, they were buying what Obrecht was selling.

Now it was Max's turn.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my client, Angus Wallace, admits he was arguing with his friend and one-time business partner, Mr. John Cialino Jr., on that tragic 15 day of February last. He confesses that yes, he did strike his friend, much as one might strike a mate in a pub over a pint of ale. But Mr. Wallace did not kill John Cialino, neither by accident nor intention, for Mr. Cialino was quite alive after he hit the water. We intend to prove that Mr. Cialino's death was, in fact, caused by his own negligence, and not by the hand of his friend, Mr. Angus Wallace."

The judge made a few notes, then turned to his Court Macer. "You may call the first Crown witness."

"The High Court calls Mr. Paul Garrison of Las Vegas, Nevada to the stand."

A middle-aged American with light brown hair, graying at the temples, entered the witness box and was sworn in.

Jennifer Shaw questioned him from her seat. "Please state your full name and occupation for the record."

"Paul Garrison. I work for a large, high-end resort casino located in Las Vegas, Nevada."

"What brought you to Scotland last February, Mr. Garrison?"

"Vacation mostly. Nice of you to fly me back like this."

"Were you at Urquhart's Castle on the evening of February 15?"

"Uh, yes… yes, I was."

"And what did you see?"

"Well, it was winter, so it grew dark pretty fast. Looking over from the ruins, I saw that big silver-bearded guy—"

"Let the record show Mr. Garrison has identified the accused."

"Right, that's him. Anyway, I saw that guy with the silver beard punch the other little guy—"

"Mr. Cialino?"

"Right, Mr. Cialino, right in the face. Anyway, this Cialino guy stumbled, then took a nosedive right into the Loch."

"No further questions."