The Loch

Chapter 8

Max dropped me off at the hotel lobby after the first day of Angus's trial, but I was antsy, and in no mood to stay in my room. Despite being convinced of Angus's guilt, this was the first time my father had ever acknowledged me in a positive way, dissolving years of anger. A well of emotions filled my soul, sobered only by the skeptical, analytical left side of my brain, which kept screaming at me to leave Scotland immediately, warning me that allowing Angus back into my heart was like putting out fire with gasoline.

Stop thinking with your left brain. Give the man a chance to redeem himself.

I should've known better.

With a long weekend ahead, I decided to rent a car and reacquaint myself with the Highlands, hoping to track down Finlay "True" MacDonald, my boyhood friend from Drumnadrochit. The transportation plan changed slightly when I passed the motorbike rental.

I was not a biker, having ridden a motorcycle less than half a dozen times, but something about being in the Highlands on the open road tugged at me. Twenty minutes later, I was motoring out of Inverness, the twin cam engines of a Harley-Davidson Softail rumbling between my legs as I wove south through bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Caledonian Canal, heading for Loch Ness.

There are two roads that encircle the Loch. General Wade's Military Road is the less traveled, a single-lane tarmac that follows the eastern banks of the Ness. As it reaches Fort Augustus at the Loch's southernmost tip, it connects with the A82, a busier two-lane highway that completes the circle along the western shores.

As Drumnadrochit lies on the western bank, about a third of the way down, I settled on the A82.

Rush hour traffic opened as I cleared the canal's swing bridge and accelerated up the asphalt hill, heading toward mountain country. A cold wind whistled through my helmet, Lord Burton's Estate a mere blur on my left as I approached Loch Dochfour, a man-made waterway that had raised Loch Ness nine feet when the canal had first been built.

I slowed, downshifting as I rolled through the sleepy villages of Dochgarroch and Kirkton, then opened her up again as I raced past a roadside farm. The thunder of the Harley's engine scattered geese and chickens and echoed along the mouse-gray rock face that rose majestically on my right. At the foot of these mountains was the Caledonian forest, appearing to me now as a continuous wall of evergreen. Glistening below and on my left were the lead-gray waters of Loch Dochfour.

After a few minutes, the man-made waterway all but disappeared as it bent away from the A82 to the east, narrowing again into the River Ness.

I passed a car park for the Abban Water Fishery, a small stocked waterway where True MacDonald and I had often fished. My mouth watered at the thought of grilled rainbow trout, the memory fading quickly as I was forced to refocus in order to maneuver around a dump truck hauling gravel.

The Harley spewed blue exhaust as I roared past the overloaded vehicle and headed for the outskirts of Lochend, the northernmost beginning of Loch Ness.

Looming ahead, stretched out before me like a dark serpent, was the infamous waterway. I had to slow, the dark beauty of the Loch and its rising mountain walls too mesmerizing not to admire.

Beep! Be — eep… beep!

The dump truck was right behind me, its grille threatening to bounce my motorcycle off the side of the road.

Shifting gears, I distanced myself from the threat, then swerved off the A82 into a roadside parking area, known in the Highlands as a lay-by.

I shut off the engine and listened to the Great Glen breathe in between passing cars. I inhaled the moisture of a freshly rained-upon spruce forest and smelled the presence of Loch Ness's acidic waters in the valley below.

The ghosts of my childhood whispered in my head, beckoning me to the ancient shoreline.

Leaving the bike, I made my way down a rock-strewn path until I reached a pebbled beach.

The Loch was calm, its black surface reflecting an overcast sky. Across a half-mile stretch of water, through rolling wisps of fog I could see Aldourie Castle perched along the opposite bank — the exact spot where Angus had lectured me so long ago.

Calm yourself; Zack. There's no dragons or monsters in Loch Ness, there's only Angus, still screwing with your head.

I stared at the three hundred year old chateau. Situated on four hundred acres of forest and grassy knolls, Aldourie Castle was like a vision out of Camelot. Long abandoned, rumored to be for sale, the baronial mansion was known for its many Nessie sightings and had once hosted the premiere party for Loch Ness, a movie starring Ted Danson and Joely Richardson. I had enjoyed the flick, up until its fairy-tale ending, which featured Nessie as a pair of friendly plesiosaurs — exactly the kind of rubbish that kept most reputable scientists away from the Loch.

Tea-colored waters, stained brown by an overabundance of decomposing vegetable matter, lapped at the gravel beneath my hiking boots. Overhead, a slit of sun peeked through the ceiling of clouds. The view was breathtaking, the mountains rolling away to the southwest—

— as subliminal dark, underwater images flashed in my head, replaced by a sickening rush of fear that sent my stomach gurgling.

They were the same mind-flashes I had experienced in South Beach, and, unnerved, I backed away, then hurried up the path to the lay-by. It was all I could do to keep myself from retching.

Easy, Zack. It's just a lake. It can't hurt you if you don't go in.

My hydrophobia said otherwise.

I took several deep breaths, then staggered to the Harley. Climbing back on, I started the motor and gunned the engine, continuing south along the busy two-lane highway toward Drumnadrochit.

The cold mountain breeze whipped through my clothing, doing little to soothe my frayed nerves. Seventeen years may have passed, but the drowning incident of my childhood still haunted me.

I rode on for another three miles, then forced myself to steal a quick glance at the Loch as I passed Tor Point. It was here that the eastern shoreline receded, doubling the Ness's width to a full mile. It would remain that wide until the waterway reached Fort Augustus, another twenty miles to the south.

It was almost eight o'clock, yet the evening summer sky was still bright as I passed the hamlet of Abriachan.

Fifteen minutes later, the A82 curved away to the west as the Loch's shoreline opened to Urquhart Bay. Another mile and the waterway was gone, replaced by a small cemetery and the river Enrick.

Crossing the Telford bridge, I followed the road into the village green of Drumnadrochit.

I was home.