Author's Note: This work in progress was originally begun for a Tracy Island Writers Forum Fic Challenge, which entailed everyone taking the same opening paragraphs (written for the challenge by TIWF member Molly Webb) and continuing them to create individual stories. At the time of the challenge, real life, which has been a beast from Hades in the last couple of years, thwarted me from completing it - but I recently found it on my hard drive and thought, well, maybe I should take a stab at it now. And since my writing muscle is still very rusty indeed at the moment (think the Tin Man's arm after a week of rain, and no WD40 in sight!) and I'm struggling a bit trying to get back into the groove of Chapter 18 of "Secrets and Lies," maybe a change of pace will help. Maybe. :-)

Thanks to Molly, Rosie, Chris and Sandy for their encouragement and comments, and to Molly again for the permission to use her opening challenge paragraphs (italicized).

Before these comments become a book, here's Chapter One. All comments and feedback welcomed, as usual.

SPECIAL AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I received a review today that really needed me to respond to it...but since the reviewer was anonymous and therefore there was no email address, I can't do so directly. So I'm doing it here in the author's notes. Apologies to everyone for making you wade through all this before the story starts, but some things really do need to be nipped in the bud before they get out of hand.

The reviewer mentions that the words "Duncan Fraser," "Sassenachs," "The Mackenzies," and "Scotland," might have been taken by me from one of Diana Gabaldon's books without me crediting her. Well, no. I'm sure Diana Gabaldon got "Sassenachs," "The Mackenzies" and "Scotland" from the same places I did...history and geography books. Any Highland Scot worth his salt will tell you that the word "Sassenach" has been used for many, many years (since around 1765, in fact, according to the dictionary) to refer to non-Highlanders. It is actually a corruption of "Saxon." Nor did either one of us invent the Mackenzie Clan...any google of that name will turn up literally dozens of sites devoted to the Clan, and hundreds of people who are trying to track down their long lost relatives. It's one of the oldest, largest and widest spread families in Scotland. And I don't even need to look up "Scotland" to prove that neither Ms. Gabaldon nor I invented that country, do I...? It's been there for a few years, I understand. The British Isles would look quite topless without it.

As for Duncan Fraser...well, he was a very good looking young second lieutenant with the Queen's Own Highlanders, whom I met on his first night in Hong Kong (where I was living for a while quite a few years ago with my British military family) when his battalion came in to take over at Stanley Fort, on the south side of Hong Kong Island. He lingers happily in my memory, and for some reason his name worked its way up to the surface of my brain for this particular character. Who knows why!

I've actually never read any of Diana Gabaldon's books, although I have heard of her. As most people who know me are aware, I don't read romance novels of pretty much any description. I'm an SF and Urban Fantasy girl through and through, although a good police procedural will grab my interest from time to time, especially if it's heavy on the forensics. :-)

Chapter One

Jeff Tracy had been at work in his office at the Tracy Corp. headquarters since 7:00 a.m. His briefcase lay open on one corner of his desk, balancing the stacked piles of papers and reports that nearly covered the gleaming expanse of black glass. He was lost in concentration on a particularly troublesome spreadsheet when his cell phone rang. Absently he picked it up and answered, his eyes still on the paper before him. "Jeff Tracy."

There was a pause, and then a voice replied. "The Jeff Tracy?"

Jeff frowned, full attention suddenly focused on the phone at his ear. "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

Again there was a pause before the voice answered. "I found it in your son's wallet."

"My son? Which son?"

"Your son Gordon, Mr. Tracy. I apologize, I had no idea it would be – "

Jeff cut him off impatiently. "My son Gordon is currently at our family home overseas, where he has been for several months, and he's said nothing to me about losing his wallet. What is this about? I assure you, I don't tolerate – "

"Mr. Tracy, if you'll just let me explain…"

The faint note of reproach in the man's voice – overlaid with a soft Scottish burr, he belatedly noticed – finally got through to Jeff. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I get a fair amount of crank calls, as I'm sure you must realize."

"I would imagine you do, sir." The man paused for a moment. "To tell you the truth, I'm hoping you will be able to help me clear up one or two things here that seem a little strange to me."

"I'll do my best, if you clear up one thing for me. Who am I talking to?"

There was an embarrassed sound at the other end. "Of course, Mr. Tracy, my apologies. My name is Lachlan Mackintosh and I'm a solicitor in Fort Augustus, Invernessshire."

"Invernessshire, Scotland?" Jeff's eyebrows went up a little.

"Yes, sir."

"You're in Invernessshire, Scotland, and you have my son's wallet?" Jeff racked his brain for the last time International Rescue had been in Scotland, and couldn't come up with anything that had included Gordon as part of the crew.

"Believe me, Mr. Tracy, this whole situation makes even less sense to me than it does to you at this moment."

Jeff frowned. "Well, that's encouraging. Go on."

"A long-term client of our firm recently died, her name was Margaret Macleod. Everyone here knew her as Meggie. Do you recognize her name at all?"

Jeff shook his head, then remembered that the man on the other end of the phone couldn't see him. "No," he said, "I don't think so. And I have a pretty good memory for names."

"Well, she apparently knew of you, sir. We found an envelope in the personal papers she had stored with the firm for safekeeping. It had your name written on it, and a notation that said, 'do not mail until September 14, 2027.' Your son's wallet was the only thing in the envelope."

"September 14, 2027? That was almost six months ago," Jeff said.

"Yes, sir. I'm sad to say that Meggie succumbed to Alzheimer's Disease during the last three years of her life. We think that's why she didn't remember to post the envelope to you. We didn't find it until after her death." There was a short pause, and Jeff immediately heard the hesitant note in the man's voice as he continued. "The thing is, and this is what doesn't make any sense to me…Meggie…well, sir, she originally put these personal papers in the charge of my father, when he was still running the firm."

"And?"

"Mr. Tracy…my father retired more than thirty years ago."

Jeff took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. None of this was making sense to him either, and it was beginning to cause an annoying white noise in the back of his brain.

Then the penny dropped. Good one, Gordon. You almost had me. I wonder where you found the guy with the great Scottish accent?

Suppressing a grin, he kept his voice professional and switched gears smoothly. "I'm sorry, Mr...Mackintosh, was it..?"

"Yes, sir."

"Much as I'd like to continue this discussion, my son's a legal adult and after all, we are talking about his wallet. If you'll give me your number I'll pass it on to him."

There was no apparent hesitation that Jeff could detect. This guy really is good, he thought. "Of course, Mr. Tracy. Thank you. I'll wait for his call."

Still smiling to himself, Jeff wrote the number down on a post-it note and ended the conversation. He reached for the vidphone on the desk. "Rosie, get me Gordon at home, would you?"

"Right away, Jeff."

Jeff waited while Rosemary O'Sullivan, his assistant – he liked to call her his right hand and arm - since the earliest days of his company, as well as being one of his oldest and closest friends, dialed the number. It was only a couple of minutes before the connection was made. "Hi, Dad," Gordon greeted him, sounding out of breath. "What's up?"

The vidscreen remained blank, which meant Gordon was probably on his cell phone by the pool. "Gordon, do you know anyone named Margaret Macleod?"

There was a swift intake of breath on the other end of the phone. Jeff was a little thrown - his red-headed, prank playing virtuoso fourth son was usually like lightning with a poker-faced response when he wanted to conceal something. But that indrawn breath had sounded suspiciously like complete surprise.

"Yes," Gordon said, at last, very quietly. "But how…?"

This wasn't the reaction Jeff had expected. Surely Gordon had been expecting his call? "That, son, is what I was about to ask you."

"Dad, has something happened to Meggie?"

Jeff paused for a moment, not liking the strained sound in Gordon's voice. "She's…she passed away, son. Her lawyer called me a few minutes ago, from Scotland."

Silence. After a pause, Jeff said, "Gordon, can you please explain to me how this woman had your wallet, and the solicitor says she gave it to his firm for safekeeping more than thirty years ago?"

"Dad… No. I can't."

"You can't, or you won't?"

Silence again. Jeff waited a moment more, then set his mouth in a determined line. He was going to get to the bottom of this. "Pack a bag, Gordon. And tell Scott you're taking Tracy Two. You're going to meet me in Scotland."

At 7:30 a.m., the sleek red arrow of Tracy One made a brief splash of color against the low, darkly laden gray of the skies as her wheels touched down on the tarmac of Inverness Airport. At the end of her landing run, Jeff taxied the jet left onto the runway turnoff, following the tower's directions toward the long line of hangars in the private charter area of the airport. Down near the far end of the row he spotted the blue and gold paintwork and vertically tilted wingtips of Tracy Two. Standing under her nose, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a military-green parka, Gordon was waiting for him.

Jeff pulled Tracy One around beside her sister and opened the cockpit. The temperature outside was frigid, the stiff breeze cold enough to be blowing right off the Arctic Circle. He tossed the overnight bag down to Gordon, who caught it and then helped his father down from the jet's cockpit. "Good flight, Dad?"

"Not too bad. You?"

Gordon shrugged. Jeff half-smiled…his fourth son was the only one of the family who didn't consider the sky a second home, far preferring the depths of the ocean. Over the years Jeff had come to accept it, but he would never understand why anyone would trade the freedom of the open horizon for a life spent in a souped-up tin can ten thousand feet down in the dark. The entire idea gave him a shudder of claustrophobia every time he thought about it.

"Gordon," he said, "we need to talk."

Gordon flinched. He barely had time to lift the "uh oh, here comes the hangman" look to his father, though, before a voice from behind them made them both turn.

"Mr. Tracy?"

Behind them, a wispy, gray-haired man in a cloth cap and a houndstooth check jacket was leaning out of the window of a Volvo station wagon that had seen better days. Estate car, Jeff reminded himself automatically. That's what they call them over here.

The man was looking at him expectantly. "Cued mile failte, ta ye and yorn, Mr. Tracy! Ma name's Duncan Fraser."

Jeff vaguely recognized the man's first words as Gaelic, although he had no way of knowing what the phrase meant. He remembered his manners and stepped forward to shake hands, Gordon following suit. "Lachlan Mackintosh sent me to bring ye down to Fort Augustus," Fraser explained, off their questioning looks. "He's in court this mornin' wi' Mrs. Dochgarroch's cat and sends his apologies, for he's na' able to meet ye himself."

Duncan Fraser's brogue was considerably thicker than Lachlan Mackintosh's had been, but with an appropriate amount of concentration Jeff figured he understood about half of what the other man had said. His mother's Scottish relatives had been a lot easier to follow than this, but then most of the ones he had met had lived in the States for quite a while by the time he'd met them. "Forgive me if I don' get out to greet ye gentlemen properly," Fraser continued. "But ma lumbago's on the turn and we've a fair few miles ta go ta get ta t'other end of yon loch."

"No problem, Mr. Fraser," Gordon said. He didn't appear to be having the same problems deciphering the content of their driver's sentences, which made the skin pucker between Jeff's brows a little. He watched as his son opened the rear door of the Volvo, heaving in both his and his father's overnight bags, then jumped in after them. It didn't escape Jeff's notice that Gordon had effectively blocked him from joining him in the back seat, but he decided now wasn't the place or the time to challenge him. He walked around to the passenger side of the car and got in beside Fraser."

"Are ye ready?" Fraser asked. "We'll haud hame, then!" He wrapped a gnarled hand around the shift lever and wrenched the Volvo into gear. Jeff grabbed the edge of his seat as the transmission made a ghastly grinding roar and the car jolted forward like a demented mechanical rabbit. This can't be good for his lumbago, he thought grimly, trying to suppress thoughts of commandeering the vehicle before somebody got hurt.

"So, Mr. Fraser…" Jeff said through gritted teeth, trying to take his mind off impending disaster as the car's progress thankfully began to smooth out. "Who's Mrs. Dochgarroch, and what did her cat do?"

After regaling both Tracy men with the tale of Mrs. Dochgarroch and her repeat-offending, postman-biting cat – "the meanest wee moggy ye've ever laid eyes on, mark ma words!" – Fraser – "Call me Duncan, lad, we don' stand on our ceremonies around here!" – launched seamlessly into a guided tour of the area. "'Inver' stands fer 'mouth,' did ye ken…so Inverness be the mouth o' the River Ness…" He pointed out the landmarks as they drove south on the A82, following the river toward the northern end of Scotland's most famous lake, Loch Ness. "Yon loch's the brawest lake in the whole o' Britain, not that the Sassenachs will tell ye that." He winked teasingly at Jeff as he said the word "Sassenach," obviously expecting a reaction.

Jeff had him there. "Ah, but we're hardly Sassenachs, Duncan. My mother's a MacKenzie."

Fraser's eyes twinkled."Och, Clan MacCoinneach, are ye? Well, aye, young Gordon here has the hair o'it. Did ye ken we were neighbors back in the day, the MacKenzies and the Frasers?"

"My grandfather might have mentioned it. A few hundred times."

Fraser laughed. "Aye, ye cannae take a lad's heart out o' the Highlands, no matter where ye take the rest o' him."

"Aye," Gordon said softly from the back seat. Jeff glanced back at him, curious, but Gordon was gazing out of the window to his left, behind his father. Jeff turned to see what he was looking at, and was halted by one of the most breathtaking sights he had ever seen.

While he had been listening to Fraser, they had pulled through the village of Lochend and now there was nothing between the highway and Loch Ness itself. Jeff had seldom seen such a vista of sheer, unspoiled nature. The sun streamed out now from behind scudding clouds, glittering on the surface of the loch's dark, moody water. The steep sides were thick with conifer trees, heather carpeting the ground between them with broad washes of purple. The colors were lush and vivid, in a completely different way than on his tropical home. This was nothing like the tranquil loveliness of Tracy Island…this place had a savage, defiant beauty that grabbed him by the throat and almost brought tears to his eyes.

Maybe Fraser was right. Maybe you couldn't take a lad's heart out of the Highlands. He didn't know how he'd ever be able to forget this sight, now he'd seen it.

"Aye, they all feel that way," Fraser said, as if he could read Jeff's thoughts. "'Tis a sicht fir sair een, an' ye'll no fin the brither o't in monie a lang day."

For once, Jeff had no trouble at all understanding exactly what he meant.

As they drove further south along the shores of the loch, Fraser continued the guided tour of the area, pointing out the landmarks. "This wee hamlet is Drumnadrochit, haem o' th' Loch Ness Monster," he said grandly as the road curved to the west around Urquhart Bay and the first of the village's white walled buildings began to appear. "If ye're wantin' to know aboot our Nessie, they've got more to tell ye than ye culd ever wannae hear. For ma'self, the Highland Games're more ma speed. Come back in August, ye won't regret it."

"You're good at this, Duncan. You should do it full time," Jeff smiled.

Fraser laughed. "Och, ye dinnae ken how right ye are. I used to make ma livin' drivin' a bus for th' tourists. I kin tell ye all th' Nessie sightin's b'heart. A man kin make a braw penny tellin' tall tales in this part o' the world."

"And have you ever had a sighting yourself, Duncan?" Jeff asked.

Fraser matched the twinkle in Jeff's eye with one of his own. "Can't rightly say I have, although I've known those that claim t've seen her. 'Tis a big loch, and deep. Who knows what's down there in the dark, eh?"

Jeff chuckled, thinking about all the odd and strange things he had seen for himself over the years. "You're so right, Duncan. Who knows?"

He glanced again toward the rear seat of the car, humor fading as he considered Gordon's uncharacteristic silence. It was a little disturbing, especially in a situation like this one. Gordon was the undisputed family aficionado of the bizarre and strange, boasting among other things, an impressive collection of Japanese monster movies and the ability to quote the dubbed dialog of almost all of them by heart. His favorite toys as a small child had been his array of plastic dinosaurs, and he had pestered his great aunt Laura (who, unlike his grandmother, enjoyed sewing and was very skilled at making dolls' clothes) to help him outfit a GI Joe action figure in the likeness of his hero, paleontologist Dr. John R. "Jack" Horner.

Jeff smiled to himself, remembering the many happily absorbed hours Gordon had spent in the shade of the snap beans in his grandfather's vegetable garden, burying the dinosaurs in the earth for "Dr. Jack" to painstakingly dig them up again. Everyone in the family had been convinced that he was going to grow up to study to be a dinosaur hunter under Dr. Horner at Montana State -- until the summer that Jeff had taken the boys for a weekend in New York and they'd visited the New York Aquarium. It was love at first sight for the eight year old, and after that, "Dr. Jack" acquired a wetsuit and a submarine. Gordon announced to the world that from now on, he was going to "find dinosaurs on the bottom of the ocean."

And yet here he sat, mere feet from the purported habitat of one of the most famous underwater dinosaurs in the world, and he hadn't even bitten on the possibility of a Nessie story. His face was still averted, staring out at the loch with an unreadable expression, and Jeff didn't know how to take it. He was even more unhappy now that his plans to talk to Gordon as soon as he reached Inverness, to find out before they got to Fort Augustus what this whole thing was all about, had been thwarted by Fraser's arrival on the scene. Now he was forced to wait until they were alone again to ask the questions that were burning to be answered. He didn't like it, but there was nothing else to be done.

It was almost 9:00 am by the time they reached the outskirts of Fort Augustus, a town of warm stone gable-windowed buildings with sharp, dark-slate roofs, built on either side of the locks of the Caledonian Canal. Almost nothing remained now of the original fort, built after the defeat of the 1715 Jacobite uprising and named after the Duke of Cumberland – one of King George II's sons, Fraser supplied helpfully. He had subsequently earned the nickname of "Butcher" Cumberland, Fraser went on to mention, for reasons which Jeff was mildly thankful he would never hear, since right at that moment they arrived at the offices of Mackintosh & Mackintosh, Esq.

They took their leave reluctantly of their driver and tour guide, who refused any attempt to pay him, telling them that "young Mackintosh" had taken care of that already, and insisted that if they needed anything else at all while in Fort Augustus, up to and including the location of "a pint o' the finest wee heavy in Scotland," they should telephone him "richt awee!" Jeff winced as the Volvo ground into gear and kangarooed forward on its way, Fraser waving cheerful goodbyes out of the window.

Jeff turned his attention to Gordon, who was standing with hands in pockets again, staring after Fraser's car. Jeff could tell he was deliberately not looking at him, and something about that attitude of avoidance, along with the bulky parka and the jeans he was wearing, made him seem suddenly very young and vulnerable. Jeff's heart constricted a little. "Gordon," he began, "before we go inside…"

"No, Dad," Gordon said quickly. "I'm sorry. I just…can't."

He grabbed his bag and pushed past Jeff toward the building's green-painted front door. Jeff stood there for a moment, a little stunned. Then he gathered himself together, picked up his own bag and followed him.

"Well?" Jeff asked at last, after Gordon had turned the wallet over and over in his fingers for several minutes without speaking. "Is it yours?"

Gordon nodded. "How do you know if you haven't even opened it?" Jeff demanded.

Gordon didn't answer, staring down at the dark brown leather as if mesmerized. Jeff was reminded again, almost painfully, of the teenager he had once been.

Pacing was awkward in this small room with its creamy plaster walls and heavy, dark antique furniture. Frustrated by the confined space, Jeff swung back toward the solicitor. "Show me that envelope again."

Lachland Mackintosh, a slight, friendly-eyed man with thick sandy hair and freckles that matched it exactly, picked up the manila envelope from the green leather blotter and held it out. Jeff took it and stood there turning it over in his hands, in much the way Gordon was doing with the wallet. The envelope was obviously old, the thick paper faded and brittle, the places where it had been folded for storage discolored along the creases. The fastener on the back had dulled with age, a dark ring of oxidization spreading around the once bright brass. He flipped it over and looked at the front again, staring at what his eyes refused to believe. "Jeff Tracy," the bold, looping handwriting read, followed by Jeff's cell phone number and then the words "Do not mail until September 14, 2027."

It was Gordon's handwriting, of that he was quite sure. But how was that possible?

His brain was starting to make that annoying white noise again.

He looked at the solicitor. "You're positive this was with the packet of papers Margaret Macleod gave to your father in 1991? There's no chance you could be mistaken?"

"No chance at all, Mr. Tracy. If you'll look under the back of the flap there, you'll see a wee pencil mark with my father's initials and the date. That's how he marked all the documents."

Jeff looked closer. Sure enough, it was there, so small he had easily missed it. The initials RTM and the date, written in the English numerical order, 7/8/91. He read it out loud. "August 7th, 1991."

"Aye, that was soon after she lost both her parents in a train crash when they were on their way home from Edinburgh. She told my father she was feeling a need to put her papers in order."

"I have to get out of here." Gordon stood up abruptly, skin pale and waxy under the light gold of his South Seas tan. "I'm sorry."

He bolted from the room. Jeff glanced at the solicitor, shaking his head at all the unspoken questions in the Scotsman's eyes. "Mr. Mackintosh, I promise you – when he tells me what's going on here, you'll be the second person to know."

He headed after Gordon, pausing as he opened the door. "We'll be back," he said.

Mackintosh nodded. "Ring me if there's anything I can do to help, Mr. Tracy."

By the time Jeff reached the street outside, Gordon was already on his cell phone. "Thanks," Jeff heard him say. "See you in a few minutes."

He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, turning to see his father looking at him. "I called Duncan. He's coming back to pick us up."

"And take us where?" Jeff could feel his anger and frustration mounting. "For the last time, Gordon, what is this all about?"

Gordon met his eyes with an odd expression. "That's what I'm going to tell you, Dad. You're not going to believe me…but I'm going to tell you anyway."

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets again, staring off down the street, eyes distant. "But first we have to go back to Drumnadrochit."

Even the spectacular sight of the loch couldn't take Jeff's mind off the questions it was filled with as the old Volvo covered the miles back up the A82 towards Drumnadrochit. It was obvious to him now that Gordon knew exactly where he was going – there was an intent sharpness about his gaze that spoke volumes. But how was that possible? To his knowledge, Gordon had never been here. None of the Tracy family had, although his mother had often talked about making a trip to the Highlands to visit the land of her ancestors. She hadn't wanted to do it while his grandfather was alive – after Grant Tracy had returned from his tour in Vietnam in the early 1970s, he had refused to leave the State of Kansas ever again – and after he had died, someone or something else had always taken priority. Jeff made a silent promise to himself to arrange that trip for her as soon as he could.

"Duncan, when we get to Strone Point, pull over, will you?" Gordon asked.

"Aye, lad. Ye're wantin' to visit th' castle?"

"Something like that," Gordon murmured, eyes on the road ahead.

Five minutes later, Fraser pulled the Volvo into the small tourist car park at the Castle Urquhart Visitor Center. Built into the hillside beside the road, the Center signs offered a shop and a café, as well as other amenities for travelers.

Gordon ignored them. Telling Fraser they'd be back soon, he led Jeff straight across the road, on to the stone path that led down the grassy green slope toward the castle itself.

Castle Urquhart, or what was left of it, perched right on the shores of the loch, surrounded by the dark waters on three sides. The mostly 13th century ruins were laid out in an interesting, waisted configuration, crumbled walls linking two prominent structures, the upper bailey on one side and the five-story tower house on the other. Jeff's military-trained mind saw immediately that the location was strategically impressive, the views of the loch from the two high points sweeping and spectacular. It was no wonder that this was a site that had been fought for and won by many successive warlords in the turbulent history of the Scottish Highlands.

He would like to have climbed the bailey to get a good look at the view, but it was obvious that Gordon's mind wasn't on sight-seeing. Jeff followed his son, who was moving purposefully through the middle of the ruins, leaving the tourist path to cross the grass toward the very edge of Loch Ness. As they cleared the tower, a few yards to the left Jeff saw a sculpture of what looked to his untrained eyes like a brontosaurus. "Apatosaurus, Dad," he suddenly heard Gordon's ten year old voice admonish him, deep in the wells of his memory – ringing with the childlike assumption that this was one of the most important pieces of knowledge in the universe, and everyone must surely be aware of it. "There's no such thing as a brontosaurus, they knew that back when you were a kid! And anyway, Nessie's got to be a plesiosaur!"

He wrenched his mind back to the present, realizing that Gordon had stopped at last. He was standing on the narrow, sloping stretch of pebbles bordering the water, staring down into the shadows, red-gold hair stirring in the cold breeze. Jeff followed his gaze, shivering a little at the blackness of the depths. Somewhere nearby, he heard the sharp cry of a bird of prey, riding the thermals high above the loch.

He waited. After a few moments Gordon turned back toward him. That odd light was back in his eyes, and Jeff suddenly felt an uncharacteristic tingle of nervousness about what was coming next. In this wild, untamed setting, almost anything seemed possible.

Gordon indicated the pebbles at his feet. "This is where they found me," he said.

To be continued…