Legacy of the Highlands (33 page)

“That was yesterday. This is now,” he stated.
Alex didn’t have the energy to argue and it didn’t seem like this
would be a fight she could win. Maybe driving would calm him down
and if they got lost, so what? They had no schedule or destination
anyway.

Minutes later Diego sped past a sign pointing
to the road north. “You missed the turnoff for the motorway. Are
you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“I have to make a stop before we leave
Inverness.”

“Oh?” she said, afraid to hear where that
stop would be.

“I should buy a small gift for my parents.
And you’ll want to bring something home for Francie. I’m told
there’s a nice souvenir shop around here somewhere,” he said with
the innocence of a choirboy.

Alex grabbed the wheel, but Diego righted the
car before they careened into a lamppost.

“Are you crazy? Do you want to get us
killed?”

“No, but you do! You heard Serge. We’re
absolutely, positively not going to Mackinnon’s or at least I’m
not. Stop the car.”

“He already knows we’re here, so why hide?
Come on, Alex. He saw us when we went for a run this morning.”

“Diego, this isn’t smart. You know it and I
know it. What if he has a gun and shoots both of us? Has that
possibility even entered your pea brain?”

“You worry too much. Mackinnon isn’t going to
kill us. When he sees me, he’ll be afraid that I’m going to kill
him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because my reflexes are better than his
could ever be,” he said as he patted the holster under his arm.

He gave Alex what she recognized as “the
look,” indicating that nothing and no one could change his mind. So
what if an expert had trained him in self-defense, she thought.
That wouldn’t make what they were about to do any less risky. She
could refuse to go along with whatever asinine scheme he’d come up
with, but she couldn’t let him face Mackinnon alone. “What are you
going to do when we get there?”

“I’m not sure yet. We’ll improvise. Just
follow my lead,” he blithely said as he swung the car into a
parking space near Mackinnon’s store. His eyes met her scowl as he
gallantly extended a hand — which she rejected — to help her out of
the low-slung car.

“I still think this is idiotic and Serge will
be furious. You’re the most stubborn, arrogant, foolish,
egotistical…” she sputtered. When Diego tried to end her outburst
with a kiss, she shoved him away.

“Didn’t I tell you in Miami that you’re safe
with me? I meant that. I only want to play a little game with our
friend, nothing more.”

It was obvious that one of them was looking
forward to the face-off and Alex knew it wasn’t her.

The bell jangled as they opened the door to
Mackinnon’s store and the old man glanced up from the newspaper
he’d been reading at his perch behind the counter. If he was
surprised to see them, he did a good job of hiding it.

“Good afternoon. And how may I be of help to
you today?” Mackinnon asked innocently.

Alex was overwhelmed by an eerie sense of
déjà vu
as her eyes scanned the store she’d last visited
with Will. That memory made her as incapable of speech as someone
whose tongue has been shot full of Novocain. Diego had no such
problem.

“I recently learned that my father is
Scottish so I’m trying to find out more about my family,” Diego
began. “I was told that your store has this area’s best collection
of books on the various clans. I hope that’s true.”

Alex regained her focus and reluctantly
admired Diego for both his acting and his
cojones
. Besides,
there was no stopping him now. Mackinnon was playing his own hand
like a world-class poker champ too.

“I’ll be happy to help you young man, if
you’ll tell me your family name. Are you American by any
chance?”

“Well, technically, yes, but you probably
mean the United States when you say American. I’m from South
America. Argentina.”

“Well, then, this is a remarkable day. Scots
from around the world visit to find their roots, but you, sir, are
the first person from your country to grace my wee shop. What did
you say your family name is?”

“Our name is Navarro. But that’s not the
Scottish part.”

“Ah, so it’s your mother who’s Scottish?”

“No. Her people are Sicilian.”

“I’m puzzled, young man, truly I am. Didn’t
you say that your father is Scottish? I’m old and easily confused,
but my ears still work fine.” He chuckled and raised bushy, gray
eyebrows that resembled aging caterpillars resting above each
eye.

Diego laughed and shook his head. He leaned
toward Mackinnon as if to impart some vital information. “If you
think you’re confused, imagine how I felt when I found out that my
father isn’t really my father, but that’s a story for another day.
The family I want to know more about is named Cameron. It’s
especially important to me now, because I seem to be the last of
our line. Well, except for my so-called father, that is. My brother
died recently.”

“God rest his soul.” Mackinnon said and made
the sign of the cross.

I can’t believe the fucking hypocrite just
crossed himself, Alex seethed and she turned her face away to hide
her anger. She rested a hand on Diego’s back to prevent him from
exploding, but he seemed calm, although he’d shifted his body
slightly to put himself between her and Mackinnon.

“Cameron is it, you say?” Mackinnon
continued. Despite his composed demeanor, there was a definite
tremor in the proprietor’s hand as he finally laid the newspaper on
the counter. Diego’s face reddened as if he was having a hot flash.
Alex decided that her tag team partner needed a break before he
lost it. It was her turn to climb into the ring whether she wanted
to or not.

“Hello again, Mr. Mackinnon,” she said,
deliberately adopting an unthreatening, girlish voice to offset the
quiet menace in Diego’s. “I don’t expect you to remember me, but my
husband and I visited your store almost two years ago. I’m
Alexandra Cameron,” she said and extended her hand. When he grasped
hers, she noticed his was damp.

“I can’t say as I recall you or not, but
welcome back, Mrs. Cameron. I must say that I’m quite confused so
let me be sure I understand. Is this handsome lad who wants to know
more about Clan Cameron your husband?” he asked and seemed to be
genuinely perplexed.

“Oh, no. This is my brother-in-law, Diego.
Will…my husband...is dead.” The words raised goose bumps on her
arms and sent a chill down her spine despite the summer day.

“Ah, so that’s the man your...brother-in-law
here made mention of? I’m sorry to hear that, lass. My condolences.
Was your man ill?”

“He was murdered. Stabbed to death by some
madman.” She fought the impulse to jump over the counter and
squeeze the man’s fat, wobbly neck until his eyes popped. Or she
could grab one of the gleaming
sgian dubhs
from the glass
display and plunge the blade into his heart. Instead, she smiled
and dabbed a tear from her eye. I can give a performance at least
as good as his, she thought as she glanced at Diego and saw him
casually reach beneath his arm as if to scratch an itch. She hoped
he was just assuring himself that the gun holstered there was
within easy reach and not that he was getting ready to use it. She
had no doubt that he was battling the same murderous impulses as
she was and prayed they could maintain their composure.

“My God! Stabbed you say!” the old man
exclaimed. “We hear about American violence, but that’s terrible.
Have the police caught the brute who did this awful thing to your
husband?”

Mackinnon said this guilelessly and Alex dug
her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. So this is what
it’s like to be in the presence of pure evil, she thought. She
wanted to run away, but couldn’t. She touched Diego’s arm in an
effort to ground herself and he drew her close.

“Are you all right?” he murmured and pressed
his lips to her temple.

“Yes...fine,” but she remained glued to his
side, comforted by his body’s strength and its warmth.

“My brother’s wife still grieves for him,”
Diego said, by way of explanation. “To answer your question, some
very solid leads are being pursued. You can be sure that the people
who murdered my brother will be identified — very soon, in fact —
and punished.”

Diego leaned toward Mackinnon and quietly
hissed the next words. “I believe your countrymen used to draw and
quarter their worst criminals — hang them until not quite dead,
then undo the noose, lay them out, cut their entrails and beating
heart from the body and hack off their head to be displayed in the
public square. I understand this kind of punishment. I want the
people who killed my brother, my blood, to suffer like that.” He
said the words with such icy malice that Mackinnon shivered and
paled.

“I can see I’ve upset you. Please accept my
apology,” Diego said as he patted the old man’s hand. “And now can
you recommend a book for me about the Cameron clan so I can learn
about my ancestors?”

“Of course, of course,” said Mackinnon, as he
quickly pulled a couple of books off his well-stocked shelves and
placed them on the counter. He was desperate for a drink and wanted
these two out of his shop. “These should provide you with your
family’s history. And you’re welcome to ask me about the Camerons
as well,” he said as he charged the sale to Diego’s credit
card.

“I do have one question that won’t be
answered in those books,” Diego said coolly as he fixed his
glittering eyes on Mackinnon like a cougar about to spring upon its
prey. “Can you tell me what kind of monster could hate my brother
enough to end his life? Answer that one for me,” said Diego as he
turned, clasped Alex’s hand and left the shop.

Mackinnon’s body was vibrating with fright
and it took a few minutes for him to notice that Diego had left the
bag of books he’d bought on the counter. He took a long swig and
then another from the flask of whiskey he kept under the counter
and hoped he’d stop shaking before Michael Graham arrived for the
lunch meeting they’d arranged the night before.

“Son of a bitch! That fucking stupid jackass!” Serge
shouted his fury into the suite’s emptiness as soon as his
headphones picked up the exchange between Mackinnon, Diego and
Alex. He fought the impulse to race to his own car, find Diego, and
break both of his arms and maybe his legs and then strangle the
headstrong prick.

Slowly, slowly, he steered his thoughts back
to his original task. Anger clouded the mind and there was no time
to indulge his emotions. Perhaps he’d been wrong to teach a man
like Diego to defend himself. How was he supposed to protect
someone whose courage, confidence and bullheaded determination made
him behave like he was invincible?

Since it couldn’t be undone, he’d have to
devise a way to use Diego’s move to their advantage. For the moment
there was only silence coming from Mackinnon’s and a quick check of
the tracker he’d stuck to Diego’s car showed it finally heading
north out of Inverness. “Thank God,” he sighed.

The silence from the shop was suddenly broken when
Michael Graham’s voice came booming through Serge’s earpieces.

“James! James! What happened, man? Are you
all right?” Graham shouted. When he’d let himself into the store
through the back door, he found that the shop was dark and the
front door locked. Mackinnon was on the floor, fast asleep, an
empty flask of whiskey beside his snoring body. The old man raised
his bleary eyes and smiled foolishly at Michael.

“You’re pissed!” exclaimed Graham.

“Aye, I am that. And with good reason,”
slurred Mackinnon as he sagged to the floor. “Shite! Help me up and
you’ll soon understand why I needed a wee nip.”

Graham dragged a chair across the room and
groaned loudly as he hefted the old man’s bulk into it. “All right.
Out with it,” he ordered, “or shall I pour a bucket of ice water
down your wrinkled neck to sober you up? You know I’d do it!”

“No, Michael, just leave me be for a minute.
I slept off the worst of it,” said Mackinnon irritably, but Graham
wasn’t one to wait when he wanted an answer.

“What happened here? Start talking. Now!” he
demanded. Graham’s hands were on his hips, his legs spread as he
tapped one foot impatiently and glared at the pathetic figure.

The old man scrubbed his trembling hands over
his face and concentrated on the day’s events. He needed to have
his wits about him to be sure Michael understood the threat. When
he spoke, his voice was hoarse, his speech hesitant.

“You’ll remember a call I made to you,
Michael...oh, I believe it was some two years ago, in which I said,
‘You’ll never believe who walked into my shop today?’ Do ye recall
that?”

“Aye, of course I do. You rang me up the day
the American Judas’s son came to see you.”

“Right.”

“The lad’s dead, so what in hell does that
have to do with what happened here today?”

“Patience, Michael. Let me think for a
minute. I’m old and tired and a wee bit tight yet and I need to get
this right.”

Graham was annoyed, but decided to give
Mackinnon a chance to gather his thoughts.

“Ah, well,” he resumed. “I can say the very
same words to you now. ‘You’ll never believe who walked into my
shop today.’”

“What are you babbling about you old fool?
You said those words the day Cameron’s son came to your shop. The
traitorous swine had but the one son and he’s dead. Young Jamie
showed us a photo of the body after he killed the man and brought
back news clippings as proof.”

“Yes, the lad did a braw job, but we didn’t
do our part nearly as well. It turns out Mr. John Cameron spread
his seed in more than one garden. The man fathered another
son.”