Maybe it was the anxiety of confronting the Crabbit, maybe it was the fact that I was getting closer to learning the truth, but as I waited until the dust settled, subliminal images splayed across my mind's eye like a photographer's flash—strange, shattered memories from the first time I had drowned.

Dark water, as cold as death. My scrawny limbs, heavy as lead, unable to move. A nightmarish presence… rising beneath me to finish its meal, then something else… a second boat and a light.

I closed my eyes and tried to remain calm, willing the shunted memories to come, hoping to catch a glimpse of a past that continued to elude me.

And then the long-sought image came into focus.

It was a light, appearing next to an approaching boat, far above my head and just below the surface, and it cast its heavenly glow into the depths, parting the curtains of blackness—revealing the monster! It was dark and frightening and as large as any whale, and its terrible jaw was open, poised around my waist, The points of its teeth pressed against my frail body, tasting my flesh, unsure if I was edible prey. But the light was now passing directly overhead, the brightness of its blessed beacon burning into those freakish jaundice-yellow eyes. The hideous creature darted away, releasing me to another light …

A warm feeling came over me then, as I vaguely recalled seeing old man MacDonald in his rowboat as my spirit hovered over him. He was drenched in my blood, his bearded mouth pumping my purple lips with his life-giving breaths, until I gagged and wretched at the sudden, agonizing pain and opened my eyes, staring up into his shaggy, pit bull face.

I had cried as I bled in his arms, then passed out as he carried me through the woods to the nearest doctor.

He had saved my life, but did I ever thank him? The only thing I could recall was waking in my own bed days later, feverish and sore from having been stitched back together.

In the weeks to come, my body would heal, my mind choosing to bury the truth of my near-death experience with my childhood.

* * *

I found Alban MacDonald in his private room behind the lobby desk. He was whittling a piece of hickory with his Sgian Dubh. The dangerous—looking blade of the stainless steel knife was capped with a staghorn handle.

The sight of the weapon let a bit of air out of my ballooning confidence. Gripping my cane, I entered his domain.

"Mr. MacDonald, do you have a minute?"

"No."

"The Anguilla's brain was filled with lesions."

"Dinnae ken nothin' aboot any eel."

"The lesions are affecting their behavior, sir, making them unnaturally aggressive. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Go away. I dinnae have time for yer blethers."

"Whatever's causing the lesions in the eel population is probably affecting the monster's behavior, too."

He ignored me, continuing his whittling.