"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.