Page 75 of False Flag

“He was fun. Happy. When our dad was alive, when he was home—he was a commercial fisherman in Alaska every summer, but eight months out of the year, he was ours—and during those times, he’d pull us out of school and take us fishing. Some of my best memories are from when I got to skip school and spend the day on the water with my dad and big brother. The missing-school part drove Mom nuts, but she put up with it because it made all three of us so damn happy.

“It was magical, having Dad and Lloyd teaching me about tides, currents, weather. My dad was an encyclopedia of boating and fishing. He knew where the fish would bite and what bait and line to use. Lloyd had already absorbed much of his knowledge. He was just three years older than me, but it made a difference in the time he had with Dad. He continued teaching me, after our dad was gone, but then he went to Alaska the next summer—someone had to support the family—and my fishing education stopped. I’ll never be the fisherman my dad or brother was.”

Tears burned again. He stood, picked up his beer, and moved to the couch.

Staci rose and put covers on the leftovers. She placed the paper food boxes in the noisy fridge, then refilled her glass of wine.

He watched her pour, thinking they should do a toast to Lloyd, but he had no idea what to say.

A memory flashed. He and Lloyd, sitting on their dad’s fishing boat an hour before dawn, the day after the fishing company told them Robert Burns wouldn’t be coming home this season.

That morning, they broke the one rule their father had ground into them: no drinking alcohol on the boat unless it was at the dock and they were done for the day. And even then, no one had more than a few sips. They were both underage, and Robert preferred to confine his drinking to the house.

Jake was fourteen and a half, Lloyd two months shy of eighteen, when their dad died. Lloyd had poured Dad’s favorite scotch into the quaich—a two-handled Scottish cup they used on special occasions. Lloyd had held up the cup, given a toast to their dad, said the clan motto, then drained the cup.

He then refilled the quaich and handed it to Jake to do the same. The scotch had burned all the way down. Two hours later, Jake puked his guts out over the side of the boat for the first time in his life. Later that day and the next, he got to experience his first hangover.

Staci settled on the couch beside him, setting her wineglass next to his beer on the coffee table.

“Know what the Burns clan motto is?” he asked.

“No?”

He met her gaze. Gave her a small smirk of a smile. “Ever ready.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. What do you think? Ring true?”

“I don’t know. My sample is small.”

“Small? As if.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. So what’s the deal with the motto?”

“Just remembering. My brother got me drunk on scotch when my dad died. The toasts started with the clan motto, which—your dirty interpretation aside—is about the clan’s constant state of preparedness, readiness to take action, and steadfast commitment to principles.”

“My dirty interpretation aside, that’s a lot to pack into a two-word phrase.”

He replied with a heavy Scottish brogue. “We Burns believe in brevity.”

She laughed. “Was your dad from Scotland?”

“A few generations back. Great-great-grandpa went through Ellis Island. His son, my grandpa, was a first-generation American and proud of his heritage. He named my dad Robert.”

“Robert…Burns. Like the poet.”

“Exactly. Our Scottish pride was high, but three generations in, knowledge was getting scant. Last fall, Lloyd told me he started researching the Burns clan after his marriage ended. It’s what got him interested in Campbell. He has that whole series he did on ‘the real Scottish history that archaeologists don’t want you to know,’ and Lloyd was into it.”

“That’s the one where archaeologists and historians are lying to support the current power structure between Scotland and England?”

“Yep. You know who the real king of Scotland would be if Campbell’s version of history were true?”

“A Campbell?”

“Aww, c’mon. That was a fat, slow one across the plate. Swing again.”

“A… Burns?”