MAN IN THE MIST

by Annette Broadrick

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

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  Prologue

  ^ »

  November 28, 1978

  "I know, I know," Dr. James MacDonald murmured. "The contractions are coming harder and with more pain," he said to the girl who lay on the table in one of his examining rooms. "You're doing fine … just fine."

  She'd shown up at his home office earlier that evening, chilled from the cold wind sweeping across the Highlands of Scotland. He had never seen her before but when he realized she was having contractions, he never thought about turning her away, despite the late hour.

  His wife, Margaret, stood near the girl's head and wiped away the perspiration from her face and forehead. "Everything's going well," Margaret said to her, but the look on her face told James she was worried.

  The girl was running a high fever. He'd done what he could to give her medications that wouldn't distress the babies he was in the process of delivering. She needed to be in a hospital, but he couldn't move her until the babies were born.

  Triplets, she'd told him.

  He looked at her now as she rested between contractions. "What is your name, dear?" he asked.

  "Moira," she replied.

  "Ah, Moira. And where is your husband on this blustery night?"

  Moira shook her head and began to cry. "He's dead," she sobbed. "I saw his brother kill him and I ran. I had to get away before he killed me, as well." Her voice climbed.

  "Well, you needn't worry about a thing, dear. You're safe with Meggie and me." After a moment he asked, "What was your husband's name?"

  "Douglas, but please don't put his name on the birth certificates. If you do, his brother will find us."

  "Don't you worry, lass. You're safe and so are your babes. Rest as much as you can. I believe these babes are eager to enter the world."

  "They're a little early," she said. "My doctor told me he would place me in hospital for the last two weeks. Our plans were to go in next week." She gasped as another strong contraction began.

  James MacDonald had practiced medicine in his hometown of Craigmor for more than thirty years and had dealt with a great many crises. Tonight he was facing a particularly difficult one. His young patient, and he doubted she was more than eighteen or so, was fighting a severe lung infection in addition to having her babies.

  After several hours of labor, three tiny but healthy girls entered the world. Each had strong vocal cords and wasn't afraid to use them. Margaret cleaned and weighed each one before wrapping them in warm blankets. Then, she tucked them side by side in a bassinet.

  "Mighty fine young ladies you have, Moira," James said, feeling relief that they were safely delivered. "All of them beauties, just like their mother."

  The new mother attempted a smile before she closed her eyes. Her work was done. Her babies had made it safely into the world.

  James moved her into one of their upstairs bedrooms to rest and recuperate while Margaret continued to care for the infants.

  Before she fell asleep, Moira caught James's wrist in a surprisingly fierce grip, considering her weakened condition, and said, "Don't let him find my babies." Her eyes were glazed with fever and her voice sounded raspy. "He mustn't find them. He'll kill them. Please. Don't let him find them."

  "You and your babies are safe, Moira. You just rest and get better. You'll be able to take care of them yourself once you're better."

  Moira stared at him, her grief and pain mirrored in her eyes. "I loved Douglas so much. I don't want to go on without him," she whispered.

  "You have three precious daughters to care for, Moira," he replied in a gentle voice. "They need you."

  "Please find them a good home. Promise me," she whispered. "Promise me you'll protect my babies."

  James stared at her in alarm. "You must protect your babies. Give yourself time. You will be able to…" He stopped speaking when he realized she was no longer conscious.

  Moira never regained consciousness. It was as though she'd grown tired of struggling for breath and at the end gave up the effort with one final sigh.

  Moira with no last name had done what she could to give her babies a chance at life. Now it was up to James and Margaret to decide what to do with her legacy.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  « ^ »

  October 16, 2003

  Greg Dumas peered through the windshield of his rental car with a mixture of frustration and resignation. He could scarcely see past the front of his car. He leaned closer while the windshield wipers valiantly fought a losing battle to remove moisture from the fogged glass. Rain poured down, mixing with the heavy mist that swirled in the headlights.

  After several weeks in Scotland, he felt as though he'd stepped into another world made up of perennial rain and perpetual gloom.

  Greg knew he should have stayed in Craigmor tonight, rather than attempt to find one small village in the western Highlands after dark. The village hadn't looked so far away on the map, but he hadn't taken into account that he was in the mountains.

  He was exhausted. It didn't help that the cough that had started sometime last week had worsened. He'd been on the move since landing in Glasgow last month. He'd rented a car and driven to Edinburgh, thinking he'd be returning to New York in no more than three days. Instead, Edinburgh had been the first stop of many in his search. Since then, he'd followed one lead after another, chasing back and forth across the Highlands like a deranged bloodhound.

  When he'd received the newest lead late this afternoon, he hadn't wanted to wait another night to check it out.

  Greg knew he sounded like a barking seal every time he coughed. In addition, his head felt stuffed full of cotton and he couldn't breathe without wheezing.

  To make matters worse, it was now close to midnight and he was lost. He thought he'd been following the map he'd marked earlier when he stopped to eat, but somehow he'd managed to find yet another narrow road that appeared to lead to nowhere.

  He couldn't remember the last light he'd seen. Of course, with fog so thick, he could have driven through the hamlet—or the village, or whatever the towns were called—without being aware he'd reached his goal.

  Manhattan was nothing like this, he muttered to himself.

  He should never have taken this job, he thought—not for the first time—regardless of the money offered. In the three years since he'd opened his office as a private investigator, what had started as a one-man operation had mushroomed into a firm with several investigators—former cops as he was—and a growing support staff that threatened to spill out of their office space within the year.

  So why had he finally agreed to take this case? It hadn't been the money, although the client had offered to double his usual fee and pay all of his expenses if he would personally handle this matter.

  He'd turned her down at first. He'd never been away from his daughter, Tina, for more than a night and he hadn't been comfortable with the idea of traveling to Great Britain. However, Tina's grandmother, Helen, had urged him to take the case. She'd felt he needed a change of pace from his busy schedule as well as a chance to see more of the world.

  When Helen convinced him that leaving Tina with her would be fun for all concerned, he'd finally accepted the assignment. Of course, he'd taken this job thinking he'd quickly find the answers he sought.

  Instead he was chasing false trails or trails that dried up, leaving him wondering where to search next, all because he respected Helen's opinion.

  He didn't know what he would have done if his mother-in-law hadn't stepped in and helped him to take care of Tina after Jill's death. She rarely offered her opinion. When she
did, he listened.

  After three weeks in Scotland, he had no doubts that he'd made the wrong choice. What he had thought would be a simple matter—finding his client's birth parents—had turned out to be far from simple. His search had turned into a mystery with few answers.

  If this latest lead didn't pan out, he would give up and return to New York. He'd exhausted all other avenues.

  Right now, all he wanted to do was to hop on a plane and head for the States, sleeping the entire trip across the Atlantic. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. Instead, he appeared destined to wander the western Highlands of Scotland for the foreseeable future.

  Greg knew he'd been on the road too long and had driven too many hours. He had to find a place where he could rest, and soon. Better yet, he needed to find a place to spend the night. Between the cold air and the dampness that had seeped inside him clear to his bones, he seemed to have acquired a permanent tremor throughout his body.

  His assignment had turned into a wild-goose chase. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have the protective coating of a wild goose. The cold, damp climate had him reeling.

  He'd headed west to find some middle-aged woman who had retreated to the isolated area of northwest Scotland. She'd been nowhere near the village where he had hoped to find the information he needed.

  From his interviews with several of the old-time residents of Craigmor, this particular woman was his best hope to discover the answers he needed.

  When he first arrived in Scotland he'd expected to contact the attorney who had handled his client's adoption and/or the physician attending her birth to get the name of her biological parents.

  The first snag he'd run into involved making contact with the lawyer, Calvin McCloskey. Greg had gone to the address listed in the legal documents. There were still lawyers at the location—they called themselves solicitors—and the name of the firm was the same, but as the associate he'd spoken to pointed out, the adoption papers had been signed twenty-five years ago. The solicitors who'd been practicing law back then had all retired or died.

  Greg had had a moment of concern that Mr. McCloskey was one of the guys who'd died, but the associate assured him that good ol' Calvin was still alive and kicking. In fact, the associate had given Greg Calvin's home address and wished him well.

  Fat lot of good that had done him. He'd talked to the man's housekeeper, who explained that Mr. McCloskey was off fishing. Since he hadn't bothered telling her where he would be, Greg had no way of contacting him until he decided to return home.

  Greg had had the choice of waiting for the man or searching for the doctor. But he could find no record of a Dr. MacDonald currently practicing in Edinburgh.

  He'd had to wait for the solicitor.

  Greg had passed the time while waiting for Mr. McCloskey by visiting several Edinburgh sights. He'd been impressed to see how well maintained the castles were and had enjoyed catching up on the history of the area.

  By the end of the first week he'd adjusted to the Scottish brogue that he heard everywhere he went. In addition, he'd managed to stop going to the left side of the rental car to drive, since the steering wheel could only be found on the right side.

  Late the following week Mr. McCloskey left word at Greg's hotel that he could meet with him the following day.

  They had the meeting at the solicitor's home. The man was gracious enough but for Greg's purposes frustratingly reserved. As soon as Greg explained why he was there, the man's air of detached interest disappeared and he stated firmly that he wouldn't be able to help him.

  He gave various excuses, among them that his files were in storage and he would have no idea where to find one particular file.

  Greg could understand that after twenty-five years, finding one lone file would be difficult. However, he found the solicitor's manner a little strange when Mr. McCloskey began to question Greg about his client, wanting to know her name and something about her.

  After explaining that he couldn't ethically give information about his client's present situation, Greg showed him the birth certificate and adoption papers he'd brought with him and pointed out that the birth parents were not listed. He'd found that unusual and hoped the solicitor could shed some light on the mystery.

  Calvin sighed and leaned back into his chair. He stroked his chin and gazed pensively out a nearby window. Finally, he turned and said, "Nothing good is going to come out of this search of yours. Why don't you go back to New York and tell your client that her parents were the ones who provided her a loving home."

  Greg leaned forward. "You talk as if you knew her adoptive parents."

  "That I did, young man. A fine, upstanding couple."

  "In that case, you must know the birth parents. How else would you have known my client was a candidate for adoption?"

  Mr. McCloskey folded his hands and shook his head. "I was asked to handle the matter by the doctor who delivered the—uh—who delivered your client," he muttered.

  "Dr. MacDonald," Greg replied. "Do you know how I could contact him?"

  "I doubt you'll get much from him … or his wife, for that matter … seeing as how they're both buried in a cemetery near Craigmor."

  Greg felt his heart sink. "Dr. MacDonald is dead?"

  "Aye. It was a heartbreaking day when I heard about his and Meggie's sudden passing," McCloskey said sadly, shaking his head.

  The solicitor showed the first emotion Greg had seen since he'd arrived. Intrigued, Greg asked, "What happened to them?"

  McCloskey's eyes misted over. "Jamie and I had been school chums who had kept in touch with each other through the years. I expect I knew him as well as anyone. I for one was not in the least surprised to hear that Jamie and Meggie died helping to save others." He stared into space. "They'd gone to Ireland to visit with friends, I was told. On the way home, the ferry they were on malfunctioned—no one knows exactly why—and sank.

  "Survivors told me how heroic Jamie had been, refusing to leave the ferry until every person was safely aboard the lifeboats. Of course Meggie would be right beside him, as she was most of their lives.

  "One woman told me how she would have lost her two children if the MacDonalds hadn't scooped them up and placed them into one of the boats. The children's mother begged the MacDonalds to get in the boat with them, but neither would listen, saying there were others to be helped. The last she saw of them, they'd returned to the main deck. The ferry sank quickly after that.

  "By the time help found them, there was nothing to be done. The only consoling thing that came out of the tragedy was that the two of them went together. I doubt that either of them would have survived long without the other."

  Greg allowed the silence to stretch into minutes. Mr. McCloskey was obviously back in the past, reliving the days when all of them had been young.

  Finally, Greg said, "You know, Mr. McCloskey, Dr. MacDonald sounds like the kind of person who would want a girl to know who her birth parents were. Tell me, did he practice here in Edinburgh?"

  "No. He returned to Craigmor, his hometown, when he finished school. He practiced medicine there for years as the only medical resource for miles around."

  Craigmor. That gave him a lead of sorts. Not much, but enough to visit the place to see if anyone living there now might remember that time and offer some answers.

  Greg had decided that he wasn't going to receive anything more from the solicitor when Mr. McCloskey suddenly spoke, as though to an unseen person nearby. "It's been almost twenty-five years now, Jamie. Haven't we protected the wee babes long enough? Maybe it's time they found each other."

  Greg knew he must have heard the man wrong. Did he say babes? "There was more than one?" he asked softly, not wanting to startle the solicitor from his reverie. Greg's heart had started to pound with the excitement of discovering an unexpected aspect of the case.

  Mr. McCloskey slowly nodded, then took off his wire-rimmed glasses and carefully polished them with a snowy white handkerchief. He took his time bef
ore carefully folding the handkerchief and returning it to his pocket.

  "There were triplets," he finally said. "It was a terrible time. We had to make one of the most difficult decisions possible—we knew the most important thing was to find the girls suitable homes away from the area as quickly as possible."

  "Which is why you split them up." Greg's comment was more statement than question.

  Calvin nodded. "Yes. We needed to protect them from harm."

  "Why would they need to be protected?" Greg asked, his curiosity fully aroused.

  "I was told that their father had been murdered by his brother the night before their birth and the mother had run away, seeking sanctuary. By the time she appeared in Craigmor, she suffered from a combination of shock, grief and pneumonia and died soon after delivering the babies. She'd been terrified their uncle would find the girls and kill them. She begged the MacDonalds to protect them."

  Greg thanked the saints for Mr. McCloskey's willingness, at long last, to share information with him. "Did you learn the parents' names at the time of the adoption?"

  "No, none of us did. The mother—Moira was her name—never gave her last name. Moira mentioned her husband, Douglas. Not only did the MacDonalds never find out the mother's last name, they had no idea where she had come from. For obvious reasons they were hesitant to make too many inquiries for fear of stirring up too much interest from the wrong source."

  Greg took notes furiously, wondering how he should tell his client. She was one of three. That news was going to be a shock.

  "Jamie and Meggie went to a great deal of effort to protect the girls from being found by their uncle," the solicitor continued sadly.

  Greg stood and held out his hand. "Thank you for being so candid with me, sir. I have to admit I now have more questions than answers, but I believe you've guided me to the next step."

  Mr. McCloskey also stood, shaking Greg's hand. "Which is?" he asked, frowning.

  "I'd like to find any relatives of the MacDonalds to see if they recall that time." He looked at his notes. "You mentioned Craigmor, I believe. I'll continue my search there."