Annette Broadrick - Man In The Mist

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 before 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.”

Mr. McCloskey adjusted his glasses. “I doubt very much that you’ll find any answers there.” He sounded irritated, as though he’d hoped Greg would give up looking for more information.

“Probably not, but as long as I’m here in Scotland, I need to exhaust all leads before returning home,” Greg had replied at the time.

The solicitor had certainly been correct, Greg thought now as he strained to see the road ahead. Greg had never found such a closemouthed bunch of people before, which was saying a lot. Every villager he’d gotten to talk with him had been adamant that no triplets had ever been born in their village.

How could that be? he’d wondered. Had Mr. McCloskey made up the whole story to get rid of him? Greg found that hard to believe. The crusty solicitor had been too reticent at first to discuss the matter to have decided to make up a lie. If Greg were any judge of character, he’d swear the man had told the truth.

So when one of the old-timers happened to mention the MacDonalds’ daughter, Greg decided he would search her out before reporting his findings to his client. He wished he’d forgotten about following this lead and had returned home, instead. He could have told his client there wasn’t a chance of finding her roots in Scotland.

However, in good conscience, Greg couldn’t do that because there was a chance, even though it was slight. Perhaps the daughter, Fiona MacDonald, would remember something that would open up his search. If she couldn’t? Well, so be it. Until he had a chance to talk with her, she was a lead he refused to ignore.