Man In The Mist. Annette Broadrick

needed him.

      No. It was too late to help Jill. He couldn’t do anything to save her.

      Jill was dead. It was his fault.

      Now he paid the price for not saving her. He’d been doomed to the fiery flames of hell for all eternity. He could feel the flames singeing him, sucking the air from his lungs.

      He’d sometimes wondered if hell was a real place. Now he could tell the world it existed. It hurt. The heat was consuming him.

      A young girl kept visiting him—offering him drinks, checking his temperature, bathing him, helping him with his personal needs.

      He should be embarrassed. He didn’t know this girl but somehow it didn’t matter. What had she done to be consigned to hell? Must have been bad to have to experience this. Poor thing.

      He was tired, much too tired to ask her why she was there.

      Images of a strange bedroom flitted periodically through his world. At times the room would be so bright the light hurt his eyes, sunlight from a nearby window filling the area. Other times—only a minute or so later, wasn’t it?—the room had no light, just shadows moving around him. The light and lack of light did nothing to stop the flames that kept licking at him.

      Greg saw the gun. He signaled to Jill to get out of the store before the stupid punk with the .38 spotted her.

      Where had the other gunman come from? The patrol car should be here by now.

      A spray of bullets shattered the glass around him. He had to stop the shooter. He had to check on Jill.

      Blood. So much blood.

      “Dear God,” he whispered brokenly. “Jill.”

      “You’re dreaming. You’re safe here. You’re going to be all right. Just rest.”

      The voice came to him—peaceful and soothing.

      “Tina?”

      “Fiona. I won’t leave you. Allow the medications to work on you. You’re doing fine. You’re safe,” she repeated.

      Of course he was safe. It was Jill he’d left unguarded.

      Fiona knew that tonight would be the crisis. Three nights had passed since her visitor had arrived. She had stayed with him ’round the clock except for short breaks to eat and bathe. When he was quiet, she managed to nap in the chair in his room. There were times when he would have lucid moments before falling back all too often into some nightmarish scene that haunted him.

      She lost track of time. She measured her hours by bathing him with cool water to bring his fever down. Was his cough sounding less congested? Were his lungs taking in more air? She wasn’t certain. All she knew was that she couldn’t leave him to fight his battle alone.

      His fever broke somewhere between four and five o’clock the morning of the fourth day, and Greg slipped into a deep, healing sleep.

      Fiona was exhausted.

      She forced herself to climb the stairs to her room, pulling herself up each step by hanging on to the handrail. With the last of her reserves, Fiona stumbled into her room, found her nightgown and dropped into bed.

      She immediately slept.

      Chapter Three

      A steady rapping caused Fiona to stir. As she finally surfaced from exhausted sleep, she realized she had been hearing the noise for some time. Disoriented, she opened her eyes and looked around. Sunlight poured through the windows. She blinked. She didn’t usually sleep past sunup.

      Then she remembered Greg and the past few days and nights. She hadn’t heard him cough in the past few hours. She hoped it was because he’d been resting better and not because she’d been too tired to hear him.

      Fiona looked at the clock and groaned. It was after three o’clock in the afternoon and someone was at the door.

      McTavish hadn’t barked, which meant it was someone they knew.

      She went to the bedroom window and peered out just as she heard a feminine voice saying, “Fiona, dear, please answer the door. I really must speak with you.”

      Mrs. Cavendish.

      Oh, dear. Sarah Cavendish was an absolute dear without a hint of malice in her soul. Unfortunately she was also the biggest gossip in the entire glen. Fiona had no compunction about explaining to anyone how she had spent the past few days and nights, but she would prefer to do so once she had caught up on her sleep and her thinking processes were more clear.

      Well, it couldn’t be helped. Mrs. Cavendish was here now. The rental car gave mute evidence of the presence of a visitor. Before dark the entire village would know that Fiona had company. There was no need for newspapers and television with Mrs. Cavendish around.

      “Just a moment, Mrs. Cavendish,” she called from her window. “I’ll be right with you.” She turned away and spotted McTavish, who watched her from where he lay sprawled on the braided rug beside her bed.

      “Fine watchdog you are,” she scolded, grabbing the first clothes she could find. “You could have given me some warning, you know.” Dressed in a sweater and trousers but still in her slippers, Fiona hurried downstairs to let Mrs. Cavendish in.

      She paused to take a couple of deep breaths before she opened the door with what she hoped was a serene smile.

      Mrs. Cavendish stood there looking bewildered by the delay, holding a large, obviously heavy basket. “Oh, Mrs. Cavendish,” Fiona said contritely, feeling convicted for leaving the poor woman standing at the door for so long. “I didn’t hear you right away.” She stepped back so that Sarah could come inside. “Let me take your basket.”

      “Oh, thank you,” Sarah replied with heartfelt relief. “I was so afraid I would drop it. I had the mister drop me off at the beginning of your lane, thinking I wouldn’t mind a good walk. I swear the basket took on an ounce or more with each step.”

      Because her hands were full, Fiona bumped her hip against the door until it closed. “You must be chilled,” she said. “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”

      Once in the kitchen, Sarah sat at the small table before asking, “Did I catch you at a bad time, dear?”

      Fiona continued to measure out tea while waiting for the kettle to boil. She didn’t look around. “Why, no. This is fine.”

      “Oh.” There was silence. “Well. I just wondered. Your hair is a little tumbled and you have your sweater on wrong side out.”

      Fiona closed her eyes, wondering if she should explain why she looked as if she’d just gotten up. Was it really anyone’s business?

      She wouldn’t be feeling so guilty if she hadn’t shared such an intimate moment with Greg the night he arrived. She needed to place what happened into perspective. He was ill and had been out of his head with fever. The matter was simple when looked at from that perspective. Unfortunately her emotions weren’t rational at the moment.

      She forced a laugh that sounded exactly that—forced. She turned and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing at a tangle.

      “I hadn’t realized,” she finally muttered. “How silly of me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll set myself to rights while the tea steeps.”

      Not waiting for a response, Fiona hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs once again. She closed her bedroom door and sighed. From there she could see her reflection in her dresser mirror. Her hair looked as though it had been styled by an electric mixer.

      She hauled her sweater over her head, grabbed a bra from her lingerie drawer and put it on, and then she carefully turned the sweater right side out before slipping it back over her shoulders. She hurried into the bathroom, brushed her hair, pulled it back with a couple of combs, splashed water on her face, dried it and returned downstairs.