Man In The Mist

A heavy weight rested on his chest, forcing him to push hard to get air into his lungs.

He coughed and a sharp pain shot through his chest.

Something was wrong with him.

The painful coughing continued, stealing what little breath he managed to get.

A voice murmured nearby. Soft hands cooled his body with a moist cloth that caused him to shiver.

“Jill?” he whispered hoarsely.

“It’s Fiona. Drink this…it will help.”

A soothing liquid trickled into his mouth and down his parched throat. He relaxed and allowed the moisture to ease his dry throat.

Fiona. He’d heard that name before. Did he know a Fiona? He couldn’t recall.

Oh. He remembered now. He was looking for a Fiona. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew finding her was important.

He must have found her. That was good because he had to get home.

Tina needed him.

Jill 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.”