by Madyson Rush
****
The Lothian Post was not at all like he had envisioned. Attached to the back of a rundown farmhouse, the single-room post office sat a few hundred feet off the road. It was a small structure painted canary yellow with a mossy slate roof. The only reason he could tell it was a post office was because a dilapidated sign hung skew above the rickety screen door reading, ‘Welcome to Lothian Post.’
He parked in the gravel driveway and headed inside.
“Hello?” he called out, navigating around a coat rack.
Cheers from a football game erupted elsewhere in the house. Around the corner was an adjacent room. David could see the back of an elderly, beer-bellied man lounging in a recliner.
“Excuse me?” David tried again.
“Give me a hand with these boxes, Charles!” a woman yelled over the television set.
The man waved her off.
“Of course not,” she complained in a thick Scottish accent. “Not while the game is on. Well, Charles, we won’t be takin’ the tube with us, you can count on that.”
David found a bell on the counter and rang it.
“We’re closed!” the couple yelled in unison.
He rang the bell again.
A plump, frizzy-haired woman appeared in the doorway. “There’s no post going out today on account of the evacuation.” Her mouth dropped as she noticed David’s bloody clothes. “Has there been an accident?”
David realized he’d left his coat in the car. “I’m sorry…” He pulled the folded manila envelope from his pocket and opened it on the counter.
The woman stayed in the doorway. “Are you hurt, son?”
“I was hoping you could tell me where this letter came from.”
The woman stepped cautiously behind the counter but kept her distance. She placed bifocals on the bridge of her nose and studied the envelope. She looked at him, down at the postal code, and then back up at him again. “This went through here, alright. That’s our stamp. It was just a few days ago… Oh, here we are, it’s marked returned to sender.” She looked up at him as if that answered his question.
“The sender address is mine.”
“You sent yourself post without a stamp?” she glared at him from behind her bifocals.
“Someone in Lothian put my name as the ‘addresser’ and sent it to me by way of ‘return to sender’.”
“That’s robbing,” she said. “You think because we live in Lothian we have time to send along letters without stamps?”
“No, ma’am.” David’s face began to burn. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Thatcher was so much better when it came to talking to people. “This letter was sent to me anonymously, and I need to know from whom.”
The woman eyed him. She turned to her husband in the next room and bellowed over the television set. “Charles! Charles!”
“Stop yelling, woman!” he bellowed in return.
“Did you pick up this man’s post?”
“No,” he yelled over the game.
“You didn’t even look at it, Charles!”
Charles turned in his chair, leaned into the doorway, and squinted to see the envelope in her hands. “Oh, sure, I remember. Odd thing it was, too. No stamp. I didn’t know what to do with it so I sent if off anyway, bein’ there was a return address. I figured those poor nutters deserved a break.”
“Nutters?” David asked.
“It came through here a day ago from the asylum.”
“There’s an asylum nearby?” David looked to the woman for help.
“Just down the road, dearie,” she answered. “Off the coastal highway.”
“Don’t listen to her, son.” Charles leaned further into the room, straining in discomfort but refusing to exit his lounge chair. “She’s told you all wrong, she has. With directions like that you’ll end up in Glasgow.”
“Oh, for heaven sakes, Charles!” Although ruffled, she quieted.
David sensed her surrender and looked to the older man.
Charles pointed a gnarled finger toward the door. “You’re gonna head down the road goin’ west. After a wee bit of a drive, you’ll see crossroads, but if you see Simeon’s field then you’ve gone too far. There’ll be a sign that says Simeon’s Field. Turn north and pass along a wooden fence. Pass one speed post. If you pass two, well, you’ve gone too far again. You’ll come to a road goin’ west, and after a while, you’ll see a castle along the bluff that overlooks the ocean. That’s the place. But you should hurry, son. They’ve given us till midnight to clear out of here. There’s a good chance the loonies have already left.”
David tried to make sense of the directions as he turned toward the door. “I go left to the coast then turn right at the intersection?”
“Yes, you’ve got it.”
The woman handed him the envelope with a coy smile. “You’re American, aren’t you? Our daughter lives in the States. Judy’s her name.”
David smiled politely and opened the front door.
The woman followed him. “She’s not married, our Judy. It’s an awful thing to be far from family and not married.”
David hurried to the car.
“Wait, dearie!” she called after him, grabbing a jacket from the coat rack. He had started the engine by the time she reached him. “You can’t go into an asylum like that, they’ll lock you up!”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I already have—”
She handed him the jacket through the open window. “Stop by again soon, dearie!”
David smiled, figuring it would be faster to just take the coat. He peeled out onto the road. In the rearview mirror, the woman was frantically waving her arms and running after him.
“What now?” He slammed on the breaks.
With a wide gesture, she pointed in the opposite direction. “You’re going the wrong way, dearie!”
Chapter 59
SATURDAY 4:41 p.m.
Stenness Basecamp
Orkney Island, Scotland
Thatcher knocked on Hummer’s door. Her hands were still trembling.
“What?” he barked.
Great. The man was already in a bad mood. So much for the liquor. She took a deep breath and stepped into his office.
Hummer placed a communiqué down on his desk and nodded for her to take a seat.
She chose to stand. “I’m requesting permission to leave—”
“Denied.” He returned to the paperwork.
She’d expected they could at least have a conversation. “There is a possibility I can solve this problem without resorting to AVX.”
“I said no, Brynne.”
“There are alternatives to destroying everything.”
“You’re not a part of those alternatives.” Hummer looked up with piercing eyes. She was wasting his time.
“AVX fallout could be more devastating than the graves—”
“I make the decisions. AVX is my decision.”
“But Dr. Hyden has a—”
Hummer slammed his fist onto the desk.
Thatcher tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked at the floor to avoid his bullying glare.
“You are not authorized to leave basecamp until I direct you to do so. Is that clear?” He rose from the chair.
Thatcher clenched her jaw. She hated how he spoke to her. The man controlled everything. His very mood determined her future.
“Do you hear me?”
She had stopped listening. Somewhere during his lecture she had tuned him out. David needed her help. Hummer must know that. She forced her eyes to return to his. There was only the pretense in her defiance. Then, garnered from somewhere deep, she found boldness.
The predatory glint in Hummer’s eyes waned. He sat back down.
“Disobey me, and your career is finished.” The threat was merely an afterthought with no repercussions. He had the last word. Hummer ended things. No one else.
Thatcher’s heart beat in her ears.
What could she say?
She l
eft the room. The door shut behind her. Why did confrontations end with her shaking uncontrollably or crying like a woman? That was the reaction men wanted. It gave them a right to treat her that way.
She swung her fist at the wall, denting the surface. Pain shot through her knuckles and she immediately regretted the decision. She clasped her hand.
The old battle-ax won. He always won. Theirs was a family of self-control. Discipline and constraint were their watchwords. Repression, the way of life. She closed her eyes, and forced her tears into oblivion. That’s how Hummer would do it.
Their conversation replayed in her mind as she slowly walked toward her room.
It didn’t make sense. Sitting around, waiting for the end. Golke, Bailey, and Donovon’s deaths seemed so pointless. Hummer’s stubborn denial of facts was even more irrational. There were other alternatives.
“You’re not a part of those alternatives.”
Her feet froze to the floor.
He knew something.
She looked back at his door, putting two and two together.
He knew what was going on. It was something so devastating that he would risk the lives of millions.
She headed down to her personal quarters with renewed urgency.
Lee passed by as she reached the room. “Dr. Thatcher, I need to speak with—”
She slammed her door and grabbed the backpack from under her cot.
It was time to leave.
Chapter 60
SATURDAY 5:17 p.m.
Near Dornie, Highlands, Scotland
David turned onto a pebble drive that twisted along the seaside cliff and then drove over a single lane bridge and onto the tiny islet of the Eilean Donan Asylum. He stopped in the gravel parking lot between buses and moving trucks—they were still in the process of leaving.
The asylum abutted the ocean. Its stone walls looked more ominous than the choppy sea. Spidery moss grew over the rocks and up the sides of the castle, blending with the stormy sky and creating a somber canvas of gray. The place was a fitting sanctuary for the disturbed.
He ran up the path to the entrance.
The entryway towered fifteen feet above his head. It was propped open with furniture, allowing an ocean breeze to intrude upon the dusty halls.
“Keep the entrance clear!” a woman growled from the reception desk.
Moving men’s voices echoed along the high-reaching ceiling. David stepped aside as they pushed carts of luggage out to the parking lot. He stopped at a desk that blocked access to the staircase winding upward into the eastern and western corridors.
The receptionist sorted through files. Coke-bottle glasses were perched on the tip of her nose, threatening to plunge. Her hair was yanked back so tightly her hairline had started to recede. It drew up the skin along her cheekbones, pulling her lips into a scowl.
David stepped closer to the desk. “I’m looking for some—”
“Bloody hell!” she shouted at the movers behind him. “Don’t stack the boxes in the doorway! You’re worse than the nutters!” She turned to David. “What do you want?”
“I’m from the American Embassy,” he lied. “We’re investigating a man who might be a patient here.”
“Name?”
“Azores—or something similar.”
“Your name?” She held out a clipboard. “All visitors sign in. Just because the world is going to pot, doesn’t mean my record keeping will.”
David took the clipboard. There were two names on the list. The last person’s visit was dated ten months ago. “This is a popular place,” he said.
She handed him a pen.
He hesitated, unsure of what to write. He scribbled the first name that popped into his head and handed the clipboard back to her.
“Alright, Dr. Jones. If you want to go through our records, I’m going to need to see some identification.”
He felt through his coat pockets. “I don’t have it with me.”
She glared at him.
“Call the Embassy in Edinburgh,” he gambled. “Agent Brimley will vouch for me.”
The receptionist raised an unimpressed eyebrow. She studied his face like he was a criminal. He tried not to avert his eyes.
“I don’t have time for this.” She scowled. “The computer system is down, so we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.”
David followed her up the stairs. “The man I’m looking for uses a pseudonym,” he said. “It usually begins with the letter ‘A’.”
They reached the top of the stairs and headed down the eastern corridor. The hallway was cluttered with upturned bed frames.
“Where are they moving you?” he asked.
She looked back at him with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “Highlands and Hebrides are being evacuated to Edinburgh and Glasgow,” she answered. “They say it’s Ebola, but it’s the Hantavirus. There are more rats in this country than men. And I’d know it.”
They stopped beside a door marked RECORDS.
“Half our patients were transported to Glasgow yesterday, the rest are leaving tonight for Edinburgh. There’s no guarantee the man you’re looking for is even here.” She shuffled through an assortment of keys and unlocked the door. After disappearing into the room, she returned with an armful of files. “These are current patients who have surnames beginning with the letter ‘A’.”
David flipped through the files, glancing at each patient’s picture. Adams was hairy and overweight. Ashton, Arnold, Andrews were all in their fifties. Asoto—Japanese, not even close. He flipped open the next folder and read the name aloud. “Asor.” He thumbed through Asor’s documents. “This one doesn’t have a picture.”
The receptionist took the file and searched the record herself.
“Is he still here?” David asked.
“I believe so.”
“Can I see him?”
She glared at him. “If you want to meet with anyone, you’ll need to wait for scheduled visiting hours.”
“When is that?”
“6:00 p.m.”
He glanced at his watch. “That’s almost an hour from now.”
His displeasure seemed to satisfy her. “We can’t disrupt routine. The remaining patients are our most serious cases. They’re barely going to tolerate the uproar of evacuation.”
David flipped through Asor’s file once more. Most of the information was blank or whited-out. “Could his picture be in another file? There’s nothing here. I can’t afford to wait around and be wrong.”
She pursed her lips. After a moment, she turned back into the records room. David could hear her struggling with a cabinet drawer. By her vulgarity, she was losing the battle.
There was a loud crash.
“Bloody hell!” she yelled.
He peeked inside.
“This place is a sodding deathtrap!” She cringed, holding her fingers.
The cabinet had tipped over. Overturned drawers left files strewn across the floor. He picked up a handful. Some of the documents were yellow with age and dated back to the 1930s. He organized the paperwork into a square pile. If this lady had a good side, he needed to be on it.
Another folder labeled AZORES in typewriter print caught his attention. It was buried within the stack in her arms.
“Can I see this?” He pulled the file from her collection and opened the folder.
Clipped to the cover was a black and white photo of an elderly bald man with spider web wisps of hair, identical to the unidentified man in Brenton’s Polaroid.
“This can’t be right…” he mumbled.
The date stamp on the file marked the man’s first inception to the asylum on November 10, 1931. He already looked ninety years old in the picture. “Is this some kind of mistake?”
The woman gasped, but she wasn’t looking at the file. She back away from him. “What organization did you say you were with, Dr. Jones?”
“United Nations.”
“You said American Embassy.” Her back met the wall.
David followed her gaze to the bloodstain on his shirt. When he bent to help her, his coat had fallen open.
The receptionist snatched the file from his hands. She held it protectively against her chest and pushed her glasses further up on her nose. “I need you to wait here.”
He pulled his coat closed over his clothes. “Call the Embassy. Ask for Agent Brimley.” His heart began to race.
She slipped between him and the cabinet.
He had to do something. Without thinking, he reached for her. She stumbled back into the cabinet, dropping the file and squeaking in fear. The woman froze. Trapped between him and the cabinet, she eyed the door.
This was crazy. David stopped himself. He stepped back apologetically.
She raced out the doorway. “Security!”
Her heels clicked down the hallway. He could hear her stumbling over the bed frames.
He grabbed Asor’s file, and stepped out of the room in a panic.
“What are you doing out of recreation?”
David turned to see a twenty-something attendant in scrubs. It was just a kid with spikey black hair, a nose ring, and a bruise around his throat.
The orderly noticed the records door was open. “What are you doin’ in there?” He snatched Asor’s file from David’s hands, and pushed by, peeking into the room. “Crikey, you’re gonna get it!” He tossed Asor’s file into the room. “Simmons’ll have your head. And guess who’ll have to sort this out. Me, that’s right. Get back to recreation!”
“Where’s that, mate?” David managed a terrible British accent.
“Where it always is, ‘mate’.” He pointed at a door at the opposite end of the hall. “If I ever find you down here again, I’ll kick your arse.”
David hurried down the hall. The door opened onto a staircase. He made his way up the steps and then down another hallway. He stopped at a door marked RECREATION. He heard a commotion downstairs and stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.
Fifty or so patients roamed freely about. A few catatonic people sat in wheelchairs around the perimeter of the room, staring out the windows along the northeastern wall.
He scanned the room for Asor. Most of the patients were old, and many of men completely bald. Two attendants sat at a table in the back corner playing cards.