In the Fog

by Andrew J Brandt

  In The Fog

  -A Thriller-

  ANDREW J BRANDT

  Copyright © 2019 Andrew J Brandt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Edition: November 2019

  Cover by: Caprock Concepts

  Author Photograph: Jered Lopez

  ISBN: 9781694125095

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For AJ

  This is my favorite section of the book because I get to gush on all the people that helped me along the way to get to this point. First and foremost, my wife, Jennifer—you are the perfect companion and my best friend. Anthony Pittman and Niccole Caan at ABC7 Amarillo; Kenny Nagunst at 806 Sports Radio; Brandon Biggers at Tascosa High School—your support means the world to me. Gabe Morgan; Andrew Monroe; all my friends—you guys are awesome. Jered Lopez and Derek Porterfield, thank you guys for making me look good. And finally, to the employees at the Starbucks on Georgia St.—I’ve written tens of thousands of words at that little table in the corner; thanks for never kicking me out of the café.

  CHAPTER 1

  JEM | 9:09AM

  HANGOVERS ARE A bitch. Twenty years from now, if you had the opportunity to ask Jeremy “Jem” Taylor what day it was that the crow awoke him, cawing and squawking outside his window, he couldn’t tell you. He may be able to tell you that it was a Thursday—or maybe Wednesday—but, truth told, he couldn’t be sure. That day ended up more a blur in his memory than anything else.

  The morning the women in the quiet hill country town of Decker, Texas went missing started as innocuous and anonymous as any other. The window of the bedroom Jem shared with his wife faced east, but with the blackout curtains drawn and shades closed, little sunlight actually filtered into the room, which was exactly how he liked it. He turned once on his pillow to face away from the window and the noise, but the bird continued its high-pitched caw. Jem’s brain thumped inside his skull and he just wanted to sleep a little longer.

  Caving finally, Jem opened his eyes in the dark room and rolled over to say good morning to Susan, but his arm was met with empty sheets where his wife would be. He reached up and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking his eyes to adjust to the light. “Susan?” he asked out loud, thinking perhaps she was in the bathroom adjacent to their bedroom. His voice was met only by the squawking of that damn bird outside the window.

  It was not uncommon for her to be up before him, to go for a run or drink her coffee on the patio before she had to get to work, but her phone and watch were still on her bedside table where she kept them on the wireless charging base every night. In fact, all her personal effects that she normally carried with her remained at her bedside. The black elastic ponytail holder, her Kate Spade earrings, everything.

  It was odd for her to leave everything, even the phone, so he got up to check in the bathroom. Opening the door slowly, he asked aloud, “Babe? You in here?” Again, silence and emptiness, the bathroom vacant except for the sunlight bathing the white granite and tile in a soft early-morning glow. Now confused, Jem slid on a pair of sweatpants laying crumpled on the floor beside his side of the bed. Like every night, he’d worn them to bed only to slide the grey pants off and throw them to the floor before falling asleep.

  Pulling the pants up above his waist and cinching the drawstring in the waistband, he left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. The coffee pot was on, filling the room with the rich aroma of Gevalia dark roast that regularly permeated their mornings. “Susan?” he called out again in the kitchen.

  Jem felt pain in his temples, the result of too much bourbon and too little sleep. He’d stayed up too late writing, he knew. While in the kitchen, he pulled down his favorite mug, a white ceramic emblazoned with the St. Mary’s University logo, and poured from the full carafe tucked under the coffee maker’s filter. It felt like a lifetime since he’d been at St. Mary’s, a lifetime since he’d first met Susan in their shared algebra class their sophomore year. He an English major and she studying engineering, they’d quickly become friends over his questions and her helpful—even flirtatious—tutoring. Their friendship became romance, which became engagement, and they married the fall after graduation.

  He’d gone on to teach high school literature while she worked for one of the largest architecture firms in San Antonio. While teaching, he worked on a couple of novels, got hooked up with an agent and received a book deal from one of the big publishing houses in New York. He resigned from teaching after the third book came with a Netflix deal large enough that he could focus solely on writing. And, after ten years of the corporate rat race, Susan asked him if starting her own freelance design company would be a good idea.

  “Of course it’s a good idea,” he had told her in the office of their old San Antonio home. “You’re smart, talented and you’ve got a decade of experience.” He had always been the sail in the wind; she was the anchor. Though, she’d done it. She’d taken a large percentage of their savings, cashed in her 401k, which, despite the early-draw penalty, was a significant sum of money, and started her architecture and engineering business out of one of the bedrooms in their San Antonio home. Like catching lightning in a bottle, she’d had near immediate success, securing contracts for a multitude of buildings and residential developments all over the southern area of the state. Five years ago, they’d moved out of the city and forty-five miles northeast to the small town of Decker in the Texas hill country. The town was inviting, even with the standard small-town politicking and gossip-mongering that plagued most towns with a population under the five thousand mark. It was quiet, though, and Jem liked that. His reputation as an author, as well as the television series based on his books, made him a bonafide celebrity in the otherwise quiet and compact town they now called home and he’d signed more than one autograph standing in the checkout line at the grocery store.

  When they moved to Decker, Susan designed the home they lived in now, giving them both their own offices where she could work on building design and engineering plans while Jem worked off-and-on on his next novel. She occasionally still would drive to San Antonio, or Austin, or Houston, but the benefits of her career and business meant she was able to do much of her work from home. Building their new house on a plot of land they’d secured in a foreclosure auction, the beautiful modern home was the jewel of their neighborhood.

  Sipping on his c
offee and rubbing his temples, Jem looked around the open kitchen. Everything seemed to be in place. The dishes from dinner last night sat in the sink, though he’d promised he’d load them in the dishwasher in the morning. The recessed lights in the ceiling illuminated in a soft glow, the light bouncing off the dark concrete countertops and stainless-steel appliances. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but something felt off. And that damn crow kept cawing outside.

  He could see the patio through the French doors off the breakfast nook in the kitchen, and he went to the window to look out, seeing nothing out there but the black metal patio furniture and his barbeque grill under its canvas cover for the fall. No sign of Susan, though.

  Carrying his coffee mug by the handle, he went to her office, knocking on the door. He pushed the door open slightly. “Babe, are you in here?” He saw her drafting table, with the fifty-inch Samsung television screen hanging on the wall that she used as a computer monitor above it, and unrolled architectural drawings on the drafting table surface. It looked just as she’d left it the evening before, when he’d come in to tell her dinner was ready. At the table, he ran his hand over the architectural drawings. She was designing a new branch of San Antonio Trust Bank, and it was one of her largest projects to date. Her name was written in her eloquent cursive hand in the bottom corner of the riser diagram. She took a lot of pride in her work, and it showed in the details on the large white pages.

  After looking in both her office and his, he went to the garage, just beyond the utility room. Her black Land Rover and his silver Grand Cherokee were in their respective places. Where the hell is she? Jem said to himself. It didn’t make any sense.

  He went to the front door, which was still locked and deadbolted, opening the large wooden thing with a little bit of heft and oomph. A Halloween decoration, a brown stick wreath with cloth pumpkins and skeletons still hung on the door, though Halloween had long passed and they were closer to Thanksgiving now. He made a mental note to take it down later today, once he figured out where his wife had gone off to.

  He walked out onto the sidewalk that stretched from the front porch and into the lawn. Their grass needed probably one final mowing before winter, but with all the rain they’d had lately, it had been hard to find a day to actually do it. Another mental note, another tick on his to-do list.

  “Good morning, Jem,” a man’s voice said from across the yard, pleasant and smooth. He instantly recognized it as Scott Bergman, one of their next-door neighbors. Jem looked over to see Scott and his partner Jay, both older gentlemen in their sixties, sitting on their front porch at a cute bistro table, enjoying their morning coffee and the morning sunlight. They were probably admiring their perfectly manicured lawn, Jem thought, while judging his jungle of a front yard. Scott had a Kindle in his hand and he set it on the table when Jem looked over.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Jem said. “Hey, you boys haven’t happened to see Susan this morning have you? She go for a run or anything?”

  Scott and Jay looked at each other and sort of shrugged. “Can’t say we have,” Jay said. “She not home?”

  “That’s the weird thing. She’s gone off somewhere, but her phone, watch, and headphones are all still here. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d been up early to go for a run, but it’s not like her to leave all that.”

  As they were talking, Jay fiddled with the dial on a battery-powered radio, picking up nothing but static.

  “Oh, would you quit fiddling with that thing? It probably needs new batteries,” Scott said. Turning back to Jem, he said, “Maybe she went into town?” in his southern-smooth voice, the last word stretching over a couple of syllables.

  “Her car is still in the garage though,” Jem said.

  “Hmm, that is odd,” Jay said, pulling the batteries from the back of the radio and putting them back in. “I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” Jem said, not really taking much solace in the man’s reassurance.

  “If we see her, we’ll let her know you’re looking for her,” Scott said.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Have a good day.” Jem went back inside the house and stopped to simply look around, taking the emptiness in. Nothing was out of place. There was no sign of struggle or anything. But that nagging in the back of his head that something wasn’t right would not go away. Back in the bedroom, he stood in the doorway and flipped on the light switch, observing the scene. Everything looked normal. Quiet, but empty. He went to Susan’s side of the bed and picked up her phone, pushing the power button. The screen came to life, the background picture a selfie shot of the two of them skiing in the mountains of New Mexico that previous February—their Valentine trip. There were no notifications on the screen, no clues to where she would have gone off to. He sat the phone back down on its cradle and noticed something on the sheets glinting in the light. It was her wedding ring. He picked up the white gold band, feeling it in his fingers, the three significant diamonds mounted on top sparkling as he did so.

  He pulled back the comforter to see something even more confusing—the blue and white St. Mary’s t-shirt and black shorts she regularly slept in were laying there, the clothing still in the shape of her sleeping body. He held his hand to them, the fabric cold where her body would have been.

  If he didn’t know any better, Jem Taylor would say that his wife simply disintegrated in her sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  GRANT | 8:27AM

  AS GRANT OLIVER drove home, he knew he was in trouble. His head pounded and his heart thumped in his chest. The early morning sun glared in his windshield, piercing his vision with a painful reminder that guys’ nights lead to unhappy mornings. He flipped down his visor and raced the little Lexus sedan down Eastern Avenue toward his house. He crossed the Guadalupe River bridge, seeing a couple of pickups down near the bank. An elderly man sitting on the tailgate of one, a pole in his hand, waved a friendly hello as Grant zoomed by. The river had a glass-like sheen, completely still and full to the banks. Cattail weeds and other brush lined the water’s edge. The dichotomy of the serenity down there and the anxiety in his vehicle was not lost on Grant that morning.

  He’d done it again, and he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, his wife, Christine, might even simply pack up her stuff and go stay with her sister. He and his coworkers shut down Mulligan’s Pub, and instead of going home, he’d been talked into going back to Craig’s place for a few more drinks and a few more rounds of pool. He’d woken up on Craig’s couch, still in his khakis and polo from the night before and reeking of cheap booze and name-brand cigarettes. Hadn’t he said he was going home? Hadn’t he grabbed his keys? Maybe. But maybe his friends and coworkers were adamant that he stay, play a few more rounds, have a few more Shiners.

  He looked in the rearview mirror. His salt-and-pepper hair was sticking up in the back from laying in the odd position on the leather sofa. Dark circles framed his eyes and he could still smell the beer on his breath. From one of the cupholders in the center console, he flipped open a box of tic-tacs and popped a few in his mouth, the flavor of Freshmint rough on his morning breath.

  His phone screen had been a never-ending scroll of notifications from his wife, missed calls and texts, the last one at around four-thirty. She’d either given up and gone to sleep, or she’d given up and left.

  As he pulled into the driveway in front of their home, he was relieved to see her vehicle, a midnight blue GMC Traverse, still in her spot in front of the two-car garage. Thank God, he thought. She hadn’t left. She may be angry, but he’d be able to apologize and explain. And he vowed to himself, this would be the last time. Those guys were too rowdy. He was getting too old for this kind of stuff.

  He went to the front door, fiddling with his keys until he got the thing unlocked, and opened it. The living room was quiet and empty, all the lights still off in the house. She’s still asleep, Grant thought. He contemplated simply lying down on the couch and catching a few minutes of sleep there, and if Christine c
ame in, asking him what the hell time he’d come home, he’d say, “I don’t know, honey. I didn’t want to wake you so I slept out here.” It may not fly, but hey, it was a plan.

  He sat on the brown sectional in the living room and pulled his shoes off. Undoing the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, he pulled it off and rested his head on the armrest of the couch, kicking his feet up on the opposite one. He’d rest his eyes for a few minutes and wait for Christine to stir.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d put his head on this couch. Their marriage started out great, as most marriages do. No one gets married just to get divorced, and he and Christine somehow managed to keep it together. Forever together in wedded bliss. Bliss? Eh, not exactly. Grant couldn’t even pinpoint exactly when the downward spiral began, but if he had to guess, he’d say it was somewhere around the time Benjamin was born. And, if he had to be totally honest, he’d even say that he’d thought about leaving Christine more than once. He’d stayed, though. For the kid, for themselves. She’d put on an easy eighty pounds during the pregnancy and though that was nearly five years ago, the weight didn’t disappear. It held on, taking residence around her stretch-marked stomach, her pockmarked thighs and her breasts that no longer had their youthful perk they’d had when they’d met. Grant tried to convince himself that he didn’t resent her for it. Hell, he was no Adonis either. But, the two had grown more and more distant from each other and the couch was his purgatory after more than one hellacious argument.

  He heard the bedroom door down the hallway creak open, that familiar sound the hinges made when the door to the master bedroom opened or closed. He heard footsteps coming down the hall, feet and toes pattering against the vinyl planking that lined the floors in their home. Grant knew instantly, however, that they were not his wife’s feet coming his way.