Children of the Fog

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  She touched her forehead. Her fingers came back sticky.

  "It's just a scrape," she said quickly. "I tripped down the stairs. After I found Sam missing."

  "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

  "I'll go later." She perched on the edge of the bed, her hands twisting the sheets beside her. "You will find him, Detective—" She broke off and looked up. "I'm sorry. What did you say your name was?"

  "Call me Jay."

  Jay, a man in his early fifties, dragged a chair across the floor and positioned it in front of her. He was of average height, about thirty pounds overweight, with thinning gray hair. His brown eyes looked tired and the shadows beneath them were etched with deep wrinkles, suggesting he had witnessed too many terrible things. Nevertheless, they were kind eyes.

  "The first seventy-two hours are critical, Ms. O'Connell. The more you can tell me, the more we have to go on."

  She hissed in a slow breath. "I'm ready."

  He pulled out a notebook and pen. "You were in the house alone?"

  She nodded. "Philip was…working late."

  "What time did you go to bed?"

  "Eleven forty-five."

  "You said a noise woke you. What time was that?"

  "Twelve thirty."

  Jay scribbled a few notes in the notebook, then looked up. "What did you do?"

  "I went to open my bedroom door, but I heard something."

  "What?"

  "A clock ticking." She paused. "Or at least I thought it was. But we don't have a clock in the hall. Philip hates clocks. Ticking ones."

  She knew she was rambling, but she didn't care.

  "Maybe if I had turned on the light the first time…" Her gaze wandered around the room and landed on Sam's photo beside the bed.

  "The first time?" There was surprise in the man's voice.

  Her eyes latched onto his. Careful. Don't screw this up.

  "I went to check on Sam when I first woke up. He was sleeping, but the window was open. So I closed it. Then I went downstairs for a drink. When I came back upstairs, I heard a thump. I thought Sam had fallen out of bed. When I opened the door…" She caught her breath. Steady. "He was gone."

  "The time doesn't add up."

  "What?" She gave him a blank stare.

  "You called 911 at one eighteen." He studied his notes. "How long were you downstairs getting your…drink?"

  "I don't know." Timeline, you idiot! "Maybe half an hour. I-I tidied up the kitchen too."

  Jay leaned forward. "What exactly were you drinking?"

  It took her a moment to realize what he was suggesting.

  "Orange juice," she said evenly. "I don't drink alcohol. I'm an alcoholic." When the detective raised a brow, her lips thinned. "I've been sober almost seven years."

  "Is there anyone you know of who would want to hurt you or your family?" he asked, writing something in the notebook.

  "No, but some kids threw a rock at Sam's window the other night."

  "Did you report it?"

  "Philip did," she said, massaging her forehead. "Look, Sam's kidnapping isn't…personal. It was The Fog."

  Jay looked up. "You saw him?"

  She drew in a deep breath, mentally kicking herself. "Who else kidnaps children in the middle of the night?"

  Patterson stepped into the room. "We need Ms. O'Connell to identify something. Do you recognize this? We found it under your son's bed." He held up a plastic bag marked EVIDENCE.

  "Oh my God," Sadie moaned, reaching for it.

  The bag contained one object. Clancy the Clown's red shoe.

  When she flipped it over, a sparkle caught her eye. A silver thumbtack was stuck in the heel.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  "We hired a clown for Sam's birthday," she said in a hoarse voice. "Clancy. But of course that's not his real name."

  "We'll get him, Ma'am," Patterson said.

  "I'll need the name of the company you hired him from," Jay said. "And the phone number."

  She stared at the shoe in the bag. "Philip has all that. Hiring the clown was the one thing I asked him to do." She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea.

  It was her fault. She had let The Fog into her house. She had talked to him, paid him three hundred and forty dollars to entertain a room full of innocent children. She had watched him play with her son, and obviously he had never left since the alarm hadn't gone off.

  "Clancy must have hidden somewhere," she said.

  "Where?"

  The answer came to her in a flash. "Sam's closet. Oh God. I let The Fog into my house."

  "I don't think it was him," Jay said, taking the bag from her.

  "W-what do you mean? Of course it was—"

  He shook his head. "No. The M.O.'s different. The Fog never leaves behind evidence. He's too smart for that. It could be a copycat."

  That didn't make sense to Sadie. Not one bit. She had been inches from the man. She'd seen him flinch when she mentioned The Fog. But she couldn't tell Jay that.

  "Couldn't he have changed his M.O.?"

  "Trust me, Ms. O'Connell. We'll be looking into every possibility." He jerked his head toward the doorway. "What about your husband?"

  "What about him?"

  "He's a lawyer, right?"

  She nodded. "Corporate law."

  "Perhaps someone is trying to get at him."

  "No," she argued. "It was him. The Fog."

  Jay's eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"

  "I just do."

  Philip chose that moment to be a gentleman. He entered the room, a steaming mug in his hand. "Here, Sadie. I thought you could use some coffee."

  She gaped at the mug, turning it in front of her eyes. It was the one Sam had given her last Mother's Day, the one Leah had helped him pick out. On it was a cartoon alien boy with his mother in a spaceship. To the best Mom in the Universe.

  She stifled a sob as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  "Oh shit," Philip muttered. "I'm sorry, Sadie. I—"

  "Mr. Tymchuk," Jay interjected. "I need to know where you were tonight. Between midnight and one twenty this morning."

  "Yeah, Philip," Sadie scoffed. "Please, tell us where you were. And who you were with. We'd all like to know."

  Philip's face reddened. "I was at the office, working late."

  "And where is that exactly," Jay asked.

  "Fleming Warner Law Offices, downtown on Jasper."

  "Were you alone?"

  Philip's eyes shifted toward Sadie. "No. I was with Brigitte Moreau." He paused. "She works there too."

  Jay cleared his throat. "And what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Moreau?"

  Sadie crossed her arms. "What the officer is so politely asking you, Philip, is whether you're discussing oil spills with her or screwing her." To the detective, she said, "I've been asking him that same question for months."

  "What's my relationship with Brigitte got to do with my son being kidnapped?" Philip demanded.

  "Just answer the question, please," Jay said.

  "Brigitte and I are associates." Philip slumped down on the bed beside Sadie. "And…lovers."

  There. It had finally been said. The answer to a question that had been eating her up inside for months. An answer that would have ripped her apart yesterday, maybe even hours ago. Strangely enough, she didn't care now.

  A snicker escaped.

  "What's so funny?" Philip asked, eyeing her.

  She stared at her husband, the man who had belittled her for years, who had neglected her. The man who had screwed around on her.

  "I don't care, Philip."

  "That I slept with Brigitte?" he asked, confused.

  She smiled at him as if he were a stupid child. "No. I don't care about you, period. I don't care what you do, or who you do. As long as it isn't me. The only one I care about is Sam. He is important." She jabbed a finger against his chest. "Not you. You're nothing but a—"

  "Ms. O'Connell," Jay cut in. "How did you find C
lancy?"

  Sadie glanced at Philip. "My husband hired him. From some party company downtown."

  Philip scowled. "What, are you saying this is my fault? You're the one who wanted the damned clown in the first place."

  "Well, you should have checked him out more carefully."

  Philip jumped to his feet. "Don't you dare blame me, Sadie!"

  "Mr. Tymchuk," Jay said calmly. "This isn't about blame right now. It's about finding your son. Every second we waste means it will be that much harder to find him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Philip sagged back onto the bed. "I understand. I'm sorry."

  "Okay. Tell me about the clown."

  "A few weeks ago, when I got to my office, there was a flier for the clown company on my desk. So I booked him."

  "Do you still have it?"

  "I think so."

  Philip disappeared. A moment later, he returned with the flier and handed it to Jay. The detective scanned it, then dialed a number on his cell phone. He spoke to someone in a low voice. A few seconds later, he hung up.

  "It's a cell phone. And it's not in service."

  "Can't you trace the GPS?" Philip demanded.

  Jay nodded. "We will, but he's more than likely tossed it already. He's well organized."

  "So he set us up?" Sadie asked in disbelief.

  The detective nodded. "He's had this planned for a while. He knew where you worked, your routines, and he knew that Sam had a birthday coming up."

  He opened a plastic bag and indicated to Philip. "Slide the flier in here. I'll get it tested for fingerprints. You're the only one who's touched it, right?"

  Philip nodded. "Me and whoever put it on my desk."

  "Here's the number for Victim Services." Jay thrust a card toward Sadie. "You can contact them any time if you need to talk or…anything."

  "We don't need to talk to strangers," Philip said.

  "That's your choice. But the service is there if you need it."

  "He doesn't like talking about our problems," Sadie scoffed. "Do you, Philip? You'd much rather have everyone believe that we're the perfect family and you're the perfect husband. Well, you're son's missing, Philip. Sam is gone!"

  Philip stood up and moved toward the door, but not before she saw the tears in his eyes.

  "I'll be downstairs," he said without looking back.

  When he was gone, she stared after him, feeling bereft and slightly ashamed of the spiteful words that were spewing from her mouth. Regardless of anything he had done in the past, he was still her husband…and they had a child together. A child who needed them.

  "I think it's best if we question you separately at the station," Jay said quietly. "I-I'm sorry I had to ask him about Brigitte."

  "Don't be. Before, I only suspected my husband was messing around. Now I know." She took a deep breath. "What are the chances of finding Sam?"

  The detective shifted uncomfortably. "The truth?"

  She nodded.

  "Every hour that passes narrows his chances. But you have to stay positive, believe he's coming home and hold onto hope."

  "Hope is all I've got."

  "In the meantime, we'll check into Ms. Moreau."

  "She didn't have anything to do with Sam's disappearance."

  "Jealous lovers have been known to do almost anything," the detective said as he moved toward the door. "But don't worry, Ms. O'Connell. The truth always comes out in the end."

  His words made her tremble. There was no way the police or Philip could ever find out that she had seen The Fog.

  Sam would die.

  And she would die too.

  8

  After the detectives and crime scene investigators had left, the house was quiet. Philip had locked himself in his office, refusing to talk to her. So she did the one thing she could. She took a sleeping pill and crawled into bed. Dark discolorations had appeared under her breasts. Her ribs were bruised, maybe broken. But that wasn't important. What mattered was Sam. Was he hurt? Was he cold, hungry, afraid?

  Of course he's afraid, you imbecile!

  She lay awake, fighting her increasing remorse. She watched the shadows in the room, half-expecting The Fog to reappear.

  What's he doing to Sam?

  Two hours later, she was still awake. How could she possibly sleep with Sam gone and a single thought hammering at her?

  It was Monday. Sam's birthday.

  She pushed up on her elbows, groaned at the slow burn in her ribs and flicked on the lamp. It was 4:35 and still dark outside. She dropped back, head pounding, and thought about something Jay Lucas had said.

  'The truth always comes out in the end.'

  A cemetery of restless ghosts walked over her grave and she shuddered. If the truth came out, Sam would be dead.

  "You have to keep quiet," she whispered. "Don't say a word. Not yet."

  Her gaze settled on the nightstand. The portfolio case, a black leather-bound binder with all the preliminary drawings for Sam's book, peeked from the half-closed drawer.

  Sam…

  There was no more sleep for her. She swallowed back the tears and sat up. Then she reached for the binder. Easing back the zipper, she studied the colorful drawing of a comical brown bat with lopsided eyes. He was hiking up baggy shorts that kept sliding down.

  She smiled, wiping away a tear. "Sam's going to love you, Batty." There was a hitch in her voice, but she caught it.

  Now's not the time to lose it. Sam needs me.

  She flipped through the drawings, allowing them to take her back to happier times. Mere hours ago. She recalled Sam's laughter, his grinning face as he opened his birthday presents.

  She moaned. "He didn't get his bike."

  Maybe she'd never see him ride it. Maybe she'd never see him—

  "Stop it!" she hissed. She shook her head hard. "Sam will come back. They'll find him."

  They have to find The Fog first, her conscience reminded her. And only one person knows what he looks like. Sort of.

  Her eyes fell on a blank piece of paper.

  The Fog's warning echoed in her mind. 'If I see one description—if you even say you saw me…'

  Did she dare?

  She strained to hear footsteps or voices.

  The house seemed vacant.

  She reached for a pencil. Then, with a ragged breath, she started drawing the face of The Fog. A drawing that no one could ever see. She shaded, erased and chewed the end of the pencil as she concentrated on creating his face—his hooked nose, deep-set hooded eyes and pockmarked left cheek. She surrounded his face with a hood, and when the picture was finished, she glowered at it. It was a bit vague, but it was him. The Fog.

  "Don't hurt my son," she whispered tearfully.

  She was tempted to tear the paper into shreds. Driven by a need to confess, she made notes of everything the man had said and done, and what he had worn. Then she tucked the drawing between two fresh sheets and slid everything back into the binder. She wouldn't have to worry about Philip coming across it. He wasn't interested in her work.

  Or in me, for that matter.

  As she opened the drawer to fit the binder inside, her eyes fell on Sam's school photo. It had somehow toppled into the drawer. Thankfully, the glass hadn't broken.

  She picked it up, recalling the day she had found out she was pregnant, the day Sam was born, the morning they had taken him home, his first steps, first laugh—what a joyous sound that had been—and his first day at school. So many firsts. So many more yet to come.

  She clutched the photo to her chest and overwhelming sorrow engulfed her, burying her in a violent storm of hot tears and anguished sobs that tore at her very soul.

  "Sam…my baby. Oh God…Sam!"

  By six-thirty, she gave up trying to go back to sleep. Her sides ached rebelliously as she sat up, reached for the phone and called Leah.

  "Hey," her friend croaked, half asleep. "How come you're calling so early? Is Philip being an ass—?"

  "I need you,
Leah." That was all she said.

  Leah's voice came back, strong and reassuring. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Whatever it is, we'll get through this."

  The line went dead.

  Sadie headed for the shower. It was while she was washing her hair that she realized she had forgotten to remove her panties. Afterward, she dressed so quickly that she pulled on the same socks she'd worn the day before.

  She stepped into the sunlit hallway and as she passed by Sam's door, she lurched to a halt. The door was wide open. Sam always left it that way in the morning. She peered inside, half-expecting to see Sam sitting on his bed.

  But the room was empty.

  "Sam."

  Leaving the door ajar, she continued downstairs. She paused on the bottom step when she heard the rattle of dishes. "Leah?"

  "Oh good, you're done your shower," her friend said as Sadie entered the kitchen. "I've made us some coffee and toast. So, what's going on? Is it Philip?"

  Sadie looked at her friend and felt the sting of fresh tears. She blinked them back. "It's…Sam."

  "Is he okay?"

  Sadie shook her head. "He's gone, Leah."

  "Gone where?"

  A sob caught in the back of her throat. "The Fog took him."

  Leah's eyes widened in horror. "No! Not Sam."

  Sadie nodded, not trusting her voice.

  "No, Sadie," Leah wailed.

  As soon as she spotted the tears in her friend's eyes, Sadie's shoulders quivered and she lost it. Sobs wracked her body. Leah gathered her close, rocking her like a baby, stroking her hair and crying with her.

  "He's gone, Leah. Sam's gone. What do I do?"

  Leah had no answer.

  Whenever Sadie grew quiet, another thought would hit her. Wave after wave of memories and anguish assaulted her, until she was lost, floundering…breathless.

  "I…can't do…this," she sobbed. "He has Sam. Oh God. Why did he take my baby?"

  "I don't know, honey," Leah wept. "But we'll get him back."

  After a long silence, Sadie lifted her head and gazed into her friend's eyes. "What did Philip and I do to deserve this? Are we being punished? Am I?"

  "Sadie, you didn't do anything wrong," Leah said, her voice trembling with emotion. "It's not your fault. Neither of you are being punished."