Children of the Fog (7 page)

The Fog.

She shrank back against the wall. "I won't let you take my son."

The Fog laughed mockingly. "You won't
let
me?"

She stood slowly, quivering from head to toe. "No. I won't."

In a flash, she lunged for the gun. The man backhanded her across the face. Pain exploded in her left temple. Enraged, she roared and hurled herself at him again. This time she managed to dislodge the gun from his hand.

She dove for it.

He kicked her in the ribs. "Stupid bitch."

Forcing her away from the gun, he kicked her again. And again. Then he reached down, hauled her up by her hair and flung her across the room. A sharp twinge pierced her side as she landed with a sickening thud against the dresser. She let out a pained gasp. When she looked up, Sam was lying helpless in the man's arms.

"I'm walking out of here," The Fog said. "With the kid. And you're not gonna stop me. You know why?"

She shook her head, unable to move or speak.

"Because if you try to stop me…" He pressed the gun to Sam's head and pretended to pull the trigger.
"Bam!"

"I can give you money," she cried out. "I've got twenty-five thousand in my checking account."

He sneered. "Is that all he's worth to you?"

"I'm begging you…a
hundred
thousand! Whatever you want, I'll get it. Please! Just tell me how much you want."

The Fog tossed Sam over his shoulder with the ease of someone hefting a sack of potatoes. Then he strode toward her and leaned down, his shadowed face bare inches from hers.

"What I
want
is to see nothing in the papers," he said, his breath a simmering stew of cigarettes, onions and beer. "No description, no nothing. I want you to go back to bed and pretend you never seen me."

"I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. And you will."

"But the police—"

"Fuck the police! You want your kid to live?"

Sadie shuddered. "Yes, I want Sam to live."

"Don't leave this room for twenty minutes."

She stretched out a trembling hand. "Don't take my baby."

The Fog straightened. Then he yanked the door open and the light from the hall illuminated him for a brief moment.

"Please," she wept.

"Please,"
he mimicked scornfully. "You're pathetic."

She closed her eyes in agreement. Then, in a last ditch effort, she clawed her way across the floor, writhing in agony as a hot wave threatened to pull her under.

The Fog watched her, his thin lips twisting into a sinister smile. "I see one description—you even say you saw me—and I'll send the kid back to you all right. In little
bloody
pieces. You got that?"

She couldn't answer.

"Two seconds!" he snapped, raising the gun to Sam's head.

"Okay! Take him! Just please…don't hurt him."

Then Sadie did the only thing she could do. She let a madman take her son.

Alone, she cried in the dark, scared to move, scared not to.

"God help me," she sobbed. "Help Sam!"

But God wasn't listening.

Philip stumbled into the house at one fifteen. And
stumbled
was an understatement. Upstairs in Sam's room, Sadie heard the sound of glass hitting the floor. It was followed by a belligerent curse.

She stared at the bat signal clock on Sam's wall.

The twenty minutes were up. Five minutes ago. They had passed slowly, like a never-ending funeral dirge for the Pope. She had mentally shut down and collapsed on Sam's bed in a haze of overwhelming pain, grief and guilt.

She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the throbbing spasms in her ribs. Her legs shook, her heart raced and her head pounded.

What do I do? What do I tell Philip?

She moaned. "Oh God. Sam…"

She stepped out into the hall, one hand on the doorframe for support. Her throat burned as heavy footsteps lumbered up the stairs.

Philip turned the corner and lurched to a stop when he saw her. "Sadie?" he slurred. "Whatcha doing? Waiting up for me?"

"Philip, I n-need—"

"I need you to blow me." He grinned lecherously and tried to grab her.

She batted his arm away. "Philip, stop it!"

"So I'm a little drunk," he said, pouting. "We can still—"

"Sam's gone," she whispered. "He took Sam."

"What?"

"The Fog…took…him, Philip." Her voice caught in the back of her throat as deep, wracking sobs hiccupped to the surface.

Philip stared at her. "What the hell are you talking about?" He pushed her aside and staggered into Sam's room. "Sam's sleeping in his—"

He stopped, confused. Then he strode to the closet and flung the door open. "Where is he, Sadie?" He whipped around, almost colliding into her. "What've you done with my son?"

She was stunned. "I haven't done anything, Philip. I told you, Sam's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" His glazed eyes went immediately sober and his face blanched. "Oh shit." He looked as though someone had sucker punched him in the gut.

She moved slowly toward their bedroom.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, following her.

"Calling the police."

"You haven't called them yet?"

She reached for the cordless phone. "I just…found him gone."

Philip sank down on the bed and watched her dial.

When the 911 operator answered, Sadie's composure crumbled. "My son's been kidnapped," she wept into the phone.

The man took her information, then instructed her not to hang up. "The police will be there soon."

Phone in hand, she stood by the window and stared at the street below. There were no signs of life. No cars, no lights.

No Sam.

Then she heard the siren wailing in the distance.

"Did you see anyone?" Philip rasped.

She hesitated and swallowed hard, remembering The Fog's parting words. 'If you even say you saw me, I'll send the kid back to you all right. In little bloody pieces.'

She believed him. If she said anything, Sam was as good as dead. And how would she live with
that
on her conscience? But she realized something else. Once she started lying, there was no turning back.

She choked back a muffled sob. "I heard something. I thought he fell out of bed. But when I went to check on him…" She stared at the phone. "Sam was gone."

The lies had begun.

7

Two police detectives showed up on her doorstep. The younger of the two, a tall man with closely cropped sandy hair, looked as if he were fresh out of college, while the other was balding and probably nearing retirement. They were followed by three crime scene unit investigators carrying metal cases.

Philip greeted them with a slurred, "C'mon in, officers."

"Mr. and Mrs. O'Connell, we're terribly sorry," the older detective said, offering Sadie his hand.

"Actually, my last name is Tymchuk," Philip cut in. "My wife kept her maiden name. For her writing."

The detective's wrinkled eyes arched. "Ms. O'Connell, then. Detective Lucas, and this is my partner, Detective Patterson." He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Sadie a plain white business card.

Detective Jason Lucas, Robbery Unit.

"Robbery?" she asked, confused.

"We handle abductions too."

She led them upstairs and paused in front of Sam's door.

"Is this your son's room?" Patterson asked.

When she nodded, the young detective disappeared into the room with the crime scene investigators. She leaned against the wall, afraid to breathe or move, afraid that she was in the way, yet afraid that if she went downstairs they would miss something.

"I need a drink," Philip muttered, veering unsteadily toward the stairs. "Want one?"

She scowled. "I think you've had enough."

"I meant coffee." He headed downstairs, shoulders slumped.

Detective Lucas cleared his throat. "Ms. O'Connell, I have to ask you some questions. Can we go downstairs?"

She shook her head. "I need to stay up here. Close to Sam's room."

The man gave her a sympathetic look. "Is there someplace we can sit?"

She nodded and led him to the bedroom. "Sorry for the mess," she said, wincing as she picked a nightgown and a mauve robe—a Christmas gift from Leah—off the floor.

"Don't worry about it." He looked at her closely. "Ms. O'Connell, you have blood above your left eye."

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.