Children of the Fog (13 page)

Then she flopped face-first onto the bed and passed out.

The days passed uneventfully.

While Jay worked overtime on Sam's case, the fraud investigation into Philip and Morris resulted in both men being hauled down to the police station for questioning. When Sadie went to meet Philip, he was in a state of panic.

"Thank God you're here," he said, gripping her hand.

She yanked it away. "I'm not sure why you want me here."

"Well, you
are
still my wife."

"Not for long. Once the divorce papers are finalized—" She broke off. "You filed them, didn't you?"

He looked away. "We can't rush that now. We have more important things to think of. It's just a matter of time before they charge me."

"You should have thought about that before."

"Damn it! I need you, Sadie! Why can't you get that?"

"You need me," she said slowly, testing each word. Her eyes flashed dangerously. "You don't want me testifying against you. You want me to defend you, support you."

"You
should
support me. We're married, for Christ's sake! I've given you everything."

She glared at him. "Everything? You've given me a life of infidelity and lies. Our marriage was a sham, Philip. Right from the beginning. My mother was right."

After that, she refused to talk to him. She sat in the interrogation room while he was drilled by investigators about his financial dealings. An oily-looking lawyer with slicked back hair and a suit that probably cost a month's salary interrupted with the occasional whisper in Philip's ear. At one point, a police officer asked her a direct question, but she shook her head. She wasn't compelled to answer anything. And she wasn't going to.

When they left the station, she hurried ahead of Philip, refusing to say a word. She strode across the parking lot, the scornful kiss of bitter wind blasting her skin. She hated the cold. Summer was what she loved. Summer meant taking Sam to the parks, swimming in Millcreek's outdoor pool and going to the Valley Zoo.

She shook her head.
Stop!

"So what happens now?" she asked, unlocking the car door.

Philip climbed into the passenger seat. "My lawyer told me to play dumb and let Morris take the fall."

"How can you even think of doing that?"

"If I don't, we could lose everything."

She felt sick. "We've already lost everything."

The drive home was awkward, but thankfully silent. As she pulled into the garage, she spotted a media swarm waiting on the doorstep. Ever since the fraud investigation had gone public, a toxic cloud of doom followed Philip everywhere, usually in the form of persistent reporters who waited like ravenous tigers for the right moment to pounce and rip into him.

Today, she was ready to give them a glass of wine on the side.

"Mr. Tymchuk!" a man yelled, tripping over his feet to beat the other carnivores.

Sadie scowled, pushed past the throng and slammed the door behind her, not at all feeling sorry for Philip who was trapped outside.

"You made this mess, Philip. Deal with it."

The answering machine light flashed impatiently, demanding her attention. Setting her purse on the table by the door, she pushed the button.

"Thank you for supporting us in the past,"
claimed a charity that she knew damned well she had never sent money to. She skipped to the next message, a droning telemarketer selling lawn care services.

"There's still snow on the ground," she muttered.
Delete.

The next message made her pause.

"Ms. O'Connell, this is Detective Garner. I'm working your husband's case. Please call me right away." He left a number.

With a heavy sigh, she picked up the phone.

"We'd like you to come back to the station," Garner said when she got through to him.

"I don't think I—"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to cut you off, but are you aware that there was an undercover detective at your husband's law firm?"

Answering one question wouldn't hurt Philip's case.

"Yes."

"The detective wants to talk to you—
off
the record."

Sadie was flustered. "Why would he want to do that?"

Warner must have placed his hand over the receiver because there was a muffled sound on the other end. And another voice, an indistinct one.

"I can't get into this over the phone," Warner said finally. "Can you come down tomorrow morning around ten?"

"Fine. I'll be there."

She hung up just as Philip stormed into the house.

"Goddamn bunch of pariahs!" he ranted, heading for his office. "I don't want to be disturbed, Sadie. Got that?"

"I have no intention of disturbing you," she said dryly.

What she wanted was a drink, but she'd already finished off the bottle of Cabernet. She experienced a pang of shame. Her sobriety was over. But it wasn't the same as before. She'd had one glass before bed. To help her sleep. The good thing was that this time she was in control. At least, that's what she told herself.

Her eyes wandered across the living room walls, pausing on a family portrait. She remembered that day clearly. Sam had just turned two. She had held him on her lap and tickled him until he laughed with glee. In that perfect moment, the photographer had captured Sam's spirit.

And perhaps his soul.

She thought of his troubled birth. The nurses had doubted that the tiny boy would survive, but he had fought, struggling for breath with each labored beat of his heart, and he had lived. For six years. Six
short
years.

She had loved Sam more than she loved her parents or Philip or any other—more than life itself. He was her miracle, her salvation. It was the love for her son that had made her want to get up each morning and made her life worthwhile. He had defined her entire existence.

He still did.

14

The room in the police station where she waited was small, but it wasn't as bleak as she had expected. On one wall, there was a painting of a Japanese geisha strolling in a garden of cherry blossoms. A dust-spotted silk tree in the far corner sat lopsided in a plastic pot, and in the middle of the room, padded chairs and a small round table showed little character but frequent use.

She sat down and furtively eyed the dark glass in the middle of the wall. She knew what a tinted window meant. She watched Law & Order.

She waved, smiling through gritted teeth. "Bring it on, boys."

Five minutes passed without interruption.

She tapped her fingers. "Let's get this over with."

The door opened and a woman stepped inside.

Sadie recognized her instantly. "What are
you
doing here?"

"I'm sorry, Sadie. About Philip. About everything." A badge dropped on the table.

"You? You're the undercover detective?"

Brigitte Moreau sat down in the chair across from her.

Sadie was stunned. The last thing she expected was to find out that the undercover cop sent to spy on her husband was none other than the woman who'd been sleeping with him. The woman she had despised for the last year.

Brigitte folded her hands. "I have to admit, this is a bit awkward. My real name is Bridget Moore. I, uh…was brought in by Philip's firm once they discovered the funds were missing. My assignment was to get close to Philip, to see if he was in on it and find out where the money was going."

"Getting close to him doesn't mean sleeping with him."

Bridget unclasped her hands. "I had to take advantage of his weakness for women. Get him to trust me."

"I guess it worked."

"Look, Sadie, we both know that Philip wasn't the perfect husband. He pursued
me
—or Brigitte Moreau." Her lips curled into a wry smile. "And trust me, the sex wasn't all that great."

Sadie stared at her, wondering why Bridget's derisive comment didn't make her want to lunge across the table and grab handfuls of that perfectly coiffed blond hair. Ironically, she just wanted to laugh. Maybe have a Philip-bashing party and a bottle of
whine
. She certainly had enough to complain about.

"The sex was
never
that great," she admitted.

Bridget grinned. "You know, if I can be blunt, you're far better off without him. I wasn't the first, you know."

Sadie feigned surprise. "Really?"

"Philip told me he started sleeping around just after you were married. The last time—before me, that is—was with someone close to him, he said. Another associate, I think. But he said it was a one-time thing, a mistake."

Sadie thought of Latoya Jefferson, the young receptionist who had worked at the firm a few years ago. Philip had shown an unusual interest in her. When Sadie had questioned him, he'd shrugged it off, saying she was the daughter of a friend. Latoya left in a flurry of rumors of an affair with one of the partners.

She scowled.

Bridget noticed her expression. "In my defense, Philip can be quite charming when he wants to be. Plus, it was the only way to track down the money."

"And did you?"

The woman nodded. "He left me in his office one day while he went to see Morris. I found some documents behind a picture of Sam. We're in the process of tracing the funds. If we're lucky, we'll be able to reroute them to a secure account. We're talking millions."

"So why am I here?"

"Because I needed to apologize, Sadie. And because you're going to hear some nasty things during the trial."

"If it goes to trial."

Bridget's eyes brightened. "Do you think he'll accept a plea bargain?"

"I don't know. Philip's basically a…"

"Coward?"

"I see you know him very well."

Bridget blushed. "We're planning to pick him up next week. Oh, and don't bother trying to post bail. He's too much of a flight risk. He won't be going anywhere."

"And you don't want me going anywhere either. Is that it?"

"We're hoping to keep you out of it," Bridget said. "By Philip's admission, you had no knowledge of what he was doing. He kept you in the dark. We won't need you to testify, but…"

"There's always a
but
."

Bridget sucked in a deep breath. "The press will be nasty on this one. They'll call my involvement entrapment and turn your marriage into a farce."

Sadie stood slowly. "Let them say what they will. I don't plan on being around for long."

"It's probably a good idea to start over," Bridget said. "Start a new life."

Sadie paused in the doorway. "They'll be right, you know."

"What?"

"My marriage
was
a farce. But one good thing came from it."

Bridget's eyes were full of sympathy. "I hope they find Sam."

"Me too."

In the parking lot, Sadie sat in her car for almost fifteen minutes, letting the engine idle while she replayed the latest development. If anyone had told her that she'd have a rational, almost friendly, conversation with the woman her husband had been sleeping with, she would've laughed.

Irony
was
a strange bedfellow.

"We're checking out some new leads," Jay told her a few days later. "We've had to sort through calls from people claiming they've seen the man from your drawing. In the meantime, we need you to do an interview—a plea for Sam's release."

After lunch, she met him at the television station.

Philip was already there.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked Jay.

The detective gave him a tight smile. "We haven't got anything to lose at this point." When he saw Sadie cringe, he added, "If you make a personal plea to him, it could make him care more about Sam's well-being."

"If Sam's still alive," Philip muttered.

"He's missing a finger and a toe," Sadie cried. "That doesn't mean he's dead."

"Doesn't mean he's alive either."

Philip's words enraged her.

"Shut up, Philip!" she shouted. "He's alive! I know it!"

For a moment, no one spoke.

Jay sent Philip a hard stare, then turned to Sadie. "When you speak to The Fog, make sure you mention Sam's name a lot. Make it personal, Sadie. Most abductors see their victims as impersonal objects, not human beings. Show him the sweet, playful side of Sam."

"Do you think he might let Sam go?"

Jay's mouth thinned and she saw his eyes cloud over.

"That's not why you want me to make it personal, is it?" she said.

"Look, Sadie," he said. "We just don't want him to continue hurting Sam. We want him to think that his warnings have worked, that we'll back off. Meanwhile, we'll keep looking for him."

In a blur of motion, someone clipped a tiny microphone to her collar and a receiver to the waistband of her slacks.

"We've drafted up a speech to help you," Jay said, handing her a piece of paper.

She scanned the words, staring at them as if they were written in a foreign language. One word stood out clearly.
Sam.

"We're on in five," the cameraman said, counting down.

There was a sour taste in her mouth.

Reporter Lance MacDonald introduced her.

Then time stood still.

She faced the camera, her mouth sandpaper dry, her tongue limp.
What do I say to a kidnapper, a man I let take my son?

She read the notes that Jay had so carefully prepared.

"I want to ask you for the safe return of our son, Samuel James Tymchuk. Samuel—Sam—is our…my…" Lost in grief, she couldn't get the words out.

Behind her, Philip hissed, "Jesus! Keep going!"

"S-Sam is only six and he's…"

Her eyes welled with tears and the words before her blurred.

She tried again. "Sam is six and…"

Why was she reading someone else's words?

Crumpling the paper, she stared into the camera.

"Sam is my son. He's six years old and very smart, even though he doesn't talk. He loves to read and draw. He's a sweet, sweet boy—my baby—and I love him more than anything. I beg you…please return him to me." She hitched in a breath. "I apologize that my drawing of you got out. I'm sorry I ever drew it. But I was not responsible for releasing it to the police. Neither was Sam. He's innocent in all this and I know you don't want to hurt him. I'll give you money, time to disappear, whatever you need."