Children of the Fog (11 page)

The next day, she waited by the phone. By suppertime, it hadn't rung, so she called Jay's number.

"Sadie, we don't have any news yet. Sorry."

"You told me the first three days were crucial," she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. "Why is it taking so long?"

"We're doing everything we can," he assured her. "We're hoping someone in your neighborhood will call in. Someone had to have seen something."

Yeah, I did.

Although the words were on the tip of her tongue, she just couldn't spit them out. She feared for Sam. She had no doubt that The Fog would kill him, just like he promised. And there was no way she could live with Sam's death on her hands.

A week went by. A week of pure hell.

Sadie wanted nothing more than to slip away into a cloud of drugged oblivion. But the stubborn part of her kept her heading out each morning to replace the ripped, blurred, rain-splattered posters of Sam.

On the tenth morning, she remained in bed, refusing to get up or eat anything. She'd even ignored the incessant ringing of the phone, although Leah had called twice and left frantic messages on the answering machine.

Sadie didn't want to talk to anyone.

Except Sam.

She missed him fiercely, and not a moment passed when she didn't think of him. Was he alive? Was he being abused?

The angry X's scratched across the days on the calendar beside her bed glared back at her.

"Ten days…"

Sam's picture was pressed up against her. She peeled it away, noticing the red imprint the frame had left on her arm. Placing the picture back on the nightstand, she reached into the drawer beside her bed and removed the binder—the one with the drawing of The Fog.

She eased it open.

A sharp gasp escaped when her eyes latched onto the face of the man who had taken Sam. She slipped the paper from the binder and rested it on top of the duvet.

"When they find you, I'll make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your life."

It was a promise she intended on pursuing, no matter what it took. This stranger had entered her home, assaulted her and stolen her son. What horrific crime had she committed to warrant such terror in her life?

Her eyes flitted across the room toward Philip's sock drawer. She experienced the familiar pang of need and the relentless voice she had long ago silenced began its litany of reasons why a drink would be indisputably justified.

Just one small drink.

She shook her head and looked down at the picture of The Fog, but her eyes were drawn against her will back to the drawer that promised instant relief.

To calm my nerves. No one would blame me.

She shivered as a draft wafted over her.

"You're awake."

Philip stood in the doorway.

She stuffed the drawing under the covers and was about to read him the riot act for sneaking up on her when she noticed something peculiar. Her husband was fully clothed, ready for work. And wearing the same suit as yesterday.

"You stayed out all night?" she asked, stunned.

His shoulders lifted in a nervous twitch. "Sadie—"

"Don't! Don't make up any more excuses. We both know where you were and who you were with. I would think the least you could do is be honest for once in your pathetic, miserable life." She wondered if the expression on her face matched the sour, rotten taste in her mouth.

Without a word, Philip turned on one heel and disappeared.

As soon as he was gone, she flung back the duvet and smoothed the drawing before placing it at the back of the binder, which she slid into the drawer of the nightstand. Curling up in a fetal position with Sam's photo clasped close to her heart, she drifted into a restless sleep and stayed there all day.

The next morning, Philip officially moved into his office.

At first, she was relieved. Then anger consumed her. While she went to bed each night—alone and lonely—he stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. Part of her resented him, and part of her was thankful that he was so busy. They sometimes passed in the hallway and gave each other chilly nods. But they said very little. What was there to say?

Later that afternoon, she called Jay and was transferred to his voicemail.

"I just want to know if you've heard anything," she said. "Do you have any new leads? It's been almost two weeks. Please call me back." She hung up, shoulders slumped in despair.

Sam's disappearance had left her barren. Childless. Loveless. And full of agonizing remorse. Every minute, she battled with her secret. Should she talk or stay quiet? What if the police could find Sam before he got hurt? Sometimes she was a breath away from confessing that she had seen The Fog, albeit vaguely. And that she had drawn him.

When Jay called her back, his voice was weary. "We have nothing new. Sorry, Sadie. None of your neighbors heard or saw anything."

"What about the Amber Alert?"

"We've had nothing but false leads so far."

"Like what?"

Jay sighed. "One man reported strange lights over Edmonton the night Sam was taken. He swears Sam was abducted by iridescent, tentacled extraterrestrials. And a woman in Calgary, who swears she's psychic, said he was taken by a one-legged woman in a flowered dress."

He told her that Sam had been sighted at Vancouver's Stanley Park, at Niagara Falls, in Texas—even as far as Mexico. In the end, all reports were discredited.

"Thanks anyway," she said before hanging up.

Sinking into a chair, she fought back tears of frustration. Sam had vanished from the face of the earth.

Except I keep seeing him.

She saw him everywhere. The backyard, Sobeys, the bank, even in the back seat of the car. Sometimes she could swear she heard his voice, which was ridiculous since Sam didn't speak.

Philip was no help at all. He kept telling her that Sam was more than likely dead.

"The bastard probably buried him somewhere," he'd said just the other morning.

She knew Sam was alive. She could feel him, sense him.

Philip's heavy footsteps thumped overhead, reminding her that there was some unfinished business to attend to. There was one thing she wanted from her husband. Something she'd kept putting off.

"Just ask him," she muttered.

The bedroom was silent when she entered. Philip was sitting on the bed, his back turned to her, unmoving.

"Philip," she said, hovering in the doorway. "I want a divorce." When he didn't move, she added, "I think you want it too. Our marriage is…over."
Dead.

Philip's head swiveled, his hardened glare catching her off guard. "You
bitch
!"

"Phil—"

"You saw him?" He held up a piece of paper.

The Fog's face stared back at her, the face that she had so carefully drawn. Her pulse raced and she grabbed onto the doorframe for support. "I-I can explain."

"Can you? I was looking for a piece of paper. Instead I found
this
." He waved the paper at her. "And a complete account of what happened that night on the back."

She took an unsteady step forward. "Philip, I—"

"You what? You forgot to tell me? You forgot to tell the police that you saw the bastard that took our son? What the hell's wrong with you?"

"You don't understand," she stammered. "He was going to kill me."

"You? What about Sam? I can't believe you were more concerned about your—"

"He had a gun, Philip! And he hurt me. That's why my ribs were bruised. I couldn't move." Her voice grew hoarse. "And then he said he'd kill Sam if I told anyone I'd seen him. Or if I described him. I didn't know what to do!"

"You should have told the truth."

She stared at him in disbelief. "Don't you dare lecture me on truth, you…you ass."

"You lied, Sadie. You said you didn't see anyone." He shook the drawing at her. "This is the man who took our son. The police have been running around, chasing their tails for almost two weeks, and all along you had this. His face, for Christ's sake!"

"He said he'd send Sam home in pieces!" she screamed.

Philip stared at her as if
she
were the monster. Then he shook his head and without a word, disappeared into the hall, the drawing in his hand.

A door slammed downstairs and she flinched.

"What have I done?" she cried out in anguish.

12

The following morning, Sadie's whole world came crashing down around her. Her deception made headline news. Every channel broadcasted reports of how the mother of the latest abducted child had known all along what The Fog had looked like. Every newspaper across the country carried her drawing. Reporters were scathing in their contempt of a mother who would conceal such a vital lead. Even the police looked at her differently.

Except Jay.

"You're a victim in all this too," he told her.

Terrified, she had holed up inside the house, refusing to answer the door. Every time the phone rang, she winced, especially when she saw Matthew Bornyk's number. She couldn't face him now.

When Philip packed his bags and moved into a hotel, she knew that nothing would ever be the same. Her life was a train wreck and there were no survivors.

Later that morning, Leah showed up in the kitchen. She had let herself in through the garage when no one answered the door.

Sadie took one look at her friend's watery eyes and broke down. "He's going to kill my baby, Leah. Sam is so scared, I can
feel
him. And there's nothing I can do to comfort him."

Leah hugged her tightly. "Jesus, Sadie. I'm so sorry."

"It's my fault."

"No, it isn't. You did what you thought was right."

Sadie shook her head. "Maybe if I had told the police what The Fog looked like someone would've recognized him."

"And maybe he would've done what he said he'd do," Leah argued. "Listen. No one can blame you. You were given an ultimatum, right?"

Sadie met her gaze. "Would you have kept quiet?"

"I honestly don't know what I would've done if I was in your position. Maybe I would've told the police and hoped they'd keep it out of the papers. I mean, no one else saw him. You saw his face. That's a pretty important piece of information."

Sadie backed away. "You don't think I thought of that?"

"I know—"

"You don't know anything. You don't know what it's like to love a child, to be a mother, to hold life in your hands and watch it grow into something beautiful. You don't know what it's like to watch a monster rip away your son, knowing you might never see your baby again. Not a single day goes by that I don't blame myself, wonder if I should have said something, done something."

Leah held out her hands. "Sadie, you—"

"No! You can't judge me. No one can. You weren't there. I want my son alive. Don't any of you get that? I'd rather Sam be alive and living with that—that
monster
, than dead."

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," her friend said quietly.

Sadie welcomed the uneasy truce. She hadn't had much peace lately. Everyone demanded something from her. Detective Lucas, Philip…even Leah. Like bloodthirsty piranha, they tore at her, stripping away her confidence, her last remnants of hope.

"Your neighbor across the street dropped this off," Leah said, handing her a small package wrapped in brown paper.

"My neighbor?"

"Yeah. Gail. The one with the yappy dog. She said someone left this on her porch by mistake."

Sadie's gaze dropped to her hands. "No…"

The package mocked her. Her name and address were written on it in black marker, but that was it. No return address, no stamp, nothing to indicate that Canada Post had ever processed it.

She let out a yelp and flung the package on the kitchen table.

Leah grabbed her. "What's wrong?"

"He said he'd send Sam to me. In little bloody pieces."

Leah stared uneasily at the box. "You don't really think…"

"No, I don't think. I know."

Sadie's breathing grew shallow and strained, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as if coated with sand. She moved toward the table, half-expecting the package to burst into flames when she touched it. When it didn't, she swallowed hard and her churning stomach threatened to rebel.

"Maybe we should call the police," Leah suggested.

Sadie shook her head. She wasn't about to wait for the police. She had to know what was in the package
now
.

"I'm calling that detective," Leah said firmly, reaching for the phone.

Sadie ignored her and peeled the paper from the package.

It was a hair color box.
'Sun-kissed Blond.'

She opened it carefully and peered inside. There was no card, just a crumpled wad of black tissue. When she unfolded it, something rolled onto the table.

A small bloody finger.

An ear-piercing scream shattered the air.

It took Sadie a few moments before she realized it was hers.

After the police left, Leah tucked her into bed.

"We don't know if it's Sam's," she said.

"I do."

Sadie stared at a smudge on the wall. She'd missed a spot in her cleaning. She'd have to remember to wash the walls in the morning. After all, she didn't want a dirty house. Sam would be coming home soon and everything had to be ready for him.

Leah hovered over her, a worried look in her eyes. She gently smoothed Sadie's bangs. "The pills should kick in any time."

Sadie grabbed her hand. "What would I do without you, Leah? You're the only one who's stuck by me in all this."

"You need to rest. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

Sadie frowned, recalling her harsh words earlier. Had she really said those things to Leah? That was so unlike her. She was mortified by her behavior.

And ashamed of that spot on the wall.

She made a mental note.
Clean the walls.

"I love you, my friend," Leah said, choking back a sob.

The door closed behind her.

Sadie looked at her hands. They were shaking. For a moment, she stared at them, at her fingers. She was fascinated by her pinky.