Children of the Fog (23 page)

She thought of the day Leah had shown up in Philip's office, the day she was looking for a lost book.

Another piece of the puzzle slid into place.

"Ah, I bet you were looking for
this
."

She folded Leah's letter and placed it on the coffee table. Despondent, she picked up the photo of Leah. "How could you sleep with my husband? How
could
you?" Fury gripped her and without hesitation she threw Leah's photo in the garbage can.

The walls felt like they were closing in on her.

"I need to get out of here."

So she escaped to Hinton to charge her laptop and phone.

She sat in Ed's Pub, nursing a rum and cola and doodling on a napkin while planning the last few paintings for Sam's book. It was practically finished. With a weary sigh, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The sweet sound of Sara Westbrook filtered through the room. Innocent, pure…and hopeful.

But there's no hope for me.

"You want another?" Ed asked softly.

She opened her eyes, shook her head. "You sure have an eclectic selection of songs on that thing." She nudged her head toward the jukebox.

Ed smiled. "I like to support Canadian talent."

As she stood to leave, she began to crumple the napkin, but something she had drawn unconsciously made her hand shake. The napkin was covered with infinity symbols, and one word was written in the middle.

SAM.

"My little man," she whispered.

"You okay, Sadie?" Ed asked from behind the bar.

"No, but I will be."

He gave her a sad look. "Drink's on me."

With a quick nod, she packed up the laptop and cell phone charger. Out of curiosity—and not because she intended to call anyone—she checked her messages. Two from her parents, one from Leah and four from Philip.

"Must be wondering where his
documents
are."

The phone disappeared into her jeans pocket.

Furious at not seeing what had been going on right under her nose, she sped back to the cabin. By the time she reached it, she had convinced herself that Leah and Philip had been messing around for years, that her entire marriage and her friendship with Leah was a sham.

She dropped the laptop case near the door and stormed into the kitchen. She yanked one of the bottles of Cabernet from the cupboard and poured a tall glass. To hell with Philip. She'd celebrate her freedom from him by drinking the bastard's precious wine.

Sadie smiled sardonically. "To truth and freedom."

She stopped counting after the fourth glass. What was the point? She knew what she was.

Weak.

She welcomed the giddy infusion of alcohol in her blood. It almost made her forget about her philandering husband and her traitorous best friend. It almost blocked her visions of them having wild sex. It almost made her forget about Sam.

Almost.

That night, she wished she were already dead.

Terrifying images assaulted her. The bloody finger. Sam's little toe. The gruesome carnage in the tree nursery. Faces fluttered before her, mingling with snatches of angry conversation that crept through the stupor of her mind. Philip, blaming her for Sam's death. Leah, doubting her decision to remain silent about seeing The Fog. Her parents, embarrassed by her drinking. They all pointed a finger in Sadie's direction, accusing her.

"It's all your fault," they shouted.

Then she saw
him
.

The Fog.

He skulked in a shadowed corner of the cabin bedroom, his eyes gleaming in the dim light cast by the oil lamp simmering beside the bed. When he stepped into the light, his face was painted like Clancy's.

She whimpered and backed up against the headboard.

"Shh," he whispered, as if comforting a child.

"Stay away from me!"

He paid no attention and moved soundlessly toward the bed. He held up a hand brandishing a gleaming butcher knife, and in the other hand, two small blue and white marbles rolled in his palm.

But they weren't marbles. They were eyes—Sam's eyes.

Sadie stared at them, horrified. "Sam?"

"Your son is dead." The Fog's mouth moved closer, rotting breath spilling from him like raw sewage. "Now I'm going to carve you into pieces. Little bloody pieces."

As the knife swiftly arced downward, she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed. "No!"

A breeze wafted over her. But that was it. No searing pain, no agonizing death. Just silence.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Confusion swept through her. Where was he? Hiding in the shadows?

She reached out and touched the oil lamp.

It was cool.

The Fog had been nothing more than a hideous dream.

"But it seemed so real."

A sob caught in the back of her throat and she shivered uncontrollably. Then she frowned.
Why is it so cold in here?

With a grunt, she sat up, her eyes fastening on the one thing that was out of place.

The open window.

She thought of the night Sam had been taken, the night that had been filled with signs—if she had only seen them. His window had been open too, just like hers was now.

But the Fog isn't here. So who's playing tricks on me?

She felt like a participant in a demented game of cat and mouse, and she had no illusions—she was the mouse. And she was sick and tired of playing.

"What do you want from me?" she moaned.

Every inch of her body tightened. Her hands clamped into fists and she wanted to pound something. Someone. Philip. Leah.

Him.

"No more!" she screamed. "No fucking more!"

With a deep breath, she leapt from the bed. Then she reached up and slammed the window shut. Outside, the moon shone above the trees, its crescent shape radiating a hazy light. A glistening fog floated above the ground. She stared at it, wondering if that was what had inspired her nightmare.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

Nothing stirred outside.

But someone opened my window.

"Well, there's no way in hell you're going back to sleep now."

She fumbled for her robe. Blinded by the dark, she made her way through the gloomy living room and approached the fireplace where glowing embers pulsed ever so faintly. She felt for the kindling in the basket on her left. When she tossed a few pieces in, sparks licked the undersides of the wood. She placed two logs on top, but they merely smoldered and crackled, laughing at her. Knowing they'd catch sooner or later, she squinted at the two windows, the sliding doors and the back door.

"By the time I'm done, this cabin'll be locked down like Fort Knox," she muttered. "But first, I need a flashlight."

She trailed her fingers along the coffee table, searching for the flashlight she had bought in town. All she met was empty space.

"I'm sure I left it here."
It must have fallen.

Her hands swept the floor.

Nothing.

"What the heck did you do with it?"

A glaring light blinded her.

With a shriek, she jumped back, her heart racing.

"Looking for thith?"

24

A boy of about six with closely shaved hair sat cross-legged on the sofa. Covered by a blanket, he watched her with a curious expression in his fathomless eyes.

He held something in his hands. "You want it?"

It was the blue flashlight. The one Irma had given her. The one Sadie had lost in the woods.

She shook her head, confused.

It was happening again. The hallucinations. The boy was a figment of her insane imagination. Or a mirage, compliments of Philip's blasted wine. But she hadn't had that much to drink. Had she?

"What's your name?" the boy lisped cheerfully, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be sitting in her cabin in the middle of the night.

She swallowed hard. Figments of imaginations weren't supposed to talk, or be heard.

The boy huffed. "Lady, dontcha talk?" He waved the flashlight and the light bounced off the walls.

"There are no children here," she said.

The boy grinned. "Yeth there are. Me."

She crept forward. With an outstretched hand, she reached for the phantom boy, positive that she would touch his cheek and—
poof
—he'd vanish into thin air.

But he didn't vanish. Her hand met soft skin.

She snatched her hand back. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"

The boy didn't answer. Instead, he slid off the blanket, revealing a pair of navy-blue and light gray striped flannel pajamas.

She frowned. "You should be home in bed. It's late."

"My thithter made me come," he said.

She stared at the boy, her mind reeling. What kind of sister would make her little brother wander around the woods at night?

"She wanted me to give you something," he continued with a soft lisp. "She was gonna come herself, but Father sent her to the dungeon because she got out the other night."

Jumping to his feet, he shoved a hand deep into his pants pocket and pulled out something round.

"Your sister sent you out in the middle of the night to give a complete stranger an
onion
?" She gaped at him. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"Father's sleeping. We're not supposed to go outside unless he's with us."

"Then he'll be very worried if he finds you gone. Let's get you home." She moved toward him.

"But I don't want to go."

The fear in his eyes made her breath stop. It reminded her of how Sam reacted when Philip got angry with him.

The boy started sobbing. "Don't make me go back.
Pleathe!
"

Alarmed, she scooped him up in her arms and hugged him close. His warm body felt good, like he belonged.

Like Sam.

She mentally slapped herself.

This boy is alive and safe. And he's not Sam.

As the boy's sobs subsided, she sank down onto the sofa.

"It's okay. We can stay here. Just for a bit. Okay?"

The boy sniffed. "'Kay."

She stroked his shaved head. "My name is Sadie."

"A-Adam."

"Where do you live, Adam?"

The boy flicked a look at the sliding door.

"Ah, across the river," she guessed.

He nodded, his wet eyes staring up at her. About to say something, he opened his mouth, like a hatchling waiting to be fed. Abruptly, he changed his mind and clamped it shut.

"How about some hot chocolate," she said, sliding him onto the sofa.

"Got any marthmallowth?"

She grinned. "Jumbo ones."

After she lit the lamp, she prepared the hot chocolate on the Coleman stove. From the corner of her eye, she studied the boy sitting in the shadows. Adam was small and thin—and deathly pale. No wonder she had thought he was a ghost.

"Is it ready yet," he asked, bouncing on the sofa.

"Almost."

Minutes later, they were sitting side-by-side, sipping hot chocolate and staring into the fire. Neither of them said a word.

Sadie knew she'd have to take him home eventually.

But not yet.

"This is
so
good," he said, plopping a melting marshmallow in his mouth. "Ashley's gonna be jealous. Hey, wanna hear a poem she taught me?"

"Sure."

Adam grinned. "One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight. Back-to-back, they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other. A deaf policeman heard the noise, got up and shot the two dead boys. If you don't believe this story's true, ask my blind uncle. He saw it too."

"Well, that was….interesting," she said. "But maybe next time Ashley could teach you something nicer."

Even in the faint light, she could see that he was a handsome boy. Somewhere out there was a lucky mother.

"Won't your mom be worried about you?" she blurted.

A shadow crossed Adam's eyes. "She's dead."

"I'm so sorry, honey."

Unfazed, he held out his mug. "Can I have some more?"

When she returned with a full mug, Adam was asleep on the sofa. Curious, she watched him, taking in the chocolate mustache smear above his contented smile and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

There was no denying it. She had a real live boy in her cabin.

"Great," she mumbled. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

The grandfather clock showed four in the morning.

She looked at Adam. Maybe it would be okay to let him sleep, take him back in a few hours. Hopefully, she could get him back before his dad woke up. But she'd sure like to have a few words with his sister, whom she suspected was the girl she'd seen in the woods.

Sitting beside Adam, she recalled something that he had said earlier, something that hadn't registered because he had distracted her with the onion.

'Father sent her to the dungeon.'

Surely, the dungeon wasn't referring to the basement.

She couldn't fault a father for not wanting his kids to talk to strangers or go out at night. But why were they seeking her out in the first place? Why were they giving her gifts? And who had tackled her in the woods—their dad?

Her eyes wandered to the sleeping boy.

What will happen when his dad discovers he snuck out?

She tugged the blanket over Adam's shoulders. When he inched forward in sleep and placed his head in her lap, she held her breath, startled by the close contact. A yearning deep in her heart made her eyes water. She closed them, conscious of Adam's small warm hand sliding into hers before she too fell asleep.

When she awoke a few hours later, he was gone—along with the gray blanket. She would have thought she had dreamt it all, if it weren't for the blue flashlight on the coffee table and five items lined up on the kitchen counter. The chocolate bar, envelope, licorice, pen and…an onion.

"You and your sister are very weird, Adam."

Without hesitation, she slid the wrapper from the bar, crumpled it and tossed it in the garbage can.

"Hot chocolate and a chocolate bar for breakfast. Lord, Sadie, you're gonna get fat."

She devoured the bar in seconds.