Children of the Fog (28 page)

She gave him a thankful smile.

Fergus reached for a jacket hanging beside the door. "You rest here and keep that ice on your ankle."

He was out the door before she could blink.

A car engine rumbled to life and headlights swept past the window at the back of the house. Then all was still.

She shot out of the chair. "There's no way in hell I'm going to sit around and do nothing."

Especially when she had a weapon.

The gun.

She headed for the door, but paused when her eyes landed on the fishing knife. She slipped it into her jacket pocket.

"Better to be safe than sorry."

31

Infinity Cabin was in danger of being swept away. At least the veranda was. The river had climbed almost four feet up the supports. Another six inches and the water would be over the bank, turning the grass into a swamp.

Once inside, Sadie locked the back door, tossed her purse and flashlight on the table, aiming the latter into the center of the room. The cabin was freezing and dark, lit only by flashes of lightning from outside. The hearth had long turned to ash, but there was no time to build a fire, even though she was soaked to the bone.

She was about to go into the bedroom when a sound made her glance over her shoulder. A tall shadow shifted past the draped kitchen window. A shadow wearing a cowboy hat.

Sarge.

Pulling the knife from her pocket, she pressed herself against the wall and held her breath.

The doorknob rattled. A muffled curse was followed by something solid slamming up against the door.

Her eyes flared with fear. Please don't let him get in.

Then the footsteps plodded away.

Sadie released a slow breath, until she heard Sarge moving alongside the cabin. Horrified, she gazed across the room to the sliding door. The door she had left
un
locked. There was no time to secure it now, not without being heard. She had to hide. But where?

Desperate eyes latched onto the rug in the middle of the floor.

The root cellar!

She flicked the flashlight off, praying he hadn't seen the light. Then, crossing the room, she bent over and flipped the corner of the rug. Someone had used double-sided carpet tape to keep it in place. With a trembling hand, she tugged on the metal ring and let out a soft sob of gratefulness when the trapdoor opened. She moved down a few stairs, grabbed the door and pulled it over her head.

She was thrown into a dark abyss.

Oh God….

The cellar was worse than the bunker. For one thing it was pitch black and smelled musty, and she felt cramped even though she couldn't see the size of it. She felt as though she had just been buried alive, which couldn't possibly be that much different from being trapped in an ice-cold cellar, with a murderous kidnapper above hunting for her.

Footsteps clumped overhead.

Closer…

Her pulse quickened and the knife shook in her hand.

Above her, something clattered to the floor. An angry grunt followed. Then there was a soft thud near the trapdoor.

Terrified, she covered her mouth with one hand.

Silence.

He was listening.

Sadie's heartbeat pounded in her ears. Could he hear it?

Footsteps gradually receded and a door slammed.

She shivered uncontrollably.
Is he still here?

The waiting was excruciating, the silence endless—until the gong of the grandfather clock interrupted it. To be safe, she waited few more minutes. Once her breathing had calmed, she tiptoed up the cellar stairs and pressed her ear to the trapdoor.

She heard nothing. Not a sound.

I have to get help.

Inching the trapdoor open, she peeked out. She couldn't see anything or anyone. The cabin was too dark, and she'd left the flashlight on the table.

Serendipitously, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the room. No one was hiding in the shadows. But then again, she could only see three sides of the cabin. What if he was standing behind the trapdoor?

He's gone. I can't stay down here forever. The children need me.

She eased back the trapdoor and crawled out, waving the knife in the air. When no one attacked her, she strode to the sliding door, locked it and pulled the heavy drape across. Her hands were numb with cold. She knew she had to get warm or risk hypothermia. If that happened, she wouldn't be good to anyone.

"Dry clothes first," she said, tucking the knife back into her pocket. "Then the gun."

After lighting a lamp and turning it as low as possible, she carried it into the bedroom where she removed her jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair. She stripped off her wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and vigorously dried off with a bath towel she had left on the bed earlier. Once dressed in warm jeans and a sweater, she sat down on the chair and pulled on two pairs of socks, wincing at the sight of her bruised and swollen ankle.

"Looks like you had a little accident," a voice sneered.

Her head jerked up as a shadow slithered into view. With his hat in one hand, a man leaned cockily against the doorjamb. His shaved head gleamed in the lamplight and his beady eyes carefully scrutinized the room. Then his gaze rested on her and his disfigured face twisted into a sinister smirk.

"We meet again, Sadie O'Connell."

She gaped at him and swallowed hard. "The Fog."

At first glance, Sarge only vaguely resembled the sadistic monster that had beaten her, abducted Sam and brutalized him. In a way, he looked like an ordinary man, someone she'd see at the Calgary Stampede or a local bar and never think twice about. Until she looked into his eyes. A madman resided there.

"H-how did you get in?" she asked in a weak voice.

He held up a key. "Irma keeps a spare under the welcome mat. Not very original, is she?"

Her heart plunged when he took a step forward.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"I'm returning something that belongs to you." He dropped a flashlight—the blue one she'd left in the bunker—on the dresser. "Says
Infinity Cabin
right on it, so I took that as an invitation. Su casa es mi casa. Remember?" He frowned. "I'm surprised it's you though, and not some nosy old greaser."

She inched back in the chair. "The police are on their way."

"You called 'em did you?"

She nodded.

"Kinda hard to do, since this ain't working." He flung her cell phone at her feet.

"It was working when I called," she lied.

She moved slightly. Something shifted under her thigh. She glanced down and saw a glimmer of metal. The knife. She was sitting on part of the blade.

"There's no service out here when it storms," Sarge said.

"Maybe," she replied, her hand creeping toward the knife. "But someone's gone to get the police. They'll be here any time."

"You mean ole Fergus? He's stuck on the road a few miles back. Looks like it's just me and you." He started across the room.

"Don't come any closer!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet.

Sarge sniggered. "You gonna whip me with that towel?"

"No, but I have this." Boldly, she flourished the fishing knife.

"Better be prepared to use that…
bitch
."

It happened so fast that she had no time to react. One minute she was pointing the blade at the bastard—the next, the knife was knocked from her hand.

An arm snaked around her throat. "One more sound outta you," he hissed in her ear, "and I'll snap your neck."

Light bounced off something slim and razor-sharp.

"A little something to calm you down," he murmured.

A hypodermic needle jabbed her arm, right through her sweater. She tried to fight him, tried to scream, but all that came out was a faint sob. Then her vision blurred, and the room morphed into fuzzy shadows. Within seconds, her legs buckled. If it weren't for Sarge holding her up, she would have fallen to the floor.

Hot breath teased her ear. "How the fuck did you find me?"

She moaned. "The children…"

With a mewling whimper, she gave up fighting.

32

An earsplitting shriek woke her.

She groaned.

The shriek came again, this time louder.

She tried to cover her ears, but her hands wouldn't move. She forced her eyes open and blinked, wondering why her vision was so hazy. Had she gotten drunk? Passed out?

And why was she so cold?

The ceiling above the bed swam into view, just out of focus. It was morning. She knew that much. An early dawn crept in through the parted drapes and the air in the room was icy, as though she had walked into a deep freeze.

I have to put a log on the fire.

Disoriented, she turned her head.

Sam stared back at her—from the photo beside her bed.

Then she remembered.

The children. I have to help them. And Sam! He's alive!

She tried to call his name, but the sound was muffled. A second later, she realized why.

A sock was stuffed in her mouth.

Fear infused her to the core as she inhaled through her nose and strained to regain complete consciousness. She struggled to sit up, but that resulted in a sharp pain in her ankles and wrists. Her eyes drifted over her inert body. She shuddered in terror at what she saw. She was lying on top of the blankets and tied spread-eagle to the bedposts.

With nothing on but her bra and panties.

She screamed, but the gag restrained the sound. She screamed again. And again, until her throat burned and her cries subsided into whimpers of uncontrolled terror.

Something fluttered outside the window.

The crow peered through the glass, watching her.

Sadie stared at it with pure dread. Crows were the harbingers of death. The bird was here for one reason. To claim her soul. She knew that now.

I am not going to die! Not here. Not like this.

Adrenaline surged through her veins. Behind the gag, she let out an angry yowl and tugged on the coarse ropes above her head. Squeezing her hands, she tried to make them small enough to slip through the ropes. She twisted and pulled, but the ropes cut deeper into her flesh, until her wrists were on fire and her arms ached from being stretched into such an unnatural position.

A trickle of blood dripped down one arm. For a moment, she watched it, captivated by the bright red against her pale skin. Then she lifted her head and fixed wild eyes on the open doorway.
Is he gone? Will he be back?

Her near nakedness made her feel defiled.

Did he—? No, don't think of that!

The wintry air made her shiver uncontrollably.

A door slammed. Footsteps drew near and a shape moved into the doorway.

"Good, you're awake. And looking a might…perky."

Sarge stepped into the room and set a gas can on the dresser.

Sadie's heart kicked into overdrive.
No, please…

With a shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately wishing she could close her legs too. She felt him watching her, taking in every inch of her body.

Something skittered across the floor.

Her eyes flashed open in alarm.

Sarge had dragged a chair next to the bed. With one hand, he flipped it around. Then he straddled it and folded his arms across the back—like he had all the time in the world.

When his hand moved toward her, a wave of repulsion made her stomach heave. She gave a muffled cry and yanked her head away. But that only made her dizzy. Whatever he had injected her with was still in her system.

"Such perfect skin," he whispered. "Same as your kid."

She shuddered as his calloused fingers trailed up her arm to her neck, caressing it, circling it. For a moment, she thought he was going to strangle her. Then his sandpaper hand skimmed over her right breast, cupping it roughly.

"You know, it don't gotta be like this," he said. "If you're nice to me, I could be nice to you. Maybe tell you where your kid is."

She whipped her head around and grunted persistently.

Take off the gag, you bastard.

Sarge's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I'll take the sock outta your mouth, but if you scream, no one'll hear you and I'll just shove it back in. Understand?" He drew his hand away from her breast and removed the sock.

Swallowing repeatedly, she cleared her raw throat. Cotton fibers clung to her tongue, the inside of her cheeks and the roof of her mouth.

"I saw Sam die," she said in a hoarse voice. "You killed him."

"You
thought
you saw him."

Sadie recalled the boy in the car. He had been bound in such a way that very little of his face was exposed. And since The Fog had told her it was Sam, she had…

Assumed.

"I took that boy last year," Sarge admitted. "But his time was up. So I dressed him in your kid's stuff, tied him in the car and called you."

"You killed him right in front of me."

He let out a huff. "Nah, he was already dead. I put him to sleep a week before I took your kid."

His admission horrified her. "Why would you do that?"

"He'd served his usefulness."

"But why make me think he was Sam?"

"You're not very smart, are ya?" he said, shaking his head. "To kill two birds. You gave the cops my picture and I had to show you I was serious, so you wouldn't say nothing else. I wanted the police to back off. Plus, I figured they'd go slower if they knew I'd kill 'em."

In the living room, the grandfather clock let out an ominous gong. Time was running out, and Sadie knew she had to keep Sarge talking. She had one chance to survive. And that rested with a red-bearded Scot.

Please, God…let Fergus get the cops!

"What about the blood? The police said it was—"

"Your kid's," he said with a shrug. "I was a medic in the Forces. Until they discharged me. Collecting a little blood and leaving it on some bushes was nothing." He rubbed his chin. "Cutting off his toe and finger took a bit of work though. Your kid's a fighter."