Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

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.

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.”