“Took you long enough,” he groused. “Time we get out there, there won’t be enough left of whoever it is to identify.”
Templar’s gaze shifted to Amelie. “You didn’t recognize him?”
“I didn’t hardly look long enough,” Amelie said nervously. Though her eyes met his, there was a veiled look to them that made Templar wonder if she was telling the truth. “All’s I know is whoever he is, he be dead. Lookin’ up at me outta the water. Like to give me a turn, I can tell you.”
“Let’s not sit here workin’ our jaws,” Duval broke in. “The longer we wait, the harder this’ll be.”
The three of them went out to the porch, and Templar stared with distaste at the tangle of foliage. Despite the heat, a shiver went through him. He could already imagine the snakes that lay coiled in the branches of the trees, waiting to drop out of the darkness.
“Nothin’s gonna get you,” Judd Duval mocked, easily reading the fear in Marty. “Maybe a ’gator or a moccasin, but nothin’ to worry about.” Chortling at his own joke, he stepped off the porch into the aluminum boat that was tied to the railing and started the outboard while Amelie Coulton and Marty Templar settled themselves onto the center bench.
“Move forward, Marty,” Judd ordered, knowing full well how much Templar hated both boats and the swamp. “You don’t give us some weight up there, we’re gonna foul the prop and have to wade home.”
Templar shifted his weight onto the small seat in the boat’s bow, but twisted himself around so he could see where they were going. Judd cast off the line, gunned the engine. The boat shot away from the house and a moment later was lost in the twisting courses of the waterways.
With Amelie pointing the way, they moved steadily through the maze of islets. Then, signaling Duval to stop with her right hand, Amelie pointed ahead with her left, Judd cut the throttle, killed the engine, and let the boat drift silently ahead.
Amelie pointed into the water, and Marty Templar shined his light down into the darkness below the boat.
The face stared back at him.
An ancient face, so old and gnarled that had it not been for the expression of terror that contorted its features — and the gaping, ragged hole in the man’s chest — Marty’s first thought would have been that whoever it was had simply come out here and died of old age.
The mask of fear, and the wound, belied the notion.
“Let’s pull him out,” Duval said. Using an oar, he pushed the boat onto a small islet a few feet away, and Marty scrambled out to pull the dinghy higher out of the water. Despite hating the feel of the muck beneath his shoes, Marty waded in to help Judd pull the body out of the water.
When they had hauled the corpse onto the mud at the island’s edge, all three of them stared down into the twisted face. “Either of you know him?” Marty asked.
Amelie gazed at the body for nearly a minute, but finally shook her head. “Don’t look like anyone I ever seen.”
Marty glanced up at Judd Duval. “What do you think happened to him?”
Duval shook his head. “Some kind of animal. Don’t look like a ’gator, though. Maybe a panther. There’s still a few of ’em around here.”
Amelie Coulton’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. “Or mebbe it were somethin’ else.”
Though her words had barely been audible, they commanded Marty Templar’s full attention. “Something else?” he repeated. “Like what?”
Amelie’s gaze moved back to the corpse. When at last she replied to the deputy’s question, her voice was uncertain. “I thought it was George,” she said. “When I heard ‘im scream, I was sure it was him.”
“George?”
“My husband,” Amelie went on, her eyes never leaving the body in the mud. “He came for George tonight, an’ took him away. I figured he kilt him.”
Templar’s brows knit into a deep frown. “Who?” he asked. “Who came?”
Amelie’s gaze finally shifted, her frightened eyes fixing on the deputy. “The Dark Man,” she said.
Templar turned to Judd Duval. “The Dark Man?” he repeated. “What’s she talking about?”
Duval shook his head. “Nothin’,” he grunted. “Just an old story — been around the swamp forever. But there ain’t nothin’ to it. Just a crazy story. Seems like it just about dies out, and then somethin’ like this turns up. Someone wanders out in the swamp an’ gets themselves killed, an’ no one wants to believe it was just one of the critters.”
“Then what do they believe?” Templar pressed when Duval seemed reluctant to go on. When the answer came, it wasn’t from Judd Duval. It was Amelie Coulton who spoke.
“The Dark Man,” she repeated. “Don’t matter what Judd says. I seen him, and he be real. Him, and his kids, too.”
Marty Templar stared at her, but she said no more.
5
Barbara Sheffield glanced pointedly at the clock as Michael came through the back door, but his lateness was immediately overridden by both his appearance and the scent that wafted into the kitchen from his clothes. “Stop!” she commanded before he’d crossed the threshold between the kitchen and the laundry room. “If you track through this kitchen in those clothes, I swear, you’ll mop the floor yourself. And you smell like something that died last month! What on earth have you been doing?”
Michael gazed down at his filthy pants, covered to the knees with mud and slime. His sneakers, which he always wore over bare feet when he went into the swamp, were stained dark brown. He grinned crookedly at his mother, “Well, at least I get paid for messing up my clothes now,” he offered. “I was out collecting frogs.”
Barbara uttered an exasperated sigh. “Did it occur to you at all to call and say you’d be late? Supper’s ready, and your father and sister are already at the table.” She glanced toward the open door to the dining room and her voice dropped. “And your father says the next time something like this happens, you can fix your own supper.”
Michael stripped off his pants and shoes, dumping them into the washing machine. Without measuring, he poured some detergent over the heap of dirty clothes and started the machine. “Is he really mad?” he asked.
Barbara hesitated. It wasn’t just Craig who was annoyed — she was, too. In fact, she’d had an angry speech all prepared, and had been ready to deliver it when her irritation had dissolved in the face of Michael’s grin. But wasn’t that the way it had always been? Ever since he’d been a baby, he’d always been able to melt her with his dimpled smile and his bright blue eyes. Nor had he ever been in any real trouble.
Except for the strange empty look she’d noticed in his eyes sometimes, when he thought he was unobserved. That had troubled her, as had his refusal to cry, even when he was an infant.
From the first moment he had been put into her arms, Michael had always been an easy child to deal with. Even now, as he watched her warily, she couldn’t see that there was any real reason to be angry with him — after all, he’d done nothing more than to work late, and he’d done that every single night since he’d gotten the job at the swamp tour. Nor had he left his filthy pants and sneakers for her to clean up. “No, I guess he’s not really mad,” she finally replied to his question. “But couldn’t you call us if you’re going to be late?”
“But I’m always late,” Michael reminded her. “You know how it is. I get involved in something, and I just lose track of time.”