Free Darkness by John Saul Page A

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 wasuncertain. “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

    B arbara 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