Darkness. Part 9

Nice son of b.i.t.c.h, Kitteridge observed silently, thinking that if it had indeed been George Coulton whose body had been carried out of the swamp last night, at least he had found someone with a motive. But after talking to Amelie for a few minutes, he suspected killing Coulton would have been justified. When he spoke, though, he revealed none of his thoughts. "If you're starting labor, we'd better get you into town. Do you have a suitcase packed?"

Amelie uttered a high-pitched, brittle laugh. "A suitcase? Ain't n.o.body out here got one of them, an' even if'n I did, ain't nothin' to put in it. All's I got is-" Her words were choked off as another contraction seized her. When it had pa.s.sed, she struggled to her feet.

Kitteridge helped her down the ladder to his boat and got her settled in the bow, then started the engine and cast off. But before he moved out into the channel, he glanced once more up at the house. "You sure you don't need anything to take with you?" he asked.

Amelie laughed tightly again. "Like what? I ain't even got a purse. Out here, n.o.body's got nothin'. You're born, you live awhile, and you die." Her voice turned bitter. "Sometimes it seems like it's the lucky ones that die young."

As Kitteridge pulled away from the shanty, Amelie c.o.c.ked her head and, for the first time, her eyes seemed to come alive. Kitteridge reflected that when George had married her-if, indeed, he really had-she must have been pretty.

Amelie laughed out loud, genuinely this time. "You're lost, ain't you?" she asked.

Kitteridge felt himself redden, but nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Easy," she said. "You be goin' the wrong way. Villejeune's back there," she went on, pointing past Kitteridge's shoulder. "Not far, neither. Mebbe half a mile." As he turned the boat around, she went on. "You take the main channel straight ahead, an' cut through a little gap after the second island. Then bear left till you come to a big stump. After that, you can see the town."

Ten minutes later they were there, and as they pulled up to the dock where Kitteridge had left his car, Amelie glanced nervously around, as if she expected someone to be waiting for her. Seeing him watching her, a veil dropped behind the young woman's eyes and her lips twisted into a smile. "Thought he mighta been waitin'. He wanted me to birth the baby to home, but I won't. Ain't no way I'm lettin' nothin' happen to my baby."

Kitteridge helped her out of the boat and led her up to the police car. Another contraction seized her just as she crept awkwardly into the pa.s.senger seat. "Take it easy," he told her. "We'll have you at the hospital in a couple of minutes." Closing the door, he hurried around to the driver's side, got in, and started the engine. As he pulled away from the dock, Amelie turned to him, her face almost pretty as she managed a small smile. "Leastwise, it warn't a complete waste of time, you comin' out to my house today."

Kitteridge smiled wryly. "But I still don't know who the body is."

Amelie shrugged. "You know who it ain't," she said. Her lips compressed once more into the bitter smile that seemed almost second nature to her. "Frankly, I was kinda hopin' mebbe it were George. Leastways, if he was dead, I guess it'd be my house, wouldn't it?"

Kitteridge shrugged noncommittally, not wanting to get involved in whatever domestic arrangement George and Amelie had evolved. But after less than an hour with Amelie, he was all but certain that there were no doc.u.ments anywhere registering a marriage between them. Which, he suspected, was just the way George Coulton wanted it. As long as Amelie pleased him, fine. But if she didn't, he could simply throw her out.

He pulled into the clinic parking lot, helped Amelie inside, and got her admitted. Promising to look in on her later, he left her in Jolene Mayhew's care and started back to his office.

Dead end, he thought, as he began filling out the forms necessary to dispose of the body in the morgue.

Fingerprints had already been made, and before the body was interred, pictures would be taken and a dental chart prepared. But by this evening, before it could begin to rot in the heat and humidity, the nameless body would be in the Villejeune cemetery, laid to rest in one of the anonymous crypts owned by the village for just such purposes as this.

And yet, even as he set the bureaucratic wheels in motion, Tim Kitteridge couldn't shake the feeling that the corpse was, indeed, George Coulton's.

Once more he remembered the words Marty Templar had spoken that morning, as he'd been giving his own report of what had happened in the swamp last night: "You want to hear something really weird, Chief? The woman who found the body-Amelie Coulton-was talking about someone called the Dark Man. Sounded like some kind of spook who came and took her husband away with him. Do you believe those people out there? They must be nuts!"

And he remembered the look on Amelie's face when he himself had mentioned the Dark Man. Despite her claim not to remember what she'd said, he knew she was lying.

Lying, and frightened.

Amelie Coulton, he was sure, knew a lot more than she'd told him. But he was also sure, despite whatever motive she might have had, that she hadn't killed the man from the swamp. Given the advanced state of her pregnancy, it seemed impossible for her to have attacked anyone.

No, someone else had killed him.

Someone he already suspected he would never find, given the refusal of all the swamp rats-except for Amelie-even to speak to him.

Yet Amelie knew something.

She had gone into the swamp alone, fully expecting to find the corpse of her husband. It wasn't as if she'd simply stumbled upon the body and gone into a panic.

Making up his mind, he left his office and started back toward the hospital.

Amelie lay in bed, waiting for the next contraction to seize her. She was trying to keep track of how long it was between them, but she couldn't concentrate.

She was still thinking about the police chief coming out to talk to her about George.

She knew he hadn't quite believed her this afternoon-knew he suspected that the body she'd found last night was her husband, no matter what she'd said.

And what she'd told him hadn't really been a lie, for until Clarey Lambert had appeared that morning to tell her that George wouldn't be coming home again, even she hadn't been certain the body was his. Indeed, Clarey herself had never quite said that it was.

Of course, when she'd looked into the lifeless eyes of the corpse in the water, she'd recognized George right away. It was the eyes-flat and dead. But when she'd finally been able to look at his face, instead of just his eyes, she hadn't been so sure.

The man's face had looked so old.

And George, when he'd left last night, hadn't looked any different than he ever had. But he had looked scared.

So she'd gone off and found Judd Duval, which she probably shouldn't have done at all.

What she should have done was just gone home, and never told a soul what she'd found. But she hadn't, and then, when she'd come back with Judd and the other fellow, she'd seen the gaping wound in his chest.

Whether the body was George's or not, she'd known what happened to him.

She shouldn't have given herself away like that, talking about the Dark Man.

Still, the police chief hadn't pushed her when she'd lied to him.

And, thank G.o.d, neither had Clarey Lambert.

This morning Clarey had rowed up and climbed onto the porch. Amelie knew right away why she'd come, so the old woman's words hadn't come as a surprise.

"George won't be coming home no more," Clarey had told her, easing her bulk into the rocking chair on the porch. She'd reached out and squeezed Amelie's hand. "I don't s'pose that's the worst news you could've heard, is it?"

Amelie had said nothing, waiting for the real reason for Clarey's visit. It hadn't taken long for it to come. "I heard the people from town found a body last night," she said, and Amelie was certain the old woman had deliberately not told her it was George. "So I figure they'll come around askin' everyone questions." Her eyes had fixed on Amelie, two dark embers that felt like they were burning into Amelie's very soul.

Amelie had thought quickly. If the old woman didn't know it had been she herself who had led the police to the body, then she wasn't going to be the one to tell her. "What you want me to do?" she'd carefully asked.

Clarey had been silent for a while, her tongue poking around in her mouth where her molars had once been. At last the old woman's gaze had fixed on her again. "Don't say nothin'. If they ask, you tell 'em George ain't here and you don't know where he be." Amelie's head had bobbed up and down, and Clarey heaved herself out of the chair. "They come around, don't you say nothin', you understand me?"

And she hadn't said anything, not really.

She'd said only as much as she had to, and denied that the body she'd found was George's.

Another contraction wrenched Amelie's body, and she clamped her eyes closed in an attempt to shut away the pain. A few seconds later, as the pain began to ease, she opened her eyes again.

And froze.

Standing a few feet from the bed, framed by the doorway, was Tim Kitteridge. Instinctively, she turned her head away, but the police chief came and sat down by the bed, taking her hand.

"It was was George you found last night, wasn't it?" he asked. George you found last night, wasn't it?" he asked.

Amelie tried to pull her hand away. "You got no business comin' in here."

Kitteridge's grip tightened. "I need to know, Amelie. Was it George? Do you know what happened to him?"

Amelie's eyes darted around, searching for help; but of course she found none. Another contraction seized her. When it finally subsided, she felt exhausted, too tired to defend herself against his question. "Maybe it were," she breathed. "But I didn't do nothin' to him. An' I cain't even swear it were him. He didn't look nothin' at all like George. George warn't old."

"All right, Amelie. I won't argue with you about that anymore. But do you know what happened to him?"

Amelie's jaw set stubbornly, and Kitteridge felt her shudder under his touch. Now, in the face of her obvious fear, he repeated back to her once more the words she herself had spoken to Marty Templar the night before. "What did you mean, Amelie? Who is this Dark Man?"

Her face draining of color, Amelie shrank back into her pillow. "Don't ask me," she pleaded. "If you're gonna ask anyone, ask Clarey Lambert. Or Jonas!"

"Jonas?" Kitteridge repeated. "Who's Jonas?"

"He's one of 'em," Amelie breathed. "Just like George was."

Kitteridge reached out to take Amelie's hand, but she s.n.a.t.c.hed it away. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Amelie," the police chief told her. "What "What are they?" are they?"

Amelie gazed bleakly at him. "Dead," she breathed. "They be the Dark Man's children, and they all be dead!" dead!"

8.

"This is pretty," Kelly said, stretching languidly on the thick mat of gra.s.s that spread across the deserted picnic ground. They were twenty miles away from Villejeune, and they'd just finished the lunch they'd bought at a little store-and-bait shop that was all but hidden in the wilderness five miles away. When Michael had turned into the narrow lane leading to the picnic ground, Kelly had wondered if maybe she shouldn't have come at all-the place was deserted, and she had the creepy feeling that if something happened to her, n.o.body would find her for years. But when she'd seen the pond that had been dredged out of the lagoon, and the sandy beach that edged it, she'd changed her mind.

"How come n.o.body ever comes here?" she asked now.

Michael shrugged. "I don't know-I guess most people don't like the swamp, and hardly anyone even knows about this place. Since I got the bike, I've been coming here a lot, and I've never seen anyone else."

Kelly fell silent for a moment, then grinned mischievously. "Want to go for a swim?"

Michael c.o.c.ked his head, wondering if she was kidding. "We didn't bring any bathing suits."

"So? Haven't you ever heard of skinny dipping? You said no one ever comes out here, didn't you?"

As Michael's face turned scarlet, Kelly wished she hadn't suggested the idea, even though she herself had intended to back out if Michael took her up on it. "I was just kidding," she said quickly. "I just wanted to see if you'd do it."

Michael gazed curiously at her. He still wasn't used to the way she looked, and when she'd suggested taking off their clothes and going into the pond, he'd been certain she meant it. "Did your friends in Atlanta go skinny dipping?"

Kelly started to tell him that of course they did, but then found herself telling him the truth instead. "I-I didn't really have any friends in Atlanta. There were some kids I hung out with, but I hardly even knew them. You know what I mean? I always felt like..." Her voice trailed off, and there was a silence for a moment before Michael, his eyes fixed on the ground a few feet away, finished the thought for her.

"... like you were different from them? Like they were sort of all together, but you weren't part of the group?"

Kelly stared at him. "How did you know?"

"'Cause that's the way I always feel, too." For some reason he didn't quite understand, he felt that Kelly would know exactly what he meant, even though he'd never talked about the strange emptiness inside him before. "I always feel like everyone else knows something I don't know, like there's part of me missing."

"But that's the way I feel, too," Kelly breathed. "It's been that way ever since I can remember. I've always felt like there's something wrong with me, you know? Like I can't-" She hesitated, searching for the right word. "...like I can't connect connect with other people." with other people."

Michael said nothing for a few minutes, as he sorted out her words, examining them carefully. That was exactly how he'd always felt, too-as if he was missing some connection with everyone else.

Except in the swamp. When he was out there, all by himself, he sometimes felt that he wasn't alone after all, that somewhere very close to him there were people who understood him. But he'd never seen or met anyone during his wanderings, and he'd finally decided the idea was crazy, that he was only trying to deny his own loneliness.

Now, sitting here with Kelly Anderson, he didn't feel alone at all. Despite her pink hair, black clothes, and the weird jewelry covering her ears and wrists, he felt as though he was with someone who truly understood him.

He sensed Kelly's eyes on him, and looked at her.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, her voice shy, carrying none of the bravado he'd heard when they first met.

Michael shook his head. "I was just thinking, that's all."

Kelly smiled. "You want to meet me tonight?"

Michael hesitated, uncertain exactly what she meant. "I-I don't know," he stammered. "I'll see."

A few hours later, when he finally dropped her off at the same place he'd met her that morning, he still hadn't made up his mind.

"Dad?"

Craig Sheffield looked up at his son, his brows arching in an exaggerated expression of surprise. "The Sphinx speaks," he said. Michael flushed, and Craig immediately regretted his teasing tone. "Well, you haven't exactly been talkative tonight."

"Usually he talks too much," Jenny piped up from her chair opposite Michael's. "I hardly ever get to talk at all. And all he ever talks about are those dumb animals he finds in the swamp." She regarded her brother with all the scorn she could muster. "Sometime you're going to go out there and a big snake's going to eat you all up!"

"Jenny!" Barbara did her best to glare at her daughter, but wound up laughing instead at the little girl's obvious delight at her imagined fate for her brother. Jenny, taking the laughter as a victory for herself, stuck out her tongue at Michael, who pointedly ignored her.

"Do you know Mr. Anderson's granddaughter?"

Before Craig could reply, Jenny piped up again, chanting: "Michael's got a girlfriend, Michael's got a girlfriend."

This time her brother glared at her. "Can't anyone ask a simple question around here without you making a jacka.s.s of yourself?"

Instantly, Jenny's eyes turned stormy. "You take that back!" she demanded. "Mommy, tell Michael he's not supposed to call me names!"

Barbara groaned, leaning back in her chair and putting her napkin on the table. "Enough," she said. "If you tease him, you have to expect him to tease you back." Jenny opened her mouth, ready to push the argument further, but Barbara held up a warning hand. "I said that's enough, Jenny. If you want to stay at the table, you can be polite and finish your dinner." Before Jenny could reply, she turned to Michael. "Now what's this about Kelly Anderson?"

"She came around today," he hedged, deciding it wasn't quite a lie. After all, she'd been walking toward the tour headquarters when she found him by the ditch. If she'd kept walking, and he'd still been at work, he probably would have met her anyway.

"Well, stay away from her," Michael heard his father say, his voice sharp.

Startled, Michael turned. His father was frowning deeply.

"Stay away from her?" Michael echoed. "How come?"