Darkness

  “She—She said I was crazy,” Kelly breathed.

  “Who?” Ted demanded.

  “Her name’s Melanie. She was with the guy who was fighting with Michael. She told everyone I was the crazy girl who tried to kill herself.”

  “Well, what the hell did you expect, talking to kids like that? They’re exactly the kind we’re trying to keep you away from!”

  “I—I was just trying to be friendly,” Kelly pleaded. “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  Ted’s anger welled up in him again. “What do you mean, you didn’t know? It’s always the same thing with you, isn’t it? You hang around with a bunch of no-good trashy kids, and then say you didn’t know what was going to happen. Sometimes I think maybe you are—” He caught himself, clipping off the word before it escaped his lips, but it was too late. Kelly was staring at him.

  “Crazy?” she said. “Is that what you were going to say? Well, maybe I am crazy! Maybe I’ve always been crazy, and always will be!”

  “Kelly,” Ted began, “I didn’t mean that—” But Kelly jerked the door of the truck open, and scrambled out.

  “Why didn’t you just let me die that night?” she demanded. “Don’t you think I know what I’m like? Don’t you think I know how people talk about me and look at me? And it isn’t any different here than it was in Atlanta. It’s always the same! Why didn’t you just let me die!”

  Slamming the door, she dashed away from the truck, stumbling across a vine-choked field toward one of the canals. Ted, still reeling from his daughter’s words, opened the driver’s door of the truck, dropped to the pavement and started after her.

  “Kelly!” he called. “Kelly, come back!”

  He came to the center of the field, searching the darkness for any sign of her. For a moment he saw nothing, but then there was a movement near the canal. He took off again, running and calling out for her.

  He came to the path that edged the canal and paused, breathing hard.

  Then he saw her.

  She was fifty yards away, at the near end of one of the footbridges that crossed the canal, linking the path with the wilderness on the other side.

  “Kelly! Kelly, wait! I didn’t mean—” He started running, but by the time he got to the bridge, she was out of sight.

  At the other end of the bridge he could see nothing but the black darkness of the wilderness.

  The last of his anger drained out of him as he crossed the bridge and saw the dense vegetation on the other side. In place of his anger a cold knot of fear began to form in his belly. “Kelly?” he called out yet again. “Kelly, where are you?”

  He listened, silently praying that she would answer his call, but all he heard was the steady droning of the insects and frogs, and the hoot of an owl.

  Kelly had disappeared into the darkness.

  16

  Mary, pale and shaken, listened numbly as Ted tried to explain what had happened. Her hand instinctively clutched at the lapels of her robe as a chill passed through her. “Why?” she demanded when her husband had finished. Her voice had gone hollow. “Why couldn’t you have waited until you got home?”

  Carl rose from his chair and went to the phone. A moment later, as Mary listened with growing panic, he said, “Kitteridge? This is Carl Anderson. We’ve got a problem. My granddaughter’s gone into the swamp.” There was a moment of silence, then: “It doesn’t matter a damn why she went in, Kitteridge. What we have to do is find her while we still can … No, I don’t know exactly where she started, but my son does … They had a fight … All right, we’ll wait for you here. And get Judd Duval—he knows the swamp better than practically anyone.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to Ted. “I’m going to start calling everyone I can think of. If we’re lucky, she won’t have gone far, and we’ll find her right away.” As Mary and Ted sat numbly, feeling totally helpless in the face of what had happened, Carl began organizing a search party. Fifteen minutes later, as the doorbell rang and he went to let the police chief into the house, the phone began jangling. Mary, startled by the sound, stared blankly at the instrument for a moment, then felt a surge of hope.

  “It’s Kelly,” she said, hurrying across the room and snatching up the receiver. “Kelly? Kelly, is that you?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then she heard Barbara Sheffield’s voice. “It’s Barbara, Mary. Craig just called from the police department. What can I do to help?”

  Mary felt herself floundering. “I—I don’t know. The police chief just got here …”

  “Craig’s on his way home,” Barbara told her. “We’ll be over as soon as he gets here.”

  “You don’t have to do that—” Mary automatically began to protest, but Barbara cut her off.

  “Don’t be silly, Mary. I’m not going to leave you sitting alone there. You’d go crazy. And don’t worry. Judd Duval knows the swamp like the back of his hand. I’m sure they’ll find Kelly within an hour or two.”

  “Will they?” Mary heard herself asking. “But what if she doesn’t want to be found, Barbara? What if—”

  “Stop it, Mary,” Barbara told her. “Don’t even think about anything like that. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Mary silently put the receiver back on the cradle as Barbara Sheffield hung up. She turned to find Tim Kitteridge gazing curiously at her.

  “Mrs. Anderson? What did you mean just now?”

  Mary frowned uncertainly. “Mean? I—I’m sorry …”

  “What you just said, Mrs. Anderson. About your daughter not wanting to be found.”

  Mary closed her eyes for a moment and steadied herself against the table on which the telephone sat. “I—She—”

  “My granddaughter had a problem a few weeks back.” Carl Anderson spoke into the silence that had suddenly descended on the room. “She was very unhappy, and she tried to kill herself. But that’s all over with now.”

  Kitteridge, his brows knitting, turned to Ted. “I need to know what happened. Did your daughter just take off?”

  Unable to meet Kitteridge’s steady gaze, Ted haltingly repeated what had happened, glossing over the worst of it. “She was really upset about being picked up by the police,” he finished, but Mary broke in, her eyes fixed angrily on her husband.

  “It wasn’t like that at all, Ted! It was your fault! You blew up!” She shifted her attention to the police chief. “He told her she was crazy,” she said, her voice trembling. “He told her—Oh, God, I don’t know! What does it matter? Just find her.” She began sobbing, sinking brokenly into a chair and burying her face in her hands. “Please—just find her.…”

  “I’m going, Dad,” Michael said, his voice carrying a quiet determination that Craig Sheffield had never heard before. Craig had been home only a few minutes, and was about to leave with Barbara to go to the Andersons’ when Michael appeared in the kitchen.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Craig replied. “You’re going to stay right here and take care of your sister. She’s too young to stay by herself, and your mother’s going to sit with Mary Anderson.”

  Michael’s features set stubbornly. “Let Jen go with Mom. I know the swamp better than practically anyone in town. Besides, I feel like it’s my fault that Kelly’s out there. If I hadn’t gotten into that fight, none of this would have happened.”

  “So I’m supposed to reward you for your irresponsibility by letting you go out and prowl around the swamp all night?” Craig replied, intentionally infusing his words with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

  Michael ignored his father’s mocking tone. “I can help, Dad. I know my way around.”

  Craig looked to Barbara for support, but instead of backing him up, she nodded. “He’s right, Craig. He knows the swamp as well as anyone, and he’s never gotten lost. I’ll go get Jenny.”

  While they waited for Barbara, Craig, still unconvinced, turned the matter over in his mind. Finally he spoke: “All right, but here’s the deal. You don’t take off
by yourself, and you keep either me or someone else in sight at all times. Fair enough?”

  Michael nodded his agreement. By the time Barbara appeared with Jenny, who, though dressed, was still rubbing sleep out of her eyes, he’d gathered two flashlights, some extra batteries, and some rope. “She could be caught in mud, and there might not be a way to get to her,” he told his father.

  “Who?” Jenny asked, the last of her sleepiness disappearing.

  “It’s Kelly, darling,” Barbara explained. “She went for a walk in the swamp, and now people are going to look for her.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened. “Is she lost?”

  Barbara hesitated, but saw no reason not to tell her daughter the truth. “Yes, she is. And that’s why I’ve always told you never to go into the swamp by yourself.” She looked up at Craig. “Ready?”

  They went out the back door and crossed the lawn to the dock, where Michael got into the outboard-powered rowboat while his parents and sister climbed into the larger Bayliner. Checking the gas supply, Michael jumped out of the boat again and ran up to the garage, returning a moment later with an extra tank. By the time he had it stowed under the bench of the dory, the engine on the Bayliner was already rumbling softly. “I’ll meet you at the Andersons’,” Michael called as his father cast the cruiser off and moved out into the center of the channel.

  “We’ll wait,” Craig replied, letting the engine idle until Michael had started the outboard and maneuvered the dory away from the dock.

  Five minutes later, after two more boats had joined them from other branches of the canal, they pulled up to Carl Anderson’s dock and rafted their boats onto the three that were already there.

  Inside the house, Tim Kitteridge was organizing the search, while Mary Anderson, her face pallid and her eyes rimmed with red, sat silently on the couch. She seemed unaware of what was happening, but as Barbara approached her, she came out of her reverie and stood up. “Thanks for coming,” she said softly. “You were right—I think I would have gone crazy if I’d had to wait here by myself.” Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “I’m scared, Barbara. I’m so scared.”

  Barbara slipped her arms around the other woman. “It’s going to be all right,” she assured Mary. “They’ll find her.” But as she listened to the men talking among themselves, she wondered.

  “If she doesn’t go far, we have a chance,” Billy-Joe Hawkins said. “But I don’t know—it’s dangerous enough hiking in there in broad daylight, when you can at least see where you’re goin’. At night …” His voice trailed off among murmurs of agreement.

  At last they were ready. Ted Anderson would accompany Tim Kitteridge in the squad car to the place where Kelly had taken off. The rest of the men would go in boats, rendezvousing at the footbridge Kelly had crossed, then spread out from there, forming a loose net that would move out into the dark wilderness.

  But even as they left, Barbara had the distinct feeling that the few of them who knew the swamp well, who had spent much of their lives exploring it and working in it, were feeling far less than optimistic about the search.

  They knew the dangers of the marshy wilderness all too well.

  Judd Duval glanced at his image in the mirror, seeing the deep wrinkles in his face and the collapsing of the tissue around his mouth. Thank God his mind had still been working when Kitteridge had called him a few minutes ago. If Kitteridge saw him like this—

  But he’d thought fast, and the answer had come to him. “I’m startin’ now,” he’d said. “She can’t be far from where she went in, and I know every one of them bayous. If’n I’m lucky, I’ll have her home before you’re even ready to start.”

  He had no intention of going into the swamp tonight—no intention of letting anyone see him until he’d found a way to get another shot from Dr. Phillips. So he left the house, but instead of taking his boat out to search for Kelly Anderson, he moved it only a hundred yards from his cabin, carefully hiding it deep within a tangle of reeds and mangrove. In the daylight it might be seen by someone passing this way, but in the darkness it was completely invisible.

  Satisfied, he began making his way back to the house, slogging through the shallow water and mud.

  Once again he felt eyes watching him as he made his way through the marsh.

  The first tendrils of panic reached out to him, but he fought them off. He stopped, searching in the darkness for the evil presence that he sensed close by.

  There was nothing.

  And yet his fear only increased.

  He tried to run, but the muck on the bottom clung to his feet, and his already weakening muscles began to tire.

  No! he told himself. Ain’t nothin’ out here! Nothin’!

  But he didn’t believe his own words, and by the time he finally got back to the cabin, he was exhausted from fear as well as exertion. He dropped into his chair, his chest heaving and his breath coming in ragged gasps, terrified that his heart was about to fail him.

  Slowly, though, he began to regain strength. He forced himself back to his feet, moving around the room, putting out all the lights and turning off the television.

  If Kitteridge and the others came this way, the house had to look empty.

  In darkness, he stripped off his filthy clothes and put on clean ones.

  The waiting began.

  Sitting alone in the dark was almost worse than being out in the swamp, for he dared not even turn on the radio to keep him company.

  He began to lose his sense of time. As the minutes stretched into eternities, he imagined that dawn must already be at hand.

  He began to see faces at the windows—children’s faces, all of them looking like Jonas Cox, staring at him with dead, empty eyes.

  When at last he heard the low puttering of an outboard motor, his first instinct was to throw open the door and call out to whoever Was approaching. But the frightening image of his own aging face rose out of the darkness, and he resisted the impulse, cowering silently in the darkness, waiting for the flotilla of small boats to pass.

  At last the murmuring of the engines faded away and the lights of the boats were swallowed up into the night.

  Judd stirred, wondering what to do next.

  And then it came to him—they’d been there, all of them, and seen his dark cabin, seen that his boat was not there. They thought he was in the swamp, searching, and they wouldn’t be back this way.

  Not for hours; perhaps not until morning.

  He changed clothes again, pulling the mud-encrusted pants back on, and, taking his gun with him this time, crept back onto the porch.

  He could still feel the children out there, watching him, waiting for him.

  He told himself it was crazy, that if they were there, the search party would have seen them.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe not.

  He knew the children of the swamp, knew them well. They moved through the wetlands anywhere they Wanted to go, invisible unless they wanted to be seen.

  He paused on the porch, his eyes darting around, searching.

  Nothing.

  At last he lowered himself onto the porch floor, then slipped into the water. It came up to his hips, and his feet, bare now, sank into the mud. Slime oozed up between his toes, and thick grasses swirled around his ankles. Clutching his gun, its safety already released, he moved slowly away from the house, feeling his way back toward the mangrove thicket.

  Now he imagined he saw eyes everywhere. They seemed to be in the trees, looking down at him from the branches that stretched out toward him like skeletal arms.

  They were in the water, staring up at him from the depths. He saw George Coulton, lying on his back, gazing blankly upward, a gaping wound torn in his breast.

  The memory made him shudder, and he tried to move faster, but the waters themselves seemed to be grasping at him now, and he felt as though in the grip of a nightmare.

  He came at last to the mangrove thicket and hauled himself into the boat, his chest pounding, his breathin
g ragged. He fell back, resting against the gunwale, and waited for the exhaustion to pass. At last he pulled himself up onto the bench, untied the line from the mangrove root to which it was secured, and slipped the oars into the locks. Dipping the oars into the water, he slipped the boat out of the thicket.

  And froze.

  No more than ten feet away a silent figure sat in another rowboat, staring at him.

  Pale eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.

  Jonas.

  He released the oars and reached for his gun, which lay on the bench beside him. But as his fingers closed on its grip, a low, hollow laugh drifted across the water from the other boat.

  “Cain’t kill me, Judd,” Jonas said softly, but with a terrible clarity that rang in Judd Duval’s ears. “Remember? I already be dead.” There was a silence, then Jonas spoke again: “But I be comin’ for you, Judd. Soon. Real soon.”

  The boy’s dismal laugh sounded again, and then the boat slid away into the darkness. A moment later it was as if it hadn’t been there at all.

  Terror clutching at him once more, Judd’s shaking hand dropped the gun and clasped the oars of his own boat.

  The hundred yards back to the cabin seemed to take an eternity. Once he was inside again, Judd turned on every light in the place.

  For him there could be no more darkness tonight.

  Kelly stopped in her tracks, listening.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been in the swamp. For the first few minutes, after she’d fled from her father’s stinging words, she’d paid no attention at all to where she was going. She’d dashed across the field and come to the canal, then seen the bridge off to the right. She’d heard her father calling after her, but ignored him, and run toward the bridge. She’d hesitated there, uncertain whether to cross into the wilderness beyond, but when her father had started toward her, still shouting, she’d stopped thinking and run across.

  Across the bridge lay the swamp, where she could disappear in an instant. So she’d crossed the bridge, and plunged into the wilderness, her feet finding a narrow pathway that twisted through the undergrowth.