John Saul - In the Dark of the Night

And Dr. Darby, who had tried to help him.

And the girl that Dr. Darby had killed. Logan reached deep into the dim recesses of his memory and found her name.

Hanover.

That was it. She’d looked like the other girl — the girl he’d loved — and he had been afraid she might die, too. But Dr. Darby had told him she wouldn’t.

Dr. Darby had told him he was all right.

But then Dr. Darby had killed the girl and told him to make sure the demons stayed locked up.

Logan had watched Dr. Darby drown that night. He’d been out in his boat, fishing in the moonlight. He’d even tried to save Dr. Darby, but the water was too deep, and he hadn’t been able to get to him.

He’d failed.

And now he’d failed again.

The demons were loose, and now even his dog was dead.

And soon the men would be back, and they’d take him away.

But maybe it wasn’t too late! Maybe there was still something he could do — something that would make up for all his failures.

Struggling back to his feet, Logan picked up the ruined body of his dog. “Come on, dog,” he muttered. “Maybe we’re not through quite yet.”

Leaving his cabin for what he knew would be the last time, Logan carried the body of the dog down to the lake, never once looking back.

The crow, as if somehow knowing it would never see Logan again, uttered one final caw and then fell silent.

Logan settled the dog down on its bed of rags in the bow of the boat, just the way he had a thousand times before. The old dog looked as if he might simply be taking a moment’s nap.

Logan stepped into the boat and pushed off, heaving the bow loose from the mud.

He rowed quickly but silently, hugging the shoreline, as he made his way toward Pinecrest.

The lake was almost unnaturally quiet; deserted of even a single other boat this morning.

When he came to his goal thirty minutes later, Logan slid the bow of the boat into the weedy cover twenty yards from the Pinecrest lawn and tied the painter to the branch he’d used so many times before.

“Shhh,” he said to the dog. “Wait here.”

Quietly, Logan moved through the woods that bordered Pinecrest until he was as close to the carriage house as he could get without leaving his cover. Already the voices were whispering to him, but this time he knew he could not fail.

He had one last thing to do, and this time the voices would not deter him.

He moved quickly from the safety of the woods to the carriage house door, but hesitated before he touched the doorknob.

What if he failed again?

Perhaps he should turn back now, go back to his boat, and follow where Dr. Darby had led.

But that was failure.

And this time, he was not going to fail.

This time he would do exactly as Dr. Darby had wanted him to do.

He gripped the doorknob, and as the voices grew louder he felt a new energy flowing into him from deep inside the building.

It was going to be all right!

This time he was not going to fail!

Shivering with anticipation, Logan opened the door and stepped into the darkness.

RUSTY RUSTON WAS on his third circuit around the expansive lawn that sloped gently down to the pavilion beneath which Ellis Langstrom’s body had been discovered only a few nights earlier. This evening, though, it was almost as if the tragedy had never happened. The pavilion itself was twinkling with thousands of tiny lights as dusk settled, and fireflies were starting to blink as well. A four piece band — the latest in a series of musical performances that had been going on all afternoon — was playing to a nearly full dance floor that was getting more crowded by the minute. The lawn itself had been transformed into a colorful patchwork of blankets as families from all over the county had settled in to eat the picnic supper provided by the Lions Club, then watch the best fireworks display north of Chicago, at least if you believed what Mayor Richmond had to say.

Under a huge oak tree near the edge of the lawn farthest from the pavilion, Derek Anders was throwing a ball to his toddler son, having apparently decided he’d had enough of the long day of constant surveillance. Two other deputies had obviously taken their lead from Anders, and were waiting for the fireworks with their families.

At least one of them looked as if he’d had one beer too many, but Rusty couldn’t blame him; all of them had been on duty since early in the morning, and it was long past time for everybody to take a break, including himself.

Besides which, everything had gone off without a single hitch so far, and this was shaping up as the best Fourth ever, at least for the merchants in town.

“Here, Rusty, I made you a plate.”

Ruston turned to see Rita Henderson holding an oversize Chinet platter piled high with barbecued ribs, potato salad, corn on the cob, and even one of Billie-Jo Jensen’s huge biscuits, dripping with butter. His stomach rumbled loudly as he took it, making Rita raise an eyebrow.

“What a charming way of telling me you haven’t eaten all day,” she said, then eyed the crowd appreciatively. “But what a great day. It all came off perfectly, thanks in no small part to you. You may rest assured that you have my vote next time you’re up for reelection.” She handed him a plastic fork and a napkin. “But right now it’s time for a little relaxation.”

Ruston smiled, and tried to force his eyes to stop wandering over the crowd searching for trouble that wasn’t there. “Thanks, Rita,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.” But just as he headed for an empty seat at a picnic table, he spotted Eric Brewster and Cherie Stevens holding hands as they moved carefully through the maze of blankets, heading for the lemonade booth.

Which wasn’t a problem in and of itself, but Ruston’s antennae still went up.

Quickly, he searched the area for two potential sources of trouble: Adam Mosler and Al Stevens.

Eric’s rival, and Cherie’s overly protective father.

Ruston spotted Stevens first; Al and his brother Billy were busy on the floating platform, putting the finishing touches on the fireworks display.

Deciding Stevens wasn’t going to be a problem — at least right now — Ruston searched for Adam Mosler and found him leaning against a tree, glaring furiously at Eric and Cherie.

Ruston focused his gaze on Mosler, and as if by the sheer force of his will, the boy turned a few seconds later and looked at him.

They made eye contact, and even from twenty yards away, Ruston could see Adam start to deflate. Finally, the boy nodded, turned, and walked in the opposite direction toward the baseball diamond, where a game of softball was just winding down in the face of the dwindling daylight.

Good. He could enjoy his meal in peace.

He settled in at a picnic table with Rita Henderson and a couple of families with little children who moved over to make room for them both. All around him he heard the chatter of happy people. So far, the biggest problems had been a couple of sunburns and one skinned knee, only the last of which had even needed the ministrations of the first aid tent. So if Al Stevens could manage not to blow his fingers off tonight, this whole Fourth of July might just go down in history as the best yet, despite what had happened Friday night.

Real life could wait until morning.

He tore a bite of meat off a rib, then sucked the thick sauce off his fingers. “Now that is what I call good,” he sighed.

On the other side of the table, a baby — probably just a year old and still in its mother’s arms — seemed to sense his mood. Gurgling and smiling, it stretched out its hand toward Ruston, offering him the remains of a potato chip that was clutched in its tiny fingers.