by Lee Goldberg
With that, the tall country policeman turned his back on the two and strode out the door. The tinny ring of the bell followed him out.
"Nice guy," Matt said. "Friend of yours?" Matt couldn't help but notice the looks that Dale kept giving Abbey, but she hadn't returned them. For some reason, Matt very much wanted to know what the cop's position in her life was.
"Ex-husband," she replied.
"Sorry to hear it."
Abbey sighed. "Not as sorry as he was." She let out a deep breath and shook her head. Then she turned to face Matt. "Well Matt, you've already seen more in this town than you bargained for, I'll bet."
Matt just shrugged. How could he explain the things he'd seen? How could he tell her about his death? Or Mr. Dark? Maybe he should tell her how he'd been forced to shoot his best friend to keep him from murdering that asshole Silbert. Or about how, ever since he died, he had been able to actually see evil in people, which manifested as a rotting, festering sore that spread across the person's skin like leprosy. Ha! Fat chance! If he tried to tell her about himself, about how he was chasing across the country after a mysterious evil "man" that no one else could see, he'd lose the job and probably get locked up in a mental ward. Hell, a run-of-the-mill serial killer seemed more normal than anything in his life. At least since his wife died.
The thought struck him as a pretty sad indictment.
"So when do we start?" he asked.
CHAPTER THREE
Matt loaded the last box into the storage shed, setting it on top of another box with an audible grunt. The fucking thing was heavy! He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a damp towel, then stuck the tip of the towel into his back pocket.
"That's the last one," he said. "Should we do another load?" They'd been at it for seven hours, stopping only for a quick lunch at McDonald's, which seemed to be the only fast food restaurant in town, but so far they had managed to move about two thirds of the inventory from the store to the storage unit.
"No," Abbey replied. "It's almost six o'clock. We'll pick up again tomorrow. Right now I just want to eat something, then go to bed." She groaned as she bent sideways, stretching her abdominal muscles. Matt had been expecting to shoulder most of the work himself, but she surprised him. Abbey stayed with him the entire day, lifting, moving, and hauling just as much as Matt. If the soreness in his back— and Matt had spent a lifetime chopping wood— was any indication, she must be beat, too.
"Dinner sounds great," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Any good places to eat around here?"
"A few," she replied, a hint of a smile on her lips.
"What? What are you smiling about?"
"You're about to ask me out, aren't you?"
Matt stared, his mouth slightly open. "I...uh..."
"Don't worry, Matt. I don't bite." She stepped down from a box of antique clocks and winked. "But if you're going to buy me dinner, you might want to ask me for a raise. I know how much you make, remember?"
"Oh?"
"At ten dollars an hour, I doubt you can afford me."
Abbey turned and walked out of the storage room, jingling the keys to the box truck in her hands. "And wash up first. Use the shower at the back of the store. I hope you have your own shampoo in that duffel, or else you're going to spend the evening smelling like Cucumber-Melon Suave."
Matt smiled. "I do. I even have some deodorant."
"Great," Abbey said through the window of the truck. "I'll pick you up at eight."
"It's a date," Matt replied.
It wasn't until she started the engine that he remembered she was his ride back to the store.
The truck started to pull out of the parking lot. "Oh, shit," he said, and took off at a run, trying to reach the door before she drove away. "Abbey, wait!"
# # #
At a tiny restaurant called Malloy's in downtown Crawford, Matt and Abbey sat outside in patio-style plastic chairs, enjoying the cool evening air after a sweaty day. She had picked him up at eight, as promised, in a white Ford van with the "Abbey's Antiques" logo painted on the sides. Matt had asked if she was going to repaint the van now that she was closing the store, and she'd laughed and asked if he did auto-body work as well as moving and sawing. Her laughter reminded him again of Janey, and he'd had to force her out of his mind for the rest of the drive.
The waitress brought over a fresh pitcher of Miller Draft and a pair of frosty mugs, just the thing to wash down a very dry burger and some greasy fries. He poured a mug for Abbey, then one for himself, and set the pitcher in the middle of the table.
"Thanks," Abbey said, smiling. She must have take a moment to freshen up before she left her house, because she once again smelled of her rosy perfume. She wore a thin white blouse and tight jeans again, much the same look as she had all day long. The only difference was this time, her hair wasn't shoved under a bandana and she'd gone to the trouble of putting on her makeup. The sandals on her feet bore three-inch heels that emphasized the shapely curve of her calves, which Matt couldn't help but notice. Abbey certainly had all the right curves in all the right places. He could see why Dale didn't want to let her go.
"You're welcome." He took a swig of his beer. The cold liquid flowed into his throat, but didn't do much to cool him off. "So you were married, huh? To a cop, no less."
"Do you always bring up failed relationships on a first date?" Abbey asked.
He leaned back in his chair, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I'm a bit out of practice," he conceded.
"Oh? Are you divorced, too?"
A mental snapshot popped into Matt's mind. A resort in Cozumel, not long after his wedding. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze as Janey lay on a towel at the pool. The only thing separating her skin from the air was a thin red bikini she'd picked up the week before, and even then her nipples poked through the fabric, drawing his eyes right to them. She held a frozen drink in her hand. On the side of the glass that touched her lips, the salt had worn away, but he could still taste it if he licked his lips. Her kiss had tasted like margaritas that day.
Divorced? Never. Not in a million years.
"My wife died," he replied. "About a year and a half ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Not as sorry as I was," he said, echoing her comment from earlier that day.
"If you don't want to talk about it..."
"No," he said. "No, it's okay. I've gotten past it. It's just... I never know what to say to that." Matt realized he was wringing his hands and grabbed the mug to stop himself. "You know what I mean?"
Abbey nodded, then took a sip from her own mug. Her eyes never left Matt's.
"So what have you been doing since then?" she asked.
Nothing much. Just dying and living again, Matt thought. And killing my best friend. Oh, and I've been chasing the Devil. Have you seen him?
"Not much, really," he replied. "Just kinda wandering around. Seeing as much of the country as I can."
"That sounds great."
"Well, I'm not exactly building up my 401(k)."
"At least you're living," she said. "I've been stuck in that damn store for years."
"Not anymore," he said.
"True enough. I just wish I knew what to do next."
"I feel that way every day." Matt smiled.
"I bet you do." Abbey laughed. The sound was throaty but soft, almost sensual. Like silk against bare skin. She raised her glass. "To the great unknown," she said.
Matt clinked his mug against hers and took a long, hard drink. For a moment, all he could see was the bottom of his mug. The night was looking up. He finished his beer and set the mug down on the table.
And that's when he saw him.
The man on the sidewalk wore a wrinkled blue suit and scuffed loafers. The tail of a white shirt hung below the back of his sport coat, and his hands were shoved into his pockets. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his face showed a bad case of five o'clock shadow. He looked like a perfectly ordinary businessman on his way home from work.
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Except for the moldy green blotch covering half his cheek.
Matt watched him walk by. The man had an angry look on his face, and muttered to himself as he passed. The decay on his cheek grew larger right in front of Matt's eyes, and when Blue Suit got to within a few feet, the smell of decay came with him. Matt had a hard time not gagging on the stench, but managed to keep the reflex in check.
Blue Suit walked right by his table and kept going. Matt tried to keep his eyes on him without being too obvious, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.
"What is it, Matt?" Abbey asked.
"Who is that guy? The one in the suit?"
Abbey looked over Matt's shoulder. "That's Brad Linderholm. He's a local stockbroker. Why?"
Matt turned back to look at her, and almost choked.
There, about twenty feet behind Abbey and looking far too happy for Matt's liking, was Mr. Dark.
CHAPTER FOUR
He didn't look quite the same as he had before. The smile was still there, but the outfit had changed. Still, Matt knew Mr. Dark when he saw him, and right now, the asshole was laughing at him. "Hello, Mr. Cahill? Having a nice dinner?"
Matt shot from his chair. Finally! He'd caught up to Mr. Dark. This time he would get the answers he needed.
"Matt?" Abbey asked. "What is it?"
Matt ignored her, focusing on Mr. Dark. He stepped around the table and moved toward the man who'd been haunting his dreams. The muscles in Matt's arms twitched as he imagined himself choking the life out of him.
Mr. Dark laughed. "Did you happen to see my friend Mr. Linderholm? I wonder where he's going. Don't you want to find out? Of course, you can stay here with me, instead."
Shit! Brad! Matt turned to see which way the man in the blue suit had gone. He caught a glimpse of Linderholm walking around a corner. The sores on the side of his face had gotten bigger, nearly engulfing his whole head. Whatever Linderholm was doing, it wouldn't be long before someone got hurt. Maybe a lot of people. Matt recalled the way his lifelong friend, Andy, had gone off the deep end and murdered half a dozen people after being afflicted by Mr. Dark's touch. Could the same thing be happening with Brad Linderholm? Could he take that chance?
Damn!
"Matt?" Abbey asked again. "What are you staring at?"
Mr. Dark laughed again, his glittering black eyes daring Matt to make a choice: save someone or confront the evil son of a bitch who'd brought so much pain into his life.
Matt made his choice. "I have to go, Abbey," he said, and turned to run after Linderholm.
Mr. Dark's laughter followed him down the street.
# # #
Matt ran around the corner, chasing after the blue suit. He pushed and shoved his way through a small crowd of people, trying to keep Linderholm in sight. Fortunately, in a small town like Crawford, there were never any big crowds, and although Matt couldn't quite catch up, he was able to keep the back of the man's blue sport coat in sight. After a few minutes, Brad walked out of the busy district and onto the side streets. There the crowd thinned, and Matt was able to keep a safe distance without fear of losing sight of the man.
He followed him for several blocks, past a carpet store, a diner, and a small house with a sign on the front lawn that said "Madame Carla's Tarot Reading. Know what tomorrow has in store for you today!" Matt shook his head. Fuck tomorrow. Today was hard enough.
A few blocks later, Brad turned right into the driveway of a white two-story house. It was nicely trimmed, with a white fence, a neat, tidy lawn and a blue BMW in the driveway. Brad spat on the BMW as he walked by, leaving a sticky wad of greenish goo on the car's hood. He reached the front door and shoved his hand into his pocket. From where Matt stood, he heard the jangle of keys. He could also smell the odor of decay, and see the moldy green of Brad's hands. The rot had spread that far in just the short time it took him to walk from the restaurant to the house. Not good.
Here we go, Matt thought.
Brad stepped into the house, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Matt stalked up the driveway, waiting to hear shouting or screaming. He noticed the license plate on the BMW. JOHNSON1.
Johnson? I thought Brad's last name was Linderholm. Unless his wife…
Then it clicked.
Matt stood up and sprinted into the house, hoping to catch Brad before he could kill his wife and her lover. He didn't know who Johnson was, but he was willing to bet that Brad did.
Just inside the door was a foyer with three openings. The one on the right led into a large living room. The one on the left led down a long, windowed hallway with several doors. The one directly in front of him led to a stairway. He spent a few precious seconds trying to decide which way to go, then theorized that the master bedroom would probably be on the second floor. Halfway up the stairs his reasoning was justified as a trio of voices began yelling.
Two men, one woman, he noted. He couldn't understand the words, as they were muffled by doors and walls, but he was able to make out the tone, and it wasn't good. He ran up the rest of the stairs and stood on the landing. A hallway branched off in either direction. Matt paused, listening.
"Bitch! You fucking, whore-ass bitch!" That had to be Brad, and it came from the left. Matt ran. At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stood open, revealing a shadow on the floor.
"Put the gun down, Brad," a woman's voice cried. "Please! You don't want to do this!"
"The hell I don't!" Brad replied. The shadow on the floor moved. Matt noted the raised shape, which looked like an arm pointing deeper into the room. "Say good-bye, Laura."
He wasn't going to make it. He did the only thing he could think of.
"Stop!" Matt shouted. "This is the police!"
"Fuck!" Brad's voice again.
"Help me! He's crazy!" That would be Laura. A third voice, a man's voice, joined in the chorus but Matt couldn't make out his words.
"Put the gun down, Mr. Linderholm!" Matt ordered, trying his best to sound like a cop.
The shadow arm lowered, and Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He stood just outside the door now, not wanting to go into the room until he knew the gun was on the floor. "That's good. Now, drop the gun. Nice and slow."
"Oh thank God." Laura's voice. "Thank you, Officer."
The other man in the room, Johnson, whimpered, but Matt couldn't tell if he was talking or just blubbering.
"Hell with this," Brad said. The shadow arm snapped up again, but this time it pointed the other way, back towards the hallway. Matt couldn't figure out what it meant. At least, not until the shot went off and a piece of the door exploded two inches in front of his face.
"Fuck!" Matt screamed. He dove for the floor just as another round tore through the door right where his head had been and thudded into the wall opposite.
"You don't sound like a cop," Brad jeered. "Where's your authority now, fucker?"
Two more shots split the door in half. One of the rounds embedded itself into the floor by Matt's feet. The other tore a line of fire across his shoulder. Matt yelped. That fucking hurt! He looked at the wound and was relieved and horrified to see it was just a graze. Relieved because he knew he'd be fine, and scared because now that he knew how much a grazing bullet hurt, he was in no hurry to find out what a solid hit felt like.
Brad Linderholm, his blue suit wrinkled and his shoes scuffed, stepped around the splintered door and out into the hall, his gun leading the way. It was a big bastard, too. It looked like a hand-held cannon. But that wasn't what drew Matt's attention.
When he had seen Brad near the restaurant, his face had just begun to fester. Now it looked as though Brad had been dead for a month or more. His face was half rotted away, allowing Matt to see the bone of his lower jaw. What flesh remained on the skull was limp and gray, and a host of insect larvae had set to devouring it. The stench of rot flowed into the hall like a thick, noxious cloud, making Matt gag despite the severity of his situation.
He scrambled backward, but soon found his back aga
inst the far wall. Brad smiled, his face dripping bits of flesh on the floor as the tattered muscles forced his lips into a grin.
"You're no cop," he said, and leveled the gun at Matt's head. Matt closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
"I am," came a voice from down the hall. It was followed by a gunshot. The loud crack of the shot sounded like Armageddon in the confines of the hall, and Matt would have sworn his ears split open. At first, he thought Brad had done it. He'd pulled the trigger and blown Matt's brain all over the wall behind him. But he hadn't felt any pain. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He couldn't remember the last time he died. Had he felt pain then?
"Son of...a...bitch..." Brad's voice. But it sounded strained, almost a wheeze.
Matt opened his eyes. Brad still stood in front of him, but the big gun was now pointed at the floor. Brad held his left hand clamped over his heart, where a large red stain grew bigger by the second. His face was turned down towards his chest, probably watching as his blood drained away. "Fucking...bitch..."
Brad slumped to the floor, his torso leaned sideways against the wall. The gun fell to the hardwood with a clatter. As he died, the rotting sores vanished, leaving his face clean and smooth, an ordinary man after a day at the office. Just like Andy, Matt thought.
The sound of a woman weeping came from the bedroom, as well as a man's voice saying "Oh shit oh shit oh shit" over and over again. Matt could sympathize. If he had his voice, he'd probably be saying the same thing.
"Well, look who's here," said a voice behind him. "We meet again."
Matt turned to see the cop from Abbey's, Dale, standing ten feet away, his gun raised and pointed at Matt. He didn't look happy.
"You mind telling me just what the fuck you're doing here, Matt?"
CHAPTER FIVE
"Well?" Dale asked. Matt couldn't help but notice that the lawman had yet to holster his pistol. A thin trickle of smoke rose from the barrel. It wasn't as big as Brad's gun, but it could still put a big hole in something. Or someone.
Matt found his voice. Finally. "I was just trying to help."