THE DEAD WOMAN

by Goldberg, Lee

  Matt looked back at the picture and took it in. The cars, the clothes, the way Abbey's hair was styled. Like Rita Hayworth's but not as dark. "When was this taken?

  Abbey sighed. "Nineteen forty-seven." She walked over and grabbed the picture from Matt's hand and placed it back on the wall, tracing the outline of Clark's face with her index finger. Her lips bent up into a rueful smile. "The same year we got married."

  Matt stared back at her, his mouth agape. Nineteen forty-seven? Sixty-four years ago? But she looked exactly the same. "How...?"

  "What do you say we go have a drink, cowboy?" Abbey asked.

  Matt looked at his watch. "It's only ten a.m."

  Abbey folded her arms over her chest. "Do you honestly give a fuck what time it is?"

  "No," Matt replied, looking at the picture on the wall. A picture that told him he'd just slept with a woman who had to be in her eighties. "Not really."

  # # #

  "I was pretty wild back then," Abbey said. "Clark loved that about me. We would party all night long and sleep through the day."

  They were seated at a small corner table at a restaurant called the Candlewood. The place was open and airy, with a shitload of miscellaneous movie memorabilia plastered all over the walls. One such wall was devoted to Marilyn Monroe, while another was covered with movie posters featuring Clark Gable. Their wall, Matt noted, housed the restaurant's Alfred Hitchcock collection. It seemed fitting.

  The place had opened at ten o'clock, and so did the bar, but for the moment they were the only two people in the bar section. No one else in town, it seemed, had cause to drink before noon. Abbey held a glass of Grand Marnier in her hand, while Matt nursed a beer.

  "Must have been hard to make a living that way," Matt noted.

  "You don't know the half of it," Abbey replied. "Neither one of us could hold down a job, but Clark's father was wealthy. When he died, he left everything to Clark, and that's when we got married and bought the Buick."

  "Clark looked pretty happy in that picture," Matt said.

  "We were," Abbey said. "Both of us."

  "What happened?"

  "I died."

  "That seems to be going around," Matt said. "How?"

  Abbey turned her glass up and downed the remaining liquor in a single gulp. Her face tensed, and she set the glass back on the table. "Drug overdose. Heroin. I wasn't dead for three months, though. More like three hours. Clark came home from work and found me. He took my pulse, realized I was dead, and called the medics."

  "The medics?"

  "We didn't call them EMTs or paramedics back then, but they were essentially the same thing. You have to realize, there was no 911 emergency system. Every branch of emergency services—police, fire, medical—had its own number and location. We called the people who responded to medical emergencies medics."

  Matt nodded and took a drink of his beer. "And?"

  "I woke up before the medics arrived. It really freaked Clark out."

  "What did the medics have to say about it?"

  "I managed to convince Clark he was mistaken, and that I'd only fainted. Once he believed, the medics accepted it. After all, he didn't know a damn thing about medicine. They told him not to panic next time and that they'd be sending us a bill. But I know the truth. I died. Just like you. And the next day, I started seeing these weird blotches on people. Some had it worse than others, and some people looked like they'd been dead for years. Those people were usually the mean ones. The things I saw them do..." Abbey shuddered. "Anyway, it didn't take long to figure out what the sores and rot represented."

  "Did you tell anyone?" Matt asked.

  "Are you crazy?" she replied. "I'd just overdosed on drugs. I figured it was a side effect or something. My husband was already looking at me like something out of a horror movie. I didn't want to make things worse. I figured it would pass. Of course, it didn't."

  "No," Matt agreed. "It didn't."

  The waitress came over and refilled Abbey's glass. She offered Matt another beer but he declined. Abbey raised her eyebrow but said nothing. After the waitress left, the two stayed silent for several long minutes. Matt was trying to figure out how to ask his next question, and couldn't quite get it out.

  Abbey must have noticed. "You have something else, don't you?"

  Matt nodded and finished the remainder of his beer. He wiped his lips with a napkin and leaned forward. "That picture, you said it was taken in 1947?"

  Abbey nodded. She took a drink from her fresh glass. "Shit, I need a smoke. Or even a lollipop. Goddamn anti tobacco lobby. Who goes to a bar and doesn't smoke? Fascist bastards."

  "How old were you?"

  "Twenty-six."

  "How is that possible?"

  Abbey smiled again. "I have no idea. But it must have something to do with my—with our—unique condition."

  Mat had never given much thought to that. He had always assumed that his life would run a normal course. As normal as a dead man running after a ghost could get, anyway. He figured he would someday grow old and eventually die. But if Abbey was right, then how many years did he have left? Would he be sitting in a bar in another sixty years looking exactly the same as he did now?

  "So," he said, "the antique shop..."

  "Was never my mother's," she finished. "Sorry about the lie, but I didn't know you then. Telling someone your mother was killed by a serial killer right before Christmas is a convenient way of getting people to change the subject."

  "No problem," he said.

  "I move around every few years," Abbey continued. "As you can imagine, it would get pretty complicated if I stayed in one town more than five or ten years."

  "I bet."

  "So what about you?" Abbey asked. "What do you plan to do with eternity?"

  This is it, Matt thought. You're never going to have a better chance to bring it up.

  "I'm going to catch Mr. Dark," he said, and waved the waitress over. Maybe another drink wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all.

  "Who the hell is Mr. Dark?" Abbey asked. "He a friend of yours?"

  Damn, Matt thought. He was just about to tell her how Mr. Dark had ruined his life when the door to the restaurant slammed open and a very angry Dale stormed in.

  "I knew it!" he said, pointing at Matt. "I knew you were with him!" Dale started walking towards them, his eyes blazing and his hand reaching for his baton.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dale's face was red. His eyes looked like twin slits. As he approached, his lip curled into a sneer. "You should have never come to Crawford, mister," he said, his speech just a bit slurred.

  Matt got to his feet and stepped away from the table, wanting more room just in case the worst happened. He didn't want any trouble with the police, but if Dale came at him with the baton, he wouldn't have a choice. Matt, no slouch at self-defense, readied himself for a brawl.

  Abbey stepped between them, putting her hand on Dale's chest. "Cut it out, Dale!" she shouted. "You're gonna get written up again, maybe even suspended."

  "This is between me and him," Dale said, and tried to move past Abbey. "You gonna let her stand there and protect you?"

  Abbey would have none of it. She stepped up to Dale, putting her face only inches from the enraged policeman's. "Dale, get out of here. Now!"

  "I ain't leavin'," Dale said. He pointed a shaking finger at Matt. "Not until he and I have a talk." A glint on his finger caught Matt's attention. Dale was still wearing his wedding ring.

  "You're drunk. Again!" Abbey said. "You're such an asshole. You're gonna lose your job if this gets back to the mayor."

  Dale stopped, then looked around the club. Dozens of eyes stared at the confrontation. By the looks on everyone's faces, Matt guessed this was not a new scene for any of them. Just how volatile had Abbey's marriage to Dale been? Maybe he was better off not knowing.

  Dale's shoulders slumped. "I ain't drunk," he said. His voice had lost quite a bit of volume but none of its anger. "I haven't had a single drink." />
  Abbey snorted.

  "Oh, you don't believe me, huh?" Dale asked. "Well who do you believe? Him?" Dale pointed at Matt again. "What kinda shit has he told you? Whatever it is, I'm willing to bet he hasn't told you everything."

  Fuck! Matt tensed. For the first time, it sunk in that Dale was a cop, with access to all sorts of information. Police records, fingerprints, and God knows what else. If he'd been checking up on Matt using police resources, there was no telling what he'd have been able to dig up. Here we go.

  Dale must have caught Matt's expression. "That's right, Matt. I know all about you. And I know all about Happy Burger, the sawmill, and Andy Goodis, too. Did you tell her about that?"

  Matt's fists clenched. He couldn't help it. Dale's words, along with his twisted face, brought back too many memories.

  # # #

  Andy lay on the ground in a growing pool of blood. The two blasts from the shotgun had obliterated his once massive chest. Jagged ribs poked out from the red, oozing mass where his best friend's heart had once been. Bits of bone and gore covered the floor directly behind the body. In the background, Silbert continued to whimper, perhaps thinking Matt would follow his friend's lead, after all.

  But all Matt could see as he lowered the smoking barrel was Andy's face. The rot and decay that had covered him were gone, leaving the skin smooth and undamaged. In that whole, unblemished expression, Matt saw the sadness his friend had borne his whole life. If only Matt had seen it sooner, maybe he could have done more to help. Then again, maybe not. Andy had always been a bit of an asshole, even when they were kids.

  Now it was too late.

  Matt's eyes fell to something else laying in the sawdust. A sticky wet lollipop. The calling card of Mr. Dark. And then Matt had his answer.

  Andy had always been a prick, but he'd never been a murderer. Not until he met Mr. Dark. From the rafters came the sound of Mr. Dark's gleeful laughter, and Matt realized what he had to do. He took one long last look at the body of the man who'd been his best friend his whole life, then turned to leave the mill.

  Laugh it up, you motherfucker, he thought. I'm coming for you.

  # # #

  "You don't know anything, Dale," Matt said sadly. "I loved Andy like a brother. No one misses him more than I do."

  "Then why did you kill him?" Dale didn't even try to hide the sneer in his voice.

  "Because," Matt whispered, "I had to."

  "Matt?" Abbey asked. "What's going on?"

  Matt looked at her, unable to speak. He could only shake his head.

  Dale beamed, his face triumphant. "Yeah, Matt. Tell her what's going on. Tell her all about how you shot Andy Goodis twice in the chest and then split town. Tell her how you killed the guy who'd been your best friend since you were kids. Go ahead, I bet she'd love to hear it."

  Abbey took a step back. Her hand went to her mouth as several people nearby gasped. "What?" she asked, looking at Matt. "What's he talking about?"

  The fear in her voice took the last bit of fight out of him. He tried to look at her, but all he could see was Andy's face. His sad, lifeless face as he slid to the floor in a wet, bloody heap. Matt's fault. Matt's finger on the trigger. Matt's failure to notice his friend's pain. His shoulders fell, and he shrugged his arms free of the people holding him back.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought," Dale said.

  "He's a murderer? Why isn't he in jail?" someone behind him asked.

  "Shit, Dale. Arrest that fucker!" someone added.

  "Can't," Dale said. "They never charged him with anything, but damned if I know why." He turned his sneer back towards Matt. "What happened, man? Your buddy go soft on you? Wanted to stop? That why you shot him?"

  Matt felt his anger rising. Bad enough he had to relive that same day in his mind over and over again, but to have some hick lawman accuse him of murder? It was almost more than he could take. Time to go, he thought, before I do something I'll regret.

  He stepped around Dale and Abbey. The other patrons in the restaurant gave him a wide berth. He heard their whispers as he walked by, but he couldn't understand them past the roaring in his ears. In his mind, all he could see was Andy. Dead.

  Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him around. Matt found himself face to face with Dale. Despite the officer's earlier words, he did, in fact, smell like booze.

  "Oh, no you don't," Dale said. "We still have a few things to talk about." He grabbed Matt by his shirt with his left hand and reared back with his right fist. "Here comes one."

  Matt whipped his hand around and knocked Dale's arm aside. Dale tried to recover but managed only to grab Matt's sleeve. Matt then grabbed the lawman by the collar of his shirt and jerked him forward, driving his forehead into the stunned police officer's face. Dale's eyes lost all focus, and his grip on Matt's sleeve lessened.

  "You don't know anything," Matt repeated, then shoved Dale backward. Dale flipped over a table, snapping it in two and sending a plate of food and a soda into the air with a crash. He landed hard on the other side amid a tangled mass of splintered wood and someone's lunch. Matt didn't stick around long enough to see if he was all right. He headed for the door in a rush. The crowd of people in front of him parted to let him pass.

  As he reached the door, he heard Dale's voice behind him. "Just keep on walkin', mister. When you get out the door, just keep on walkin'. You ain't welcome in Crawford no more."

  Yeah, Matt thought. Like I ever was.

  # # #

  Matt spent the rest of the day walking around the town. He kept his distance from the people he saw, not wanting to find out if Dale had told anyone else about his past. It turned out that he didn't need to worry about that. Crawford, Tennessee, was a small town, and Matt, who grew up in a small town himself, knew that news traveled fast in a place where the best entertainment around was the local gossip. It didn't take long before people were pointing at him in the street and whispering. Most of the town's residents avoided his eyes and crossed to the other side of the street when he approached. He heard a few of them mutter insults, but none of them did so loud enough for him to make out their words.

  Matt liked those people. They left him alone, giving him time to think.

  Every once in a while, Matt would come across someone who didn't avoid him. He liked those people a lot less than the others. This second group of people usually stood their ground and frowned or sneered at him as he walked by, almost daring him to try something. Matt didn't want any more trouble. He'd already had enough to last a lifetime.

  Just keep on walkin', Dale had said. You ain't welcome in Crawford no more.

  Matt intended to take that advice. The last thing he needed was a feud with the local police. No good could come of it, and it might slow him down too much to ever catch up with Mr. Dark again. It would be far better for everyone involved if he just left Crawford and everyone in it far behind and never set foot in the town again. But he couldn't go yet.

  His grandfather's ax was still at Abbey's.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Matt didn't know the way to Abbey's house, and he didn't want to ask for directions. With my luck, they'll arrest me just for asking, he thought. So he spent the day wandering around the area near Abbey's Antiques, hoping she would make an appearance. Then maybe he could explain away Dale's accusations.

  Yeah, right. What the hell am I gonna say? Abbey didn't know him and had no reason to believe anything he said. He should just cut his losses and go. But something kept him circling the area of the store. It took him a while to figure it out, but the walking helped to clear his head, and eventually he put his finger on it.

  She could see the sores, too.

  Of all the people Matt had met, she was the only one who could ever understand what he was going through. Even Rachel—the girl he left behind back in Deerpark—didn't get it, and she was in love with him. But Abbey knew what it was like. If anyone outside of his hometown would believe him about Andy's death, it would be her.

  Or s
o he hoped.

  Granted, it was a small hope, but it kept him hanging around Crawford when his better judgment told him to get lost.

  As another group of strangers moved to the far side of the street to avoid him, Matt walked past a newspaper machine. He'd passed it several times already but hadn't really noticed it. This time, the headline caught his eye.

  "KILLER STRIKES AGAIN," it read. Then below that, in smaller text: "Blake County Killer Claims Another Victim." Below the headline the article talked about the latest in a string of bodies. The photo showed none other than officer Dale Everett at the scene. In the background Matt could make out the black outline of a body bag lying on the bank of a creek. Other officers milled around in the photo, performing their various duties.

  Matt checked his pocket to see if he had the correct change, and came up with two quarters, a dime, and three pennies. He put the quarters into the machine, opened the door, and grabbed a copy of the newspaper. There was a wooden bench about a hundred feet down the street from the newspaper machine that offered a good view of Abbey's Antiques, so Matt sat down to read.

  According to the article, the latest body was that of a twenty-seven-year-old woman named Eloise Stinnet, and victim number seventeen for the Blake County Killer. Like the previous sixteen, she'd been young and attractive, with a gym-toned body and a head of long brown hair. Also like the previous victims, she'd been stabbed multiple times in the legs, arms, and chest with a large knife. All the bodies had exhibited ligature marks on their ankles and wrists, and each one had traces of ketamine in their system. The victims all had needle punctures in their arms, which explained how the killer administered the drug.

  Curiously, none of them had shown any signs of sexual assault, leading the police to believe the killer was impotent. Since the killer was meticulous about cleaning the bodies after he killed them, the police had very few other real clues. Still, the paper was full of theories the police were happy to share. Most of them read like your standard Hollywood profile. The killer was probably a while male aged twenty-five to forty-five, most likely quiet and unassuming, the type of person the neighbors would never suspect. He probably drove a nondescript van or SUV, which he could use to dispose of the bodies. And he probably had a garage, so he could clean up in private.