THE DEAD WOMAN

by Goldberg, Lee

  "Save it," the officer said. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

  "But I—"

  "Now!"

  Abbey turned around to face Matt, who watched as the officer walked up behind her and pulled what looked like a thick plastic zip tie from his belt. Better than handcuffs, he thought.

  "We found Dale," the officer said to Abbey. "Alive. He told us everything. Next time you shoot a cop, make sure you kill him. Otherwise he's just gonna put the finger on you."

  "I'll take that under advisement," Abbey said. The look on her face could have cracked granite.

  Just as the cop was about to bind her wrists, Abbey spun into a low kick that sent him to the floor. The other cop fired his weapon, but the shot went wide and thudded into the wall behind Matt. Faster than Matt could follow, Abbey grabbed the gun from the downed officer and fired a round at the cop who was still on his feet, hitting him square in the chest. He flew backward into the hall as Abbey readjusted her aim and pointed the gun at the prone officer's head.

  "What was that advice you gave me about shooting cops?" she asked, winking. Then she pulled the trigger.

  Outside, new voices shouted in alarm at the gunshots, and the sound of a dozen booted feet pounded through the house. Abbey didn't seem to notice. She turned to face Matt.

  Matt had grabbed the only thing he could find to use as a weapon, his grandfather's ax, which Abbey had leaned against the wall. The familiar weight and heft felt like an old friend, and a comfortable warmth spread through him as he swung.

  Abbey pulled the trigger.

  The ax bit into her shoulder.

  Both of them went to the floor. Matt heard the bullet whizz by his head, missing him by a hairs breadth. He landed hard on his injured shoulder, sending fresh waves of pain through his whole body. The room blurred and spun, leaving him in a state of vertigo. The blood loss didn't help. He tried to stand, but somehow his feet wouldn't listen, and the last thing he heard was one of the cops yell, "She's alive!" just before he slid into darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "You should stay a few more days, just to be safe," Dr. Mayhew said. "The bullet missed your humerus and rotator cuff, but you still have some soft-tissue damage."

  Matt looked up from zipping his pants. "I'll be fine," he said. "I'm a fast healer." His left arm hung from the sling the doctor had given him, but he still had full use of his right. He extended his arm and shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you," he said.

  Mayhew snorted and left the room, muttering about stubborn patients. Matt watched him go, a smile on his stubbled face. The good doctor had sewn him back together after the paramedics brought him in two nights ago. He'd had a slug in his shoulder that had to be removed, and he'd lost a good deal of blood. Mayhew had removed the slug, and several pints of blood later Matt awoke feeling much better. Mayhew had then spent the entire next day telling Matt how lucky he was, that he could have lost the use of his arm, but Matt wasn't so sure.

  His mind kept flashing back to all the photos of Abbey in her house. Some of them were more than a hundred years old, yet she looked no older than thirty. Would that be his future, as well? He hoped not, but given the rapid state of his body's healing and the way Abbey hadn't aged at all in more than a century, he had to wonder if that last bullet would have killed him if he hadn't moved in time.

  He didn't know.

  And he didn't intend to find out.

  He slipped into his shoes, which were very hard to tie with one hand, and stood up. The hospital room reminded him of the one he'd had back at the university. Cold, white, barren, and far too expensive for his tastes. In the case of the university, they'd claimed he owed them millions but were willing to wipe the slate clean for a few more days of tests and tissue samples. Then, as now, he was sick of the room and just wanted to go.

  While Dr. Mayhew certainly wasn't trying to get Matt to stay for his own personal gain, the end result would be the same: Matt would sit in this damn white and bare room with several beeping machines until he went out of his mind.

  Further out of it, he corrected.

  "No, thanks," Matt said to himself. He grabbed the bag with his things. The only item missing was his ax, which the police had taken as evidence. He supposed he wouldn't be getting that back for a long time, if ever.

  He walked out into the hallway, already feeling better than he had when he'd woken up in the ER two days ago. Matt hadn't been lying when he told Dr. Mayhew he was a fast healer. He just chose to leave out how fast. Ever since he'd come back from the dead, his body had seemed stronger and more able to heal, and this time seemed no different. His left shoulder was sore, but that was about it, and his sprained wrist didn't hurt at all. Tomorrow morning there would likely just be an angry red scar on his shoulder. Next week there probably wouldn't even be that much.

  A blessing or a curse? Matt had no idea.

  Mr. Dark's jibe came back to him. You really are simple, aren't you? It makes me wonder why they chose you.

  So who the hell were "they?" And what did they want with Matt?

  One thing at a time, Matt, he thought. Get out of this damn hospital first.

  "Good fucking advice," he said, and left the room.

  # # #

  A familiar face was waiting to greet him when he reached the lobby. Officer Dale Everett hobbled up to him on a pair of shiny aluminum crutches. His left leg was heavily bandaged, but Dale was smiling for the first time Matt could recall. He extended his right hand to Matt. "Thanks for saving my life, Cahill," he said. "I was wrong about you. You're a good guy."

  "Glad to help, Officer," Matt replied. "I see you're feeling better."

  Dale snorted. "It's just one leg. I have another."

  Matt chuckled. "How is Abbey enjoying jail?"

  Dale said nothing, but his expression darkened. He looked at the floor and sighed.

  "What happened?" Matt asked.

  "Abbey escaped."

  "How?"

  "Somehow she got out of the wrist restraints. She killed both of the officers in the car and took off with the cruiser. We found it the next day about forty miles west, headed towards Nashville, but that's where the trail went cold."

  Matt looked at the front entrance of the hospital. The sun shone through the glass and hit the polished white floor, making the room a little too bright. Tiny motes of dust floated in and out of the sunbeam, whisked away by the wind of people walking by.

  "So she's out there. Right now. And no one knows where," Matt said.

  Dale nodded. Somehow, the room upstairs no longer seemed like such a bad place to be.

  "Damn," Matt said.

  "Yeah, that's about how I feel about it, too," Dale replied.

  The two stood in the lobby for several minutes, Matt lost in his thoughts of Abbey. Dale's thoughts were probably similar, but Matt wasn't about to ask. Matt had lost his wife to cancer several years ago. Dale had just lost his to another type of cancer, only in his case she wasn't dead, just gone. Probably planning her next killing spree. Knowing Abbey, it would eventually bring her back here to Crawford for revenge. Matt didn't think it would be a good idea to bring that up. Besides, Dale probably knew it, anyway.

  "So you've come to see me off?" Matt asked.

  "Sort of," Dale replied. "I came to offer you a ride. Want a lift to Cranston?"

  "You bet."

  # # #

  Twenty minutes later, Matt and Dale were headed east on Interstate 90 towards Cranston in a Crawford P.D. cruiser. Dale had been making small talk the whole way. How was Matt feeling? Did the doctor treat him well? Where was he headed next? Matt answered every question as precisely as he could, but he got the impression Dale was working up to something.

  Dale finally spilled it when they reached the Cranston city limits.

  "You know, Matt," he said, "there was a reward for information leading to the arrest of the Blake County Killer. Fifty thousand dollars."

  "That's a lot of money, Dale. But she escaped. She
won't be convicted."

  "Eventually we'll catch her," Dale replied. "When we do, we'll make sure she doesn't escape again. The reward will still be valid. If you leave me a way to contact you, I'll make sure you get it."

  Matt thought about it for a moment. Fifty grand was a lot of money. He could probably do a lot of good with it. Hell, maybe he could even buy a reliable car to get from place to place. And gas, and insurance, and maybe even a decent hotel every now and then. And then...

  Matt smiled and shrugged. And then what? Where would it stop?

  "When that day comes," he said, "give the money to the families of the officers Abbey killed the night she shot me."

  "You sure?"

  Matt nodded. "I don't need it. Hell, I couldn't really use it. Those guys died saving my life. Maybe it'll do their families some good."

  "I thought you'd say that." Dale pulled into the Gray Line terminal and parked the cruiser. Matt grabbed his bag and reached out to shake the cop's hand a final time.

  "Hang on," Dale said. "I have something for you." Dale got out of the car and walked around back. Matt shrugged and did likewise.

  Dale opened his trunk and pulled out Matt's ax. "Here you go, Cahill. You should probably take this with you."

  Matt, too stunned to speak, reached out and grasped the handle. The familiar warmth spread through his arm, and he couldn't help but smile as he held his grandfather's ax once again. He brought it close to his chest and looked up at Dale, who smiled a big, toothy grin.

  "Thank you," Matt said. "This means a lot to me."

  Dale nodded.

  "I thought it was evidence..."

  "You thought what was evidence?" Dale asked with a grin.

  "Thank you," Matt said again.

  "You saved my life. It was the least I could do."

  Matt shook Dale's hand one last time, then shoved the ax into his duffel bag and turned to walk into the terminal.

  # # #

  Matt sat on the bus, drinking a Coke he'd bought from the vending machine. He was the only passenger to depart from the Cranston terminal. The driver had inspected his duffel before letting him board and insisted he leave the ax in the compartment under the bus.

  "You can't bring that on board," the driver said, pointing at it.

  Matt knew the drill. He had placed the ax in the storage compartment and climbed into the bus.

  Now, half an hour later, he wanted a snack. He'd bought a bag of chips back at the terminal and stuffed them into his duffel for later. He unzipped the bag and rummaged through his belongings, searching for the blue and silver foil pack. It didn't take long to find it, but as he pulled it out, a small yellow envelope fell out of the bag and plopped onto the floor.

  Matt picked it up and examined it. The smell of rose perfume reached his nose.

  "Abbey," he breathed.

  The envelope contained an old photograph. He pulled it out and was not surprised to see it was the one of her and Clark at the car dealership.

  He couldn't imagine when she'd stuck it in his bag. The police had arrested her and taken her to the hospital while the paramedics revived him. The only possibility he could think of was that Abbey had paid him a visit in the hospital.

  He turned the photo over and read the back. Near the top right, in ink that had dried long before Matt was even born, someone had written the words Mina and Clark, October 14, 1947.

  Below that, in much fresher ink, she had written him a note.

  Matt,

  This was fun. We'll have to do it again sometime. The sooner the better.

  Abbey

  P.S. Mr. Dark says hello.

  So she had been Mina back in 1947. How many names had she taken over the years? What was her real name? Had she always been evil? Or had she once been like Matt? Just a poor soul who tried to fight the evil around her any way she could? Would Matt become like her if he couldn't stop Mr. Dark? He recalled Abbey's gleeful expression as she pumped two bullets into Annie's belly. Was that his destiny, as well?

  He stared at the picture for a few moments, then put it back into the envelope and shoved it into his bag. One thing at a time, Matt, he thought. One thing at a time.

  EPILOGUE

  Dale sat in the station watching the bulletins, looking for any sign of Abbey. So far there hadn't been any sightings, but that didn't mean anything. The United States is a big country, and Abbey could be anywhere in it. Hell, for that matter, she could have left the country altogether. He sighed, then leaned back into his chair, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. All the letters were starting to blur together. He'd been at this for days. Maybe he needed a break.

  He stood up and walked into the front entrance of the Crawford Police Department. The building was small and compact, but fairly modern. The town had built it in 2003 at a large cost to the taxpayers, but it had been necessary. The old P.D. was so outdated and ancient that one of the cell walls had collapsed in 2001, allowing several inmates to escape and putting another in the hospital. The large open lobby afforded him a view of the front doors, which were made from big sheets of bullet proof Plexiglas.

  Outside, a large black SUV pulled up to the station and parked in front of the doors. A big man in black sunglasses stepped out. He wore an impeccable black suit and black shoes that shone like glass. His head was clean shaven and free of any hint of stubble. Meticulous was the word that came to Dale's mind when he thought of the man's appearance.

  The stranger entered the station—he had to duck to fit his head under doorway —and took off his sunglasses. After several seconds spent looking around the lobby, his eyes settled on Dale, who was in full uniform. His face turned to concrete, and he approached. His walk was cool, measured, and confident. His demeanor exuded quiet control. Ex-military, Dale guessed.

  Dale stepped forward and extended his hand. "Officer Everett. Can I help you?"

  The stranger pulled a card from his pocket and placed it in Dale's outstretched hand. It bore the logo of some university hospital up north—Washington, he thought—as well as a name: Dr. Franklin H. Simpson, Phd. What the hell was a doctor from a Washington hospital doing in Crawford, Tennessee?

  "What can I do for you, Dr. Simpson?"

  Simpson frowned. His hard, chiseled features and solid, muscular body—only partially hidden by the suit—didn't remind Dale of any doctor he'd ever met. More like a linebacker or Special Ops team member. Dale knew some of the local SWAT guys from Cranston and they all had a similar bearing.

  If he's a doctor, Dale thought, then I'm Martha Fucking Stewart.

  "You might be able to help me, yes," Simpson said. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a photograph, which he handed over to Dale. "I'm looking for this man. I understand he passed through here recently. He's stolen some very valuable hospital property, and we would like it back."

  Dale checked the picture and barely kept from gasping out loud.

  Matt's face stared back at him.

  He handed the picture back. "Never saw him before."

  # # #

  Simpson opened the door to the SUV. Inside, Watts was waiting, passing the time by sharpening his Ka-Bar.

  "Well?" Watts asked, scraping the blade slowly along a piece of ceramic.

  "The officer inside says Cahill hasn't been here," Simpson said.

  "He telling the truth?"

  "No," Simpson replied, putting the SUV in drive and turning out of the parking lot. "He's been here, all right."

  "How long ago?"

  "A few days, maybe."

  "We're catching up," Watts said, pulling the blade along for another pass of the ceramic.

  "That we are," Simpson replied, smiling.

  "So where to now?"

  "There's only one town within a hundred miles that has a bus terminal."

  Watts looked at his knife, testing the blade with the tip of his thumb. He winced, then pulled his thumb back. A thin line of blood welled from the fresh cut. Good enough. "Cranston it is, then," he said.

&
nbsp; THE END

  If you enjoyed THE DEAD WOMAN, you won't want to miss THE DEAD MAN #5: THE BLOOD MESA by James Reasoner, the next adventure in the series. Here's an excerpt:

  CHAPTER ONE

  With fear shooting through his veins and his pulse hammering in his head, Matt Cahill twisted the key and tromped the gas, hoping he wouldn't flood the engine of the big two-and-a-half-ton truck. It cranked a couple of times with a maddening lack of results, then caught with a rumbling growl.

  Horrific, decaying figures that had been normal people only a short time earlier swarmed around the vehicle, howling in rage and blood lust. Several of them lunged in front of it, trying to cut off Matt's escape route.

  Matt didn't hesitate. He slammed the truck into gear and sent it lurching forward. The woman on the seat beside him screamed as the rotting creatures caught in front of the truck scrambled to get out of its way.

  Some of them made it, but one man wasn't fast enough. He threw up his arms and shrieked as the truck ran him down. Matt felt the bump as the heavy wheels passed over the body. Nothing could survive that.

  And just like that, Matt was a killer again, through no fault of his own, and he had to ask himself if it would ever stop.

  But it wouldn't, he knew, as long as he was a player in this game with no rules, this endless bloody chess match against the nightmarish figure that haunted him.

  Mr. Dark.

  # # #

  One day earlier

  Matt remembered a time, not so long ago, really, when it seemed like he would never be warm again.

  Spending three months buried under an avalanche, tons and tons of snow and ice, probably accounted for that. Once you'd survived something like that – somehow – you had to expect to be pretty chilled.

  But now all it had taken to convince him that, yes, indeed, he could be warm again, was a summer day in New Mexico, in the high, dry desert country of the Four Corners region.

  More than warm. Hot as blazes, actually.