The Dead Woman

DAVID McAFEE

Copyright © 2011 by Adventures In Television, Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

A bump in the road jolted Matt awake just in time to read the sign welcoming him to Crawford. He checked the road atlas in his duffel. The dim light in the cabin of the GrayLine bus made it difficult to read, and the fact that the driver seemed determined to ride over every pothole in the fucking road didn't help. After flipping through a few pages, he came to Tennessee. Then, just as he'd done back in Nevada when he bought his ticket, he ran his finger along Interstate 30 until he found the tiny speck that represented the town.

Crawford, Tennessee, population 5,421. At the time, it was as far as he could get on the money in his pocket. From here he'd have to walk, at least until he could find a few days' work to put more cash in his hand. Then he'd buy another ticket and go...somewhere. He didn't really know where yet. Mr. Dark didn't exactly leave a forwarding address.

The drive from Nevada had been long, but he was able to get some sleep, even if the seats in the bus weren't very comfortable. At least it was cheaper than a motel, which he couldn't afford anyway. He'd have to find something, though. A town the size of Crawford probably didn't have a Y.

The bus pulled into town just as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, slowing down in what passed for Crawford's downtown district. A few buildings here and there rose to three or four stories, and an aging brick post office stood next to a silver, fifties-style diner on the left side of the street. On the right, the courthouse sat in the middle of a large, manicured green lawn. The white concrete building was the most modern thing he'd seen in the town so far, and sported an entire floor of tiny barred windows. Like a lot of small towns, Crawford must keep its jail right inside the courthouse.

Convenient.

The bus pulled up to the courthouse and stopped. The hiss of brakes accompanied the metallic squeal of the vehicle's door as the driver opened it to let Matt out.

'Here?' Matt asked.

The driver—a chunky, balding man who looked eighty but was probably much younger—smiled, showing Matt a handful of discolored teeth amid his brown, swollen gums. 'Ain't no terminal in Crawford, son,' the man said. 'Too small. Courthouse is the best I can do.' With that, the driver grabbed a clear plastic bottle, brought it to his lips, and spat out a thick brown wad.

Mat stepped off the bus, his duffel bag in hand, and waited for the driver to follow him. The driver rose from his chair amidst a volley of creaks, cracks, and grunts and stepped off the bus behind Matt.

Matt followed him to the middle of the bus, where the driver produced a set of keys and unlocked the bottom compartment.

'It should be in the back,' the driver said.

Matt poked his head inside. There, nestled against the back of the compartment, was his ax. It lay snug between two pieces of soft red luggage, probably the property of the dirty blonde in the back row. The driver had said he'd make sure it was safe. Matt pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket and handed it over.

'Thanks,' he said.

'You're welcome,' the driver replied.

Matt pulled the ax from the hold, smiling at the reassuring weight of it in his hands, and waited for the question. Why you carryin' that thing around, anyway? He'd been asked the same by dozens of people from Oregon to Nevada, and by the look on the driver's face, he wanted to ask, too. All Matt could ever think to say was that the ax had belonged to his grandfather, and it was sentimental. But the driver didn't ask. Instead, the old man closed the compartment door, then turned around and walked back to the front of the bus, shaking his head and muttering to himself. His chorus of bodily creaks and pops went with him.

As the bus pulled away, Matt put the ax into his duffel bag and looked around. The sleepy foothills town was just starting to wake up. A few cars ran up and down the road, their headlights still ablaze in the early morning light. The small diner he'd seen from the bus was closed, but down the street he saw the bright yellow M of a McDonald's. The rumble in his belly reminded him he hadn't eaten much of anything the last couple of days. Bus terminal food consists mainly of whatever can be found in the vending machines.

He checked his wallet and found twelve dollars. That would be enough for breakfast. Hopefully the restaurant would have a newspaper and he could check the want ads. He didn't need much. A few days chopping wood on a farm would pay more than enough to get him to his next stop, wherever that turned out to be.

Matt started walking down the street. Several signs hung out on the sidewalk proclaiming local businesses; a tax specialist here, a law office there, even a tanning salon advertising its location with a picturesque scene showing a bright yellow sun shining down on a bronze woman who had clearly had some work done. A row of young weeping willows lined the road, their wispy branches swaying in the light breeze. A sign on the corner told him he was on Main Street. He could've guessed as much, given the courthouse. Quaint.

Just as he reached the parking lot of the McDonald's he caught the sound of a siren in the distance, which soon turned into several. Long and low, with a slow warble. Police sirens. Matt stopped and waited, listening to the sounds as they drew closer. Soon they were joined by the more rapid, high-pitched scream of an ambulance. In the distance, Matt saw the telltale red and blue glow over the tops of some buildings.

Then a police car burst into view, turning on Main Street and whizzing past the McDonald's. Two other identical cars followed immediately behind. All three cars were white Ford Crown Victorias with the words 'Crawford Police' stenciled on the side in big blue letters. Behind them, the ambulance brought up the rear, a big white and orange Ford that read 'Blake County Emergency' on the side. It whizzed by the restaurant and, like the police cars, disappeared down the street, the siren fading in the distance.

Matt turned his back on the emergency vehicles and walked into the McDonald's. Above the counter, brightly lit menu options glowed. The images of the food made his stomach growl, and he stepped up to the counter. A slender young woman who looked barely old enough to buy beer stood behind the register. She wore her long brown hair tied in the back—probably due to restaurant policy— and wore a tag on her shirt that read, 'Hi. My name is Annie.'

Annie paid him no attention. Her face was locked in the direction of the departing emergency vehicles. After a few moments, she shook her head.

'Looks like they found another one,' Annie whispered.

'Another what?' Matt replied, but Annie ignored him. Matt turned back towards the cars. Only the red and blue glow was still visible. He could barely see it above the buildings on Main Street. Then, after a few seconds, even that disappeared.

Once the lights were gone, the girl seemed to come back to life. She turned towards Matt, smiled, and cleared her throat. 'Can I help you, sir?'

Matt looked up at the menu again. 'The biscuits and gravy, please. And a medium coffee.'

'Yes, sir. That'll be $4.38.'

Matt handed her five one-dollar bills and waited for his change.

'Will there be anything else?' Annie asked.

'Yes,' Matt said. 'What did you mean when you said they must have found another one? Another what?'

For the first time, Annie actually looked at Matt. Her eyes took in Matt's clothes, his dusty jeans and wrinkled