The Dead Woman

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.