The Dead Woman dm-4

by Lee Goldberg

  The Dead Woman

  ( dead man - 4 )

  Lee Goldberg

  Fourth book about Matt Cahill, a man who died in an avalanche, but didn't.

  A serial killer is stalking Crawford, Tennessee, and Matt is determined to stop the killing in The Dead Woman. But when his new love interest turns out to have his ability to spot evil, and Mr. Dark puts his fingerprints on the town’s terror, Matt is going to need help.

  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 j
eans and wrinkled shirt, then settled on the long duffel bag on the floor by Matt's feet. The girl's gaze lingered on the bag for a few seconds. Then she shrugged and looked up.

  "You're new around here, aren't you?" Annie asked.

  Matt nodded, thinking it was obvious. "Got here a few minutes ago. Just passing through."

  "You picked a bad place to stop, sir," she said, handing over the coffee. "Check the newspapers. Crawford's got a serial killer running around. The Blake County Killer, they call him. Been operating in this county for a couple of years now. Those cops—" Annie inclined her head in the direction the police had gone "—are probably on their way to check out another body."

  Something beeped behind the counter, and she turned around to grab Matt's biscuits and gravy. She set them down on a small brown tray and handed it across the counter. "Welcome to Crawford, sir."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The old single story building was made of dusty red bricks. The windows had a cloudy look, as though they hadn't been washed in a long time. Matt looked at the hanging sign above the peeling green door. "Abbey's Antiques" was written across it in curvy purple letters. Beneath the name of the shop was the address: 3411 Maple Street. Matt checked it against the one from the newspaper ad.

  Yup, he thought. This is the right place.

  A small brass bell mounted above the doorframe jingled as he stepped into the shop. The smell of dust and age waited inside like a low hanging mist, and pulled him into the store before he realized it. Behind him, the bell tinkled a second time as the door swung closed.

  "I'll be right with you," a woman's voice said from the rear of the store.

  "No hurry," Matt called out, as he looked around the store.

  Cluttered didn't begin to describe the layout of Abbey's. Thousands of items lined the shelves, aisles, and floor. Some even hung from hooks on the ceiling. Dust-covered pots, saws, picture frames, tea sets, figurines, and a host of assorted bric-a-brac sat in every available space, leaving just enough room for him to walk through.

  Light reflected off hundreds of colored-glass pitchers, glasses, and decanters. A crystal serving tray with a wolf's head etched into the surface sat on a stand on the counter, complete with a set of wolf's-head utensils. Antique signs advertising everything from Coke to Hoover vacuum cleaners covered the walls like posters of Justin Bieber in a tween girl's bedroom. And everywhere he looked, every item was covered with a layer of dust.

  He looked at the ad again. Wanted: Someone to help clear out excess inventory for storage. Short term. Pay negotiable. Apply at Abbey's Antiques, 3411 Maple St. Crawford.

  "Excess inventory," Matt whispered. "No shit."

  A few seconds later an attractive woman rounded the corner of an aisle and stepped into view. She looked to be in her late twenties, probably five and a half feet, with a slender, athletic build. She wore her blue and pink striped blouse—lightly covered in dust—tucked into a pair of Levis so tight they looked painted on. Her strawberry blond hair was tied back with a spotted blue bandana, and a pair of dirty white New Balance tennis shoe finished off the look. Despite the dust, Matt caught the scent of rose perfume. She raised her hand to tuck a wayward lock of hair back into place and offered him a smile that was anything but dusty.

  Matt's first thought was to wonder what a woman like this was doing in an antique shop. His second was to wonder how his hair looked. He made a mental note to thank Annie for pointing him towards the newspaper ad the next time he saw her.

  "I'm Abbey," the woman said, extending her hand. "Can I help you?"

  "Abbey?" Matt took her hand. The long, slender fingers curled softly against his skin. "From the sign?"

  "That's me. I own the place." She took her hand back and shoved it in her pocket. Matt noticed she wasn't wearing a ring. "What can I get you?"

  Matt held up the newspaper ad. "I'm here for the work."

  Abbey smiled again, even wider, if that was possible. "Thank God," she said. "I thought I was going to have to move all this shit by myself."

  "Where are you moving it to? The back room?"

  "Storage."

  "All of it?" Matt looked around at the various piles of trinkets from decades past.

  "Yeah," she replied. "Closing up shop. This place has been sucking money out of my bank account for too damn long."

  "Oh. Sorry to hear it."

  "It's okay. This store was my mother's dream, not mine. She named it after me." Abbey swung her arms out in a wide arc, encompassing the entire place. "She was never very organized."

  "Was?"

  Abbey looked back at Matt. "Yeah. She died a little over three years ago."

  "I'm so sorry," Matt replied.

  For the first time since he stepped into the room, Abbey's face grew hard. "She was one of the first victims of The Blake County Killer. Bastard got her on her way home from the store in December 2008. The cops found her car with a bunch of Christmas gifts in the trunk. They didn't find the body for weeks, and when they did, they had to identify her with dental X-rays because..." Abbey stopped, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my mouth just goes and goes without permission. You didn't come here to hear all that."

  "It's okay. I—"

  "The job is to help me load all this stuff up into a box truck and haul it to storage, where we'll unload it and come back for more until the place is cleaned out. Pay is ten dollars an hour. Cash. You interested?"

  "I thought the ad said the pay was negotiable."

  "Well, mister...what was your name again?"

  "Matt."

  Abbey nodded. "Matt, then. That was just to get you in the door. It's an old trick." She winked at him. "It's ten an hour. You want it or not?"

  "I'll take it, but only if you pay me daily."

  "You thinking about getting drunk tonight?"

  "I'm new in town. No friends or family. Just passing through, really. Gonna need a place to sleep. Even the cheap hotels won't let me pay for lodging with my good looks."

  Abbey laughed. "Tell you what, Matt," she said. "There's a back office with a cot and a bathroom on the far wall. It's even got a shower. Save your motel money. You can sleep there."

  "Sounds good," Matt replied.

  "Great. Now, get to work."

  Matt chuckled, but went to the back wall of the store. He had to turn sideways to get through the clutter, but he managed to get by. Once there he set down his duffel and took off his jacket. His gray T-shirt was thin, and would be ideal for a day of heavy lifting. When he turned around, he noticed Abbey staring at his arms.

  "Looks like I made a good choice," she said. "Can you rip a phone book with those things?"

  "I chopped a lot of wood back home," Matt said.

  "Farm boy, eh?"

  "Sawyer."

  Abbey nodded. She was about to open her mouth to speak when the bell above the door jingled again. Both of them turned to see a man in a khaki-colored police uniform step through the doorway. The newcomer was tall and thick, with dark beetle eyes and brown hair. The hard creases on his shirt and pants spoke to the care he gave his appearance, at least in uniform. His expression looked like he'd just tasted something sour, and the scowl lines on his face seemed permanent. He took off his wide brimmed hat and stepped farther into the building.

  "Sorry to bother you, Abbey."

  Abbey sighed. "It's all right, Dale. What do you need?"

  Dale looked at Matt. His eyes traveled the length of Matt's body, then settled on his face. "Who's this?" By the tone of his voice, Matt guessed the officer was not pleased by his presence.

  He stuck out his hand, anyway. "Name's Matt. I'm just here to help Abbey move all this sh—stuff."

  Dale didn't take Matt's hand. "Where you from, Matt?"

  Matt held his hand out for another moment, then took it back and stuck it in his pocket. "North," he replied. Fuck the guy if he didn't like it.

  Dale seemed about to say something else, but Abbey stepped in front of him. "Did you need something, Dale?"
/>
  Dale gave Matt one last hard look, then turned back to Abbey. "Just wanted to let you know they found another one. Over at Black Creek. Same as the others."

  Abbey gasped. Apparently, she hadn't seen the police cars or heard the sirens this morning. Matt had, but then again, Matt didn't sleep much these days.

  "Who?" she asked.

  Dale's eyes fell to his boots, and right away Matt knew that whoever the victim was, Abbey wasn't going to like it.

  "It was Eloise," Dale said finally.

  "Stinnet?" Abbey asked. "Jim's wife?"

  Dale nodded.

  "Well, ain't that a fucking trick!" Abbey yelled. "She accuses me of sleeping with him, and then she turns up dead. Is that why you're here, Dale? To arrest me? You know I never laid a finger on either one of them. I'd rather fuck a porcupine with no lubricant."

  "Damn it, Abbey. Don't you know me better than that by now?" Dale's eyes were earnest, even a bit moist, as though the big fellow might start leaking any minute.

  Matt took a step back, wanting to fade into the background. He shouldn't be part of this discussion. It felt like he was intruding, somehow.

  Dale noticed him and straightened his expression, clearing his throat as he did. "I just wanted to let you know, Abbey. Folks're liable to start talkin' again. I wanted you to be prepared."

  Abbey took a long, deep breath, and then her lips split into a wan smile. "Of course. Thanks, Dale. I appreciate it."

  "You're welcome." Just then, Dale's radio crackled, and a woman's voice called him back to the station. She sounded like an older lady who'd spent most of her life a smoker. Dale thumbed the volume down and gave Abbey one more look, then turned to go. He paused when his eyes settled on Matt again. "You know, Abbey, if you need to talk to someone... about anything... you can call me."

  "I know," she replied. "Thanks, Dale. I've got work to do, though."

  "Of course," Dale said. "Be careful." Even though he spoke to Abbey, his eyes never left Matt's face. "See you later."