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 The old P.D. was so outdated and ancient that one of the cell walls had collapsed in 2001, allowing several inmates to escape and putting another in the hospital.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.
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.
The heat came up from the asphalt of the highway's narrow shoulder through the soles of his boots and seemed to bake his toes. Pigs in a blanket, he thought.
The trucker had dropped him off a couple miles south of here, where the two-lane state blacktop crossed the interstate. Matt had intended to ride all the way to Gallup with the man, but when he had seen the red sandstone mesa rising from the desert to the north, something had told him that was the direction he needed to head. He had grown accustomed to following his hunches, even though they often led him into trouble.
"Not much up that way," the trucker had warned him, "and not much traffic on that road."
"I can walk," Matt had said, feeling confident that he could. Ever since he had returned to life after being frozen for three months under the avalanche, he had felt stronger and more vital than ever. "I want to take a closer look at that mesa."
The trucker had given him a sideways look but hadn't asked for an explanation, which was good because Matt couldn't have given him one.
What Matt hadn't reckoned on was how fast the blazing sun would leech all the juices and all the energy from a man. A dozen times while he was trudging along the blacktop, he had asked himself if he was crazy to be doing this.
And the answer, of course, was yes. He was crazy. But not just because he was walking up a New Mexico highway in the hot sun with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder that seemed to increase in weight with every step he took.
He was crazy because he saw things that couldn't be there, like the laughing, maniacal face of his personal nemesis, the creature he had dubbed Mr. Dark. He saw the rotting horror of evil on the faces of those touched by Mr. Dark.
Crazy or not, he knew in his heart those visions were real. They had led him to leave his native Pacific Northwest and wander the country. He didn't know why or how he had been brought back from death, but his instincts told him it had to have something to do with fighting Mr. Dark, doing his best to ruin the hideous creature's plans.