The Dead Woman

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 The old P.D. was so outdated and ancient that one of the cell walls had collapsed in 2001, allowing several inmates to escape and putting another in the hospital.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.

THE END