The Dead Woman

CHAPTER FOUR

He didn't look quite the same as he had before. The smile was still there, but the outfit had changed. Still, Matt knew Mr. Dark when he saw him, and right now, the asshole was laughing at him. "Hello, Mr. Cahill? Having a nice dinner?"

Matt shot from his chair. Finally! He'd caught up to Mr. Dark. This time he would get the answers he needed.

"Matt?" Abbey asked. "What is it?"

Matt ignored her, focusing on Mr. Dark. He stepped around the table and moved toward the man who'd been haunting his dreams. The muscles in Matt's arms twitched as he imagined himself choking the life out of him.

Mr. Dark laughed. "Did you happen to see my friend Mr. Linderholm? I wonder where he's going. Don't you want to find out? Of course, you can stay here with me, instead."

Shit! Brad! Matt turned to see which way the man in the blue suit had gone. He caught a glimpse of Linderholm walking around a corner. The sores on the side of his face had gotten bigger, nearly engulfing his whole head. Whatever Linderholm was doing, it wouldn't be long before someone got hurt. Maybe a lot of people. Matt recalled the way his lifelong friend, Andy, had gone off the deep end and murdered half a dozen people after being afflicted by Mr. Dark's touch. Could the same thing be happening with Brad Linderholm? Could he take that chance?

Damn!

"Matt?" Abbey asked again. "What are you staring at?"

Mr. Dark laughed again, his glittering black eyes daring Matt to make a choice: save someone or confront the evil son of a bitch who'd brought so much pain into his life.

Matt made his choice. "I have to go, Abbey," he said, and turned to run after Linderholm.

Mr. Dark's laughter followed him down the street.

# # #

Matt ran around the corner, chasing after the blue suit. He pushed and shoved his way through a small crowd of people, trying to keep Linderholm in sight. Fortunately, in a small town like Crawford, there were never any big crowds, and although Matt couldn't quite catch up, he was able to keep the back of the man's blue sport coat in sight. After a few minutes, Brad walked out of the busy district and onto the side streets. There the crowd thinned, and Matt was able to keep a safe distance without fear of losing sight of the man.

He followed him for several blocks, past a carpet store, a diner, and a small house with a sign on the front lawn that said "Madame Carla's Tarot Reading. Know what tomorrow has in store for you today!" Matt shook his head. Fuck tomorrow. Today was hard enough.

A few blocks later, Brad turned right into the driveway of a white two-story house. It was nicely trimmed, with a white fence, a neat, tidy lawn and a blue BMW in the driveway. Brad spat on the BMW as he walked by, leaving a sticky wad of greenish goo on the car's hood. He reached the front door and shoved his hand into his pocket. From where Matt stood, he heard the jangle of keys. He could also smell the odor of decay, and see the moldy green of Brad's hands. The rot had spread that far in just the short time it took him to walk from the restaurant to the house. Not good.

Here we go, Matt thought.

Brad stepped into the house, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Matt stalked up the driveway, waiting to hear shouting or screaming. He noticed the license plate on the BMW. JOHNSON1.

Johnson? I thought Brad's last name was Linderholm. Unless his wife…

Then it clicked.

Matt stood up and sprinted into the house, hoping to catch Brad before he could kill his wife and her lover. He didn't know who Johnson was, but he was willing to bet that Brad did.

Just inside the door was a foyer with three openings. The one on the right led into a large living room. The one on the left led down a long, windowed hallway with several doors. The one directly in front of him led to a stairway. He spent a few precious seconds trying to decide which way to go, then theorized that the master bedroom would probably be on the second floor. Halfway up the stairs his reasoning was justified as a trio of voices began yelling.

Two men, one woman, he noted. He couldn't understand the words, as they were muffled by doors and walls, but he was able to make out the tone, and it wasn't good. He ran up the rest of the stairs and stood on the landing. A hallway branched off in either direction. Matt paused, listening.

"Bitch! You fucking, whore-ass bitch!" That had to be Brad, and it came from the left. Matt ran. At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stood open, revealing a shadow on the floor.

"Put the gun down, Brad," a woman's voice cried. "Please! You don't want to do this!"

"The hell I don't!" Brad replied. The shadow on the floor moved. Matt noted the raised shape, which looked like an arm pointing deeper into the room. "Say good-bye, Laura."

He wasn't going to make it. He did the only thing he could think of.

"Stop!" Matt shouted. "This is the police!"

"Fuck!" Brad's voice again.

"Help me! He's crazy!" That would be Laura. A third voice, a man's voice, joined in the chorus but Matt couldn't make out his words.

"Put the gun down, Mr. Linderholm!" Matt ordered, trying his best to sound like a cop.

The shadow arm lowered, and Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He stood just outside the door now, not wanting to go into the room until he knew the gun was on the floor. "That's good. Now, drop the gun. Nice and slow."

"Oh thank God." Laura's voice. "Thank you, Officer."

The other man in the room, Johnson, whimpered, but Matt couldn't tell if he was talking or just blubbering.

"Hell with this," Brad said. The shadow arm snapped up again, but this time it pointed the other way, back towards the hallway. Matt couldn't figure out what it meant. At least, not until the shot went off and a piece of the door exploded two inches in front of his face.

"Fuck!" Matt screamed. He dove for the floor just as another round tore through the door right where his head had been and thudded into the wall opposite.

"You don't sound like a cop," Brad jeered. "Where's your authority now, fucker?"

Two more shots split the door in half. One of the rounds embedded itself into the floor by Matt's feet. The other tore a line of fire across his shoulder. Matt yelped. That fucking hurt! He looked at the wound and was relieved and horrified to see it was just a graze. Relieved because he knew he'd be fine, and scared because now that he knew how much a grazing bullet hurt, he was in no hurry to find out what a solid hit felt like.

Brad Linderholm, his blue suit wrinkled and his shoes scuffed, stepped around the splintered door and out into the hall, his gun leading the way. It was a big bastard, too. It looked like a hand-held cannon. But that wasn't what drew Matt's attention.

When he had seen Brad near the restaurant, his face had just begun to fester. Now it looked as though Brad had been dead for a month or more. His face was half rotted away, allowing Matt to see the bone of his lower jaw. What flesh remained on the skull was limp and gray, and a host of insect larvae had set to devouring it. The stench of rot flowed into the hall like a thick, noxious cloud, making Matt gag despite the severity of his situation.

He scrambled backward, but soon found his back against the far wall. Brad smiled, his face dripping bits of flesh on the floor as the tattered muscles forced his lips into a grin.

"You're no cop," he said, and leveled the gun at Matt's head. Matt closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

"I am," came a voice from down the hall. It was followed by a gunshot. The loud crack of the shot sounded like Armageddon in the confines of the hall, and Matt would have sworn his ears split open. At first, he thought Brad had done it. He'd pulled the trigger and blown Matt's brain all over the wall behind him. But he hadn't felt any pain. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He couldn't remember the last time he died. Had he felt pain then?

"Son of...a...bitch..." Brad's voice. But it sounded strained, almost a wheeze.

Matt opened his eyes. Brad still stood in front of him, but the big gun was now pointed at the floor. Brad held his left hand clamped over his heart, where a large red stain grew bigger by the second. His face was turned down towards his chest, probably watching as his blood drained away. "Fucking...bitch..."

Brad slumped to the floor, his torso leaned sideways against the wall. The gun fell to the hardwood with a clatter. As he died, the rotting sores vanished, leaving his face clean and smooth, an ordinary man after a day at the office. Just like Andy, Matt thought.

The sound of a woman weeping came from the bedroom, as well as a man's voice saying "Oh shit oh shit oh shit" over and over again. Matt could sympathize. If he had his voice, he'd probably be saying the same thing.

"Well, look who's here," said a voice behind him. "We meet again."

Matt turned to see the cop from Abbey's, Dale, standing ten feet away, his gun raised and pointed at Matt. He didn't look happy.

"You mind telling me just what the fuck you're doing here, Matt?"