It was too late for Mrs. Hawkins. Matt had lost his odd and only confidant.
ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
9
* * * *
“Matt.”
A big hand landed on his shoulder as his name was spoken. Any other time, Matt might have been startled. He hadn’t heard Sheriff Stenley approach behind him. No, Matt had been lost, his mind focused on the image of Mrs. Hawkins’ body laid out on the stretcher and covered with a white sheet. Nothing could scrub that sight from his memory, not now, probably not ever.
“Matt.” This time the sheriff’s voice was softer, laced with something that sounded suspiciously like compassion and damned if it didn’t make Matt’s eyes burn fiercely. “Look at me, Matt.”
There
was the snarly tone he heard so often from the sheriff. It was accompanied by a sharp tug, pulling Matt around to face his boss. Sheriff Stenley looked back at him, his grey eyes filled with a mix of anger and concern. Deep lines were etched into the man’s handsome face, bracketing his lips and framing his eyes. Matt wondered if he was as pale as the sheriff was, if his own lips were flattened into a thin line as if to keep the grief inside.
Stenley pinned him in place with a look and two strong hands clamped to Matt’s shoulders. Matt waited for a reprimand; maybe the sheriff thought he hadn’t driven fast enough, had been too lax with the calls, believed this one was no different from the others Mrs. Hawkins made. Not even the sheriff knew of the relationship Matt and Mrs. Hawkins had formed, two lonely souls who just wanted someone to listen without judging.
But Stenley didn’t tear into him. A barely perceptible shift in the man’s expression somehow softened his whole appearance, and the sheriff merely looked tired and worried, the anger, at least any directed at Matt, vanished with a quiet sigh.
“We need to go back to the station and get started on this. I want the reports done and then you and I need to see if we can find out if Mrs. Hawkins had any next of kin. I can’t remember her having any visitors in the few years I’ve lived here, but that don’t mean she didn’t. Do you know if she had anyone?”
It was a logical question since Matt had lived in McKinton all his life, even commuting two and a half hours a day to college when he’d gone for his degree. Yeah, Mrs. Hawkins had a relative. One nephew, some shit-hot lawyer in New York who never visited even if he did call a couple of times a week. Obviously the guy couldn’t take the time to actually come to McKinton, at least not while Mrs. Hawkins had been…
ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
10
Matt shook the thought from his head. “There’s a nephew, up in New York. His number’s probably on the caller ID.”
Ignoring Stenley’s arched brow and inquisitive expression, Matt looked back over the yard. “Someone needs to take care of these critters until…until that nephew decides what he wants done with them. Is it okay with you if I see to them first before coming back to the office?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before the sheriff muttered his agreement. Matt figured Stenley would be asking him soon enough how he knew about the nephew’s number on the caller ID.
Carlin, the guy’s name is Carlin.
Mrs. Hawkins had offered to pull out a photo album once and show Matt pictures of her nephew, but Matt had politely declined, having already visited with Mrs. Hawkins too long.
Carlin probably wouldn’t even come to McKinton. He’d just have some other fancy attorney handle everything. That was okay, though. The people of McKinton would hold a service for Mrs. Hawkins, and it’d be a big one. For all her eccentric ways, she’d been a native of the town and that meant a lot to the people here. Obviously not enough for any of them to take the time to visit with Mrs. Hawkins, but that was their loss. She’d been a pretty amazing person and Matt felt blessed for having known her.
* * * *
By the time Matt finished taking care of the chickens, Sheriff Stenley had gone. Matt was glad for that as he wouldn’t have liked the man to hang around and witness Matt’s humiliation at the claws and beak of one pissed off rooster. The battle with the beast distracted Matt from his grief. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than swatting the chicken away without strangling the critter. Matt had several scratches on his forearms as thanks for his restraint.
Now he was done with the task and his heart ached for his loss. He shoved down his anger at the thought of this Carlin guy handling Mrs. Hawkins’ affairs and skirted around the front of his cruiser and over to the driver’s side door.
He stood and looked at the house where he’d spent time talking with Mrs. Hawkins. It wasn’t until his vision blurred that Matt realised tears were welling over his lids and down ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
11
his cheeks. She’d deserved someone to care about her, someone other than him and someone better than a nephew who was too busy to ever visit her.
Apparently his anger wasn’t quite as buried as he’d thought. Matt got in the vehicle and slammed the door before shoving the keys in the ignition. He just wished he knew who the hell he was so angry at, because right now, it seemed like the entire world deserved an ass kicking.
The sun was setting, turning the sky into an array of purples, oranges and yellows Matt might have appreciated another time. Right now all it served to do was darken alleys and increase the intensity of Matt’s crappy mood. He drove down the main street of McKinton and studied each person he passed, wondering about the few people he spotted. Did they have someone to talk to, someone who’d make sure they were taken care of if they needed help?
Matt frowned. Why was he so worried about this all of a sudden? Sure, he felt awful for Mrs. Hawkins, and the two of them had grown close really fast, but still. It was almost like something poked at him, prodding him to think about the situation some of the other residents could be facing. The very situation—he realised with startling clarity—he could someday be facing himself.
“Maybe that’s it then,” Matt mumbled. “Which is stupid. I’m young, there’s no reason for me to believe I’ll end up alone when I’m old.” Except he might, because he’d been having some thoughts for a while now, thoughts that confused the hell out of him. The one person he could talk about those things with was gone before she could ever help him find a resolution for his internal disquiet.
The scent of fresh baked cookies wafted through the cruiser. Matt’s skin prickled at the familiar odour. It reminded him of Mrs. Hawkins. Instead of reigniting the sharp throb of pain he felt at her loss, the aroma comforted him, easing his dark mood.
It felt so good to let go of the anger that had been springing up inside of him in random spates that Matt couldn’t bring himself to be freaked out. The mind played funny tricks on people, but at least this time, his was actually making him feel surrounded in the memories of Mrs. Hawkins.
ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
12
After another sleepless night, Matt crawled out of bed in something worse than a foul mood. Images of Mrs. Hawkins lying dead on her porch had tormented Matt the past two nights. There may have only been a little less than half an hour from when the call came in and the time he arrived, but during then, the poor woman had suffered a massive heart attack and died. She’d have been scared and hurting, probably even terrified of dying.
That more than anything ate away at Matt, the way his imagination kept filling in the last few moments of the widow’s life. He’d asked himself over and over if he’d hesitated, if he’d dawdled at all because Mrs. Hawkins put in calls for prowlers on a regular basis. Matt
knew
he’d rushed to the scene, had been prodded by the weird prescience that had crept over him, but still…had he hesitated at all? Was there one moment he’d lost that could have saved Mrs. Hawkins? Even the split second he’d stared in horrified shock at her abused body, had that cost her her life?
Matt grunted and stumbled to the bathroom, his bladder cramping severely enough that sweat broke out on his brow. He knew better than to drink like he had when he’d finally got home last night, but desperation for oblivion had him refilling his shot glass against his better judgement.
Matt sniffed and scowled at the bitter scent of sweat and alcohol rolling off him as he pissed. He stank, his head felt like someone had loaded his skull down with sharp rocks, and his stomach was on the verge of turning itself inside out to ditch the alcohol, or whatever dregs of it were hanging around the abused gut.
A few ibuprofen would help his head, and toast would line his stomach to keep it from cramping from the pain pills, and hopefully the bread would also soak up whatever lingered in there that wanted to climb back out. As for the odour, that’s what showers and soap were for.
After flushing the toilet, Matt washed his hands and brushed his teeth. He considered shaving, but the way his hands were shaking made that a task too daunting just now. He started the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as he thought he could stand, then turning the knob just a little more before stepping under the stinging spray.
ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
13
Matt groaned as the water burned his skin; damn, it was too hot but he needed the burn to wake him up and clear his head.
By the time he’d finished washing, barely giving a thought to the scar on his stomach or how it got there, Matt was surprised he didn’t have second degree burns all over his body.
However, his achy muscles were nicely relaxed, so that was worth potential skin grafts.
Right, dumbshit, it’s so much better to be sore until the ibuprofen kicks in.
Matt wondered if he’d suffered brain damage when he’d been stabbed. Maybe the loss of blood had killed off a few brain cells he really could have used.
Too late now
. Matt grabbed a towel from the bar and quickly dried off, giving his thick brown hair a tentative swipe. If he rubbed at it like it needed, his head might just blow up.
With the towel wrapped around his hips, Matt swiped at the bathroom mirror, groaning when he got a good look at himself. Dark bags under his eyes really set off the blue of his irises, making them almost as pale as Severo’s green ones. Normally Matt just called his eye colour blue; he was a guy, he didn’t give a shit about shades of blue other than dark, blue—which he figured was medium—and light. That was it, he didn’t need terms like cornflower or baby to describe the colour, but now, looking at the pale eyes peering back at him, Matt wondered what shade of blue they’d be considered.
Then he wondered why he gave a shit and promptly started finger combing the mess of hair on his head. He’d kept it shorter before…well, just before, but lately he hadn’t cared enough to keep up with his biweekly trims, and it showed. The unruly mass of hair was thick and wavy and almost curling on the ends at the back of his neck.
And that just wouldn’t do, he decided. Soft waves and curls would make
him
look soft and that definitely was
not
happening.
His image wavered in the mirror, splitting off into two blurry reflections of himself.
Matt squinted and rubbed his eyes which did nothing to help, instead creating two even fuzzier versions of himself. Except his hair was different, shorter. It had to be his subconscious nagging him about his appearance, just as it kept making him think he smelt those cookies, but he could fix that. Mind made up, the images merged, leaving Matt with his now clearly bedraggled face looking back at him.
Definitely need to lay off the liquor.
A glance at his watch told Matt he had about twenty minutes before he needed to leave for work. It was enough time for what he suddenly thought was a good idea. Brilliant, even.
Maybe he should listen to his subconscious more often.
ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
14
* * * *
Carlin Douglas hated McKinton. Small town, small minds, he was sure of it. His one visit here when he’d been a teen had confirmed it. There’d been a vicious attack on a gay man back then, and the fear that had flooded Carlin had him packing his bags and demanding his aunt send him back home to New York immediately.
For a boy who’d just accepted he was gay, and was actually kind of revelling in the knowledge—because he finally,
finally
got why he didn’t get a woody around Becky Thompson—being anywhere he could potentially be killed for his newfound bit of self discovery was absolutely terrifying.
He’d told his aunt just that, and she’d taken it well, almost like she already knew. Years later, Aunt Mary had confirmed his suspicions and claimed she’d known he was gay before he did. She was probably right.
Of course, Aunt Mary had become one of his most staunch supporters when his dad had freaked out about him being gay. Luckily his dad eventually got past his own issues.
Carlin looked around at the shops lining Main Street. He fucking
hated
McKinton, and no doubt there’d be some hick-ass police department, some inbred three-toothed sheriff who spat snuff out between the gaps in those three teeth, straight onto the carpet…wait.
Would they have carpet? Or would there be dirt floors? Carlin knew he was being unfair, every bit as judgmental as the people he was condemning in this town. He was an ass, no doubt, but it was all that was keeping him from thinking about his Aunt Mary’s death.
Sometimes snark was his salvation, and wasn’t that pathetic?
“How…quaint,” Carlin muttered as he pulled his rental car into the hotel parking lot.
“A run-down motel. Of course. Fucking figures there wouldn’t even be a damned bed and breakfast here.” Staying at Aunt Mary’s was the only other option, but he couldn’t do that.
Carlin turned the car off and groaned as he dropped his forehead to the steering wheel. Shit, he was cussing like he used to before he’d managed to clean up his act. Aunt Mary would have laughed at him then threatened to kick his butt. He needed to get it together before he met with the three-toothed sheriff.