All of the Voices, Bailey Bradford [e novels to read .TXT] 📗

Mrs. Hawkins lived alone a few miles out of town on the remains of an old farm that used to be productive. After the death of her husband, Mrs. Hawkins had sold off most of the farm land, equipment and livestock, keeping only an acre or so surrounding her house.

She also kept several chickens, and Matt hated those damn birds. There was one in particular, a Rhode Island Red rooster, that seemed determined to emasculate him, either physically or through humiliation. If Matt thought he could get away with blowing that damn bird to bits, he’d do it. Maybe he could accidentally back over the evil avian on his way out. No doubt the red menace would be chasing after him, trying to peck and claw at any part of Matt he could reach. God, he hated that rooster!

Matt floored the gas pedal as a wave of unease washed over him. He’d been about half an hour away from his destination when the call came through. Normally he hauled ass to the widow’s place, because you just never knew, but this time, he needed to get there faster. His spine seemed to ice over, sending chilly tendrils throughout his body.

The red rooster was forgotten as fear dug its claws into his gut, spearing him in the same spot he’d been stabbed four months ago. He couldn’t say why or how he knew it was so, but everything in him clamored and screeched in alarm, much like it’d done right before he’d had that knife driven into him.

Matt gasped as his vision dimmed, the memory of the attack springing to life in his mind, the hot slice of the blade through skin and muscle, the agony that rippled right along with the knife. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Matt willed the cruiser to go faster even as he took a turn at a speed that nearly caused the vehicle to roll.

He had to hurry, before it was too late. Whatever was going on in his head, Matt couldn’t let it distract him, not now. Not when he knew in some inexplicable way death was coming.

Matt brought the cruiser to a skidding, spinning halt in the widow’s dirt and rock driveway. Swells of dust encapsulated the vehicle before the reddish clouds spread out and dissipated. Nothing looked out of place other than the fact the chickens weren’t in the front yard. It wasn’t a cause for concern, as he’d occasionally come out when they were in the chicken coop, yet everything still seemed wrong. The fear that had clawed at him coalesced into a bright, searing sensation in his chest as he rammed the gear in park and unbuckled his seatbelt.

It only took seconds for him to exit the cruiser and run across the drive then up the porch steps. The front door was unlocked. Matt opened it, calling out as he stepped inside when Mrs. Hawkins wasn’t waiting for him like she usually was. Matt darted through the empty living room. He looked in the kitchen and saw a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies on the table.

“Mrs. Hawkins?” Matt hoped she was in the bathroom. That would explain why she didn’t greet him at the door, but panic simmered below his skin as a voice in his head whispered too late. “No, it can’t be. Shut up,” he warned the voice.

After a quick search of the house, Matt ran to the back door. He would check the chicken coop next if—

Through the screen door, Matt saw Mrs. Hawkins. Her prone, still body was sprawled halfway off the back porch, one arm and leg dangling down toward the ground. “Mrs. Hawkins! Oh shit, please…”

Matt nearly tore the door from its hinges as he barreled through it. He knew in a small part of his mind that Mrs. Hawkins was dead before he slid to his knees beside her. Maybe, if she’d only been this way for a few minutes, he could bring her back. Pressing a button on the shoulder mic, he called for an ambulance, fearing it wouldn’t arrive in time. Whatever chance Mrs. Hawkins had was up to him.

A thin trail of bloody froth had seeped from her mouth, leaking down her chin and into the wrinkled folds in the skin of her neck. Her rheumy eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the porch’s ceiling.

Matt knelt and felt for a pulse, his own heart stuttering when he found none even though he’d known he wouldn’t. Glad for the CPR update training he’d taken a month earlier, Matt positioned Mrs. Hawkins and began chest compressions, counting in his head as he murmured encouraging words in case there was any chance Mrs. Hawkins could hear him.

“Come on, Mrs. Hawkins, you gotta come back. I swear I’ll let you grope me all you want, just…just don’t die.” Matt repeated his plea as he continued administering CPR, keeping his own panic and sense of loss wrapped tightly away in a corner of his mind.

“Deputy Nixon? Matt?”

Someone pulled at his shoulder. Matt shrugged off the touch, the muscles in his arms burning as he continued the compressions. “Come on, Mrs. Hawkins, you can’t—”

“Deputy Nixon, leave off!”

This time he couldn’t shrug off the hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying to keep count in his head while his name was repeated.

“Matt, you need to let me take over for a few minutes. The ambulance can’t be far behind. Hear the sirens?”

The calm, low voice reached through the anger and fear. Matt opened his eyes, nodded and scooted aside. Sheriff Stenley knelt beside him and took over while Matt’s arms began to tremble. The sound of the ambulance’s siren grew louder as Matt watched Stenley work, his lips moving in a silent count.

Something in his peripheral vision drew Matt’s attention. The Rhode Island Red rooster stood half a dozen feet from the porch, his head cocked in a way that made the rooster look inquisitive and intelligent. Matt braced himself for an attack,