Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
All of the Voices
ISBN # 978-1-78430-770-7
©Copyright Bailey Bradford 2015
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright September 2015
Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz and Rebecca Scott
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2015 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
Southern Spirits
ALL OF THE VOICES
Bailey Bradford
Book three in the Southern Spirits series
The body might be reluctant, but there’s more than one spirit willing to step in and keep two stubborn men from walking away from each other forever…
Deputy Matt Nixon has had a rough time of it lately. He’s put up with the spirit of his boss’s dead lover, been stabbed, and had his fledgling interest in another man cruelly flung back in his face. His only close friend is an elderly woman who gets her kicks from calling in false prowler reports then greeting the responding deputies with a lewd proposition and little clothes.
When he finds her dead, Matt grieves for the old woman so many people snickered at—and he fumes at the idea of her snooty nephew from New York who never bothered to visit her. Matt is going to give Carlin Douglas a piece of his mind if he does show up.
Carlin Douglas hates the small town of McKinton, Texas. The only other time he’d been there was years ago when Zeke Mathers was almost killed in a gay bashing. Now Carlin has obligations that keep him tied to New York, but he doesn’t mind.
Until he clashes with Deputy Matt Nixon, a man who seems determined to hate him. But McKinton is a different place, and there’s always a spirit or two lingering, just waiting for an opportunity…to meddle.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
SyFy: NBC Universal
Sears: Sears, Roebuck and Co.
Styrofoam: The Dow Chemical Company
Google: Google Inc.
Vaseline: Unilever
iPad: Apple, Inc.
Chapter One
The call from dispatch had Deputy Matt Nixon groaning and rolling his eyes even as he tossed aside his half-eaten burger and started up the cruiser. Ten-fourteens occurred regularly at Mrs. Hawkins’ place, and Matt, like every other employee at the Sheriff’s department, dreaded being on the receiving end of the call. All the times he had been unlucky enough to be on duty when old widow Hawkins claimed a prowler was on her property, not once had there been anyone other than the woman herself waiting for him when he arrived.
And on every single one of those calls, Matt had cringed when he’d knocked on Mrs. Hawkins’ door. Well, maybe not the first time. He’d been inexperienced and idealistic and kind of thought the other deputies were full of shit and trying to pull one over on him. It wasn’t until he’d heard the raspy-voiced widow hollering for him to ‘come on in’ that Matt had faced the slowly dawning, horrific reality. After all, who, if there was a prowler about, would leave the damn door unlocked?
He still shuddered with the memory of that first call, because he’d been so sure the gossip had been just that—gossip and not truth—until he’d started turning that unlocked door knob. Matt had scrambled frantically to recall the rest of the crap the other deputies had teased him about when he was sent to Mrs. Hawkins’, and remembering his fellow officers’ warnings was about the only reason he hadn’t pulled his gun when he’d finally opened the door and been promptly attacked by about two hundred pounds of nearly nude old woman.
“Better watch yourself, boy,” Deputy Sparks had sneered, “that crazy ol’ bitch will be on you the second you get in the door. She’ll be humping you like a dog in heat and—”
Matt had walked away, his stomach quivery over the sheer amount of disdain in the former deputy’s voice.
“The man was a bigoted fuckwad anyway,” Matt muttered, pushing aside the anger thinking of Sparks always brought. As for Mrs. Hawkins, the old woman was just lonely, and granted, her means of getting attention were more than a little startling, but in the past few months, Mrs. Hawkins and Matt had come to a sort of truce. She still called in complaints about prowlers, but she no longer dressed in frilly lingerie when she greeted Matt.
Most of the time she had a plate full of cookies and a glass of milk waiting for him. Matt had offered to stop in and check on her when he wasn’t working, but Mrs. Hawkins had declined. She had her routine, and he wasn’t the only deputy who got called out to her place. He was just the only one who got cookies. The only one who’d befriended the old widow instead of mocking her. The only one who saw the lonely, scared, elderly woman hiding under the façade Mrs. Hawkins presented to everyone else.
It hadn’t been that way between them before Matt had nearly died, but that traumatic event seemed to have made Mrs. Hawkins see past the laid-back persona Matt usually affected. And so between them, they’d forged an odd friendship.
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, crawling forward in case the bird decided to make a run at the sheriff.
“Don’t even think about it,” Matt warned as the rooster shook out his wings, the usual precursor to an attack. He glanced back to find Stenley shaking his head even as he continued the compressions. The siren screamed and Matt watched the ambulance barrel around the back of the house.
The rooster crowed then dashed off in a graceless display of full blown chicken panic. Matt stayed where he was, unable to look back and see those lifeless blue eyes again. The EMTs ran up the porch steps. Matt looked away and scooted off the porch.
It was too late for Mrs. Hawkins. Matt had lost his odd and only confidant.
* * * *
“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 damn 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 gray 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…
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 eyebrow 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 realized tears were welling in his eyes and running down 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 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 that 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?
All of the Voices Page 1
