Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

happen to take me over Keller’s Gorge and all the way to Granston, the nearest proper city. Silvertown only has one bar, but there are no cars in front of it, and I haven’t seen anyone go in or out since I parked.

Granston, on the other hand, has a dozen bars at least. Each one full of strangers who won’t know I’m a cop, and thus won’t want to gossip about the unfortunate death of a teenager. Normally this would be a no-brainer.

Yet I’ve been telling myself “in a minute” for the last ten, fighting this deep urge for companionship. I’m not really sure why.

Whatever the reason, instead of driving I’m just staring blankly at a twilight sky speared by countless Douglas firs lining the two-lane road. Like a TV’s picture-in-picture, the rearview mirror offers a contrasting portrait: the dark buildings of Silvertown. Other than the red neon glow of the bar’s OPEN sign, everything is shadow and gloom.

I look at all of it, without really looking at any of it. Part of my brain knows I’m in this weird, almost trancelike state, and yet I can’t seem to break out of it.

Then the streetlights come on, and do the job for me. They flicker to life one at a time, creating pools of warm yellow along the length of Main Street. Each one revealing just a little more of Silvertown.

Over the next few minutes, moths find their way to the fuzzy golden cones and begin tracing lazy figure eights in the glow. Is that me? I wonder. A moth drawn to the flame of companionship, no matter how feeble?

Yeah. Yeah it is me, I think, and this pathetic realization finally tips the scales against my true nature. With a supreme force of will I opt for the solitude of home over companionship in the brew-pubs of Granston.

The car rumbles as I start it up, pull out of the lot, and make a U-turn, heading back toward town.

I roll slowly down Main Street. Except for the red glow from the pub, the shops that line the road are all dark.

Half of them are always dark, of course, abandoned years ago and never leased to new tenants. But still, there’s something deeply oppressive about the place when it’s entirely deserted. Narrow dark alleys run between brick facades. Old gaslights hang over the sidewalks, dew glistening dimly on the spiderwebs that cling to the black iron fixtures.

Robbed of sunlight and the colorful townspeople, it’s like I’m in a completely different place. I shiver.

Ahead, a figure emerges from one of the shops. A man, I think. He has long black hair and wears a long black coat to match.

I pull up closer to the curb, slowing to match his brisk walking pace. The store he emerged from is one of several souvenir shops along the row, catering to the tourists who flock here every summer looking for Big Foot merch.

“Evening,” I say.

He glances at me and nods, pinching the brim of an imaginary hat between two fingers as he does so. “Officer.”

“Didn’t think you’d be open today.”

“I wasn’t,” the man replies. “Just had to put something in the… fridge. Good evening.”

And then he’s gone. Not vanished, but about as close as one can get. He’s turned down one of those dark alleys, his long coat snapping with the speed of his change in course. The shadows swallow him up after only two long strides.

I’m a little tempted to switch on the red-and-blues and follow him. Back in Oakland his behavior would be probable cause. But here? I’m not so sure.

“Nice meeting you!” I call out.

The only reply is the receding sound of his boots.

“Go home, Mary,” I remind myself, and drive on.

My first port of call is not home, however.

Halfway down Main, I’m doing another U-turn, parking my cruiser right in front of the police station.

I flip the power off on the bulky data terminal beside the shotgun and kill the engine. There was an instant when the headlights lit up the tavern, which is right across the street, and movement stirred inside. Not entirely empty after all, then.

It’s tempting.

But no, I tell myself. I made a choice, I’m going to stick to it.

I step inside the darkened police station long enough to hang the cruiser’s key on its hook and grab my uniform coat. The place is dark and whisper quiet. In the back are four holding cells, all of which are currently empty, as per usual. Between me and them is the office part of the building. It consists of two desks that were probably picked up for pennies at the Conaty Corporation surplus sale. My desk is pristine and tidy. Beside it, Greg’s is a cluttered mess of forms, pens, and empty coffee cups. I spy Johnny Rogers’s file on top of the mess and let out another sigh. A damn tragedy.

Back out on the cracked, uneven sidewalk I’m surprised to find the number of parked cruisers has doubled from one to two. Greg heaves himself out of the driver’s side of the new arrival with an audible grunt.

“Heya, Chief. Just locking up,” I say. “Did we get a call? Something up?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Thought you’d headed home?”

“I did head home. But then that iPhone rang and… hang on a sec, I thought you were going home, too. You know you can park the car in your driveway, right?”

“I know. But the walk helps me acclimate.” I flap my arms, clad in the bulky fleece-lined coat. None of the locals need such a heavy jacket at this time of year.

“Fair enough,” he replies. Then he squints at me. “You okay, Mary?”

“Oh. Yeah, fine.” I gesture down the street. “Just saw this guy in an overcoat. Weirded me out a bit.”

“Black hair, pale skin?”

I nod.

“That’s Damian Blackwood. He’s harmless enough.” Greg seems about to add something, but thinks better of it. “Well, good night, Mary.”

“Whose is it? The phone, I mean. You said it rang.”

He jerks his chin toward