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

I’m about halfway through this when I hear the front door open and shut.

“Back here,” I say. “Is this an emergency?”

There’s no reply. I glance up from my screen but can only see the back half of the reception area from here. No one responds to my query. With a bit of irritation I walk over, only to find the station entirely empty. Outside the window, Katherine Pascoe is walking away down the street, backpack over her shoulder.

I step out onto the sidewalk but she’s already too far away for a polite shout to get her attention. Back inside, I check the cell she’d slept in. She’s made the bed and taken all her personal belongings with her. Even the towel I gave her has been neatly folded and placed atop her one blanket.

“Not even a note, huh?” Maybe she’s more embarrassed than I thought at my seeing her naked. Perhaps she’s super religious or something.

Shit. Only then do I realize that I gave her my cell number but never got hers. Stupid stupid.

I’m back out the door at a jog, elbowing past a couple walking their dog. The little terrier yaps at my heels, its owners grumbling at my rough passing before realizing who I am. Then they step well aside, thinking better of voicing ire at a police officer in a hurry.

At the corner I stop. Katherine is nowhere to be seen. The Gas-n-Go is diagonally across the street from me, and I wonder if maybe she went there. Buying a toothbrush, perhaps. But she wouldn’t have packed up all her stuff and made the bed were that the case, would she?

Movement on the left catches my eye. The little used bookstore, Tales Well Told, has just opened. Through its window I spot her browsing a shelf.

The bell above the door jingles as I enter, and the owner, David Acaster, gives me a tired nod from behind the register. David is seated at a small desk, reading, with an old orange cat curled up in his lap. Steam curls from a chipped mug at his elbow. The cat obscures most of what is undoubtedly a Grateful Dead T-shirt, judging by the tie-die and dancing bear. He’s cleaner cut these days, and pretty snowy up top, but if you told me David was at Woodstock back in the day, I’d believe it in a heartbeat.

“Something wrong, Officer Whittaker?” he asks, one white eyebrow arched.

“Morning, David,” I say, pleased he at least remembers me. I caught a shoplifter here during my first week on duty. “No, nothing wrong, just need a word with…” I crane my neck and spot Katherine in the rear of the shop. I nod toward her, and Mr. Acaster inclines his head that way, giving me permission, not that I need it.

“Katherine?” I say when I’m right behind her.

She turns and looks at me quizzically.

“Um,” I say, at a loss for words suddenly, “I just… I was wondering where you’d gone. Are you leaving?” I nod toward her backpack.

“Oh. Oh, sorry. Yeah.”

I wait, but as is her style, no details are offered. I say, “It would be good if I had your contact information before you leave town. In case I have any further questions, I mean.”

She shakes her head, admonishing herself. “Sure. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Almost at random she plucks a beaten-up old book from a shelf labeled MYSTICAL/OCCULT. I wait as she pays for it and then say goodbye to David and his cat.

We walk side by side back to the station. Once there Katherine fills out a contact form for me. That done, she smiles at me and turns to leave.

“Do you—” I start, not quite sure what to make of her behavior. I swallow and try again. “How are you getting back?”

“My sister,” she says.

“Oh. Okay, good. I just… I didn’t know. You could have said.”

She looks at me, brow furrowed, as if this concept of telling someone about something has never crossed her mind before. For a few seconds her gaze grows distant, and then she snaps out of it. “I guess I should have. Sorry. I don’t know why…” and her voice trails off again.

A sober silence fills the room for a few seconds. Then Katherine Pascoe tightens her mouth apologetically, turns, and leaves. No thank you, no farewell. Just Katherine’s still-damp locks disappearing out the station doorway.

“All the best freaks are here,” I recite, suddenly reminded of the song playing in O’Doherty’s the other night. With a shrug, I get back to work.

Despite my determination to have a good day, the phone call with the dead hiker’s parents ends the plan before it can really even get started.

Mr. and Mrs. Hall hear the sad news about their son, Jeff, via speakerphone in their living room. Their grief is dreadful but short-lived, as Mr. Hall quickly turns to anger and finger-pointing, demanding answers. Who was he with? Are there signs clearly posted warning visitors of the dangers of bears? Why the F not?

It goes on and on. I manage to remain patient and levelheaded throughout, but only just. We leave things on what I can only describe as a suspicious note. They’re going to fly out, they’re going to want to talk to everyone from me all the way up to the governor, they might even bring a private investigator if we don’t have some f’ing answers by then.

People grieve in different ways, I remind myself, taking solace only in the fact that it will probably be at least tomorrow, if not Monday, before the couple arrives. I hope by then they’ll be over the initial shock and a little more reasonable.

I lean back in my creaky old wooden chair and take stock. It’s hit me, quite suddenly, that I’m in too good of a mood. Last night someone tried to kill me, and yet just minutes ago I was strolling down Main Street all sunshine and rainbows. It’s easy