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

the lights, she leaves. Plain forgets to close the door. Not that unusual. Perhaps she left this door open earlier in the day to let some air in, exited via the back, and forgot the front was still open. An understandable mistake, not so odd really. Plus, if her departure had been early enough in the day there’d have been no reason to have any lights on.

I’m pleased with this train of thought. Other than the fact that she’s not answering her phone, it makes pretty good sense to me.

Until I spot the control panel for the security system. It’s mounted on the wall by the front door, and it’s off.

Instantly my assessment changes. Because although leaving home in a forgetful mindset might include also forgetting to arm the security system, I’ve been ignoring whose house I’m standing in. Scatterbrained or not, Clara takes her personal security very seriously. She might forget a jacket, or her driver’s license. She wouldn’t forget to arm the security system.

I set my jaw, determined now not to find excuses to explain this all away. I need to figure out where she went, and why she didn’t phone her boss. This last could be explained easily enough. A scheduling goof. Maybe she thought she had the day off. Wrote her calendar entry on the wrong day. Anything.

As to where, well, Clara’s a grown woman and can go where she wants to. None of her boss’s business. But I’m her friend and I’m a cop, so I can make it mine.

Crossing the street, I rap on the front door of the house opposite hers. It’s a little late in the evening, but after a few seconds an elderly woman opens the door and looks me up and down. “Yes?” she asks.

“Good evening, ma’am. I’m Officer Whittaker, and wondered if I could ask you a few questions about your neighbor Clara?” I gesture toward the house across the way.

“Oh. Yes?” She’s timid and stays half-hidden behind the door.

I realize she’s wearing a nightgown and I try to ignore it, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. “Have you seen her today?”

Her nod is sharp and brims with judgment. “Over there,” she says flatly, with a thrust of her chin to a place diagonally across the street. Not Clara’s house, but a place maybe fifty yards farther along the road. Turning, I see a dirt lot full of twenty or so parked vehicles, mostly lifted pickup trucks. Behind the makeshift parking lot a greenbelt gives way to dense forest. The old woman continues. “She was hanging out with those weirdos. The loud ones with their ridiculous trucks. Laughing and smoking.” I turn back to her in time to see her mouth the word “pot,” with a sneer.

“Hmm. And after that?”

“They all left together.”

“Left?” I ask. “Left how? Their trucks—”

The old woman squeezes her eyes shut, as if tapping into a deep well of patience. “They didn’t drive away, obviously. They walked into the woods.”

“The woods,” I repeat, scanning the tree line beyond the greenbelt. “What’s back there?”

She sneers. “How would I know? Unlike those kids, I pay attention to the signs.”

The way she says “signs” bring sudden goose bumps to my arms, because it sounds like she means mystical signs from above rather than the “keep out” variety. I’m about to ask her to clarify when she stops me.

“May I get back to bed?” the woman asks.

I nod, thank her for her time, and cross to the dirt field clogged with lifted pickups. They’re all Fords with Idaho plates, I note. Even from a distance I can see bumper stickers proclaiming the virtues of gun ownership and hunting. Not usually the weed-smoking types, but these days who knows? It’s no different from drinking Coors, now. Maybe not in Idaho, but here certainly.

A single old streetlamp casts stark yellow light that swims from the moths circling the bulb. Everything else is lost in shadow. I stop for a moment to let my eyes adjust.

Most of the trucks are old and beat-up, but one is brand spanking new. A huge F-250 with all the frills, not a scratch on it despite the small fortune that’s clearly been spent on upgrading its off-road capabilities. On the back window is a modified Starbucks logo, with the iconic mermaid woman wielding two pistols, and the words “guns & coffee” around the outer circle. On the tailgate is a Jesus fish mowing down a Darwin fish with an assault rifle.

“Nice,” I mutter, and press into the space between the two rows of vehicles. There’s no one around, just as the old lady said. Footprints in the soil imply a large group, mostly wearing hiking boots I think, though I’m no expert. Greg would rattle off the makes and tread patterns, I expect. I check the time, and in doing so spot the words written on my hand.

YOU NEED HELP

“Fuck! Forgot already.” I slip my phone from my pocket and try Clara’s number first. Still no answer. Then I call Kyle. He picks up on ring number one.

“Find her?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

Kyle waits expectantly.

Uttering my next sentence feels like pushing open an ancient rusted gate. My brain does not want to go here, but focusing on the words written on my hand pushes me through the mental barrier. “Could use some… help, I think.”

“Name it. Anything.”

I explain about her empty house and the trucks, and what the old woman said. Kyle’s concern matches my own.

“Can you give me fifteen minutes to close the bar? I can meet you there. I know the lot you’re talking about.”

“Thanks, Kyle.”

“No worries, babe. See you in a few.”

He disconnects and I’m left turning over the word “babe” in my mind a few times. Deciding that while I don’t love it, I also don’t mind it as much as I thought I might. I turn to take in the scene once again. The tiny dirt parking lot suddenly feels very quiet. Across the street, the old woman’s house is now dark,