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

she keeps a Taser in her car and a small can of pepper spray attached to her key chain.

“They’re just kids, Mary. Explorers.”

“Again, so they claim. And even if true, it’s quite possibly illegal for them to enter this place.”

“James said they have permission.”

“Did he,” I say, and throw the boy a stern glance.

Instantly he’s rubbing the back of his neck, studiously looking at the floor. All the color has drained from his face.

“Well,” he stammers, “not exactly permission, I guess. More like—”

He goes on, mumbling his excuses, but I’m not listening. Neither is Clara. We’re staring at each other, and I can see she’s finally realized something’s wrong here. The expression on her face is exactly how I must have looked sitting in my car outside O’Doh’s.

“I don’t know why I—” Clara begins, then stops herself, sensing that I might have an explanation. I do, sort of, but this isn’t the time or place for it. All I know is, whatever is affecting me appears to now be affecting Clara, too.

“Okay. Okay,” I say to James. “Enough. Pack up your stuff. Let’s find your brother and get you guys out of here. We’ll overlook all of this provided you stay away from this place. Hear me?”

I get a wide-eyed nod as my answer. Good enough.

“Get to it, then,” I say to him, gesturing toward their science gear.

Twenty minutes later we’re back in Clara’s house, waiting for coffee to brew.

The teens from Idaho found James’s older brother had not, in fact, left them high and dry in a missile silo. They’d tried, but at the exit of the parking lot they’d been met with the business end of Kyle’s shotgun. He’d held them there, not knowing what the hell was going on but absolutely sure that something was.

“I’m so glad you showed up,” I tell him now, across the chipped surface of Clara’s small kitchen table.

“Thought you were going to wait for me,” Kyle says.

“I think that was my intention, but I forgot.”

“Forgot?”

“I’ll explain in a second.”

He nods, impatient but willing to wait for some answers. As Clara fiddles with her French press, I start planning out what it’s going to take to build a fence around that silo entrance. Chain-link and razor wire? What about signage? As I take the offered mug, I see the words on my hand again and kick myself, mentally. I don’t need to build a fence. What the hell am I thinking? Call the air force and tell them kids are urban exploring that place and someone’s going to fall or get lost or whatever. Lawsuits likely. That’ll get them up here by Friday.

“Hey, Clara?” Kyle asks, raising his voice to reach her in the adjacent room.

“Mm?”

“I didn’t know you played guitar.”

She pokes her head out of the kitchen.

Kyle’s turned in his seat, gazing into her living room, where three electric guitars are mounted like trophies above the fireplace. They’re not new. Far from it, actually. Each is scarred and battle-bruised from excessive use.

“Oh. That,” she says. “I don’t. I mean, I tried, but I’m terrible.”

“Then why’d you buy three?”

“Inherited,” she says, back in the kitchen now. “Along with a big-ass amp that’s out in the garage. I took lessons, really gave it my best shot, but… not my thing, I guess.”

She comes in with a tray of steaming mugs and takes a seat. The three of us sit there for a moment, sipping the excellent coffee.

“They were my cousin’s,” Clara says. “Not the mugs, the guitars. He toured with Quiet Riot if you can believe that. Reunion tour about, geez, ten years ago?”

Kyle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? I used to love them. Hell, still do.”

“Eighties hair-bands are the shit, aren’t they?”

The pair of them fist-bump, then sip coffee in near unison. For my part I feel like the third wheel on a first date, only vaguely aware of the band or their music.

“You need help,” Kyle says suddenly.

“The hell I do,” I start, then realize he’s reading the words from my hand. I dip my chin and give my brain a few seconds to overcome what my instincts tell me. “I absolutely do,” I finally say. Then I point to the words. “This is what I wanted to talk to you two about.”

“Help?” Clara asks.

“No. Not exactly,” I say. “I have a theory about everything that’s been going on. The start of one, anyway. It’s out there, but this is Silvertown so… that seems appropriate.”

“I’m listening,” Kyle says, leaning forward. “This is some kick-ass coffee by the way, Clara.”

“Life’s too short to drink anything else.”

“Amen to that.”

“So here goes,” I say, and wait for their full attention. “Clara, can you see the similarity between what happened out there and what happened with Sally Jones earlier today?”

From her puzzled expression, the answer’s no. I go on.

“Sally is a textbook example of a helicopter parent. Agreed?”

They both nod.

“This morning, though, she leaves them alone and goes on a tour of Silvertown with a total stranger.”

I’ve got their attention now. Neither says a word, they just wait.

“Then I find you, Clara, out in the woods—no, in a missile silo of all things—with a bunch of kids you’ve never met before.”

“Oh, they’re harmless, Mary.”

“That’s not the point. Or, rather, it is exactly the point.”

“Huh?”

I turn to Kyle. “You’ve known Clara much longer than me. Would you say she’s the type of person who jaunts off to strange, dark places with complete strangers?”

“Hell no,” he says instantly.

A confused expression forms on Clara’s face. She’s looking at Kyle, then at me, then somewhere in the distance. “Yeah… that’s true,” she says slowly. “But Sally left her kids alone. Babies. That’s totally different.”

“Uh,” I reply, “I wouldn’t say totally.”

“She left her kids in danger. I was just having a laugh.”

“A laugh with strangers. In a creepy, old, possibly radioactive missile silo no one knew you were in.”

Again that confused look. “I don’t know why I did that, Mary. Honestly. It didn’t even occur to me until you brought it