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

Kyle scratches behind his left ear. “Yeah, well, some people like it. Don’t ask me why, I genuinely couldn’t tell you.” His eyes swivel pointedly to the couple at the pool table, just for an instant.

I nod, and we share a conspiratorial smile.

He sucks in a breath, his attention shifting to Greg. “Thought we’d be crowded tonight. The whole town needs a drink, if you ask me.”

“Naw,” Greg says. “It’s more of a go-home-and-hug-your-loved-ones kind of evening.”

There’s a pause as the subtext—that neither Greg nor I have loved ones to go home to—is absorbed by Kyle. He lifts his chin. “Well… what can I get for Silvertown’s finest?”

“Just a Bud for me, and whatever the lady is having.”

“Same,” I say. “And yeah, put it on his tab so we get the senior discount.”

This time Greg does laugh. A dry chuckle, but a chuckle all the same.

“Pretzels? Peanuts?” Kyle asks.

“Sure,” Greg replies. “Pretzels. Why not.”

Nodding, Kyle starts to root around beneath the lacquered hardwood bar.

I nudge Greg with my elbow. “See? This was a good idea. Beats sitting at home, staring at the wall, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does.”

He can’t quite shake the somber tone entirely from his voice, but I’ll take what I can get. Feels good to have some usual banter. Some camaraderie. It’s something I’ve worked hard to foster since the day he interviewed me for the job, despite our differences in gender and age. I suspect my ability to verbally spar with him is a large part of why he hired me. That and our checkered policing pasts.

“Be right back,” the bartender says, evidently unable to find any more pretzels under the bar. As he walks away I do an appraisal of my own. Fair’s fair. Tight jeans, nice butt. The beard isn’t to my taste, but for the umpteenth time since moving to a six-hundred-person town I have to remind myself of two things: beggars can’t be choosers, and if I do end up with a local the whole town will know about it within twelve hours. Maybe less.

“Owls become ravens,” I mutter.

“Huh?” Greg asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, thinking Granston is the safer place to look for a date if only to keep the rumor mill quiet.

A dish clangs in the kitchen, followed by a frustrated curse from Kyle.

“Okay back there?” Greg calls out.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Good.” Then he hikes a thumb toward the big karaoke machine in the corner. “Hey Kyle, thanks for letting Pastor Osman use your speaker thing today.”

Kyle pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Comes in handy, doesn’t it? Craigslist find of the century. Goes through batteries like a bastard, though.”

“Well, it was nice having some music out at the graveyard.”

“My pleasure, Chief.” He returns to the kitchen.

An awkward silence begins to stretch. At the pool table, the woman is still sinking shots, one after another, while the man continues to mumble words vaguely rhyming with “stripes.” A game within a game, I suppose.

“Listen, Mary,” Greg says, suddenly serious. “What I started to say earlier: I’m going to take some time off.”

A tiny siren goes off in my head. This is out of the blue. It’s a struggle to keep the worry from my voice. “Why? When?”

He sighs the long and tired kind of sigh. “Day after tomorrow. For a week, I think. Maybe two. My mother’s ill. Don’t fret, it’s nothing new and hasn’t gotten suddenly worse. It’s just, after what happened with Johnny, I thought maybe I should… you know…”

I did know. A hug-your-loved-ones kind of evening. I nod and try to smile, but inside I’m already wrapping my head around being the only cop here, even for a few days.

“Look,” he adds, “I just need to know if you can handle things. Everything I’ve seen says ‘hell yes’ you can, but after the whole Oakland thing, I’ll understand if—”

“What happened in Oakland?” Kyle asks, setting our beers and a bowl of pretzels down in front of us.

“Nothing,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Long story.”

“Give us a minute, will you, Kyle?” Greg asks.

The bartender understands at once, and moves off.

Greg leans in a little, lowering his voice. “I’ll understand if you have concerns.”

“No concerns,” I reply. Even if I did have some, there’s no way I’m going to deny him some leave to visit an ailing mother, even if that was my choice to make. He is the boss, after all.

“Want me to walk you through the daily routine?” he asks.

“I can handle it,” I say.

Chief Greg studies me, surprised. “Well, well. You sound confident. Maybe too confident.”

I set down my glass. “Give me a scenario. I’ll prove it.”

A twinkle of amusement flashes under those bushy gray eyebrows.

“All right then. Uh, let’s see. Say there’s a downed power line across the road.”

“Which road?”

He shrugs at this.

“The state route?” Kyle suggests. “Sorry, quiet night so I can’t help but listen in. A wire fell across the SR last year. Remember, Chief?”

“Sure,” Greg agrees. “The state route, Officer Whittaker. Downed power line.”

“Easy. First I’d radio State Patrol to manage traffic on the Granston side of the gorge. Teresa Carver is usually on dispatch there, and she’ll know which roads to close and who’s in position to get to them quickly. Then I’d call the utility district—on our direct line, not the public one—to report the location of the incident. All this while heading to the scene myself. I’ll use cones and flares to keep traffic away until a technician can confirm the wire’s no longer hot. Clara could be enlisted to cover our phones while I’m down there, and maybe I’d get the electrician, Mr. Ferguson, to join me as a… consultant, I suppose. I’m no expert on power lines, that’s for sure.”

Greg says nothing. I glance at him, and find he’s staring at me, a little bemused but mostly sort of shocked.

“Wrong?” I ask.

He squints a little. “How the hell do you know Teresa Carver?”

“I don’t.”

“But—”

“I’ve had to contact State four times since coming here, and she’s answered every