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

Greg just stares at me.

“Gotta admit, Chief, that was pretty impressive,” Kyle says. He grins at me, then shoots a glance at Greg. “When it happened last year, Chief was out there with a stick trying to push the cable off the road. Didn’t call anyone, I don’t think.”

“Wood is nonconductive,” the chief says defensively. “Clearing the wire was my first priority.”

Kyle’s expression turns skeptical. “Sure thing, Chief. Her version works, too.”

“Just… different approaches,” I say. I turn to Greg. “Point is, I won’t be alone. I don’t do ‘alone.’ It’s how my brain works, I guess.”

He nods at this. Slowly at first, and then more vigorously. “Okay. Okay. You put my mind at ease a little. Just… you know, think about our budget before you call in an airstrike on a B and E.”

“Copy that.”

We clink our mugs together, and sip cold beer in contemplative silence.

Another loud crack signals the start of a new round of pool.

“Solids,” the man announces.

“Every frickin’ time,” the woman hisses, chalking her cue. She sighs, annoyed, and thinks for a moment. As the man lines up his second shot, another rhyming chant begins, barely audible. “Solids. Olives. Motives.”

My thoughts drift back to the funeral.

The teenager, Johnny Rogers, died unexpectedly while his parents were away. The poor couple had gone off on vacation while halfway through an argument “to-be-resolved-when-we-get-back-young-man.” They’d never dreamed such a thing might happen while they were gone. They’d been robbed not only of their son but also of the opportunity to say goodbye, to tell him they loved him. Tragic. More pain than I can imagine.

The sound of the mother’s wailing comes unbidden into my mind. I’ll never forget it, yet desperately want to. No one should have to feel grief like that.

“ ’Course,” Greg says suddenly, “there’s another benefit to you handling things for a while. Maybe everyone will stop asking for me every time you answer the phone.” He’s misinterpreted my silence, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

In hiring me Greg ended nearly a decade of running Silvertown’s department solo. Sure, there were some who still held a grudge against him for chasing the Conatys out of town, but from what I’ve seen in my short time here, he’s established himself as a fair, even-tempered, sensible cop. I’ve no doubt it will be years before we’d be seen as equals by the townspeople. Guess we’ve got to start somewhere.

There’s another part of me that can see his taking leave serving another purpose, though: a trial run. Someday Greg will retire. It’s not something he and I have discussed, but maybe him taking some leave will open that door.

Greg chuckles again. “It’s the worst cliché ever. The aging career cop handing over the reins to the rookie—”

“Whoa. Hold on. Are you calling me a rookie?” I snap, though I’m grinning. “Four years with Oakland PD does not a rookie make, dude.”

Greg knows my résumé, of course. “You know what I mean. A rookie in the eyes of this town. This place couldn’t be more different from Oakland, and is its own special brand of weird. You need to learn its quirks, earn its trust.” He brings his beer to his mouth, and into the glass says, “Maybe start by not calling everyone ‘dude.’ They can smell the California on you.”

He’s got me there. I sip my drink, and we stare at the bottles behind the bar for a moment. “You’ll miss Octoberfest,” I say, pointing out the banner with my thumb.

“Damn. That’s true. Didn’t think about that.” He sighs. “That’s the one thing up here worth attending. Lift a stein for me?”

“If you insist.”

Kyle comes by with a tray of shot glasses. He sets one in front of each of us, then takes two to the couple at the pool table. The last is for himself.

“To Johnny Rogers,” Kyle says to all, lifting his glass of amber liquid. “A great kid and—”

The man at the pool table turns and points at the drink with his pool cue. “What the hell’s that, Kyle? I didn’t order it.”

His companion tsks him, loudly. “The town’s in mourning, idiot,” she says in an almost serpentine whisper. “The Rogers’ kid is dead.”

He stares at her with a vague recollection before exhaling pointedly. “Welp. We all gotta die, at some point. When I go, I hope it’s with my rifle in my hand and a grin on my face!”

She rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself and drink to the boy, already.”

The man shrugs and reaches for the shot glass. In a matter-of-fact tone he says, “To the late Rogers boy: tough break, kid.”

His wife—I assume it’s his wife—looks at him with disgust, but doesn’t miss her chance to shoot the liquor, wincing at the burn. After placing the empty glass on the pool table, she looks around for her cue and chalk. Seeing this, her husband picks up the little blue cube and readies an underhand toss.

“Here, it’s your break,” he says as he lets it go into the air.

The chalk flies on a gentle arc to her. She sees it. I know she sees it, as she tracks it in flight. But despite staring right at it, she never lifts so much as a finger to catch it. The tiny cube, now inches away from her face, doesn’t even register in a flinch. Heads up, lady, my mind is screaming.

Helpless, I watch as the blue chalk hits her square in the face.

“Jesus H…” she mutters. The chalk clatters on the floor and breaks into several blue chunks. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Shock, then concern, then a flash of anger cross his features. “Me? You didn’t even lift a finger, what the hell—”

“Everything okay over there?” Greg asks. The woman waves him off, slinking into their booth, the game of pool abandoned. Her husband moves in beside her, finally offering quiet apologies.

Kyle, train of thought derailed by the odd interlude, lifts his shot glass again, halfheartedly this time. “Uh,