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

so focused on the ground in front of me that I almost run into a wall of leaves blocking my path.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my heart pounding.

“Wall of leaves” is a more accurate description than I want it to be. This is an actual wall. Covered in ivy, yeah, but still a man-made wall. Eight feet high.

Taking several steps back, I stand on my toes and try to see anything over the top, but it’s too high. I turn my focus back to the tire tracks I’ve been following. The ATV’s path runs right into the wall. Or, rather, under it. A secret gate?

Curious, I put my hand on the wall and push. Nothing happens. Then I use my shoulder, and throw all my weight into it, digging in my heels. There is only the slightest hint of movement, but it’s enough to confirm my theory. A concealed gate. How goddamn interesting.

Glancing left and right, I see corners in equal distance to either side, so randomly I choose left and walk to the end, peering around the edge.

More wall leads to another corner. A hundred feet long, this stretch. But beyond it is not only forest now. There’s a road, too. A single lane of paving stones, forming a sort of grid pattern that, I think, must have been very expensive to lay. The road is long, too, stretching off far to my left before it becomes too obscured by trees to see.

I creep along and as I get closer I realize it’s not a road at all. Despite the length, this is someone’s driveway. It’s right about then I notice the camera atop the wall. It’s at the corner, and tracks me as I walk.

No point in creeping now, I decide. I stand upright and try not to let the little black rectangular box irritate me as it rotates to keep me in view.

Rounding the next corner, the house comes into view. “House” is barely the right word, though. No, this is something that needs a few adjectives and perhaps a solid f-bomb to describe it. Fucking Huge Mansion. That works.

It’s visible in the distance, sprawling and modern. Delicately arranged rocks cover one wall, lacquered hardwood another, the next entirely in frosted glass. Everything at right angles.

A fountain marks the spot where the driveway ends, making a circle around the gently splashing water I imagine is full of koi or something. There’s a red Ferrari parked off to one side, some leaves on its otherwise flawless curves. Just in front of the vehicle is a six-car garage, all the doors closed. I guess the Ferrari wasn’t good enough to park inside and can’t help but wonder what else is in there.

But well before all this is the gate. Another goddamn gate.

The driveway passes under its black iron span, the two halves of it meeting in the middle at an ornate crest in gold: a lion’s head. As gates go this one is damned impressive, making a nice exclamation mark on the day’s theme, I suppose.

I walk up to stand in front of it, then notice the small black box that protrudes out over the driveway on my left. There’s a button on it, as well as a speaker and a small camera like a single, beady black eye.

With my thumb I press the button, and wait.

Seconds pass.

Then a crackle. “Yes?”

“Officer Mary Whittaker, Silvertown police.”

“Yes?”

I glance at the camera. Did they not hear me? I lean in, making sure my badge is visible to them. “I am in pursuit of a man riding an all-terrain vehicle, and have reason to believe he is on the premises.”

A pause.

“Yes, and?”

The voice is vaguely familiar, but the one thing I’m sure of is that it’s not Captain Tweaker. The tone is too low. Too calm and snooty.

I glance at the Fucking Huge Mansion again, wondering what kind of approach to use. This home must be the massive one I glimpsed through the trees earlier this morning when looking for Rhod’s motorcycle. From there it had been impressive as hell. From here, even more so. Whoever lives here, they’re loaded.

I decide to be polite, to cater to their wealth. “Would it be all right if I entered the grounds and had a look? And before you ask, no, I don’t have a warrant. This is an active pursuit. The suspect might be dangerous. I’m asking because it’s the polite thing to do, but you should know that I do have the authority to come onto your property in a situation like—”

There’s a dull clang and then the hum of a motor. The gates begin to swing open.

I nod at the camera. “Thanks,” I say.

They don’t bother to reply.

This slight I ignore, and soon I find myself walking down the paved lane, cataloging new details as I go. The house is angular in a hyper-modern style, but the layout is classic, weirdly reminding me of the White House. Two wings stretching to either side, with a large central section in between. Ruining the balance of this is the six-car garage, which juts off the east wing at a right angle.

The red Ferrari parked in front of it is not the classic sort, but a recent model. So new there are no plates on it yet, not even the dealership logo stand-ins. I suppose I could take down the VIN, but as of yet I can’t see any reason why I need to.

I stop at the fountain, which is circular and of a classic style, in contrast to the modern lines of the house. No fish swim within its waters; in fact the water is crystal clear. Lights are arranged around the base of the central rock formation, which water tumbles down in a soft bubbling cascade. It must look quite impressive at night, I think.

For a time I stand there, listening, half-expecting a servant or groundskeeper to come out and greet me. Perhaps offer to show me around. But there is nothing save the sound of