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

Army vehicles. Eight of them, each one identical to the last.

They roll through town at a snail’s pace, and just when the lead truck reaches the center of town, the driver suddenly stops. Soon enough they’re all stopped, blocking the entire road. It’s like a scene out of a movie, and I half expect soldiers to start jumping out with guns in hand. None of them move, though, save for the driver of the lead vehicle who simply rolls his window down.

“Looking for the old base?” a man from town asks him, referring to an abandoned training facility a mile up the road, vacated years ago. “Gonna tear it down finally, before anyone else gets hurt?”

“We’re looking for Jim Creek,” the soldier replies.

I don’t know who that is. For one awful second I think there might be a fugitive who’s rolled in with all the tourists. Or, perhaps more likely, some AWOL soldier. I take a step closer, stopping at the back of a small crowd that’s formed on the edge of the sidewalk.

“Jim Creek, the navy base?” the townsperson asks.

The army man nods.

“Hell, son, that’s ten miles north. You’re on the wrong mountain.”

In that instant the other soldiers in the cab erupt into laughter.

“You assholes,” the driver mutters to his companions. Cheeks red, he rolls his window up quickly and starts to move again. What follows is the longest sequence of three-point turns I’ve ever witnessed. It takes almost ten minutes for the whole convoy to redirect itself, and by the time they’re finally gone at least fifty people are standing along the road, watching the spectacle.

“Okay, show’s over everyone,” I say, my tone light. The old police cliché earns me a few smiles and someone laughs, and the crowd finally disperses.

Barring any calls that need me elsewhere, I decide I’ll spend the morning on foot near the station. At least until Clara shows up to handle the front desk.

Main Street runs east–west. Really it’s just the state route, but everyone here calls it Main Street for the two-hundred-yard stretch through the populated part of Silvertown.

Most of the buildings date back to the late 1800s, the notable exception being the gas station at the western edge. Original brick facades still line most of the street.

It’s all rather quaint, provided you can ignore the fact that at least half the structures are empty. I stop before one of these derelicts and put my hand up against the dusty window to peer inside. The interior is all shadow and gloom. Dusty floors of torn-up hardwood and bare foundation. Trash and cobwebs in every corner.

“The old head office,” someone says.

I turn toward the gruff voice. The old man, Willy, has ambled up behind me. He has a pinched face and a huge red nose.

“Offices?” I ask.

“Conaty Mining Corporation,” he says, then taps the base of the brick facade with his cane. “Technically they still own it, I think. Would rather leave it as an eyesore than sell it.”

“Huh.”

“Deep pockets and a vindictive streak will do that.” He smiles, a bit sadly.

“It’s Jupitas, right? You’re Willy Jupitas?”

His eyes twinkle as he nods. “That’s me. Resident dinosaur, at your service. But I told you, everyone just calls me ‘Geezer.’ ” We shake hands, and with a tip of his tweed driver’s cap, he turns toward the street. After a thorough check that no cars or army caravans are coming, he finally makes his way across the street toward the bakery opposite us.

On a whim, I follow him and open the bakery door. Unlike the empty office across from us, this is a storefront I know well. Flour Child is the name on the door, and the Woodstock-themed interior lives up to that moniker.

The plan forming in my head is to buy pastries for myself and Willy, sit down with him by the window, and over breakfast he’ll regale me with interesting trivia from the town’s past. But he barely spends twenty seconds inside. A coffee is waiting for him on the counter, along with a grease-stained bag containing his usual. With one last tip of his cap, Willy is back outside and ambling down the sidewalk again.

“Morning, Officer,” the woman behind the counter says to me. She has frizzy salt-and-pepper hair and a beak of a nose. From the signs of wear on her tie-dye T-shirt and the scuff marks on the peace-sign pendant around her neck, I suspect her hippie bona fides are all in order.

“Hello again, Reyann,” I reply. My third visit in three days.

The shop specializes in oversized bearclaw donuts shaped, of course, like Big Foot’s signature footprint. I order one, plus a small coffee to go.

Reyann shakes her head slightly, as if disappointed.

“What’d I say?” I ask.

“Really, Officer. Those are for tourists,” she says with a sigh. “I like you, Whittaker, so I’ll finally let you in on a town secret: my scones are where it’s at. They will rock your world.”

“Sign me up. A scone would be great.”

“It’s on the house,” she says, “if you’ll help me out with something.”

“Of course.” For a moment, my spine tingles with a twinge of excitement. Could there be something afoot in quiet old Silvertown?

“Raccoons,” Reyann says, casting a furtive glance toward the back of the shop. “I try to compost everything I can, but those little masked monsters keep getting into the bin and making a huge mess of the alley. I’ve tried everything. Could you…?”

“Could I…?”

She lifts her shoulders, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes get a little watery, too, and I realize the predicament she’s in. Trapped between a strong desire to treat the animals humanely, and yet at her wits’ end for finding such a solution.

“Tell you what,” I say, “I’ve got a contact in Animal Control. Let me see what I can do.” I wink at her and take a bite of the scone. God, it’s good.

It’s a white lie, though, about my “in” at Animal Control. I could definitely use a contact in that department, and this is a great