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

WHITTAKER, on the other side. Digging through the basket I find my pants, socks, and when I see the leather of my boots I almost shout with glee.

No vest or belt, though. My sidearm, pepper spray, Taser, cuffs… none of it is here. Not even a flashlight.

I hesitate. Weigh options. I could dress in my uniform again, but that would just make me an obvious target, wouldn’t it? The basket next to this has clothing piled in it, too, and I thumb through it quickly. Khakis, a flannel shirt, a man’s socks and briefs. Greg’s, maybe. They might fit. Disguised, I could take these people on just like I did Captain Tweaker. One at a time, until…

You need help.

There’re those words again, forcing my brain to overcome this innate desire to go it alone.

I push the clothes aside, and add Captain Tweaker’s too-skinny jeans to the pile as well. Leaning against the cold metal of the washing machine, chanting the words written on my hand under my breath, I hastily put my own uniform back on. I’m going to get away. Drive to Granston. Straight to the sheriff’s office. In plainclothes they’d think I was absolutely insane, maybe even throw me in the drunk tank until Davies wakes the next morning. But uniformed? I just might have a chance.

Clothes on and boots laced, I continue to the window at the back. The blinds are actually rigid shutters disguised as blinds. I pull them open and look out. It takes me a second to realize what I’m looking at, and in that second a wide smile grows on my face.

Directly below the window is the roof of the garage.

I slide the window open and remove the screen, pulling it into the laundry room and slipping it in between the washer and dryer. Climbing out is easy, and within seconds I’m on the roof of the garage and pulling the shutters closed behind me. I can’t latch them from this side, so I hold them in the closed position for a second before letting go. A light breeze pushes the shutters open an inch or so, but I think it’s not enough to spot at a casual glance. With any luck, my exit from here will not be noticed. Quietly I slide the window closed.

Crouching down, I start along the apex of the garage’s roof. There must be a door at the back, or at least a window I can force.

The driveway is to my left, the darkness of the side yard on my right. I have only moonlight to guide my way, and the shingle roof is new, slick from the damp air. After a near slip I ease my pace.

Then I stop altogether. Something’s happening in the house behind me. A commotion. Someone running down the hall, audible even from here. An urgent word.

Tweaker’s been found. Has to be. Which means my absence has been discovered, too.

I take another step before dropping flat onto my stomach as the front of the house is suddenly lit up by brilliant security lights. They flood the driveway, the fountain, and cast a yellow glow on the trees leading off into the distance. But they’re below me, the lip of the roof keeping me in shadow.

Still, I decide the spine of the roof, though flat, is not safe. If anyone looks up I’ll be silhouetted against the sky. So I slide on my belly, halfway down toward the back of the garage. I come to a crouching stand and start to creep along carefully, keeping one hand on the roof for balance.

After only a few steps a crackling sound fills the air around me. Familiar but also confusing as hell. Without thinking I flatten myself to the roof once again. There I wait, and listen.

The rough, erratic noise comes from a speaker. A whole array of them actually, inside and outside the house. An intercom system through which a voice now booms.

It’s a familiar voice.

The Conaty woman.

“You will find and subdue Mary Whittaker! You will bring her to me, alive!”

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.

The urge to run spikes in my gut. I could sprint along the roof, clamber down at the far end, and find Doc’s car.

My brain, though, is frozen with fear. There are too many of them. Lying here I’m aware of at least five people moving through the house, going room to room. A door opens from the front of the property. Flashlight beams play across the trees.

It’s not Greg or Tweaker or any of the Broken Nose Gang that scare me, though. No, it’s those four men who were standing behind Conaty’s VIP guests, hands clasped in front of them like Secret Service escorting the president. Which is, I realize, close enough to the truth. Those men were rigid, disciplined. Professional. And muscled beneath their designer suits that failed to hide the gun-shaped bulge at the left breast.

A door opens nearby. The laundry room. Despite all my effort to disguise my exit, like an idiot I left the light on. Steps come toward its window, just fifteen feet from me.

Still on my stomach, I do the only thing I can: roll. Roll down the back of the garage’s roof and over the edge. The Smith & Wesson I let go of, hearing it crash into a shrub somewhere below.

My fingers find the lip of the rain gutter just as the shutters blocking that window open with a clack-clack sound. Light spills out, and looking up I can see its yellow glow bright on my fingertips. I strain to hold on, hoping against hope that whoever is there won’t notice the row of knuckles marring the otherwise smooth length of gutter running along the roof’s edge.

Staring up at my hands, trying to find the best grip on the thin sheet-metal guttering, I see the words written there and almost laugh. Yeah, I do need help. Holy hell do I need