Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

It’s 3:21 a.m., I note, finally able to focus on the clock. In my experience there are few headaches worse than the one you get when chemically aided sleep is interrupted, never mind twice in the same night. Today is going to be a nightmare.

“Sure you’re not hurt?” Sheriff Davies asks. “You don’t look so good.”

“I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

He eyes me. “No offense, but you need a professional. There are two EMTs outside, they can look at you.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

The skeptical look remains, but he nods and turns back to the room. With his phone he snaps pictures of the body, the wall, and the smashed table lamp. Then he takes a pair of blue gloves from his belt, and an evidence bag from one pocket, in which he carefully places the rag my attacker had wrapped around his hand.

Finally, he leaves the room. By his footsteps I can picture him searching the rest of the house, which doesn’t take long. Most of this time is spent in the kitchen, examining the back door and the busted chandelier. More photos are snapped.

His path takes him back to the front door. I hear him exchange words with someone, and fear he’s making an announcement to my neighbors about what happened. But a few seconds later he returns, a couple of paramedics on his heels. They followed him up from Granston, evidently.

The male of the pair helps Sheriff Davies load the body onto a gurney, while the woman comes over to examine me. I don’t have the energy to tell her not to bother. We say nothing to each other as she shines a light in each of my eyes, then feels my scalp. If the lack of a bruise or lump is a concern, she doesn’t mention it. Maybe Davies told her about the chloroform, and the working assumption is I got a few lungfuls during the skirmish, hence the state I was in when they arrived. Satisfied I’m in no immediate danger, she shifts focus to helping the other two.

Ten minutes later the paramedics are gone. Davies and I sit in my front room, sipping tea, which he made.

“I know Gorman’s on vay-cay,” the man says. “He and I go way back. I helped him with that Conaty thing some years ago.”

“I’ll let him know you were here,” I say, wishing he’d leave.

“It’s not that, though please do tell him hello for me. What I wanted to say is, if you need me to cover for you today, or hang around and help out—”

“No,” I reply, without even really considering it. “I’ll be okay. Nothing much happens up here and this… this is just paperwork now.” He seems about to protest. “Really, it’s no big deal. Thank you so much for coming up.”

“I suppose I should be getting back,” he says reluctantly. Then he waves vaguely toward the rear of the house. “And don’t bother with the paperwork. I’ll file the report on this, Mary. Procedures, you know. Can’t be you who files it, considering the location and the vic… the, err…”

“I understand.”

“There might be an inquiry, but I doubt it. Depends on if your trespasser had a spouse or a lawyer, I guess. Anyway you should know in a few days, and certainly no judge will want to see you before Greg gets back, if at all. Uh, you sure I can’t help you clean up the… you know.”

“Really, it’s fine. I’m not… this isn’t my first rodeo.”

This gets a grunt of respect from the older man. “You were SFPD, is that right?”

“Oakland.”

“Oakland, yeah. A tough beat I’m sure.” He waits, but when I say nothing he softens his tone and says, “My offer stands, Mary. Call me if you need anything.”

Palms on knees, the sheriff pushes himself to a weary stand. He nods at me with, I think, a profound understanding of what I’ve been through, and heads out the door.

The house is finally quiet again.

Three cups of coffee and two toaster waffles later, I break out the cleaning supplies and set to work bleaching the ever-living shit out of my bedroom wall and window. Whereas the photos of Johnny Rogers and the sight of the mauled hiker had bothered me, this mess has no effect. Maybe it’s because the crud came from a complete bastard who tried to kill me, or maybe it’s because I am beyond tired and completely strung out.

By the time sunlight makes its way into my room, the job is reasonably complete. The back door is still an issue, but I can live with leaving it dead-bolted for now. I shower and put on my uniform, ready for whatever the day feels like throwing at me.

It can’t be worse than yesterday.

“Hey friends. Welcome. What can I getcha?”

“Moscow Mules all around, barkeep! Hey man, we heard, like, is it true there’s an old army base up here? We heard they found a kid’s body there back in the 1980s. Like, murdered, and that’s why it was shut down. Is that true?”

“Not… exactly.”

“Meaning what? C’mon man, you can tell us.”

“Look, the four of you gotta keep this to yourselves, okay? Folks around here would prefer that city slickers just stop in for Big Foot stickers and crystal healing shit and then fuck off back down the mountain. They want to keep the truth buried, just like that kid.”

“So there was a body found! Holy shit.”

“Not… exactly.”

“… meaning?”

“Here’s your Mules.”

“Oh, damn, okay. C’mon. You can’t say ‘not exactly’ like that and not tell us more, man.”

“Four Moscow Mules comes to… lessee, twenty-five times… carry the one… that’s a hundred bucks.”

“What? One hundred dollars for four… Oohhh-kay, I get it. Fine. Here… Sara, do you have…? What about you, Rick? It’s cool, I’ll cover you man, but you owe me. All right, here’s the hundred.”

“Thanks.”

“Well? C’mon. You said not