Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

“What I meant was they closed the base because they didn’t find a body.”

“What?”

“As in, a kid went in and never came back out. And this town wants to keep the story buried because… the truth is, no one knows who the kid was. No one was reported missing. But the cameras don’t lie, know what I mean?”

“Ohhhh hooooo ho, damn, holy shit, serious? It’s on camera?”

“Just the gate camera. Security. A buddy of mine showed it to me. He was military police, and right after that happened he got shipped off to Japan. Anyway, you see a kid walk in, right past the guards… like they can’t see him. And the kid never comes back out.”

“Fuck me… that’s crazy.”

“Look guys, that’s all I can say. If you’ll excuse me? Got other customers. Enjoy the drinks, and… hey, keep all that to yourselves, cool? Right on… How you doing over here, Suz?”

“Good, thanks. Um, Kyle, a word in private? I thought they closed that base because of budget cuts?”

“They sure did, yeah.”

“So what’s with the tall tale? That’s not like you.”

“I don’t know. Started doing that a few years ago. I was in a bad mood and spun some bullshit about a disappearance to some nutter, and the next summer this couple wanders in and asks about it, so I added to the tale. Next summer after that I threw in the army base for fun, and so on. This is the third group that’s asked about it this year. Kinda cool, right? How legends are born. I figure in a decade there’ll be a line out the door, maybe even a Netflix movie.”

“And the hundred dollars?”

“Call it a gullibility tax.”

As I step out the front door that morning I find myself wishing I’d taken Greg’s advice and parked the cruiser at home. A police car prominently displayed in my driveway might have convinced my attacker to abandon his insane plan. Assuming he had a plan at all. But more than that, I also wouldn’t be faced with the long walk to the station now. My throat is slightly bruised, as is my neck and shoulder. My head hurts from a combination of alcohol, that sleeping pill, and some good old-fashioned blunt force trauma.

The walk does wonders, though. It’s a calm morning, not a cloud in the sky, and by the halfway point I’m almost enjoying myself. Fresh fallen leaves crunch under my boots. Birds are chattering high in the branches above. It occurs to me that for the first time in perhaps forty-eight hours nothing weird is happening. No coyotes crossing my path. No owls flying over in perfectly straight lines.

No one trying to kill me. That’s always a plus.

The plan had been to get straight to the office and the business of police work. The plan upon reaching the edge of town, though, is more food. I stop in at Diner for a second breakfast. “Turkey and avocado scramble. Hash browns extra crispy. Coffee. Water,” I tell the waitress, a robust and sour woman called Ashley Gilbert.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” She pulls back the menu she’d been about to hand me. She eyes me, and then seems to notice my injuries. The question is on her lips but the glare I give her seems answer enough for now. With a shrug she walks away, trading barbs with a couple of elderly men seated along the milk shake bar with newspapers spread out before them.

I’ve picked a corner booth, the one that lets me look out on downtown’s only intersection, with a view all the way up to the station. Greg and I sit here often, because he feels the view alone means we’re basically on patrol.

So I watch the town come to life while I sip my coffee. I do this not in hopes of spotting something out of the ordinary, or catching sight of some event that requires my attention. It’s the opposite, actually. For some reason I just want to bask in the normalcy of it all. From this spot, with the sun just starting to rise above Two-Shits and bathe the eastern-facing walls of the town in golden light, Silvertown does indeed feel normal. Quirky, sure, but in a charming way. In that way a small town is supposed to be quirky. As opposed to the introverted-kid-who-went-hiking-alone quirky. Or the dude-who-sits-in-the-road-after-crashing-his-Harley-and-then-tries-to-kill-me quirky. Or the… fuck, let it go, Mary. I really need to sweep all that crap aside and treat this for what it is: a new day.

The meal arrives and I wolf it down, lost in thought as I shovel hash browns into my bottomless pit of a stomach.

It’s only when I’m back out on the sidewalk that I realize I didn’t speak to anyone inside, other than when I’d ordered my food. Not the two old men reading their newspapers, or the four teens giggling as they played with a Ouija board, or the woman in the corner with the hoodie. She’d held a napkin in front of her nose the entire time I was there, waiting for a sneeze that never arrived.

None of them looked at me. In hindsight, maybe they were deliberately not looking at me. By now the whole town probably knows that something went down at my house last night. Not all the details, of course, but enough to get the rumor mill running at full capacity. The diner would have been a great opportunity to put on a brave face, assuage fears, and generally let people know I’m handling the situation. If only I’d thought of this when I was in there. Instead I just sat and stared out the window in uncharacteristic silence. This’ll likely put the rumor mill into overdrive. “She was in shock,” they’ll say. “It was like she was hoping Greg would come driving down the street and set things right.” Something like that. I suppose there’s nothing