Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

be some sort of serial attacker. I quickly jot a note to look into the man’s background, just in case.

Then, of course, there’s the why part behind his words. Why couldn’t he stop? Drugs? Mental problems? Little green aliens controlling his brain?

I shake my head, vigorously, to banish this train of thought from my mind. The dude was nuts and got what he deserved. Roll credits. Leave the why to the journalists and forensic psychologists. I stopped him, that’s what matters.

Before me the lake is dazzling. Sunlight dances on inch-high waves. A pair of deer wander out from the forest’s edge, approaching the water with all due wariness. One drinks while the other keeps watch, then they trade roles. Seeing them and the simplicity of their lives somehow clears my head.

It’s nice to just sit and not think about the attack. Or anything, really. That’s not to say my mind isn’t all over the place—far from it—but nothing seems to hold my attention when competing against this view. I wonder if maybe that’s what they meant when they named this Lake Forgotten. A place to forget about everything else.

I sit there until the muffin is gone, and wash it down with the last sip of coffee.

Snack consumed, I say goodbye to the landscape and start back down the mountain. The brief respite has done my mind-set a world of good, but I half expect to find the town in flames or overrun by zombies as payback for me taking ten minutes to veg out.

The road twists and turns, following the contour of the mountain. It’s an odd road in that its corners are banked like a racetrack, and this only made sense to me when Greg explained its construction back on my second or third day up here.

Turns out, back in the 1950s they’d decided to build a telescope up here. An odd choice given the region’s typically cloudy skies, but the budget was approved for political reasons and that was enough to get the project started. Step one was a decent road all the way to the selected site. Not just any road, though. They were going to be hauling a big mirror up here, and that sort of equipment can’t be put under too much stress. The truck that would deliver it needed to be able to maintain a relatively constant speed and minimal g-forces, even in the curves. So the road to Lake Forgotten is inclined in its turns, though not to the extremes of a true racecourse. Still, it’s enough that it unsettles you the first time you drive it, and also makes it an ideal road for thrill seekers, hence the constant stream of motorcycles up here. Once every summer there’s even a herd of exotic Italian cars that makes the pilgrimage, or so Greg tells me. Open season for writing speeding tickets, I expect.

Plans for the telescope were scrapped in favor of a mountain in Southern California, which makes way more sense. Half the road, though, had already been built. West of downtown it’s normal, but from just east all the way to the top, it’s some world-class twisties.

In town I stop for gas and instantly recognize the Volvo parked at the other pump in our two-pump town.

“Heya, Doc,” I say as the fuel starts to flow.

He glances at me, raises one eyebrow. “Sheriff,” he says, tipping a nonexistent cap. “Just fueling up for my drive to Portland.”

His older-model silver Volvo wagon is immaculately clean, as if straight from the showroom. Its only adornment is an oval-shaped sticker on the back window. White, with black letters: 140.6. A distance runner’s sticker, presumably from a previous owner, unless it means inches instead of miles. To my eye Doc doesn’t look like he’s run a day in his life.

“What’s in Portland?”

“A conference. The annual Neuroscience Society gathering.”

“Good for you.”

“Quite a night you had last night, eh?”

“Heard about that, did you?” I cross my arms, trying to play it cool. Just another day on the job.

“Hard not to. The newspapers and media are all over it.”

“Right. The Silvertown Gazette’s web page must be getting hammered—”

“No, not ours. The big ones. ‘Top Seattle lawyer shot dead by small-town cop,’ ” he quotes. “That’s headline stuff, Mary.”

Top Seattle lawyer? I try to mask my surprise at this detail.

Doc is eyeing me for a reaction. I feel like an insect under a specimen jar. “What’s Greg think about it?”

“Greg?” I ask. “I doubt he’s heard about it, unless it’s been on CNN.”

He squints at me. “You mean you were involved in a shooting and didn’t think to call him?”

I open my mouth to argue, only to close it a second later. Doc’s right. I hadn’t thought to call Greg. “He’s visiting his sick mother,” I say, knowing how lame it sounds.

There’s a click as his gas tank reaches capacity. Doc replaces the handle, then ducks between the two pumps to stand closer to me. “I’m sure you can’t discuss details, but… are you okay?”

“Fine,” I say.

“It’s just… you mentioned being overtired yesterday. I hope that didn’t affect your—”

“Nope, I’m good. And it was the other way around. You mentioned me being overtired, Doc. I said I was fine, and you know what? Slept like a log last night, except for the encounter with that… what’d you say, a lawyer?”

He nods. “Oh! I see… You didn’t know him? Just a one-night stand, then?”

It’s all I can do not to smack him. “What the hell are you talking about? The bastard broke in and attacked me.”

“Oh!” He steps back, hands raised. “Sorry, Mary, I didn’t mean… I didn’t… the articles—”

“They’re not saying that, are they?”

“No! No. They didn’t specify.”

“Wait, so that was your own theory, then?”

“I didn’t mean anything—”

“Like hell you didn’t. Tells me way more about you, though, Doctor Ryan.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe you should analyze your own shit for once.”

He closes his eyes and holds up both hands, defeated.

“Forgive me. I assumed, and made an ass out of… well, just me in