Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

“It was that crashed motorcyclist, Doc. The one who I tried to get you to go see? The one you said wasn’t there?”

“Again, I apologize.”

“Yeah, well, have a safe trip.”

After an awkward few seconds, Doc gives me a sheepish nod and turns to leave.

“Hey Doc,” I call out as he’s halfway folded into his boxy wagon. “You treat any broken noses yesterday?”

For a second he stares at me, expressionless in the face of my non-sequitur. Then he shakes his head, thinks better of asking me why I want to know, and drives off for his fancy conference in Portland.

It’s only then that I realize I’m now the lone cop in a town with no doctor.

Driving to the station I kick myself for not thinking to ask Doc to call on Sally Jones. Her behavior this morning is worth his attention. Bipolar is my guess, or something along those lines. Maybe she stopped taking her medication recently.

Of course, Sally’s medication needs are none of my business. Still I think Doc should know about the incident. I call him and leave a voice mail when he doesn’t pick up.

Back behind my desk for what feels like the tenth time that day, I take a stab at clearing out the email in-box. Most of it is crap. Alerts for things that are technically nearby but have no bearing on the goings-on here in remote Silvertown. I usually read these anyway just for the nostalgia of being part of a much bigger police force. The effort has only paid off one time so far. About a month back, two kids assaulted an old lady and stole her car down in Granston, and in their panic to avoid being caught they took a right instead of a left turn, which brought them up here to Silvertown. Granston police blocked off Keller’s Bridge near the base of the mountain, effectively trapping them up here, and then let me and Greg know. Took all of five minutes to find the two youths, both fifteen, who sadly had done a Thelma and Louise into a ravine just north of the bridge rather than face the consequences of their actions.

Today I can’t bring myself to care. Not about the teenagers, that was a true shame. No, today I can’t get interested in this list of general alerts. I file them all.

One message, sent to me specifically, does catch my eye. A copy of Sheriff Davies’s report regarding the incident at my house, which he’s BCC’d me on out of professional courtesy. I skim it. Can’t really bring myself to look at the pictures too closely. It’s my fucking house and I was the one who pulled the trigger. I do scan the deceased’s bio, though, and sure enough it’s right there in black and white: Rhod Mitchell. Attorney-at-law for Dawson & Wendig, a prominent Seattle firm. High-power business lawyers. I learn all this by googling the place and checking out its website. My attacker was a partner there and has his own section on the “Meet Our Team” page. Specialized in corporate law and finance, enjoyed riding motorcycles and spending time with his wife and two children.

I slump back at that bombshell.

Wife. Two kids. “Shiiiiiit.”

I feel no remorse for pulling the trigger. But still… these details paint a part of the picture missing before now. I want to think of that son of a bitch as a son of a bitch, not a human being. Not a father.

“Well, kids, your dad was a turd. Sorry, but that’s the truth,” I say to the screen, resigning myself not to lose any sleep over it. I just hope I don’t have to face them in a courtroom someday soon. I don’t want to look into their eyes.

I’m about to close the page when I notice something else. Near the top of the screen there’s a rotating list of testimonials, changing every few seconds. Quotes about the amazing credentials of the firm. One in particular catches my eye. Not the quote itself, but the name attributed to it: Sandra Conaty. Or at least I think that’s what it said. The damn cycling banner won’t let me scroll back.

It could only be the Sandra Conaty, the woman on the news the other day. CEO of Conaty Corporation, the very company that Greg ran out of town.

I click around a bit and find a “Clients” page. Sure enough, among the hundreds of other recognizable brand names, there’s Conaty Corporation. “Huh,” I say aloud, not quite sure what to make of it. On the one hand it’s a connection. Tenuous, but still a link. Conaty is a gigantic global enterprise, though. True, both the family and the company have been gone from Silvertown for years, but it makes sense they’d continue to use a big Seattle law firm. Hell, they probably have lawyers in every state and several countries, too.

“And yet…”

They’re gone because of the efforts of Greg Gorman, and by extension, the Silvertown Police force, which last night was yours truly. Had Rhod Mitchell been at this firm back then? Worked on the case? Could some lingering resentment toward the town be behind his drive up here?

My mind runs a bit wild with possibilities. I’m suddenly imagining him drugging me not to assault me but to tie me up and lecture me. To tell me what really happened, as a consolation prize for Greg being out of town. He’d tell me how Chief Gorman had it all wrong, and ruined all those careers for nothing. Or, hell, that the conspiracy theories are right. That the Conatys have some secret facility in Silvertown where work continues to make super soldiers for the government, or study UFO wreckage. Uh-huh, yeah, that’s gotta be it. All the harebrained theories I’ve heard since arriving swirl around in my brain.

Or maybe he just works at the same firm. Maybe he heard about Silvertown when someone mentioned the old client and what had