Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

in a silent cheers, sip, and study the familiar Corona label.

“Which way did you say those bear tracks went?” I ask him. “I might go have a look in the morning.”

He sets the overly polished glass down and studies me. “I can handle that for you.”

I mull this. Sip at my beer.

“Or,” he adds, “we could go together.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

He’s only slightly more surprised by this response than I am. “Sorry,” I quickly add. “Not sure where that came from. I just want to be sure it’s gone.”

“No one’s mentioned seeing it.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“But,” he adds, “Jojo and Edgy saw some ATV tracks up on the ridge over the old mine.”

“Who and who?”

“Sorry, force of habit. Josh Dent and Alex Carr,” he explains. “They run the mechanic shop behind the Gas-n-Go.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” I say, though I can’t recall ever meeting them, much less hearing their nicknames. Greg has handled maintenance on his old cruiser since, well, forever, and mine’s only a few months old, so I’ve had no reason to visit their shop. It’s a dingy building tucked back behind the gas station, with an old faded sign that just reads DENT & CARR AUTO MECHANICS and a barely legible phone number. And here I’d thought the name was just a cheesy attempt at humor. Beneath all that it says SORRY, NO BIKES in freshly painted letters. I see it every time I go for my gas station pizza, which is pretty much daily, but never really thought much about it. “Surprised they don’t fix motorcycles, too. Seems like it’d be easy money up here.”

At this Kyle and the pastor share a significant glance with each other, which takes me aback. “Am I missing something?” I ask.

Kyle’s chuckling as he moves off to fill another order, which leaves Pastor Osman to answer, and that has the man blushing. He stammers, trying to find the words.

I try to stop him with an upheld hand. “I think I get it.”

“They wouldn’t get along well with the biker crowd,” Miles says anyway.

“Yeah, dude, I definitely get it. Comprende.” No sense forcing the straitlaced pastor to state the now-obvious.

Someone’s paid actual money to coax that famous Rick Astley song from the sound machine, bringing groans from half the patrons. At least no one has picked up a microphone to sing along. I might have had to make a public decency arrest.

“ATV, huh?” I call out to Kyle, raising my voice over the music.

Kyle nods, setting a pair of shots in front of a couple at the other end of the bar. “S’what they said. Not so odd, this time of year, but it’s worrying, given the bear situation. Be a shame if we lost another tourist.”

This has others seated nearby nodding in concerned agreement. Tourists—be they hikers, bikers, or “conspiratards” as I once heard someone call them—have been the lifeblood of this town ever since the Conatys left.

Kyle goes on. “Makes me wonder if we should put signs up or do an alert of some kind.”

“And by we you mean me,” I reply.

He looks puzzled, one eyebrow lifted high. “No, I mean we. Like how you rallied all of us to help with the hiker. Or how you enlisted us all to help direct traffic for Johnny’s funeral. You know, a typical Mary Whittaker–style team operation. Clara could print something up, she’s good at that, and we could all pitch in to post them around the popular spots.”

His words are like a splash of cold water across my face. I sit there, mildly stunned, and not quite sure why.

“Mary,” he starts. “Something’s up. I realize we haven’t been, um, hanging out very long, but this isn’t like you.”

I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t know me well enough to say that, but he holds up his hands. “Wait. Before you respond, just think about what we talked about the other night. About your brothers? About what happened to you in Oakland?”

I think back to the first night Kyle and I made love, ignoring the sex part for once and focusing on our afterglow conversation. He wanted to know about my past. About why I left Oakland.

“Must have been pretty bad to make you decide to move here. I mean, no one moves here. Not willingly.”

So I’d told him, but I’d started with my childhood. Growing up with four older brothers, you’d think that would make me hypercompetitive and fiercely independent. “That’s so not me,” I’d explained. “No, my thing was teamwork, since my earliest memories. Mom wanted me to clean my room? I’d go convince one of my brothers to help. Or all of them.”

“You had them wrapped around your cute little finger,” Kyle observed.

“It wasn’t like that. Okay, at first, yeah, but that only works to a point. No, it was more like… I just always make things a team effort. It’s better that way, isn’t it?”

“Teamwork makes the dream work?”

“I could arrest you for that. Lame cliché in the first degree,” I said to him, punching his arm.

He grunted a laugh. “What’s this got to do with Oakland?”

And so I’d told him the whole sordid tale. How I’d found the perfect partner, how we’d made such a great team.

“Then one day we’re chasing this armed suspect who’s just gone into a home and barricaded the front door closed. I was ready to pursue, but it was my partner who said we should wait for backup. But I knew there wouldn’t be time, not if we both remained together out front. So I said it. Said we should split up. Cover the front and back, keep the suspect penned in.”

“Smart play,” Kyle observed.

“Yeah, I thought so, too, but it was like pulling teeth to even suggest it. And look what happened. I went around back. The perp came out the front door only seconds later, guns-a-blazing. Probably saw me go and figured the odds were even now.”

“Shit. What then?”

“Zach, my partner, took a round in the gut. Missed