Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

with Meridian Lane, but the guy on the ATV has a good five minutes’ head start. His road is curvier, though, and from what I’ve seen quite badly maintained. Mine, on the other hand, is banked like a racetrack. This just might work.

Before I’m even halfway I spot a vehicle coming up the mountain and recognize it seconds later as Kyle’s Jeep. He slows down, one hand out the window urging me to do the same. So I do, and kill the siren.

Soon enough we’re parked on the road, blocking both lanes, our cars pointing in opposite directions. Luckily there’s no one else around.

Before I can say anything he speaks, more urgency in his voice than I feel, and I feel quite a lot. That’s not a good sign at all.

“Are you after him?” he asks, breathless.

“The dude with the blue barrels? How do you know about him?!”

He pulls a face. “Huh? I’m talking about Kenny,” he says. “Are you after Kenny!?”

“What the hell would I be after your brother for?”

The response seems to deflate him. He sighs with relief. “Is your phone working?” he asks.

“No signal,” I tell him. “Speaking of, can I use yours?”

Instead of answering, he glances up the road, shaking his head and swearing under his breath. “No signal for me either. It’s happening to everyone, actually. That’s why I’m out here instead of at the bar.”

“What do you mean? And what’s it have to do with Kenny?”

“I think he and some of his stupid friends did something.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No it does not,” he agrees. “Wait, this isn’t what you’re riled up about? What’s with the flashing lights? And what’s with the white powder all over your face? Who’s this Blue Barrel Man?”

I hold up a hand. “Tell you later. Go on about Kenny. But be quick. I’m literally in hot pursuit right now.”

“Shit. Okay.” He gestures up the mountain. “My brother came by the bar, all agitated. He’d found out something about that company. The one that put up that cell tower.”

“You mean StellarComm?”

“That’s them, yeah.”

“What’d he find out?”

Kyle seems to brace himself before speaking again. “They’re owned by Conaty.”

“Conaty?” My mind reels, trying to connect dots and failing. “That’s not going to go over well.”

He nods. “Exactly. He was going all conspiratard about it. Like they’re listening in on our calls, still out for revenge against Chief Gorman. He was really worked up. You know how he can be.”

“I kinda don’t blame him. That’s suspect even to me.”

“Well, then he said he needed to show it to his friends. Half an hour later, boom. Everyone loses signal. Me. All the customers. Folks I talked to outside. Everyone.”

I glance in my rearview mirror, but despite how big and out of place that cell tower is, we’ve parked at one of the few points on the road where you can’t see it.

Kyle jerks his chin at my car. “Go. I’ll find Kenny. Hopefully all they did was flip the power switch, and if so, I’ll try to get it back on.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Good luck.”

“You, too. Sure you don’t need help?”

“Finding Kenny is helping. Don’t worry, I got this.” I wink at him as I floor the gas pedal. The tires give a satisfying little chirp, and then I’ve got the sirens back on, and Kyle is receding quickly in the mirror.

I pass mile marker thirteen, half expecting to see the ghost of Rhod Mitchell sitting in the road, shouting “I’m sorry! I can’t stop!” as I roar by.

But there’s no one there. Just asphalt and leaves.

A mile farther on is Meridian Lane. There’s no sign for it, and the intersection comes at the center point of a sharp curve, on the inside, with dense trees huddled right up on its edges. Blink and you’d miss it. Don’t blink and you’d pay it no attention whatsoever.

I slow and take the turn, then drive another hundred yards or so before I spot an obstacle. There’s a low gate across Meridian Lane, a feature that seems to be the theme for today. First at the cell tower, then the Masonic Campground, and now this.

This one is just two elongated triangular frames of steel tube. Where they meet in the middle, a sign gleams in the sunlight stating in no uncertain terms that this road is for utility access only. Drooping from behind this are loops of thick chain, and I can just make out a padlock holding it all together.

I skid to a stop in front of the barrier. Captain Tweaker must have gotten through here somehow, which means he can get back out again, so I angle my car into a sideways position to block as much of the road as possible. I leave the lights flashing and the engine on.

Beyond the gate, Meridian Lane goes up a hill and then down again, giving me a view of only fifty yards or so. Between the locked barricade, my car with its red-and-blue lights flashing, and the pistol on my hip, I figure I’ve got this guy dead to rights.

But after two minutes pass and nothing happens, I start to lose a bit of that confidence. He should be here by now. I study the ground in front of the gate. There’s no ATV tracks across the leaves on the road, but he had a tent up there and, for all I know, made the drive up to the water tower days ago.

“Or this isn’t the route he took,” I say to myself. It was an ATV, after all, giving him access to game trails and any one of a number of firebreaks. An unlikely approach, sure, but not impossible.

Several more minutes pass uneventfully.

“Shit,” I say. I’m going to have to go up there and find him. Which means figuring out a way to open this gate. There’s bolt cutters in the cruiser, and I don’t see any way around using them. The posts to which the gate is attached are right beside thick trees, providing