Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

“Clara? It’s Mary.”

There’s a click about three seconds later. “Still can’t believe I get to do this. So cool. Ahem. Uh, go ahead, Officer Whittaker. I read you.”

“This one’s serious, Clara.”

“Sorry, sorry. What’s up?”

“Another accidental off-roader down here on 177.”

“Not again,” comes her reply, referring to the SUV from the day before.

“Afraid so. These leaves are catching people off guard.” Including me, but I withhold that footnote. “Do you have a pen and pad? Here’s what I need you to do; write it down. First, call Doc and see if he can come down here and have a look at the guy.”

“Not an ambulance?”

“I don’t think it’s that serious, but Doc might have a different opinion. Anyway, he can get here a lot faster than an ambulance from Granston.”

“Okay. What else?”

“We’ll need a tow truck. A flatbed, for the motorcycle, so you’ll have to call down to Granston. Check the notepad on my desk, I think I’ve got the name of the one the sheriff’s office uses. Gamble and Sons? Gimble? Something like that.”

“I’ll find it. Motorcycle, huh? Is it a local?”

“No, not a local. One of the… what do you call them? Sons of Brand-archy.”

“Oh, joy. If only they’d spend half as much on riding lessons as they do on accessories… Hang on, Mary, another call coming in.”

While waiting I produce a few orange cones from the trunk of my cruiser and set them at either side of the bend, weighing each down with a rock in case the wind picks up later. The cones blend in with the leaves, though, so I add a few road flares for good measure. With the early arrival of fall, I wonder if the town has a streetsweeping service that comes through, and when they’re scheduled to start. Probably worth contacting them and moving the date up to… immediately. I jot a note to that effect on a small pad I keep in my breast pocket. Greg probably has all the details in his head, but I’m determined not to call him, so some detective work will be required to find out who the city has a contract with and—

The radio crackles. “Mary?” Clara’s voice sounds different, the semisarcastic charm replaced with a stark seriousness.

“Go ahead, Clara.”

“I can barely get anything out of this woman. She’s hysterical. Something about Old Mine Road, that’s all I could understand.”

I glance at the biker. Despite my advice to stay put, he’s standing now. Pacing near his motorcycle, actually, with a cell phone pressed to his ear. Probably talking to his insurance agent or telling a buddy back at the office about his brush with death. At least he’s off the road.

“Sir? Tow truck is on the way. A doctor, too, just in case. I’ve got another call to respond to. You’ll be all right here?”

He offers me a thumbs-up, not breaking his conversation.

“Well, then,” I mutter under my breath. “Have a nice day.”

Back in the cruiser I press Clara for details, but there are none to be had. A woman phoned in, terrified or deranged or stoned, Clara couldn’t be sure. “Maybe all three,” she adds with a touch of judgment. “Might even have been a prank call. All I could get was Old Mine Road, then she hung up on me.”

When it rains, it pours, I think. Still, could be worse. Greg could have been on leave the day Johnny Rogers died. This is a picnic compared to handling something like that on my own.

“Copy that, Clara. On my way,” I say.

The only way to reach Old Mine Road from where I skidded off the asphalt is to head back up the mountain and through downtown.

As I approach the old buildings I can’t help but try to imagine what it was like here before everything changed.

On first moving here I made the same assumption just about everyone makes about a place called Silvertown. Yes, there’s an old silver mine here, but it was abandoned more than sixty years ago. What remained, however, was the company that owned it, and despite closing the mine they continued to grow and prosper. Until Greg stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.

He still hasn’t filled me in on all the details, and I haven’t pressed too much. I know there were convictions, resignations, and even a suicide. When the dust settled, Greg was the only cop left in a town with no chief and no mayor. The scandal had claimed them both. The new head of the Conaty Corporation decided (out of spite, evidently) that Houston would be a better home for their headquarters. As a result, Silvertown’s population plummeted from more than four thousand to just seven hundred or so practically overnight. Hundreds of houses and dozens of businesses remain empty to this day, not to mention all the Conaty warehouses, processing plants, offices, and labs. Empty shells to the last.

Which brings me back to the main issue dividing this place: those who sided with Greg after the whole Conaty scandal, and those who don’t. Half the town thinks Greg’s a hero for what he did. The other half think he should’ve backed off, that he’s responsible for Silvertown’s economic collapse. The only small consolation is that all the really pissed-off folks left years ago. I don’t know how he survived their hostility. From what I’ve heard it was ugly. Really ugly.

Someone new actually moving here, as I did two months back, is the rarest of rare occasions.

As I drive through I find my gaze drawn to the faces of those out on the sidewalks. Earlier, before work hours, the number of people walking around almost makes the place seem normal. But after that initial rush the number has dwindled. One man buys groceries at the Gas-N-Go. Another walks his dog. Two women peruse a display of orchids outside the small flower shop. They stand close together, engrossed in quiet conversation as they browse. Gossip, probably. And