Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

maybe. “Aloof” is the right word, I think.

I print the document, yawning as the page is spat out of the machine. Then I call Doc.

“What now, Sheriff Whittaker? I have a calendar to stick to. Appointments. Paying customers.”

“You know I’m not a sheriff, right?”

He chuckles dryly. “Of course.”

“Then why—”

“A little experiment. I thought it would be interesting to see how long it would take you to correct me. Two months to the day, as it turns out.”

“And is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Interesting.”

“Not especially.”

I shake my head. What a specimen. “About the hiker. What’s our plan?”

“I’ve spoken with the county medical examiner. She’s sending a team from the coroner’s office to collect the remains. Kyle’s waiting with the, er, with him, until they get here.”

“Did you ask them to do an autopsy?”

“Hah. Right.”

“I’m serious.”

He’s silent for a second. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Mary, I don’t think there’s been a more obvious cause of death since Marie Antoinette’s.”

Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe the lack of sleep or my soured stomach. Maybe it’s the implication that I don’t know how to handle this, but good-old-Greg would. Whatever, my temper overpowers my innate need to forge partnerships. I lower my voice. “I am serious, Doctor Ryan. The family of the deceased is going to want an answer as to why their son chose not to run from a fucking bear. And if he didn’t have a little ganja or who-knows-what in his system it begs the question: Was he really just ‘frozen in panic,’ as you put it, or is she perhaps not telling us the entire truth?”

“Now just hold on a second. Calm down.” He lets out a long breath. “This isn’t like you. Are you all right?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, “Sorry, Doc. Just tired. Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s my job to worry about you.”

“Technically it isn’t. I have my own doctor.”

“I meant in the sense of being a medical professional—”

“I’m fine.”

“This has been a stressful few weeks. For all of us. First that tragedy with John Rogers, then Greg goes on leave, and now this—”

“Dude. I said I’m fine.”

“But tired,” he says suggestively.

This stops me short, and I wish it didn’t because he picks up on it.

“There are excellent remedies for that, Mary. Some of the newer sleep aids are—”

“No, really, I’m fine. Sorry for snapping at you.”

I say my goodbyes before he can ask about my relationship with my mother or the specifics of my dreams. Winning the town’s trust and friendship is one thing, but when it comes to Doc—or Pastor Osman for that matter—I think it’s best if they don’t know my every problem. Besides, there’s no reason why I can’t call the coroner directly. Introduce myself. Greg will be proud.

“Clara?” I call out. She doesn’t reply.

The duty desk is in a small front room, and from where I sit, I can hear the little television on in there, tuned to the news. I walk over.

Clara Givens is leaning back in the chair, watching the little antique TV. She’s got purple-and-pink hair this week, shaved on one side, and a nose ring. A sleeve of tattoos covers her left arm.

“Clara?” I ask again.

She raises one hand in response, her attention on the television. I glance at it. On the screen, there’s some investment show on, and before I can tell her to switch it off I realize the person talking to the reporter is Mrs. Sandra Conaty, chief executive of the global company that used to be headquartered here.

Conaty is saying something about a streamlining of the workforce. Corporate executive talk for layoffs.

“Of course,” the interviewer says, “you already streamlined your workforce when you moved from Washington State to Texas, didn’t you?”

Conaty brushes the comment aside. “That was before my tenure as CEO, but yes, departing our headquarters there did provide an ancillary benefit of shedding deadweight.”

“Nice,” I note. “She seems like a lovely person.”

“If Lizard People are real,” Clara says, “and I’m not saying they are, but I’m not saying they aren’t, either… she’d be hiding scales. Guaranteed.”

“Good thing Greg ran them out of town, huh?” I reach past her and turn the volume down. “Fascinating stuff, but I need you to help me with something.”

“Sure thing,” Clara replies. Instead of walking back with me, she pushes her chair with both feet, wheeling all the way from the front desk to mine, then spins and looks at me earnestly, hands clasped in front of her.

I hand her the printout. “Mr. Jeffery Hall, our recently departed hiker.”

She glances at it, frowns. “Damn. He was smokin’ hot.”

“Shh. His girlfriend is in the other room.”

Clara gives me a concerned look, lowering her voice to match mine. “Was it awful? I bet it was. I hate the sight of blood.”

I meet her gaze and hold it. “One of the worst things I’ve ever seen.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. A silence stretches. Outside the roar of a Harley grows, rattles the windows, then fades. Clara releases my shoulder and puts on a brave face. “How can I help?”

“I need to call the coroner. While I’m doing that, could you please look through the, um, deceased’s phone and wallet? I have his driver’s license, but we need a relative we can call. A close friend. Anything.”

“What about the girlfriend? She doesn’t know?” she asks, jerking her chin toward the holding cell off to her left.

“They haven’t been dating that long.”

“Yet she followed him out into the wilderness.”

I sigh. “Now now, don’t judge. Besides, she’s been through enough for one day. Let’s give her a break. Going through his things is the easier route.”

Clara nods conspiratorially. Then her nose wrinkles. She says, “I’ve got a shift at the diner in two hours.”

“You’ll make it, don’t worry, I just… I’m shorthanded, ya know?”

A nod. “I get to go through his stuff, huh? Badass.”

“Yes, you do. Wear gloves, please.”

“You may count on me, Mr. Holmes.”

At the bad British accent I roll my eyes, shooing her away toward the