Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

the name, apparently misdiagnosed. Many simply have what appears to be Doc’s best guess as to their most prominent instinct. As if we’re all just rats in a mountain-sized maze for him to study.

At the end of the list are several recent entries, not alphabetical. Not from Silvertown.

The hiker is first. “Jeff Hall. Survival, fear of wild animals.” And for the first time a delivery method that isn’t prescription medication. Instead it simply reads “Granston Brewery—compromised beverage.” There’s a red line through the entire entry, just like Johnny’s. Another test subject dead.

Just below Jeff Hall is Katherine Pascoe, the hiker’s companion who I sat with, commiserated with. Her category is simply “social—chatter / conversation,” the note indicating she no longer tells stories. That’s not something that I would have ever considered an instinct, but then I’m no expert. Doc obviously is. I think about her constant silence, and how getting anything out of her required constant prompting. She has the same Granston Brewery comment for delivery.

Of course. I’d wondered about Tweaker and the powder he was putting into the water supply, but a controlled delivery makes way more sense.

I spend a minute trying to wrap my brain around what all this means, but soon enough there’s only one clear thought that I can latch on to: Johnny Rogers and Jeff Hall both died from this. That means I have Doc on murder. Second-degree manslaughter at a minimum. This could apply to Mr. Ang, too, assuming the link can be proven, which at this point I think is highly likely. They’re thick as thieves, from what I saw. Maybe it’s better that I didn’t burn the mansion down. The place must be full of evidence.

“Shit!” I practically shout, remembering now the small prescription pad I took from Doc’s room at the mansion. Removing it from my pocket, I flip through the pages once again, only this time with the list of townspeople on Doc’s notepad beside it. Corroborating evidence.

“Got you, you son of a bitch.”

Both items need to be preserved. Carrying them around with me isn’t going to work, though. I’ll have to hide them. I search about the room, but everything seems somehow too obvious. Besides, if they want to get rid of evidence they’ll just burn the place like they did my car.

A better idea comes to me. I stuff the notebook and the pad of paper into a thick envelope, the kind with a bubble-wrap interior. This I seal with some tape and then cover with enough stamps to get it to the moon. Despite the abundance of postage, I write my own address on it, for both “from” and “to,” and then leave the house and walk across the street. I shove the parcel into Doc’s neighbor’s mailbox, and put the little metal flag up for good measure.

Then I return to Doc’s house and do what I’d come to do: bandage my knee. I dab some antibiotic cream on it, wincing as I realize the scrape is actually a gash that might need stitches. I press some gauze over the wound and wrap a bandage around my knee to keep it in place. It’s tight, painfully so, but at least the bleeding will stop.

Before leaving the bathroom I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The woman I see is almost unrecognizable. What a mess. My hair is matted and sports several leaves and twigs. My face is smeared with dirt, my upper lip is caked with blood from my nose. The bandage across the middle is clean, save for a big red spot at my left nostril. And to top off this picture of loveliness, there’re the bags under my eyes.

In Doc’s bedroom I steal a pair of clean, dry socks. They’re big enough for me to wear like stockings, given my diminutive frame and his resemblance to a basketball player who has been on bed rest for roughly fifty years. But at least they’re dry and not caked with blood.

The only thing I can find that serves as a decent weapon is a folding knife from the toolbox in his cramped garage.

So armed, I ease the back door to the garage closed again and round the corner, heading for the driveway.

Halfway there I freeze and press myself against the wall.

A black SUV is pulling into the driveway, headlights blazing right into my eyes, blinding.

I inch backward, trying to return to a pocket of darkness that grows smaller with each second as the car gets closer. Finally the car is too close, though, and the corner ahead of me blocks the light.

The vehicle comes to a stop just in front of the garage door, and the driver kills the engine. The lights wink off, plunging my world into total darkness once again. Did they see me?

The car door opens, then slams closed. Footsteps, moving away at a casual walk. I hear mumbling. Doc’s mumbling, I’d know it anywhere. I let out a breath. It occurs to me I could arrest him now. Tie him up, maybe, and come back later with proper handcuffs and all that.

This, I think, is a great idea, so I move quickly toward the front of the garage.

But then another car door opens.

And another.

And a third. Three more people get out of the SUV, slamming their doors almost in unison.

“You’ve got five minutes,” a man says in a southern drawl. “Then we go.”

They’re barely ten feet away from me. I hear some rustling of clothes. A Zippo flipping open, clapping shut. A plume of smoke soon curls around the side of the garage, half in shadow, half in light. They talk in low voices, too quiet to make out what they’re saying. One of them chuckles. Another steps up to the corner. I can see the edge of his shoe and I pivot, ready to run. But he stops there and turns to put his back against the wall. I let out a slow breath, not daring to move.

The sleeve of