Instinct, p.28
Instinct, page 28
Maybe that’s what was going on with Rhod Mitchell and his motorcycle, I think. Doc’s claim that no one was there, not even a bike, now seems an obvious lie. And the fact that Rhod later came to my house to try to drug me makes a weird kind of sense, too. A second try.
I shake this line of thinking away. It doesn’t really matter right now, I decide. Rhod was one of the gang. They got to Greg, too, and tried to get to me. The details don’t matter.
Stepping into Doc’s darkened living room I pause for several seconds, listening to the silence of the empty home. A tap somewhere drips rhythmically. Otherwise, silence.
There’s an end table by the couch, upon which sits an old-school landline telephone. I pick the beige handset up, but there’s nothing. No dial tone, no hiss. Nothing.
“Shit,” I whisper, setting the phone back on the cradle.
Silvertown is completely cut off.
They’ve cut the power, and they’ve cut the phone lines, too. The speed at which this was accomplished shouldn’t surprise me, but still I can’t help but marvel. You have to plan something like this, even if it probably only meant cutting two cables somewhere down by the bridge. And, of course, Kenny’s big mouth apparently took care of the cell tower for them. Considerate of him.
Get moving, I tell myself.
I take the first hall I come to. Hardwood creaks under my feet like a Nightingale floor in some old Japanese castle.
My goal is to find a bathroom, ideally one with a first aid kit under the sink. But the first door I open reveals a bedroom that’s been converted into a study. There’s a big L-shaped desk in the far corner, with a computer underneath and a big monitor dominating the surface. Piles of folders and pads of paper are scattered across the surface to either side of the keyboard, along with a few dirty drinking glasses and a bowl of some no-doubt-stale crackers.
Intrigued, I cross to the desk and flick on my borrowed flashlight. It’s a risk to use in here, the light no doubt visible should anyone pass by, but nevertheless I use it. The room seems to sway slightly as the beam plays across the surfaces. I focus on the desk. Beside the keyboard is a pad of legal paper, upon which two columns of text in neat handwriting run from top to bottom.
In the left column of the first page is a list of names. Forty or so, in alphabetical order. I thumb through a few more and quickly understand this is a list of Silvertown residents, including myself.
The column next to my name is empty, as is the case with most of the other entries. But some have writing in another column. I seek out Kyle Rollins next, finding his name alone on the lined page, too. His brother, Kenny, though, is one of those with words written in the second column:
Survival (individual), no longer seeking sustenance (food, drink), method of delivery: allergy medication
I remember how thin Kenny looked at the Gas-n-Go the other day, and his cracked lips.
Just up the page from that entry is another with a second-column entry. This one makes my gut twist into a painful knot.
Johnny Rogers—Survival (individual), eschewing safe shelter/indoors, method of delivery unknown (possible abuse, father scrip for Donepezil)
There is a red line through the boy’s entry that makes my blood boil. At the very end of his line, in red ink, is a single handwritten word: “Accidental.”
Just above his entry is his mom, Barbara, with a note that she is no longer displaying emotions, categorized as “social” instead of “survival.” Method of delivery? Blood pressure medication.
Heart thudding in my chest, I seek out Clara’s entry and swallow my rage when I see the comment next to her name. “Social—no longer mistrusting strangers.” Delivery by sleeping pill. I think back to her in that missile silo with the urban explorers, and shudder at the thought of what I could have found down there, were it someone else she’d fallen in with.
“Sleeping pill,” I whisper. That’s why they didn’t know I’d already been dosed with the old version. Doc hadn’t prescribed me anything.
I scan the rest of the entries, some of which I can guess even before reading them. Sally Jones, social, her instinct to prioritize her own children over needs of others turned on its head.
Ah, I think. So that’s why she didn’t abandon them entirely. The poor woman still cares, she just can’t differentiate between the twins’ needs and anyone else’s. I find only a tiny amount of solace in the fact that Ang’s and Doc’s little experiment only resulted in a few hours’ abandonment for those children, rather than death. There’s always tomorrow, though. I’ll need to address that, if I make it out of this. One thing at a time, Mary.
I read on.
“William Jupitas, defense, no longer recognizing mortal danger.” Hence stepping in front of my cruiser. Jesus.
I start to skim the rest.
In all, roughly two dozen of the town’s six-hundred-plus have Doc’s scrawled observations next to them. Some have question marks, others have lines through the observation but not 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 his black jacket is visible. When he lifts his cigarette to his mouth, the motion swivels his weapon into view. The glint of moonlight on a steel barrel.
“She’s been here!”
It’s Doc, shouting from the front porch. The three men discard their cigarettes, one landing just three feet from me, red ember fading to black in the damp grass. Doc’s footsteps are clumsy as he runs from his front door to the driveway.
“She took my notes!”
“Did you check the house?”
“I just said she took all my notes.”
“I meant is she still in there, moron.”
A hesitation. Doc clears his throat. “I, uh… I didn’t think to check.”
“Amateur,” the bodyguard says. He snaps his fingers and all three men are moving, jogging off toward the front door, away from me. Though I can’t see him, from the sound of things Doc has not moved.
With any luck I can subdue him and take the vehicle. I move in that direction. A single step.
But then there’s a whistle, and the muffled voice of the lead bodyguard. Though I only have the sounds of their feet to go by, the shift in tactics is obvious. One of them is moving toward the back of the house, and the third is returning this way to search the garage.
I take a step back, then turn, tiptoeing several steps before I break into a run toward the rear of the property. There’s a gap in the hedge, and I see no fence between Doc’s yard and the neighbor’s, so I dart through.
“Hey, look everyone, Granston Brewery in the house! Fuckin’ finally!”
“Kyle Rollins? I’m so sorry for the delay. Had some problems with the van.”
“I’d be mad, but you did say on the phone earlier that the beer would be free, didn’t you?”
“Yep, there’s no charge on account of the delay. Twenty kegs of the October Bavarian, on us, with my boss’s apologies. It’s all in the truck.”
“Need help unloading? We can store it out back, but bring one in here so I can get all these freeloaders a pint or three. My so-called planning committee. They did wait all this time. Didn’t you, you magnificent troupers?”
“Anything for free beer!”
“Settle down, Dent. C’mon, all of you, let’s help unload the van, huh?”
“Actually, that’s not necessary.”
“Sure it is. You’ve had a rough day. Van trouble. And that broken nose… how’d that happen, anyway? You’re the third person I’ve seen this week with a broken nose.”
“I brought a few friends.”
“You did? Oh. Hey guys. Jesus. You look like a well-dressed rugby team. Whoa, whoa! Chill, put the guns away!”
“Shut the fuck up. Everyone in a chair, now. Hands clasped behind your heads.”
“Look man, take the money. Take our wallets. Just—”
“Kyle, do what he says. This will only take a few minutes.”
“Doc?! Are you with these pricks? What the fuck is going on? Who are—”
“All will be explained. For now you need to do what he says.”
“Okay. Okay. Just… Doc, seriously. What are you… what’s the gear for?”
“Kyle, I mean it. Be quiet. You don’t want to mess with these guys. Ang, how would you like to proceed? Shall I start taking vitals from each of them?”
“There is no time, Dr. Ryan. We don’t need test subjects anymore, we need an army. Give them the beer.”
“But the timing—”
“Play the message on repeat for ten minutes. That should be enough for anyone. It’s time we move out of the testing phase and into application.”
“Doc, who is this prick? What’s he talking about? What message? What are you—OW! FUCK! Try that again, you giant shithead mother—”
“I say we kill this one. An example to the others.”
“No, Deon. We might need him. He and Mary are… friendly.”
“Mary? Doc, what the hell? What does she—”
“All in due time, Kyle. Now, please, sit down and shut up. Who wants a drink?”
One block from the edge of downtown. That’s how close I get before I’m forced to dive into a ditch by the side of the road and flatten myself in the mud.
Ahead, fifty yards away, a black Range Rover is parked across the road, blocking the only route into town. A man with an assault rifle stands at the front bumper, sweeping a flashlight from left to right, forcing me to bury my face in the mud every few seconds.
Worse, though, is what’s behind him.
Silvertown is dead. With the power off the whole place looks like a true ghost town.
But the street and its buildings aren’t entirely dark. There is a roving, shifting, almost amoebic light moving through the alleys and buildings.
The source of which is like something out of an old movie. I believe the correct term is “lynch mob.”
They move from store to store, kicking doors in and shouting. Their words are garbled, too distant and numerous to make much sense of. But now and then there is one recognizable phrase: my name.
The mob is about two dozen strong. Even from here I recognize some of them. They’re people I see every day. People I’m sworn to protect.
But even they are not the worst thing. Far from it, really.
The absolute worst thing is the constant, repetitive voice of Mrs. Conaty, booming from the speakers inside a second black SUV parked in the center of town.
Her recorded voice says the same thing, over and over. A short clip played on repeat.
“Kill the liar Mary Whittaker. Kill the liar Mary Whittaker. Kill the—”
I try to tune it out. After a time it’s actually not that hard, so monotonous are the words. They’re driving the mob, though, that much is obvious.
Kill me I get, but why “liar”? What’s that about? The only reason that comes to me is as diabolic as it is genius. Trusting her words are the driving instinct for everyone in that mob, after all. Simultaneously she’s not only telling them to execute me, but also short-circuiting any plea I might make to convince them not to.
Flashlight beams swing and bounce as the buildings are systematically searched. One structure at a time, windows alive with light and shadow as the group moves through, the glow only to die again when they depart and move on to the next.
“Just burn the whole fucking place!” one of the bodyguards shouts. The alpha of the pack who gave the orders in front of Doc’s house.
“No!” comes the reply. From Doc, I think. This is immediately confirmed. “She has my notes! We need them!”
Okay, that’s good to know. Thanks, Doc. I may have some leverage after all.
I try to spot him, peering over the edge of the ditch and scanning the shadowy buildings, but it’s all too far away and there’s so little light. My guess is he’s right near the center of town, which I’m pretty sure means the police station.
Closest to me is the Gas-n-Go. The windows are dark, as are all the freezers inside, but the gas pumps are still on. Backup generator, maybe. Of Kenny there’s no sign, and my mouth goes dry at the possibility of him running around with that mob. Then comes the nightmare thought of Kyle being with them, too, and my whole body goes cold with the idea. I lower my head to the dirt and whisper, “Please don’t be part of this, Kyle. Please.”
The urge to head straight to the pub is strong, but I have to get to the police station. The arms locker. Two shotguns are kept in there, along with several boxes of shells. That’s the only way I’ll have a fighting chance against these armed bodyguards. The townspeople I resolve to avoid at all costs, because I can’t bear the idea of having to put one of them down.
