Pines

by Crouch, Blake

  “No.”

  Ethan stared at Pope across the desk. “Is it possible they’re still in the car?”

  “Which car?”

  He struggled to keep the tone of his voice in check. “The one the tow truck hit while I was in it.”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but I’m fairly certain the EMTs took your things.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Would you mind if I made a few phone calls before I leave? I haven’t talked to my wife in days.”

  “I spoke to her.”

  “When?”

  “Day of the accident.”

  “Is she on her way?”

  “I have no idea. I just let her know what had happened.”

  “I also need to call my SAC—”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Adam Hassler.”

  “He sent you here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he also instruct you not to bother calling me ahead of time to let me know the feds would be rolling up in my world? Or was that all you?”

  “You think I had some obligation to—”

  “Courtesy, Ethan. Courtesy. Then again, being a fed, maybe you aren’t familiar with that concept—”

  “I would’ve contacted you eventually, Mr. Pope. There was no intent to cut you out of the loop.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case.”

  Ethan hesitated, wanting to be clear, to communicate the information he wished to impart and not a shred more. But his head was killing him and the double vision threatened to split the sheriff into two assholes.

  “I was sent here to find two Secret Service agents.”

  Pope’s eyebrows came up. “They’re missing?”

  “For eleven days now.”

  “What were they doing in Wayward Pines?”

  “I wasn’t provided a detailed briefing on their investigation, although I know it involved David Pilcher.”

  “Name sounds vaguely familiar. Who is he?”

  “He always shows up on lists of the world’s richest men. One of these reclusive billionaires. Never talks to the press. Owns a bunch of biopharmaceutical companies.”

  “And he has a connection to Wayward Pines?”

  “Again, I don’t know that. But if the Secret Service was here, there was probably some investigation involving a financial crime. That’s all I know.”

  Pope stood suddenly. Ethan could tell he was a large man sitting behind the desk, but standing in his boots, Ethan saw that he was an inch or two shy of six and a half feet.

  “You’re welcome to use the phone in the conference room, Agent Burke.”

  Ethan didn’t move from his chair.

  “I wasn’t quite finished, Sheriff.”

  “Conference room’s right this way.” Pope came around his desk and started toward the door. “And maybe a shirt next time? Just a suggestion.”

  The pounding in Ethan’s head was becoming laced with anger.

  “Would you like to know why I’m not wearing a shirt, Sheriff?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “One of the agents I came looking for is decomposing in a house six blocks from here.”

  Pope stopped at the door, his back to Ethan.

  “I just found him before coming here,” Ethan said.

  Pope turned and glared down at Ethan.

  “Elaborate on ‘I just found him.’”

  “Last night, a bartender at the Biergarten gave me her address in case I needed anything. I woke up this morning with a terrible headache. No money. Got kicked out of my hotel room. I went to her house to get some medicine for my headache, only the address she gave was wrong or something.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Six-oh-four, First Avenue. It turned out to be an old, abandoned house. In ruins. Agent Evans had been chained to a bed in one of the rooms.”

  “You’re sure it’s this man you came here to find?”

  “Eighty percent sure. There was a great deal of decay and his face had suffered extensive blunt-force trauma.”

  The scowl the sheriff had maintained since Ethan had walked into his office disappeared, and his features seemed to soften. He walked toward Ethan and eased down into the empty chair beside him.

  “I apologize, Agent Burke. I kept you waiting out in reception. I got angry that you didn’t call before coming to town, and well, you’re right. There was no obligation. I’ve got a nasty tempter—one of my many failings—and my behavior was unacceptable.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “You’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  “I have.”

  “Go make your phone calls and we’ll talk when you’re finished.”

  * * *

  A long table crowded the conference room, with barely enough space between the chairs and the wall for Ethan to make his way toward the rotary phone down at the end.

  He dug the Post-it Note out of his pocket and lifted the phone.

  Dial tone.

  He spun out the number.

  It rang.

  Afternoon sun slicing between the blinds and striking the table’s polished wood veneer in blades of blinding light.

  Three rings in, he said, “Come on, baby, pick up.”

  After the fifth ring, he got the machine.

  Theresa’s voice: “Hi, you’ve reached the Burkes. Sorry we aren’t here to take your call...unless of course you’re a telemarketer...then we’re thrilled to have missed your call, and, in fact, we’re probably dodging it and encourage you to forget this number. Otherwise, leave it at the beep.”

  “Theresa, it’s me. God, I feel like I haven’t heard your voice in years. I guess you know that I was in a car accident out here. No one can seem to find my phone, so if you’ve been trying to call, I’m sorry. I’m staying at the Wayward Pines Hotel, Room Two Twenty-Six. You might try calling the sheriff’s office also. I hope you and Ben are OK. I’m all right. Still a little sore, but doing better. Please call me at the hotel tonight. I’ll try you again soon. I love you, Theresa. So much.”

  He hung up the phone, sat there for a moment trying to conjure the number to his wife’s cell. Got as far as the first seven digits but the final three remained shrouded in mystery.

  The number to the Seattle field office came to him instantly. He dialed, and after three rings, a woman whose voice Ethan didn’t recognize answered.

  “Secret Service.”

  “Hi, it’s Ethan Burke. I need to speak with Adam Hassler, please.”

  “He’s not available at the moment. Was there something I could help you with?”

  “No, I really need to speak with him. Is he out of the office today?”

  “He’s not available at the moment. Was there something I could help you with?”

  “How about I try him on his cell? Could I have that number, please?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

  “Do you understand who I am? Agent Ethan Burke?”

  “Was there something I could help you with?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marcy.”

  “You’re new, right?”

  “This is my third day.”

  “Look, I’m up here in Wayward Pines, Idaho, in the middle of a shitstorm. Get Hassler on the phone immediately. I don’t care what he’s doing. If he’s in a meeting...if he’s taking a shit...put him on the goddamned phone.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to be able to continue this conversation with you speaking to me like that.”

  “Marcy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I apologize. I’m sorry I raised my voice with you, but I have to speak with Hassler. It is urgent.”

  “I’d be happy to slip him a message if you’d like.”

  Ethan closed his eyes.

  He was grinding his molars together to keep from screaming through the phone.
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  “Tell him to call Agent Ethan Burke at the Wayward Pines Sheriff’s Office, or at the Wayward Pines Hotel, Room Two Twenty-Six. He has to do this the moment he gets the message. Agent Evans is dead. Do you understand me?”

  “I’ll give him the message!” Marcy said brightly and hung up the phone.

  Ethan pulled the receiver away from his face and slammed it five times into the table.

  As he was hanging the phone back up, he noticed Sheriff Pope standing in the doorway to the conference room.

  “Everything all right, Ethan?”

  “Yeah, it’s...just having a little trouble getting through to my SAC.”

  Pope came inside and closed the door. He sat down at the end of the table opposite Ethan.

  “You said there were two missing agents?” Pope asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me about the other one.”

  “Her name’s Kate Hewson. She worked out of the Boise field office, and, prior to that, Seattle.”

  “Did you know her there?”

  “We were partners.”

  “So she got transferred?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Kate came here with Agent...”

  “Bill Evans.”

  “...on this top-secret investigation.”

  “Right.”

  “I’d like to help. Would you like my help?”

  “Of course, Arnold.”

  “OK. Let’s start with the basics. What does Kate look like?”

  Ethan leaned back in his chair.

  Kate.

  He’d so thoroughly trained himself over the last year not to think of her that it took him a moment to retrieve her face, the memory of it like tearing open a wound that had just begun to scar over.

  “She’s five-two, five-three. Hundred and five pounds.”

  “Little gal, huh?”

  “Best lawman I’ve ever known. Short brown hair last time I saw her, but it could have grown out. Blue eyes. Uncommonly beautiful.”

  God, he could still taste her.

  “Any distinguishing marks?”

  “Yeah, actually. She has a faint birthmark on her cheek. A café au lait about the size of a nickel.”

  “I’ll put the word out to my deputies, maybe even have a sketch of her drawn to show around town.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Why did you say Kate was transferred out of Seattle?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “Well, do you know?”

  “Some sort of internal reshuffling was the rumor. I’d like to see the car.”

  “The car?”

  “The black Lincoln Town Car I was driving when the accident happened.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Where might I find that?”

  “There’s a salvage yard on the outskirts of town.” The sheriff stood. “What was that address again?”

  “Six-oh-four First Avenue. I’ll walk you over.”

  “No need.”

  “I want to.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “Why?”

  “Was there anything else you needed?”

  “I’d like to know the results of your investigation.”

  “Come back tomorrow after lunch. We’ll see where we’re at.”

  “And you’ll take me to the salvage yard to see the car?”

  “I think we can swing that. But for now, let’s go. I’ll walk you out.”

  * * *

  Ethan’s jacket and shirt smelled marginally better as he slid his arms into the sleeves and started down the street, away from the Wayward Pines Sheriff’s Office. He still reeked, but figured the offensive smell of decay would draw less attention than a man walking around town in nothing but dress slacks.

  He pushed as strong a pace as he could manage, but the wooziness kept coming in waves, and his head was alive with pain, each step sending new tendrils of agony into the far reaches of his skull.

  The Biergarten was open and empty save for one bored-looking bartender sitting on a stool behind the bar reading a paperback novel—one of F. Paul Wilson’s early books.

  When Ethan reached the bar, he said, “Is Beverly working tonight?”

  The man held up a finger.

  Ten seconds passed as he finished reading a passage.

  At last, he closed the book, gave Ethan his full attention.

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Nothing. I’m looking for the woman who was tending bar here last night. Her name was Beverly. Pretty brunette. Midthirties. Fairly tall.”

  The barkeep stepped down off his stool and set the book on the bar. His long, graying hair was the color of murky dishwater, and he pulled it back into a ponytail.

  “You were here? In this restaurant? Last night?”

  “That’s correct,” Ethan said.

  “And you’re telling me that a tall brunette was tending bar?”

  “Exactly. Beverly was her name.”

  The man shook his head, Ethan detecting a whiff of mockery in his smile.

  “There’s two people on the payroll here who tend bar. Guy named Steve, and me.”

  “No, this woman waited on me last night. I ate a burger, sat right over there.” Ethan pointed to the corner stool.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, buddy, but how much did you have to drink?”

  “Nothing. And I’m not your buddy. I’m a federal agent. And I know that I was here last night, and I know who served me.”

  “Sorry, man, I don’t know what to tell you. I think you must’ve been at a different restaurant.”

  “No, I...”

  Ethan suddenly lost his focus.

  Dug his fingertips into his temples.

  He could feel his pulse now in his temporal artery, each heartbeat carrying the punch of those cold headaches he used to get as a kid—that fleeting, excruciating pain that followed too ravenous a bite of popsicle or ice cream.

  “Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

  Ethan staggered back from the bar, managed to say, “She was here. I know it. I don’t know why you’re doing...”

  Then he was standing outside, his hands on his knees, bent over a pool of vomit on the sidewalk that he quickly surmised had come from him, his throat burning from the bile.

  Ethan straightened up, wiped his mouth across the sleeve of his jacket.

  The sun had already dropped behind the cliffs, the coolness of evening upon the town.

  There were things he needed to do—find Beverly, find the EMTs, and recover his personal belongings—but all he wanted was to curl up in bed in a dark room. Sleep off the pain. The confusion. And the base emotion underlying it all that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

  Terror.

  The strengthening sense that something was very, very wrong.

  * * *

  He stumbled up the stone steps and pushed through the doors into the hotel.

  The fireplace warmed the lobby.

  A young couple occupied one of the loveseats by the hearth, sipping from glasses of sparkling wine. On a romantic vacation, he figured, enjoying a completely different side of Wayward Pines.

  A tuxedoed man sat at the grand piano, playing “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

  Ethan arrived at the front desk, forcing himself to smile through the pain.

  The same clerk who’d evicted him from his room that morning started speaking even before she looked up.

  “Welcome to the Wayward Pines Hotel. How may I help...”

  She stopped when she saw Ethan.

  “Hi, Lisa.”

  “I’m impressed,” she said.

  “Impressed?”

  “You came back to pay. You told me you would, but I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I apologize for—”

  “No, listen, I wasn’t able to find my wallet today.”

  “You mean you haven’t come back to pay for your room last night? Like you promised me you were
going to multiple times?”

  Ethan shut his eyes, breathing through the exquisite pain.

  “Lisa, you cannot imagine the day I’ve had. I just need to lie down for a few hours. I don’t even need a room for the whole night. Just a place to clear my head and sleep. I’m in so much pain.”

  “Hold on.” She slid off her chair and leaned toward him across the counter. “You still can’t pay and now you’re asking me for another room?”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I’m sorry. I really thought I would have it by—”

  “Do you understand that I went out on a limb for you? That I could lose my job?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Go.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “I don’t have any place to go, Lisa. I don’t have a phone. I have no money. I haven’t eaten since last night, and—”

  “Explain to me again how any of this is my problem.”

  “I just need to lie down for a few hours. I am begging you.”

  “Look, I’ve explained this to you as clearly as I possibly can. It’s time for you to leave.”

  Ethan didn’t move. He just stared at her, hoping she might see the agony in his eyes, take pity.

  “Now,” she said.

  He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, backing away from the counter.

  As he reached the doors, Lisa called after him. “I don’t want to see you back in here ever again.”

  Ethan nearly fell descending the steps, his head spinning by the time he reached the sidewalk. The streetlamps and the lights from passing cars began to swirl, Ethan noting the strength flooding out of his legs like someone had pulled a drain plug.

  Regardless, he started up the sidewalk, saw that redbrick building looming up the street, eight blocks away. There was still fear of it, but now he needed the hospital. Wanted the bed, the sleep, the meds. Anything to stop this pain.

  He was either going to the hospital or he was sleeping outside—in an alley, or a park, exposed to the elements.

  But it was eight blocks, so far, each step now requiring a crushing expenditure of energy, and the lights were disintegrating all around him—swirling, long tails getting more intense, more pronounced, skewing his vision as if he could see the world only as a long-exposure shot of a city at night, the car lights stretching into rods of brilliance, the streetlamps burning like blowtorches.

  He bumped into someone.