Pines

by Crouch, Blake

  “Get out of my room,” Ethan said.

  “Ethan, your life could be—”

  Ethan looked at Jenkins across the room, and something in his stare, his body language, must have suggested the real threat of violence, because the psychiatrist’s eyes went wide, and for the first time, he shut up.

  * * *

  Nurse Pam looked up from her paperwork behind the desk in the nurses’ station.

  “Mr. Burke, what on earth are you doing up and dressed and out of bed?”

  “Leaving.”

  “Leaving?” She said it like she didn’t comprehend the word. “The hospital?”

  “Wayward Pines.”

  “You’re in no condition to even be out of—”

  “I need my personal belongings right now. The sheriff told me the EMTs may have removed them from the car.”

  “I thought the sheriff had them.”

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I can put on my Nancy Drew hat and—”

  “Stop wasting my time. Do you know where they are?”

  “No.”

  Ethan turned away from her, started walking.

  Nurse Pam called after him.

  He stopped at the elevator, punched the down arrow button.

  She was coming now—he could hear her quick footsteps on the checkered linoleum.

  Turned and watched her approach in that lovely throwback of a nurses’ uniform.

  She stopped a few feet away.

  He had four or five inches on her. A few years as well.

  “I can’t let you leave, Ethan,” she said. “Not until we know what’s wrong with you.”

  The elevator doors screeched open.

  Ethan backed away from the nurse into the car.

  “Thanks for your help, and your concern,” he said, pressing G three times until the button illuminated, “but I think I got it figured out.”

  “What?”

  “It’s this town that’s wrong.”

  Pam stretched her foot across the threshold, blocked the doors from closing.

  “Ethan. Please. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “Move your foot.”

  “I’m worried about you. Everyone here is.”

  He’d been leaning back against the wall. Now he pushed off and came forward, stopping inches away from Pam, staring at her through the four-inch space between the doors.

  He looked down, tapped the tip of her white shoe with the tip of his black shoe.

  For a long moment, she held her ground, Ethan beginning to wonder if he would have to physically remove her from the elevator car.

  Finally, she pulled her foot back.

  * * *

  Standing on the sidewalk, Ethan thought the town seemed quiet for late afternoon. He couldn’t hear a single car engine. Nothing, in fact, but the sound of birds cheeping and wind pushing through the crowns of three tall pines that loomed over the hospital’s front lawn.

  He walked out into the middle of the street.

  Stood there watching, listening.

  The sun felt good and warm in his face.

  The breeze carried a pleasant chill.

  He looked up at the sky—dark blue crystal.

  No clouds.

  Flawless.

  This place was beautiful, no question, but for the first time, those mountain walls that boxed this valley inside instilled something in him other than awe. He couldn’t explain why, but they filled him with fear. A dread he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  He felt...strange.

  Maybe he’d suffered an injury. But maybe not.

  Maybe being detached from the outside world now going on five days was beginning to take its toll.

  No iPhone, no Internet, no Facebook.

  It seemed impossible as he considered it—to have had no contact with his family, with Hassler, with anyone outside of Wayward Pines.

  He started walking toward the sheriff’s office.

  Better to just leave. Regroup. Reevaluate from the other side of those cliff walls.

  From the comfort of a normal town.

  Because something here was definitely off-kilter.

  * * *

  “Sheriff Pope in?”

  Belinda Moran looked up from her game of solitaire.

  “Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  Ethan asked a touch louder this time. “Is the sheriff in?”

  “No, he stepped out for a moment.”

  “So he’ll be back shortly?”

  “I don’t know when he’s due back.”

  “But you said ‘for a moment’ so I figured—”

  “It’s just a figure of speech, young man.”

  “Do you remember me? Agent Burke from the Secret Service?”

  “Yes. You have your shirt on this time. I like this look much better.”

  “Have there been any calls for me?”

  She squinted and cocked her head. “Why would there be?”

  “Because I told some people they could reach me here.”

  Belinda shook her head. “No one’s called for you.”

  “Not my wife, Theresa, or an Agent Adam Hassler?”

  “No one’s called for you, Mr. Burke, and you shouldn’t tell them to call for you here.”

  “I need to use the telephone in your conference room again.”

  Belinda frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t have an answer to this, just maintained her scowl.

  * * *

  “Theresa, it’s me. Just trying to reach you. I was in the hospital again. I don’t know if you called the sheriff’s office or the hotel, but I haven’t gotten any messages. I’m still in Wayward Pines. I haven’t been able to find my phone or wallet, but I’m done with this place. I’m going to borrow a cruiser from the sheriff’s office. Call you tonight from Boise. Miss you, love you.”

  He leaned forward in the chair, got a new dial tone, and then shut his eyes and tried to conjure it.

  The number was there.

  He spun it out, listened to four rings, and then that same voice from the last time answered. “Secret Service.”

  “This is Ethan Burke calling again for Adam Hassler.”

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

  “Is this Marcy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall our phone conversation from yesterday?”

  “You know, sir, we get a lot of calls here every day, and I just can’t keep up with every—”

  “You told me you’d slip Agent Hassler a message.”

  “What was it regarding?”

  Ethan closed his eyes, took a deep breath. If he insulted her now, she’d just end the phone call. If he waited until he was back in Seattle, he could publicly eviscerate her, have her fired on the spot.

  “Marcy, it was regarding a dead Secret Service agent in Wayward Pines, Idaho.”

  “Hmm. Well, if I said I would give him the message, then I’m sure I followed through on that.”

  “But I haven’t heard back from him. Don’t you find that strange? That an agent from Hassler’s field office—me—located another agent who had been murdered, an agent I was sent here to find, and now twenty-four hours have passed and Hassler hasn’t even returned my call?”

  A slight pause, and then: “Was there something I could help you with?”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak with Agent Hassler right now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, he’s not available at the moment. Was there something—”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s not available.”

  “Where. Is. He.”

  “He’s not available at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll call you back at his earliest convenience. He’s just been very swamped.”

  “Who are you, Marcy?”

  Ethan felt the phone rip out of h
is grasp.

  Pope slammed it down into the cradle, the sheriff’s eyes boring through Ethan like a pair of smoldering coals.

  “Who told you you could come in here and use my telephone?”

  “No one, I just—”

  “That’s right. No one. Get up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said get up. You can either walk out of here under your own steam, or I can drag you through the lobby myself.”

  Ethan stood up slowly, faced the sheriff across the table.

  “You’re speaking to a federal agent, sir.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You show up here, no ID, no phone, nothing—”

  “I’ve explained my situation. Did you take a trip over to six-oh-four First Avenue, see the body of Agent Evans?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Under investigation.”

  “You’ve called in crime scene specialists to process the—”

  “It’s all being handled.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Pope just stared at him, Ethan thinking, He’s unhinged and you have no support in this town. Just get a car, get out of here. Hammer him when you come back with the cavalry. He’ll lose his badge, face prosecution for hamstringing a federal investigation.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Ethan said, conciliatory.

  “What?”

  “I’d like to borrow one of your vehicles.”

  The sheriff laughed. “Why?”

  “Well, obviously, since the accident, I don’t have one.”

  “This ain’t Hertz Rent-a-Car.”

  “I need some transportation, Arnold.”

  “It’s just not possible.”

  “Is this your sheriff’s department? You can do whatever you want, right?”

  The sheriff blinked. “I don’t have one to lend you.” Pope started walking down the length of the conference table. “Let’s go, Mr. Burke.”

  Pope stopped at the open door and waited for Ethan.

  As Ethan drew within range, Pope grabbed his arm and pulled him in close, his large, powerful hand crushing his biceps.

  “I may have questions for you in the not too distant,” the sheriff said.

  “About what?”

  Pope just smiled. “Don’t even think about leaving town.”

  * * *

  Walking away from the sheriff’s department, Ethan glanced over his shoulder, saw Pope watching him through a split in the conference room blinds.

  The sun had gone behind the mountains.

  The town stood silent.

  He put a block between himself and Pope’s office and sat down on the curb of a quiet street.

  “This isn’t right,” he whispered, and he kept whispering it.

  He felt weak and hungry.

  Tried to lay everything out, all that had happened since he’d come to Wayward Pines. Scrambling to assemble a snapshot of the entire picture, thinking if he could see it all at once, he might piece these bizarre encounters together into a problem to be solved. Or at least one that made sense. But the harder he tried, the more he felt like he was thinking inside a cloud.

  An epiphany: sitting here wasn’t going to change a damn thing.

  He came to his feet, started toward Main Street.

  Go to the hotel. Maybe there’s a message waiting from Theresa or Hassler.

  False hope. He knew it. There would be no message. Nothing but enmity.

  I am not losing my mind.

  I am not losing my mind.

  He recited his name. His social security number. His physical address in Seattle. Theresa’s maiden name. The date of his son’s birth. It all felt real. Like scraps of information that formed his identity.

  Comfort in names and numbers.

  A clinking on the next block caught his attention.

  There was a vacant lot across the street with several picnic tables, a few grills, and a horseshoe pit. Families had gathered for a party—a group of women stood talking by a pair of red coolers. Two men flipped burgers and hotdogs on a grill, smoke rising in blue coils into the still evening air. The smell of cooking meat made Ethan’s stomach ache, and he realized that he was even hungrier than he thought.

  New goal: eat.

  He crossed the street to the chirping of crickets and lawn sprinklers clicking in the distance.

  Wondered: are they real?

  Kids chased one another in the grass—shouting, laughing, shrieking.

  Tag.

  The clinking was coming from a game of horseshoes. Two groups of men stood across from each other in opposing sandpits, cigar smoke clouding around their heads like exploded haloes.

  Ethan had almost reached the vacant lot, thinking the best move would be to approach the women. Crank the charm. These seemed like decent people living a perfect moment of the American dream.

  He straightened his jacket as he moved from the pavement into the grass, smoothing the wrinkles, fixing his collar.

  Five women. One in her early twenties, three between thirty and forty, one silver haired, mid to late fifties.

  They were drinking lemonade out of clear, plastic cups and discussing some piece of neighborhood gossip.

  No one had noticed him yet.

  Ten feet out, while trying to invent some nonintrusive way of breaking into their conversation, a woman his age looked over at him and smiled.

  “Hello there,” she said.

  She wore a skirt that dropped below her knees, red flats, and a plaid blouse. Her hair was short and vintage, like something from a fifties sitcom.

  “Hi,” Ethan said.

  “You come to crash our little block party?”

  “I have to admit, the smell of whatever you’ve got cooking on that grill pulled me over.”

  “I’m Nancy.” She broke away from her group and extended her hand.

  Ethan shook it.

  “Ethan.”

  “You new here?” she asked.

  “I just got into town a few days ago.”

  “And how are you enjoying our little hamlet?”

  “You have a lovely town. Very welcoming and warm.”

  “Aw. Maybe we will feed you after all.”

  She laughed.

  “You live around here?” Ethan asked.

  “We all live within a few blocks. The neighborhood tries to get together for a cookout at least once a week.”

  “How Mayberry of you.”

  The woman blushed deeply. “So what are you doing in Wayward Pines, Ethan?” she asked.

  “Just here as a tourist.”

  “Must be nice. I can’t even remember my last vacation.”

  “When you live in a place like this,” Ethan said, gesturing to the surrounding mountains, “why would you ever leave?”

  “Would you care for a cup of lemonade?” Nancy asked. “It’s homemade and delicious.”

  “Sure.”

  She touched his arm. “Be right back. Then I’ll introduce you around.”

  As Nancy went to the coolers, Ethan glanced toward the other women, looking for a window to enter the conversation.

  The oldest of the bunch—a woman with pure white hair—was laughing at something, and as it occurred to him that he’d heard this laugh before, she brushed her shoulder-length hair back behind her ears.

  The nickel-sized birthmark on her face stopped his heart.

  It couldn’t be, but...

  Right height.

  Right build.

  She was speaking now, the voice almost unquestionably familiar. She drew back from the group of women, pointing at the youngest with a mischievous smirk.

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Christine,” she said.

  Ethan watched her turn and walk to the farthest horseshoe pit, where she laced her fingers through those of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of wavy, silver hair.

  “Come on, Harold, we’re going to
miss our show.”

  She tried to pull him away.

  “One more throw,” he protested.

  She released him, and Ethan stood speechless as Harold lifted a horseshoe out of the sand, took careful aim, and gave it a toss.

  The horseshoe arced over the grass and ringed the metal stake.

  Harold’s team cheered. He gave several dramatic bows and let the snow-haired woman drag him away from the party.

  Their friends called good night after them.

  “Ethan, here’s your lemonade.” Nancy offered him the cup.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  He turned and walked back out into the street.

  Nancy called after him, “Don’t you want to stay and eat?”

  By the time Ethan turned the corner, the older couple were a block ahead of him.

  He quickened his pace.

  Followed them for several blocks as they walked slowly ahead at the pace of two people who had not a care in the world, holding hands, their voices and laughter lilting up into the pines.

  They turned down a street and vanished.

  Ethan jogged to the next intersection.

  Quaint Victorian houses lined both sides of the street.

  He didn’t see them anywhere.

  The sound of a door closing echoed down the block. He spotted the house it had come from—green with white trim. Front porch with a swing. Third one down on the left.

  He crossed the street and took the sidewalk until he stood in front of it.

  Little patch of perfect green grass. The front porch under the shadow of an old pine tree. On the mailbox, a last name he didn’t recognize. He put his hands on the picket fence. It was dusk. Lights just beginning to wink on in the houses all around him. The occasional snippet of conversation sliding through a raised window.

  The valley silent and cooling and the highest elevations of the surrounding mountains catching the last bit of daylight.

  He unlatched the gate, pushed it open.

  Walked up an old stone path to the porch.

  The steps creaked under his weight.

  Then he stood at the front door.

  He could hear voices on the other side.

  Footsteps.

  A part of him didn’t want to knock.

  He rapped his knuckles on the glass of the outer door, took a step back.

  Waited a full minute, but no one came.