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
“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
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