“Everything’s in my wallet.”
Lisa bit her bottom lip, and he could see what was coming—a nice girl working herself up to be the bad guy.
“Sir—Mr. Burke—I’m afraid that without a credit card or cash or identification, I’m just not going to be able to give you a room tonight. I would love to. Really. But this is just hotel policy and...”
She stopped talking when Ethan leaned over the counter.
“Lisa, do you know why I’m wearing a black suit?”
“No.”
“I’m a special agent with the United States Secret Service.”
“You mean those guys who guard the president?”
“That’s only one of our duties. Our primary mission is to protect the integrity of our nation’s financial infrastructure.”
“And so you’re, like, on an investigation in Wayward Pines?”
“I am. I had just arrived in town when the accident happened.”
“What kind of investigation?”
“I can’t discuss any details.”
“You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
“If I was, I’d be committing a federal crime.”
“You’re really a special agent?”
“Yes. And I’m tired and I’m asking you to give me a break. I need a room for the night. I promise you—I’m good for it.”
“And you’ll pay tomorrow? First thing?”
“First thing.”
* * *
Key in hand, he trudged up the steps to the second floor and emerged into a long, quiet corridor. Faux lanterns had been mounted to the walls every twenty feet, and they shed a weak, yellow light on the Persian carpeting.
His room was at the far end, number 226.
He unlocked the door, stepped inside, hit the light.
The decor ran to the folksy side of the spectrum.
Two badly done iconic Western scenes.
A cowboy on a bucking bronco.
Group of ranch hands huddled around a campfire.
The room was stuffy, and there was no television.
Just an old-school black rotary phone sitting on one of the bedside tables.
The bed itself looked soft and enormous. Ethan eased down onto the mattress and unlaced his shoes. Walking around without socks had already started several blisters on the backs of his feet. He took off his jacket, his tie, and undid the first three buttons of his oxford shirt.
There was a phone directory in the bedside table drawer, and he took it out, set it on the bed, and lifted the antique phone.
Dial tone.
Thank God.
Strangely, his home phone number didn’t immediately spring to mind. He had to spend a minute visualizing it, trying to picture how the number appeared when he smart-dialed on his iPhone. He’d had it just the other day, but... “Two...zero...six.” He knew it started with those three numbers—the Seattle area code—and five times, he spun them out on the rotary phone, but five times he blanked after the six.
He dialed 411.
After two rings, an operator answered with, “What city and listing?”
“Seattle, Washington. Ethan Burke. B-U-R-K-E.”
“One moment please.” Over the line, he could hear the woman typing. There was a long pause. Then: “B-U-R-K-E?”
“That’s right.”
“Sir, I’m not showing a listing under that name.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
It was certainly odd, but considering the nature of his job, his number was probably unlisted. Come to think of it, he was almost sure it was. Almost.
“OK, thank you.”
He shelved the phone and opened the phonebook, located the number to the sheriff’s office.
It rang five times and then went to voice mail.
After the beep, Ethan said, “This is Special Agent Ethan Burke with the United States Secret Service, Seattle field office. As you know, I was involved in the vehicular accident on Main Street several days ago. I need to speak with you at your earliest convenience. The hospital informed me that you’re in possession of my personal belongings, including my wallet, phone, briefcase, and firearm. I’ll be coming by first thing in the morning to pick them up. If anyone gets this message before then, please call me at the Wayward Pines Hotel. I’m staying in room two twenty-six.”
* * *
It was full-on night as Ethan walked down the steps from the hotel entrance, his feet killing him, hungry as hell.
The cafй adjacent to the hotel was closed, so he headed north under a sky filled with stars, past a rare bookstore, a couple of gift shops, and a law office.
It wasn’t that late, but with everything closed for the night, the sidewalks of Main had emptied out. He’d begun to come to terms with the horror of not having dinner on top of everything else when he spotted light spilling onto the pavement on the next block down. His pace involuntarily quickened as he caught the first whiff of hot food exhausting out of a vent in the building up ahead.
When he reached the entrance, he stared through the storefront glass into a dimly lighted pub called the Biergarten.
His heart swelled—still open.
He walked inside.
Three tables occupied, but otherwise, the place was dead.
He took a corner stool at the bar.
Through a pair of swinging doors drifted the sizzle of meat cooking on an open grill.
Sitting in this pub, his arms resting on the well-worn bar, he felt at peace for the first time in days. The memory of Stallings and the accident was near, threatening to muscle its way in, but he refused to let it dominate his mind. Simply breathed in and out and tried to stay as firmly planted as possible in the moment.
After five minutes, a tall woman with a pile of brown hair propped up with chopsticks pushed through the swinging doors and opened a hinged section of the bar.
She came around to Ethan, all smiles, and tossed a drink coaster down in front of him.
“Whatcha drinking?”
She wore a black T-shirt with the pub’s name screen-printed across the front.
“A beer would be great.”
The barkeep grabbed a pint glass and moved over to the taps. “Something light? Dark?”
“You have Guinness?”
“I got something like that.”
She’d already pulled the tap when he remembered he didn’t have any money.
She set the glass in front of him, cream foam spilling down the sides, said, “You just drinking, or you wanna see a menu?”
“Food for sure,” he said, “but you’re gonna kill me.”
The woman smiled. “Not yet. I hardly know you.”
“I don’t have any money.”
Her smile died. “OK, maybe you’re onto something.”
“I can explain. You see the car wreck that happened on Main a few days ago?”
“No.”
“You hear about it?”
“No.”
“Well, there was one, just a few blocks south of here, and I was involved in it. Just got out of the hospital, in fact.”
“So that’s where you got those pretty bruises?”
“Right.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what this has to do with you not paying me.”
“I’m a federal agent.”
“Same question.”
“Apparently, the sheriff has my wallet and phone. Everything actually. It’s been a huge headache.”
“So what are you, like, FBI or something?”
“Secret Service.”
The woman smiled, leaned toward him across the bar. It had been hard to tell in the lowlight, but in proximity she was damn good looking—a few years younger than Ethan, with model cheekbones, short-torsoed and long-legged. Had probably been a stone-cold knockout in her twenties, although thirty-four or thirty-five—whatever she was now—didn’t seem to be treating her too badly.
“I don’t know if you’re a confidence man, and this is just a part of your game coming in here with your black suit and this crazy—”
“I’m not lying—”
She touched a finger to his lips. “The way I figure, you’re either exactly who you say you are, or you’re a spectacular liar. I mean, this is a good story, and I love good stories. Either way, of course I’ll let you have dinner on credit.”