Wayward (The Wayward Pines Trilogy, Book 2)

by Blake Crouch

  “What does that mean?” Ethan asked.

  “There’s a missing data field. From 2:04 a.m. until 4:33 a.m.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Someone deleted it. Let me try one other thing.”

  Now the screens showed what Ted was typing—a long, incomprehensible line of code.

  It only returned a different error message.

  Ted said, “I just ran a system restore, back to sixty seconds before the time jumped ahead.”

  “And?”

  “The surveillance we’re looking for has been deep-sixed.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “It’s been erased.”

  “Could Pilcher or Pam have done this?”

  “Definitely not. I mean not by themselves. The deletion itself would be practically impossible, but to patch Pam’s surveillance history back together with a missing data field and make it look so flawless? No way. That took a high level of expertise.”

  “So who would have helped them? One of your surveillance techs?”

  “Only if they were ordered to.”

  “You weren’t asked to do this?”

  “No. I swear to you.”

  “How many on your team are capable of something like this?”

  “Two.”

  Ethan pointed his knife at the door at the end of the massive control panel. “Are they in there now?”

  Ted hesitated.

  “Ted.”

  “One of them is.”

  Ethan started toward the door.

  Ted said, “Wait.” He pointed at the bank of screens, which had reverted to the live surveillance cameras inside the superstructure.

  Pam and Pilcher were coming down the Level 2 corridor, two guards in tow.

  Ethan glared at Ted. “You alerted them?”

  “Of course not. Sit down.”

  “Why?”

  Ted attacked the touchscreens.

  The surveillance cam feeds disappeared.

  “Get them back,” Ethan said.

  “If this means what I think it means, we don’t need that on the screen when they walk in here.”

  Ted pulled an aerial map of Wayward Pines, zoomed down onto Kate Ballinger’s house, and exploded the interactive blueprint.

  He pushed down into the camera over her bed.

  Kate and Harold filled the screens—dawn light coming through their windows as they dressed.

  Ethan took a seat. “You’re actually helping me?”

  “Maybe.”

  Voices came into range just outside the door.

  Then the sound of a lock clicking back.

  “You better think of something quick, Sheriff.”

  Ethan said, “One last thing. If I needed to speak to someone in a pinch in the middle of the day in the middle of town—”

  “The bench on the corner of Main and Ninth. Blind spot. Deaf spot.”

  The door opened.

  Pilcher entered first, Pam right on his heels.

  He said over his shoulder, presumably to the guards, “Just hang back a moment. I’ll let you know.”

  Pilcher strode into the middle of the room and stared down at Ethan with a bright, focused anger.

  “Marcus is in the infirmary with a concussion and a cracked skull.”

  Ethan said, “Little shit pointed a gun at me. Lucky he’s not in the morgue. You give him that authority?”

  “I told him to drive into town, find you, and bring you back to me by whatever means necessary.”

  “Well, then I guess he has you to thank for the cracked skull.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  Pilcher looked at Ted.

  Ted volunteered, “He wanted to see some live footage of the Ballinger residence.”

  On the screens, Kate had moved into the kitchen.

  She was running water through a French press, washing out the old coffee grounds.

  Pilcher smiled. “What’s wrong, Ethan? Didn’t get enough face time last night? I’d like to see you in my residence right now.”

  Ethan stepped toward Pilcher.

  He had a good six inches on the man as he stared down at the tip of his nose.

  Said, “I’d be happy to accompany you, David, but first I feel the need to share with you that if you ever pull any shit like that again—sending your lackey to fetch me with a gun—”

  “Careful,” Pilcher cut him off. “The back end of that sentence could be expensive.”

  He looked around the side of Ethan.

  “You sure everything’s okay here, Ted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pilcher looked back at Ethan, said, “After you.”

  Ethan tucked his hands into his front pocket as he walked past Pam. She was smiling like a maniac, her skin still glazed with sweat from the gym.

  Outside in the corridor, two large, powerful men stood on either side of the doorframe. They were dressed in plainclothes, but submachine guns dangled on straps from their necks and they watched Ethan with aggressive eye contact.

  Pilcher led everyone down the corridor and swiped his keycard at the pair of unmarked doors that accessed the elevator to his residence.

  He glanced back at his guards. “I think we’ve got it from here, gentlemen.”

  When they were all in the car, Pilcher said, “Marcus tells me you stole his keycard?”

  Ethan handed it over.

  “Looks like you had a rough night, honey,” Pam said.

  Ethan glanced down at his hoodie—still damp, streaked with mud, torn in several places.

  He said, “I was on my way home to clean up when Marcus intercepted me.”

  “I’m glad he did.” She smiled. “I like you dirty.”

  When they reached Pilcher’s residence, Pam grabbed Ethan’s arm and held him back in the car.

  She put her lips to his ear and whispered, “I happened to see you and Theresa out on your midnight stroll last night. Oh, don’t make that face. I haven’t told anyone. Yet. But I just wanted to let you know that I own you now.”

  Pilcher showed Ethan and Pam to a circular glass table on the outskirts of an immaculate kitchen. His personal chef was already working up breakfast—the smell of eggs and bacon and ham wafting over from the large Viking stovetop.

  Pilcher said, “Good morning, Tim.”

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Would you mind bringing out coffee? You can take our orders too. There’ll be three of us.”

  “Of course.”

  The light coming through the window beside the table was gray and dismal.

  Pilcher said, “I hear it snowed last night.”

  Ethan said, “Just a dusting.”

  “First snow seems to come earlier every year. It’s only August.”

  A young, clean-shaven man in a chef’s coat walked over from the kitchen carrying a tray with three porcelain cups and a large French press.

  He set everything on the glass and carefully lowered the plunger.

  Filled everyone’s cup.

  Said, “I know that Pam and Mr. Pilcher take it black. Sheriff? May I get you some cream and sugar?”

  “No thanks,” Ethan said.

  It smelled like good coffee.

  It tasted infinitely better than what they served in town.

  The way Ethan remembered it from Seattle.

  Pam said, “You would’ve been so proud of our sheriff yesterday, David.”

  “Oh yeah? What’d he do?”

  “He visited with Wayne Johnson. Your first integration, right, Ethan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Johnson was having a difficult time, asking the hard questions they all ask. Ethan handled it perfectly.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Pilcher said.

  “It was like watching our baby boy take his first steps. Just really beautiful.”

  Tim took their orders and headed back into the kitchen.

  Pilcher said, “So we’re d
ying to hear all about your evening, Ethan.”

  Ethan stared down at the steam rising off the surface of his coffee. He was in a rough spot. If this man were capable of killing his own daughter, what would he do to Ethan and his family if Ethan refused to name names?

  But if Ethan spilled, he was signing Kate’s death warrant.

  Impossible choices.

  And if that wasn’t enough, Pam knew that he’d removed Theresa’s chip.

  “Ethan, tell us everything you saw.”

  Threatened with her life, Alyssa might not have named names, but she had undoubtedly told her father, or Pam, the truth.

  She would’ve said that Kate’s group wasn’t dangerous.

  Weren’t planning a revolution.

  That they only met to experience moments of freedom.

  And still she was murdered.

  The truth hadn’t helped Kate and her group. The truth hadn’t saved Alyssa.

  “Ethan?”

  In a moment of horrifying, blinding clarity, he understood what he had to do.

  Risky. Insane.

  “Ethan, for fuck’s sake.”

  But his only play.

  He said, “I got in.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ethan smiled. “I saw the inner circle.”

  “You were taken to where they meet?”

  “They blindfolded me and led me off into the forest. We climbed this cliff to a cavern halfway up the mountain.”

  “Could you find this place on your own?”

  “I think so. I wasn’t blindfolded for the return trip.”

  “I’ll want you to draw a map.”

  “Sure.”

  “So what did you see?”

  “There were fifty or sixty people there.”

  “Including your former partner and her husband?”

  “Oh yes. And Kate and Harold? They were clearly running the show.”

  “You recognized others?”

  “I did.”

  “We’ll need a full list of names.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. But you should know something.”

  “What?”

  “I went into last night expecting a harmless gathering. Anytime there are rules in place, it’s human nature for people to sneak around them. The speakeasies of the 1920s are a perfect example. But this gathering, these meetings—they aren’t harmless.”

  Pilcher and Pam exchanged a glance, the surprise in their faces unmistakable.

  Clearly, Alyssa had told them the opposite.

  Ethan said, “Frankly, I thought you were just being a control freak, but you were right. They’re actively recruiting new members. And they have weapons.”

  “Weapons? What kind?”

  “Homemade mostly. Hatchets. Knives. Bats. I saw one or two handguns. They’re amassing quite the armory.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Look, everyone was very nervous having me around.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But from what I gathered, they want to take control. To turn the entire town. That much is clear. They aren’t risking their lives to go to these meetings just to sit around and talk about the good old days before Wayward Pines. They know they’re under surveillance. They know there’s a fence. Some of them have even gone to the other side.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Ethan wrapped his hands around his coffee mug to let them warm against the heated porcelain. “I’ll be honest. I was skeptical going in,” Ethan said. “But you… we… have a serious problem.”

  “What about Alyssa?” Pam asked.

  “Are you asking if they killed her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, nobody walked up and confessed while I was there, but what do you think? Look, these people are ultra-paranoid about being discovered. They don’t know specifically who you are, David, but they know someone like you exists. They know someone is controlling all of this. And they want to stop you by any means necessary. They want a war. Liberty or death and all that shit.”

  Tim returned carrying a silver tray.

  He set down a plate of fresh fruit—certainly the last of it—from the gardens.

  “A poached egg on sourdough for you, Mr. Pilcher. Eggs Benedict for you, Pam. And scrambled for you, Sheriff.”

  He freshened up everyone’s coffee and left.

  Pilcher took a bite of his egg, studied Ethan for a moment.

  He said finally, “You understand, Ethan, that a war between the last several hundred human beings on the face of the earth is something that cannot be allowed to happen.”

  “Of course.”

  “What would you propose?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If you were me, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t really had a chance to consider it.”

  “Why do I find that hard to believe? Pam?”

  “Well now. First things first, I would have our super-duper sheriff here write down the names of each and every person he saw last night at the little soiree. Then I would ask me,” she pointed at herself, “to put together a small team. We’d roll through town, and in one night, disappear every last motherfucker on that list.” She smiled. “Then again, I’m on the rag, so maybe I’m just feeling a bit bloody—no pun intended.”

  “You would put them all back into suspension?” Pilcher asked.

  “Or kill them horribly. I mean, at this point, they kind of strike me as lost causes, don’t you think?”

  “How many did you say there were, Ethan?”

  “Fifty or sixty.”

  “I can’t see sacrificing so many of my people. Call me a hopeless optimist, but I have to think there’s a percentage of Kate’s group who could be persuaded by means less final than torture and death.”

  Pilcher dashed a modest helping of salt across his egg.

  Took a bite.

  Gazed out the window in the rock.

  It was a stunning vista through the face of a cliff. A thousand feet below, a forest swept down the mountainside into town.

  When Pilcher turned back to the table, he wore a new look of resolve.

  He said, “Ethan, it’s going to be an interesting night ahead for you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re going to call your first fête.”

  “For who?”

  “Kate and Harold Ballinger will be the guests of honor.”

  Pam was beaming.

  “What a brilliant idea,” she said. “Cut off the head of the snake, the rest of it dies.”

  Pilcher said, “I know the only fête you’ve experienced, Ethan, was your own, but I assume you’ve studied the manual. That you know what will be expected of you.”

  “Any qualms with overseeing the execution of your former fling?” Pam asked.

  “Your sensitivity is overwhelming,” Ethan said. “Someday remind me to explain to you what empathy is.”

  “Perhaps it was poorly phrased,” Pilcher said, “but the question is apt. Are you up to this, Ethan? And don’t misunderstand me and think that I’m implying you have a choice in the matter.”

  “I dread it,” Ethan said. “If that’s what you’re asking. I loved her once. But after last night, I understand the need for what’s going to happen.”

  The muscles in Pilcher’s face seemed to relax.

  “To hear you say that, Ethan… nothing would make me happier than for you to be fully on board. The three of us working together. For me to have your complete loyalty and trust. It’s so important, and there’s so much I haven’t told you. So much I want to share. But I have to know you’re really with me.”

  “The Ballingers have to be taken alive,” Pam said. “You have to make that clear from the start to the officers or our guests will be killed in some alley. In light of the message we’re trying to send, they need to die in the circle on Main Street. It needs to be bloody and awful so all the people in their group understand the price of their disobedi
ence.”

  “I’ll be watching how you run this fête,” Pilcher said. “Your performance tonight can go a long way toward building some real trust between us.” Pilcher finished off his coffee and stood. “Go home, get some sleep, Ethan. I’ll send Dr. Miter into town this afternoon to sew your chip back in.”

  Pam smiled. “God, I love the fêtes,” she said. “Even better than Christmas. And I have a hunch the townspeople do too. You know some of them keep costumes in their closets for the big night? They decorate their knives and rocks. We all need to go a little crazy now and then.”

  “You consider killing two of our own just going ‘a little crazy’?” Ethan asked.

  “At the end of the day, it’s what we do best, isn’t it?”

  “I hope that’s not true.”

  Pilcher said, “Personally, I hate the fêtes. But then again, those are my people down there, and as hard as it is, I know what they need. Perfection all the time would drive them mad. For every perfect little town, there’s something ugly underneath. No dream without the nightmare.”

  20

  Ethan walked into his dark house.

  He ran a bath downstairs and went up to his bedroom.

  Theresa was sleeping under a mountain of blankets.

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Come join me in the bath.”

  The water in the tub was the only hot thing in the house, but it was gloriously hot.

  The room had filled with steam by the time Theresa wandered down.

  It coated the mirror over the sink, the window above the tub. Made the plaster look as if it was perspiring.

  She undressed.

  Stepped into the water and eased down between his legs.

  With the two of them in the water, there was only an inch between the surface and the lip of the clawfoot tub. The warm mist so thick he could barely see the sink.

  With his foot, Ethan turned the knob just enough to fill the bathroom with the noise of running water. He pulled Theresa back into his chest. Even in the heat, her skin was cool against his. Her ear was right at his lips, and it was such a perfect position to talk to her that he didn’t know why it had never occurred to him before.

  Steam enveloped them.

  He said, “Kate’s people didn’t kill that woman whose murder I was investigating.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Either Pam, someone else under Pilcher’s employ, or the man himself.”

  “His own daughter?”