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.
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.
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