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?”
“I don’t know that for sure, but regardless, there’s going to be a fête tonight.”
“For who?”
“Kate and Harold.”
“Jesus. And as sheriff, you have to run it.”
“That’s right.”
“Can’t you stop it?”
“I don’t want to stop it.”
“Ethan.” She turned her head and looked up at him. “What’s going on?”
“Better if you don’t know.”
“You mean in case you don’t pull it off?”
“Yeah.”
“How real is that possibility?”
“Very. But we talked about it last night. I promised you I’d fix this, even if it meant we took the risk of losing everything.”
“I know. It’s just…”
“A little different when the rubber actually meets the road. Pam knows about us, by the way. That we went out last night.”
“Has she told anyone?”
“No, and I’m betting that she won’t, at least not before the fête.”
“But what happens if she says something after?”
“After tonight, none of this will matter anymore. But look, I don’t have to do this. We could fall in line. Live out the rest of our days as good little townies. I’d be sheriff. There’d be perks to that. We have no mortgage here. No bills. Everything provided for. I used to work late every night. Now I’m always home for supper. We have more time together as a family.”
Theresa whispered, “There’s a part of me that wonders if I could buy into it, you know? Just settle. But it wouldn’t be a life, Ethan. Not on these terms.” She kissed him, her lips gone soft from the steam and the heat. “So do whatever you have to do, and just know that no matter what happens, I love you, and I’ve felt closer to you in the last twenty-four hours than in the last five years of our marriage in Seattle.”
The snow was gone by midafternoon.
Under a blue winter sky, Ethan stood just beyond the fence that encircled the school.
Children streamed out of the brick building and down the steps. He spotted Ben walking with two friends, backpacks hanging from their shoulders, talking, laughing.
How normal it all seemed.
Kids getting out of school for the day.
Nothing more.
Ben reached the sidewalk. He still hadn’t noticed his father.
Ethan said, “Hey, son.”
Ben stopped and so did his friends.
“Dad. What’re you doing here?”
“Just felt like picking you up from school today. Mind if I walk you home?”
The kid didn’t look like he wanted to be walked home by Dad, but he hid the embarrassment with grace.
Turning to his friends, he said, “I’ll catch up with you guys later this afternoon.”
Ethan put his hand on Ben’s shoulder.
He said, “How about we go to your favorite place in the world?”
They walked four blocks down to Main Street and crossed to a candy store called The Sweet Tooth. Some of the school kids had beaten them there—clusters of boys and girls grazing the hundreds of glass jars filled with gumballs, Spree, Sweet Tarts, Pixy Stix, Cry Baby bubble gum, Jolly Ranchers, Jawbreakers, M&M’S, Starburst, Pez, Skittles, Sour Patch Kids, Nerds, Smarties, Atomic Fireballs—no staple of teeth-rotting goodness absent from the collection. Ethan knew that, like everything else, it had all been stored in suspension. But he couldn’t help thinking that if anything could last unchanged for two thousand years, it had to be a Jawbreaker.
He and Ben ended up at the chocolate counter.
Homemade fudge in all its permutations beckoned from beneath the glass.
Ethan said, “Pick out whatever you want.”
Armed with hot chocolates and a paper bag heavy with an assortment of fudge, Ethan and Ben strolled the sidewalk.
This was the busiest time of day in Wayward Pines, with school having just let out and the streets wonderfully noisy with the laughter of children.
It never felt more real than this.
Ethan said, “Let’s find a place to sit.”
He led his boy across the street to the bench on the corner of Main and Ninth.
They sat drinking their hot chocolates and nibbling at the fudge and watching people walk by.
Ethan said, “I remember when I was your age. You’re a much better kid than I was. Smarter too.”
The boy looked up, fudge crumbs around his mouth.
“Really?”
Between his glasses and the earflaps that hung down from his hunting cap, Ethan thought he bore a strong resemblance to Ralphie from A Christmas Story.
“Oh yeah. I was a little shit. Mouthy. Full-on rebellious streak.”
This seemed to amuse Ben.
He sipped his hot chocolate.
“School used to be just school,” Ethan said. “We had homework. Parent-teacher conferences. Report cards.”
“What’s a report card?”
“A slip that showed what your grades were for a quarter. You probably don’t really remember when you went to school in Seattle. This one’s a little different.”
Now Ben stared down at the pavement under their feet.
“What’s wrong, son?”
“You’re not supposed to talk about that.” He said it in a grave, quiet voice.
“Ben, look at me.”
The boy looked up.
“I’m the sheriff of Wayward Pines. I can talk about whatever the hell I want. You understand, I run this town.”
The boy shook his head. “No you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
Now Ben’s eyes were filling up with tears.
“We can’t talk about this,” he said.
“I’m your father. There’s nothing you and I can’t talk about.”
“You aren’t my father.”
A shiv straight into Ethan’s gut would’ve felt better.
He lost his breath.
Saw the world suddenly through a blur of tears.
He barely found his voice. “Ben? What are you talking about?”
“Not my real one.”
“I’m not your real father?”
“You don’t understand. You never will. I’m going home.”
Ben started to stand, but Ethan put his arm around him, held him to the bench.
“Let go of me!”
“Who do you think your real father is?” Ethan asked.
“I’m not supposed to talk about—”
“Tell me!”
“The one who protects us!”
“Protects from what?”
The boy glared up at Ethan, all tears and vitriol, and said, “The demons past the fence.”
“You’ve been beyond the fence?” Ethan asked.
The boy nodded.
“Who took you?”
Stonewall.
“Was it a short, older man with a shaved head and black eyes?”
Ben didn’t answer, but it was an answer.
“Look at me, son. Look at me. What do you mean when you say he’s your father?”
“I told you. He protects us. He provides for us. He created all of this, everything we have in Wayward Pines.”
“That man is not God, if that’s what you’ve been—”
“Don’t say that.”
Ethan thinking, If there were no other reason for burning this place to the ground, it’s this. They’re stealing our children away from us.
“Ben, there are things in this world that are true and that are lies. Are you listening to me? Your mother’s and my love for you—there is nothing truer than that. Do you love me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“That man who took you past the fence is not God. He’s the furthest thing from it. His name is David Pilcher.”
“You know him?”
“I work for him. See him almost every day.”
Suddenly, Megan Fisher was standing in front of them.
Ethan hadn’t even heard her footsteps.
She’d come out of nowhere.
Kneeling down carefully in her woolen skirt, she put her hand on Ben’s knee.
“Everything okay, Benjamin?”
Ethan forced a smile. “We’re fine, Megan,” he said. “Rough day at school. I’m sure you know how that goes. But nothing a little trip to The Sweet Tooth can’t fix.”
“What happened, Benjamin?”
The boy was staring down into his lap, literally crying into his hot chocolate.
Ethan said, “It’s kind of a private matter.”
This snapped Megan’s head up.
Gone was the perky, pleasant host who had welcomed him and Theresa into her home several nights ago.
She said, “Private?”
Like she didn’t understand the meaning of the word.
Like Ben was her son and it was Ethan overstepping his bounds.
“At School of the Pines,” she went on, “we believe in a community approach to—”
“Yeah, private. Like mind-your-own-fucking-business private, Mrs. Fisher.”
The look on her face—pure shock and disgust—made Ethan fairly confident she had never been spoken to like that before. Certainly not since she’d woken up in Wayward Pines and attained this position of power.
Megan stood straight up and scowled down at him like only a teacher can.
She said, “They’re our children, Mr. Burke.”
He said, “Like hell.”
As she stormed off down the sidewalk, Ben launched out of his father’s grasp and sprinted away across the street.