* * *
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.”