Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

they drove by outside his apartment. Her hair was cut short. She had a face that might’ve been cute when she was younger, but had gotten lean and harsh as she matured. She wore the same dark suit as the men in the van, and her driver.

The blonde held up something dark in her hand. A twitch of her fingers opened it to show a gold shield, a photograph, and some tiny words on a white background. George registered a capital S, but the wallet closed before he could read anything.

“George Bailey,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. She was just letting him know everything was intentional and deliberate.

George realized an instant too late he should’ve spent that thinking time trying to run.

A man grabbed either arm. A third one dropped the bag over his head. It was made of heavy black material, like denim. He heard a zipping sound as it cinched around his neck.

He fought back. The man holding his right arm let go. George swung his arm around and heard a grunt of pain from someone. The man holding the other arm let go, but then someone slammed into him. The world spun inside the black bag, something hit him in the side of the head, and everything stopped.

IT WAS VERY stuffy.

George realized the darkness wasn’t unconsciousness but something draped over his head. He reached up to pull it away and something cold clicked and cut into his wrists. Then he remembered the van and the men and—

“He’s awake.”

The bag whipped off his head. The blonde was standing in front of him. She was going through his wallet. She had his driver’s license out and was holding it up to the light. She tilted it back and forth, checking the holograms.

They were in a square room. One of the dark-suited men stood in each corner. One had a bruise on the side of his head that hadn’t been there when they grabbed him. Another one had splints on two fingers and his thumb. The only furniture was the chair George was handcuffed to and a table off to the side.

There wasn’t a mirror. He thought there was always a one-way mirror in these rooms so people on the other side could watch what went on. He craned his head around. No mirror, and also no cameras.

He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

The blond woman tossed his license on the table. His credit cards were already there, along with what little cash he had and a few receipts. “George H. Bailey. H stands for Harrison.” She shook her head. “Seriously, with a name like that you’d think Homeland would’ve picked you up years ago.”

“It’s my real name,” he said.

“I know,” she said. She pulled a few grocery store cards from his wallet, glanced at each of them, and tossed them on the table. “Your parents were Beatles fans?”

She stared at him for a moment and George realized she was waiting on an answer. He swallowed and tried to stay calm. “Star Wars,” he said. “Dad said I was almost George Han Bailey, but Mom won out.”

The man in the corner to George’s left, the one with the bruise, bit back a snort.

The blonde’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you a sci-fi geek?”

“When I was a kid.”

“Not anymore?”

“No more than anyone else, I guess.”

Another long pause stretched out. Her eyes were bright green. The longer he looked, the more he was sure she wasn’t a nice person.

He looked away from her eyes. “Ummmm … What’s this all about?”

The blonde tossed his wallet on the table. “You do any sports?”

“What?”

“Football? Weightlifting? Maybe a little soccer on your lunch break?”

“I … no.”

“Nothing?”

“I ride my bike to work sometimes in the summer. That’s it.”

“Ever take anything for that?”

“What?”

The blonde nodded at the man with the splints. “You put up a real fight when we grabbed you.”

“I was scared.”

“A lot more of a fight than a guy your size and build should be able to. Especially against guys like these.” She paused again. “My friend here thinks you’re on steroids.”

He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Good,” said George. “You’re right.”

“You’re way too skinny to be on steroids. My bet was meth.”

He blinked. “I’m not on anything.”

“You sure about that?”

“I have to do a drug test every six months. I don’t even smoke.”

She held out her hand. One of the men placed a cell phone in it. George realized it was his. She made a few quick swipes at the phone’s screen and then held up the call log for him to see. “Yesterday morning,” she said, “you placed a call to Sandia Labs in New Mexico. The Pulsed Power Project. The call lasted just under nine minutes.”

This pause was twice as long. George wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer and he didn’t want to risk interrupting her if she started talking again. Once he was sure she was waiting on him, he gave a quick nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call the lab?”

“I was looking for someone.”

“Barry Burke?”

“Yes.”

“And you found him.” Another statement, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“How do you know Mr. Burke?”

“I …”

The blonde set his phone on the table and crossed her arms. “It’s not really a tough question,” she said. “How do you know him?”

“I’m not sure I do,” admitted George.

“So why were you calling him?”

George started to talk, then closed his mouth.

“Well?”

“I think … I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer,” George said. “Counsel. Whatever you call it.”

The blonde’s mouth twitched into a new shape. If it was a smile, it was a cruel one. “A lawyer?” she echoed. “What year do you think this is, George? I don’t have to give you a bathroom if I don’t want to. Answer the question. Why were you calling Barry Burke?”

Something burned at the back of his throat and he swallowed it down. “To see if I recognized him. Recognized his voice.”

“But you don’t know him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t