Chapter 44: THE INTERROGATION
Sayid began the questioning at dawn.
The approach was measured, professional—the technique of someone who'd conducted hundreds of interrogations and learned that patience yielded more than aggression. He sat across from "Henry" in the armory, notebook in hand, voice calm and controlled.
"Tell me about the balloon."
"It was a Balloon Works 400. Custom-built for long-distance flights." Henry's voice was steady despite the obvious fatigue. "We'd been planning the crossing for years. My wife, Jennifer—she was a pilot. I handled the navigation."
"Where did you launch from?"
"Fiji. We intended to land in Los Angeles, but the weather turned. Unexpected storm system pushed us off course."
Every detail was specific, checkable, delivered with the confidence of someone who'd rehearsed thoroughly. Sayid noted each answer, cross-referencing against questions about geography and procedure that would reveal inconsistencies to someone who knew what to look for.
I watched from outside the armory, cataloguing micro-expressions. The way Henry's eyes moved when constructing memories versus retrieving them. The slight tension in his shoulders when certain topics arose.
Wife. Balloon. These are rehearsed. But watch him when Sayid mentions Minnesota.
"Tell me about your home."
"Minneapolis. Wayzata, specifically—it's a suburb near Lake Minnetonka." Henry smiled faintly. "Beautiful in the summer. Terrible in the winter."
The geography was wrong. Wayzata wasn't near Minnetonka—it was on it. A small detail, the kind of mistake someone might make if they'd studied maps without actually living there.
I signaled Sayid through the window: focus on the wife.
"Your wife. Jennifer. How did she die?"
The first hesitation. Not long—a fraction of a second—but present. Henry's composure flickered before resettling into practiced grief.
"The crash. She was injured badly—internal bleeding. I tried to help, but I'm not a doctor." His voice cracked convincingly. "I buried her near the balloon. Marked the grave with stones."
The grief is real. But it's not for Jennifer.
The memory fragment I'd caught during our earlier contact surfaced: a young girl's face, Alex's face. Ben's daughter—adopted from Rousseau, raised as his own, a source of genuine emotional investment.
He's channeling real loss through a fictional narrative. Using authentic emotion to sell a fabricated story.
---
Jack interrupted the interrogation two hours later.
"That's enough." His voice carried the particular authority of someone who'd decided to assert medical ethics over tactical necessity. "He needs rest. Food. Time to recover from whatever happened to him before he got here."
"We need answers," Sayid countered. "His story has inconsistencies—"
"Everyone's story has inconsistencies under this kind of pressure. That doesn't make him a liar."
Through the armory window, I watched Henry observe the conflict with carefully concealed satisfaction. Every division among us was data he could exploit. Every argument about his treatment gave him information about our dynamics.
He's managing us from a prison cell. Impressive.
"He can have food," I said, stepping into the conversation. "I'll bring it."
Jack's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he couldn't object to someone offering to help. Sayid caught my intention immediately—another opportunity for contact, another chance to probe past Henry's defenses.
I prepared the meal carefully. Rice from the Dharma supplies, fish caught that morning, clean water. Nothing that could be used as a weapon, nothing that required utensils.
The armory door opened with its familiar grinding sound. Henry looked up from his corner position, expression shifting from neutral observation to grateful victim.
"Thank you. I haven't eaten since—" He paused, calculating. "I don't remember when."
"Must be rough."
"It's been difficult."
I set the food down, positioning myself to require contact when he reached for it. Our hands brushed—his pale, mine tanned from weeks of Island sun—and the Ancestral Memory surged again.
Resistance. Still resistance. But weaker.
Fragments broke through: Alex, older now, arguing with her father about something important. A woman with dark hair and cruel eyes—Juliet, maybe, though the context was unclear. The weight of command, decisions made that cost lives, the particular loneliness of leadership.
And something else. A flicker of awareness, Ben's consciousness registering the intrusion and pushing back.
He knows. Not what I'm doing, maybe, but that something's happening. He's fighting it.
"You're not like the others." Henry's voice was quiet, measured. "They look at me with fear or sympathy. You look at me like you're solving a puzzle."
"Maybe I am."
"What kind of puzzle?"
The kind where I know the answer but can't prove it. The kind where showing my hand means losing the game.
"The kind where the pieces don't quite fit."
Henry's eyes held mine for a long moment. Two predators, assessing each other across a very small room.
"Everyone's pieces don't quite fit, Sawyer. That's what makes people interesting."
---
Ana Lucia found me outside the station that evening.
"The interrogation's compromised." Her voice was tight with frustration. "Jack's treating him like a patient instead of a prisoner. Locke's convinced the Island brought him here for a reason. Every time Sayid makes progress, someone interferes."
"That's what he wants."
"Obviously. But what do we do about it?"
In the original timeline, the balloon verification came next. Sayid led an expedition to confirm Henry's story, found the real Henry Gale's grave, exposed the lie.
But that took days. Days where Ben had access to the camp, days where he could plant seeds and gather intelligence.
"We verify the balloon story. Now, not later."
"How? He gave us coordinates, but they're in hostile territory."
"Then we go into hostile territory." I met her eyes directly. "You wanted action instead of observation. This is action. We find that balloon, we find out what he's really hiding."
Ana Lucia's expression shifted—skepticism giving way to the particular focus of someone who'd been waiting for permission to act.
"Who do we take?"
"Sayid. Charlie if he insists—he's been wanting to prove himself since the attack. Small team, fast movement. In and out before the Others know we're there."
"And if it's a trap?"
It might be. Ben could have prepared the site, could be waiting for us to investigate. But the alternative—leaving him to work the camp for days while we debate—is worse.
"Then we spring it on our terms."
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