Chapter 17

"I've got it under control."

To Locke, Jack's voice was gratingly dismissive. That was all the information the doctor was going to give, and Locke could do nothing but lie impotently on the bunk, lift himself half off it, and glance out the door into a hallway that revealed nothing.

Jack had it under control? Then why the gunshot? Locke had promised to protect Henry—or whoever he was—and what if Sayid had shot him? Henry had come back for him. Unlike his father, and unlike Helen, Henry had come back for him. The man had lied about his name, admittedly—Sayid had discovered that much and Locke did not doubt him—but the prisoner hadn't betrayed Locke. He hadn't abandoned him. He hadn't walked off with a suitcase full of money, or driven off with a "no" on his lips. He had come back.

Henry needed Locke. The survivors had once needed him, too: they had needed him to hunt, needed him to feed their starving bellies, needed him to open the hatch. But even then they hadn't been precisely grateful, had they? They had looked on him as some kind of slightly off-kilter soul simply because he had possessed the weaponry and the skill to hunt, kill, and provide.

And now Jack was dismissing him altogether. "I've got it under control." I don't need you, John. No one needs you. You're a tool. We're more than happy to use you from time to time—but we don't need you.

And now he could hear Sayid's footsteps leaving the vault, at first pounding with anger against the floor, and then gradually slacking off to his more natural and quiet pace. "Sayid!" Locke called out.

His summons was followed by what seemed to Locke an interminable silence before the Iraqi finally came into the doorway and leaned against the frame. "Yes, John?"

"What happened back there?"

"Nothing that should concern you." Sayid straightened himself as though preparing to leave.

"But I am concerned. I'm a part of this, Sayid. I need to know what happened."

"Then why not begin by telling me what happened yesterday? Why did you free that man?"

"I told you…the hatch went into lockdown, and I needed him to press the button."

Sayid leaned again against the doorway. He had that casual look in his eyes that Locke by now knew would precede an intense line of questioning. "You told him the numbers?"

"Yes," Locke answered.

"And what did he do?"

"He crawled through the vents to get to the computer. Then he…" Locke paused. If he told Sayid what Henry had said…if anyone knew…the survivors might not see the importance of continuing to press the button. Though Locke felt a partial loyalty to Gale, he could not believe—he must not believe—that nothing had happened when the button was not pressed. Gale had lied before; he must have lied about this. "He entered the numbers."

Locke saw Sayid's head tilt; he saw the Iraqi trying to catch his eye. He knew Sayid did not believe him.

"Why do you hesitate, John?"

"Look, I promised I wouldn't let anyone seriously hurt him. He helped save my leg from being completely crushed. He didn't run away like he could have. Can't you at least give him credit for that?"

"He had his reasons, I am certain."

Locke now leveled a calm gaze at the Iraqi. He spoke quietly. "Did you try to shoot him, Sayid? Just now? Did you try to shoot him?"

Sayid crossed his arms across his chest. "He thinks I did."

Locke nodded solemnly at this response, as though those four short words were all it took to explain the entire scenario. He felt a sense of relief to know that the would-be Henry Gale would not be harmed; at least, not as long as he could still potentially provide some useful information. "Is Ana in there with him now?" Locke asked.

Sayid shook his head. "I don't think so. She'll question him later." Abruptly shifting the subject, Sayid continued, "You told him the numbers, and he memorized them?"

"Yes. And then he crawled through the vents."

"How many times did you repeat the numbers?"

"How many times?" Locke asked, and he could feel his own stomach dropping slightly. He had told the man once. Once. And Gale hadn't asked for a repetition. He hadn't asked because he had had no intention of entering the numbers. He hadn't asked because the button was a joke. No, Locke thought. No. I haven't wasted days pressing that thing. I have a purpose on this island. The button has a purpose. The hatch has a purpose. Locke swallowed. "I don't remember."

Sayid took a step farther into the room. "John?"

"Once," Lock answered. "Once."

"You repeated them once?"

"I said them once."

"And he learned them that quickly?" Sayid asked. "And he entered them?"

"Yes," Locke answered, making every effort to maintain a steady gaze at Sayid as he did so.

The Iraqi pursed his lips, but he did not respond. Locke wasn't sure whether or not Sayid believed him, but he asked no further questions. The interrogator only turned and left.

Locke watched the man retreat somewhere into the hatch and dropped his head back onto the bunk. He looked up at the bed atop him, and saw etched in the metal that contained it, as if by knife point, a series of tick marks. Had Desmond been counting the weeks? Was this really no more than a monotonous exercise, a psychological experiment that had no salvific purpose? Was Locke's work meaningless?

John Locke punched the top bunk with his fist, and the mattress above rose slightly. He shook the pain from his hands.