Dead Roots (The Analyst) (24 page)

“So when they get dragged through those holes in the ground... that leads to the tree?”

“Yes. Those holes are part of a vast network of small tunnels that Akebara has dug for itself with its roots.”

“Could we follow them back to the trunk?”

“Maybe. As to how we do that, I'm open to suggestions.”

“Well, you'll have to figure it out without me,” Tom stated. “Margaret is taking me off the case.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Akebara used to haunt me,” Tom explained for what felt like the millionth time that evening. “Akebara is the tree. My tree.”

Keda sighed as he tied back his hair again.

“I'm sorry, Tom. I had no idea. It probably is better if you go.”

Tom sighed. The Xanax was still making his head swim.

“Yeah, you're right. But before I do, there's something I need to go check out.”

“What's that?”

“I'm going to take a nap and sleep off the rest of this pill,” Tom said, pulling off his jacket and laying across one of the single beds. “Get Artie to fill you in.”

Keda pulled on his shirt.

“I'm still hungry,” Keda said with a small upturn in his voice. “Artie, would you like to finish our meal?”

Tom felt a twinge of guilt as he let his head drift off. His body weighed him down and he let his mind float off. The medication was hitting harder than he had first realized.

********

Tom was nodding off at the wheel. The pill was just about out of his system, but the sleep wasn't. Tom rambled nervously to Artie in his earpiece.

“The feed coming through okay?” he asked, fiddling with the little camera on his lapel.

“Yeah, kinda dark out there, though. Just keep me updated.”

“I'll try. I'm losing my focus here.”

Tom rubbed his forehead and tried to focus on the darkened road. He turned a corner and found himself heading down a long, straight stretch. He groaned.
How much further is this God damn place?

Tom reached for the radio. Hopefully he'd be in signal distance of something. To his surprised delight, one station was coming in loud and clear.

“--Steely Dan, taking us away with
Midnight Cruiser
.”

“Yes,” Tom declared emphatically. He patted his open hand against the steering wheel. He started rocking back and forth to the piano and drum intro.

“
Dadadoo, dadadoo,
” Tom scatted along with the guitar. He started singing along. He knew the words by heart.

“How do you listen to that dinosaur shit?” Artie chortled into the earpiece. Tom could picture his gap-toothed grin guffawing at him.

“What
ever
. This is a classic.”

Tom treated himself to a cigarette. He rolled down the window and let the blue smoke fly out the window. He belted out some more thirty-year-old lyrics, gleefully adding to Artie's chagrin.

“Barf. There should be a fork in the road coming up, take a left and you're ten minutes away.”

“Got it.”

The road seemed narrower the further along it went. Trees surrounded him on either side, reaching up into the air silently. He glanced at the following moon.

Tom’s mind wandered. He still hadn't apologized to Margaret. Would she care? Would she understand? Would she even bring it up next time they spoke? As he sang along to the radio, he wondered privately where their friendship was going. Were they friends? She was his boss. She came around to screw him every once in a while. Good times, good drink, good sex, but were they really close? Yeah, they were friends. They talked about work, they talked about stupid music and bad TV. They talked about movies they liked. They'd never stayed up late talking about their childhoods, but that was for teenagers and married people, right?

His thoughts wandered to Officer Dawes. She had a nice, tight body, looked around his age, though he hadn't asked. He could ask her out on a date when this was all over. But where was that going? He chided himself. Maybe he could have a quick fling while he was in town, if anything. But maybe, just maybe. The universe worked in mysterious ways.

He thought about his mother. Her face hanging upside down from a flesh-colored tree branch. The screaming matches weren't all that far away. It had taken more than a couple of years since the hauntings for him to firmly believe that his mother was truly his mother, behind her face-- behind her skin.

Artie hadn't said anything in a while. Tom quieted down his singing.

“Hey, Artie. You there?”

There was no answer. Tom turned the radio down a notch and made out a faint buzzing on the line. Like static? More like dead air, he thought. Artie probably just went to the bathroom. The car continued down the road. There was no left turn in sight. He flicked his spent cigarette out the window.

“God damn,” Tom remarked to himself. He squinted and tried to peer further down the road. It just kept going.

He heard something faintly in his earpiece. He tapped at it.

“Artie? That you?”

“...m... sl...”

“What?”

Tom strained to hear. He turned the knob on the radio. The volume wouldn't go down.

“The hell?”

He smacked at it, twisting the volume knob to the left. Not only would the volume not decrease, but the rock music grew louder. He pressed the power button. The radio didn't respond.

“The
fuck,
” he demanded, jabbing the power button repeatedly. His hearing was being drowned out by drums and guitar and piano riffs.

“--down,” he heard faintly in his ear.

“What?” Tom shouted.

“Tom,
stop the car--
”

The warning came too late. Tom lurched violently in his seat as the front of the car tore its way through a metal barrier. Suddenly the road was gone. Steely Dan assaulted his ears, drowning out the impotent drone of the engine as it hurtled towards the water.

There was no sound anymore. The car crashed into the bank of the river. Its front caved in, the windshield shattering around Tom. He was vaguely aware of glass slashing his face and throat. The airbag that punched him in the chest and stomach did little to soften the damage of his broken ribs. He felt his head rock loose as the whiplash from the impact snapped his neck.

The waking world was miles away.

Tom felt a grip on his shoulders and tilted his head lazily upwards. A woman's eyeless face peered down at him from the enveloping blackness. Her expression was one of placid expectance.

Tom realized now that he had died.

7

“Leaves”

Tom in accident maybe KIA. answer ur phone

Artie pressed the send button and tried to call Margaret again. It was late, and she would have already gone home for the night. He had left a message with the Department a few minutes earlier, and knew that Margaret might be getting it from them even now, if the secretary had taken the emergency seriously. But as he coughed out another lungful of smoke and watched the road fly by, every minute felt like ten.

“Have you got Dawes on the horn yet?”

“It's ringing,” Keda reassured him as he slowed down to turn a corner. Artie scratched at his chin anxiously. He watched Keda peer out the windows in search of the police station.

“Good evening, Officer Dawes,” Keda said into his own cell. He gave a polite smile, even over the phone. “Heather, of course. We have something of a situation. Are you at the local police station?”

Artie yelled out over Keda. “We need you, right
now.
”

Keda waved his hand irritably. “Okay. We should be there in just a moment. There's been an accident. I'll explain when we get there.”

Artie flicked his cigarette out the window and immediately drew another one. After a minute of pregnant silence, he finally saw the police station come into view. It was a two-story box of a building. Most of the lights on the top floor were off. Artie saw a handful of officers through the windows, none of them taking particular notice of each other.

Artie's heart raced as the car drew to a stop and he sprang out of the vehicle. He ran up to the door, leaving Keda to jog quickly behind him. He was inside before Keda had even finished shutting the car door. A sterile white hallway led to a lone reception desk at the apex of two strong-looking doors and a staircase. A portly, balding man sat at the desk, idly tapping at a computer.

“Excuse me,” Artie said hurriedly. “I need to see Heather Dawes.”

“How can I help you, sir,” the man said listlessly, not looking up.

“Heather
Dawes
. Officer
Heather Dawes.
”

“Calm down, sir,” the man repeated. “How can I help you?”

“Fuck, pal, what is
wrong
with you people?” Artie shouted. He slammed his open palms on the counter. The man looked up slowly. “I need you to bring me Officer Heather God damn Dawes.”

“Please calm down, sir. There's no need for profanity.”

“Fucking--”

“If you continue to use profanity, I will terminate this conversation, sir.”

Artie felt something in him break. He buried his head in one hand and found himself dropping to his knees. He shook with frustration and fought back the urge to scream. Instead he succumbed to overwhelmed, broken sobs.

“Artie,” he heard Keda's voice dimly. Keda's delicate hands gripped under Artie’s arms and helped him to stand back up. Artie sniffed loudly and reached up to adjust his glasses.

“This guy's fucked, like all the rest,” he choked out.

“Be strong, Artie.”

The clerk gave them a vacant stare. “Hello, sirs. How can I help you?”

Keda didn't answer. Artie just swore to himself impotently.

“God damn it.”

“I have warned you about profanity. I am terminating this conversation,” the clerk droned. “Please leave the building.”

“We're not leaving until we speak to Heather Dawes,” Artie insisted.

“Security,” the man sighed. He reached for a phone on the desk and pressed a hotkey.

“This is bullshit,” Artie declared. Keda was already dialing on his cellphone.

“Security to the reception desk, please.” The clerk placed the phone back in its cradle and turned to look at Artie again. “I've terminated the conversation, sir. Please leave the building.”

 “Hello, Heather,” Keda said into the phone. “We're at reception. Your staff seems to be... off, somehow.”

“Just like the others,” Artie added loudly with his arms folded. He turned at the sound of footsteps and saw a dark-skinned man in a police uniform coming down the staircase. He was frowning deeply.

“What is the problem here?” the cop asked loudly. Keda lowered his voice.

“We're trying to see somebody, but your receptionist is high as a kite,” said Artie with a tongue full of venom.

“Sir, I must ask you to vacate the premises.” The guard unhooked his hefty flashlight from his belt and Artie momentarily flinched, afraid he was about to be struck.

“We'll leave as soon as we see Officer Dawes.”

“Sir, I
must
ask you to vacate the premises.”

“Leave them alone, Martin,” came Heather's voice. Artie practically sang. She emerged from the door behind the reception desk and stuffed a cellphone back into her pocket. Keda smiled at her.

“Hello, Heather.”

“Evening, gentlemen. Is Martin giving you a hard time?”

“These men are a threat to the structure of the proud town of Orchard. Orchard is the jewel of the valley, built upon a strong foundation of family values and upstanding moral fiber.”

“Martin, save it. What's the emergency, you two?”

“Tom just took a spill off a God damn cliff,” Artie sputtered. “We need an ambulance or something.”

“
What?
Where?”

“He was driving out to… umm--”

“He was going here,” Keda took over helpfully. He drew the map out of his pocket and unfolded it. He pointed to Tom's destination near the outskirts of town. “I think he was about here, and drove into this ravine.”

“Oh my God, why?”

“We don't know,” Artie added. “He was just-- he was kind of out of it for a few minutes, wouldn't answer me on the phone, then he just went over.”

“Shit. Orchard doesn't have a hospital. The nearest emergency room is forty minutes’ drive, probably take an ambulance at least half an hour.”

“You don't have a
hospital?
” Artie shouted incredulously.

“Sir, quiet down,” the dark-skinned man called Martin yelled. “You need to leave the premises.”

“Come with me,” Heather groaned, motioning for Artie and Keda to follow. They tagged along behind her into the back of the station. Martin remained at the desk, yelling even after the door was closed.

“We have to go get him.”

“I know. I'll call for an ambulance.” Heather led them down a long hallway, passing several offices and a door marked 'Interrogation Room'. They passed another uniformed policeman in the hall. He bumped heavily into Artie, and glared at him for a long moment as he walked by.

“Jeez. Sorry,” Artie offered in bewilderment. The officer frowned deeply and kept walking. “What is wrong with these people?”

Heather didn't spend long in her office. Artie and Keda watched as she opened a tall metal cabinet by the window, reaching in and pulling out a 12-gauge riot shotgun. She hitched up a canvas strap to its barrel and stock, and threw the weapon over one shoulder as naturally as a backpack.

“Holy shit,” Artie sputtered.

“There is too much fucked-up shit happening in my town. No way am I going out at night with a slingshot.”

“Fair enough.”

“C'mon, we can take my car.”

Heather led them back out to the reception desk. No sooner had they emerged from the back of the station than Martin was at their throats again, brandishing his flashlight like he was part of a torch mob.

“Good moral values and upstanding citizenry,” Martin roared, the veins on his dark forehead popping out prominently. “A jewel in the center of the valley. The citizens of Orchard are a proud and fine people, showing old-fashioned hospitality to outsiders.”