Dead Roots (The Analyst) (32 page)

“Let's hit the road,” Artie called out as he emerged from the diner's glass door. He untied Aloysius from the bike rack outside the diner's entrance. The Labrador panted, obediently following him towards the car. “You wanna drive?”

“Nah, you go the first half.”

“Yeah, that's cool. You doing alright, man?”

Tom wiped his eye discreetly. He put on a smile.

“Yeah, doing pretty good. You?”

“All I want's a fucking Double Double burger, man,” Artie said through his trademark guffaw. “Or-- oh
man.
You think we'll pass a Waffle House?”

“We are in shitkicker country,” Tom said, climbing into the car. “We are guaran-damn-teed to pass a Waffle House.”

“
Yeeesss!
” Artie crowed, opening the car's back door and shaking Keda awake. “Move, bud, got a passenger.”

Keda blearily sat up. The golden lab hopped into the car without any fuss. Keda massaged the animal's head with his frail hands, bringing its face close to his.

“You are keeping Aloysius?” Keda asked in earnest.

“For sure. He's a beautiful animal. He'd probably just get taken by a cleanup crew and put down, otherwise. That'd be a crime against nature.”

“As opposed to a crime against DPSD regulation,” Tom said with a small sneer. “You better keep that shit quiet. And don't test me or I'll report it myself.”

“Get cancer,” Artie chortled. He climbed into the driver's seat. Tom extinguished his cigarette under his shoe and got into the front passenger's seat. He rolled the window down and leaned out of the stuffy cabin for air as the vehicle rumbled to life.

They exited town as quickly as they'd arrived. He looked behind them, watching the town of Orchard disappear into the distance.

“Shame about Heather,” Artie said sadly.

Tom leaned back into the car seat, pulling the lever at his right and laying back.

“Gonna try and get a nap,” he said.

“We're about to get on a flight, man, you sure?”

“Gonna try and get a nap,” Tom repeated. Artie nodded, not pushing it.

********

He heard a knock at the door. He groaned. He didn't want visitors. He was, for lack of a better term, fucked-in-half drunk.

Tom peeled himself off the couch, zipping up his fly and swaying towards the front door. Effects-heavy acoustic guitar chords wailed through the air in the apartment. He clumsily turned the stereo volume down on his way to answer his guest.

As he rubbed his eyes, he got an eyeful of his guest and tried in vain to stash away some of his self-pity.

“Hi,” Margaret said simply. She sounded concerned. She was dressed conservatively in a button-up shirt and jeans, not the usual skirts or other sexy numbers she usually had on during her nighttime calls.

“Hey,” Tom said weakly. He stepped out of the doorway to let her in. “Fuck you want?”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking. Artie said you aren't answering your phone. Or texts.”

“So?”

“So that usually means you're having a pity party,” Margaret said with a small grin. Tom grimaced at her, starting back towards the couch.

“Don't fuck with me right now, please.”

“Sorry,” Margaret said softly. She sashayed after him, and sat down on the couch next to him with her knees bent. She leaned her elbow behind his head. Tom picked up his glass of whiskey and downed a couple of shots' worth, to Margaret's chagrin, but she didn't comment on it, then.

“This is nice. What is it?” she asked, tilting her head towards the stereo.

“
Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds Live at Radio City Music Hall.
”

“It's nice,” Margaret repeated. She sighed. “I'm not going to ask if you're okay.”

“Thanks,” Tom said brusquely, taking another sip.

“Because I already know the answer.”

Tom didn't respond. He placed his whiskey glass, emptied but for the half-melted ice, back on the table and reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels. Margaret stopped him by holding his hand gently.

“How many have you had?”

“Sixth glass.”

“Straight?”

“Straight to the rim,” he said with a frown.

“Enough,” she said flatly. She screwed the lid back onto the bottle. She took the whiskey and headed towards the open kitchen with it. Tom rubbed his head, watching her.

“You're not my mom,” he called.

“I'm the closest thing you have,” she quipped back. He heard the clinking of glass as the bottle went back into the cupboard.

“'S not true,” Tom said, slurring his speech.

“And when's the last time you spoke to her?”

Tom frowned, not answering. He pinched the bridge of his nose again and winced.

“Such a piece of shit,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Margaret was back, a hand on Tom's head, fingernails scratching his scalp gently.

“Such a fucking asshole,” he said, folding his arms. “Don't talk to my mom... asshole to you and Artie. People dead, because of me.”

“You're drunk,” Margaret said calmly. She gave him a kiss on the temple.

“No,” Tom said. “People in that town... dead, because of me. What did... what did I do?” he took a long, bracing breath.

“Your job,” Margaret answered simply. She tossed a strand of ginger-colored hair out of her face, watching him silently.

He stared ahead for a long moment, not sure how to respond. He choked up, instead, and shut his eyes. Burying his head in one hand, he found himself start to cry. A pained sob squeezed its way from his throat.

He felt Margaret's arm wrap around him. Her head came to lay on his shoulder and the other hand on his chest, brushing its way down to rest on his forearm. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Must think I'm fucking pitiful,” he said, his voice evening out, but taken on a gravelly, defeated tone.

“Of course not,” Margaret said kindly. “A little prone to self-destruction, but everyone's got issues.”

“No. I'm fucking horrible,” Tom said sternly, staring into the carpet. “I'm a piece of shit towards all of my friends. I don't even have any friends outside of work. You and Artie are the closest friends I have, and I treat you both like garbage.”

“Tom...”

“I'm fucking awful at my job. I'm a burden. I cause extra work for everyone around me, because I'm a terrible person, who doesn't give a shit about anyone else. Now people die because of me too. I should be dead. The world would be a better place if I'd just fuck off.”

Margaret sighed, kissing Tom on the top of the head.

“You're a handful sometimes,” Margaret said firmly. “But if any of that were true, I would've let you rot over here and get alcohol poisoning. I wouldn't have driven over at one in the morning, to make sure you were okay, and cuddle with you.”

Tom felt her hands on his skin. They were very warm against it, his blood flow lessened by the alcohol. He ceded. She was right, like always, and he was drunk.

“I'm not even going to try and fuck you in this state,” Margaret said with a cheek pressed against his. “Besides, all the self-pity isn't sexy.”

“'Kay.”

“Pick a movie out, let's go lay down.”

“Which one y'want?” Tom groaned.

“Doesn't matter,” she answered with a tug on his forearm. She helped him balance and led him towards the other side of his apartment. She stopped at the kitchen, leaning him against the counter.

“What you getting?” he asked blearily.

“Glass of ice water,” Margaret answered. “You need to hydrate.”

Tom wasn't sure whether to smile, or start crying again.

********

“...what authorities are calling the worst mass suicide since the Jonestown Massacre. Police estimate the number of deaths as upwards of five hundred, almost half of Orchard's population, with more casualty reports flowing in as the day goes on. While little is known about the incident at this time, the town is reported to have been in the hold of what Charleston police chief Arthur White is calling a Druidic doomsday cult. Little is known about the group or its origins or beliefs, but Chief White has pledged to release any information as it becomes available.

“The township is projected as unlikely to recover in any meaningful capacity, with a large contingent of its citizens already making preparations to move away in the wake of the tragedy. Emergency services have been dispatched to the area, tending to those affected by the tragedy and encouraging them to think rationally in their decisions during the next forty-eight hours.

“That's your news at one o'clock on KSR-FM 104.7, Sausalito's number one station for the rock classics and the hits of today. Starting off the hour is Steely Dan, with
Midnight Cruiser
.”

Tom flicked the radio off with a grunt. His head was still pounding from the night before. He had considered turning around several times during the drive, but he was only five minutes away now. He knew if he'd gone back home to rest, he would rationalize, and forget why he wanted to come out here. The cycle would begin anew.

Tom's steel-gray Acura rolled smoothly to a stop at the curb, in the shade of fern trees. The canopy of leaves obscured his view of his destination.

He stepped out onto the concrete, feeling for a moment as if he were suspended in a dream. The ground was not quite real. A deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth settled him. He tossed aside his latest smoke and set off down the driveway.

520 Seaside Crescent was a two-story, blue suburban house. Wood paneling, asphalt gray terracotta roofing, a large window to the left of the white front door, looking into a pleasant living room. In the house he could see a thin woman with hair the same color as the roof.

Tom drew the aviator sunglasses off his face and folded them, tucking them into the front pocket of his shirt, the fabric a shade of blue so light it was near to white. The sun was hot on the skin of his forearms. With hands in his pockets he ascended the small flight of porch steps to the front door, and knocked. His heart beat became heavy and he felt a flutter of anxiety in his stomach, taking another deep breath to stave it off.

The door creaked open some seconds later. The woman he'd seen through the window peered up at him, a few inches shorter. Her eyes were lined with crows' feet and there was some flab collecting around her chin, but aside from that she was very attractive for her age.

Her eyebrows turned up and her mouth hung open slightly. She reached her hand out to him, touching his cheek.

“Tommy...”

“I love you, mom,” Tom said, choking. He took her into his arms and buried his face in her shoulder, feeling her hand pat against his back soothingly. The older woman broke into tears.

“I'm sorry about everything,” he said.

“Just come inside.”

********

Bay breeze blew across Tom's face as he looked over the menu. He peeked over the top of it at the Golden Gate Bridge and sighed deeply. Three hours had passed since he and his mother reconciled. She had needed to leave for work. He'd just finished punching a dinner date for that evening into his phone.

Sausalito was nice this time of year. Tom had chosen a restaurant along the waterfront. He sat out on the deck overlooking the ocean and tried to enjoy the sun. Bad memories from Orchard kept cropping up into his head. He knew he had a benzo tablet in his wallet, but he refused to take it. Instead he smoked freely, tapping the edge of a filtered Lucky Strike into a nice glass ashtray. He might have to steal it, he thought.

 A burger sounded pretty good. He settled for a club sandwich. While looking around for a waiter, he heard the snap of a camera go off behind him, and turned his head.

He pulled down his sunglasses, looking at the black tank top and dyed-purple hair. He almost didn't recognize her in this light, but the lithe body and the sweet, piercing eyes were all too familiar. He soured.

“It was a nice shot,” Evey said defensively.

“Put that away,” he said irritably. “You're not a fucking photographer.”

“I am too,” Evey pleaded in a high voice. “What, are you going to expose me?”

“Hah. Like I could.”

“That's right,” Evey said with a sharp grin. “So how about having lunch with me instead?”

“You're going to sit down anyway,” Tom grumbled, putting his sunglasses back up.

“Oh, would you enjoy the serendipity?” Evey groaned, pulling a seat up next to Tom.

“Ha. Yeah, Artie was just saying to me I needed a paranormal hooker to come by and fuck up my life. Just what the doctor ordered.”

“I
actually
wanted to apologize,” Evey said. She folded her arms and pouted.

“For what? It's in your nature. Whatever.”

“Succubi don't have corporeal forms, dumbass,” Evey chided, pouring herself a glass of water. She lit her own cigarette. “I'm a full-time host. I didn't want to... do
that.
To you.”

“Sure.”

“No, I'm serious. She just kind of... blindsided me. It happens.”

“Not to good Mediums.”

“Will you stop trying to ruin this? I'm
sorry,
okay?”

“Yeah, cool. You want to be all buddy-buddy now or something?”

“Kind of,” Evey said with a frown. “You seemed cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you lied to me too,” Evey said, pointing her cigarette accusingly. “You said you were a journalist.”

“It's a good cover.”

“Well, I happen to actually be a photographer. So that puts me one up on you.”

Tom sighed. The girl wasn't leaving. He took a drag off his smoke and tried to flag down a waiter. A young guy came by the table.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Club sandwich and a whiskey and coke here,” Tom said.

“And the lady?”

“Ribeye. Rare. And an,
ummm...
Cuba Libre.”

“Very good.”

The waiter disappeared into the kitchen. Tom fiddled with the handle of his pistol. Still there.

“You can just say rum and coke, you know,” he snorted.

“No wonder you're pals with Harold, he's a stuck up jerk too,” Evey said with a chortle. Tom grimaced.

“I'm not friends with Harold,” Tom muttered acidly.