Dead Roots (The Analyst) (8 page)

Throwing on some clothes in the bedroom, he texted Keda back and made his way out to the living room. He downed the last sip of his coffee and slipped into his new jacket, heading out into the hallway.

********

The lobby was nothing short of resplendent. Golden lighting made the ivory-colored marble floors shine, and lent the wooden walls an enchanted quality. This was a five star place, no doubt about it. It was another sea of black suits. He'd more or less expected to see a bunch of fashionably dressed tourists getting ready to hit the Tokyo nightlife, but these were high-rollers and professionals on executive trips. Ray-Bans and designer suits decorated the lobby like icing on a multi-layered cake.

Peering over the heads of the crowd looking for Keda, he finally spotted him by the large glass entranceway, flanked by the same driver from before. Another figure was standing with them, one Tom boggled when he recognized. The bearded face lit up, and the eyes brightened behind a pair of eyeglasses.

“Are you serious?”

“Fuckin' A, Tom.”

“Artie? When did you-- what?”

Artie bounded over to Tom, and put an affectionate arm around his shoulder. Tom's mouth was open, and he raised his hands in bewilderment. Keda was just standing there, smiling, as usual.

“What are you doing here?” Tom said. “You can't be here.”

“Took a flight six hours after yours. I'm on leave this week anyway, figured you could use the company.”

“Artie, you can't be here. You've never chaperoned before. This isn't a pleasure cruise, I'm here on business.”

Artie erupted into his trademark rolling laugh. Against the backdrop of the lobby, Tom thought it was like a hillbilly had broken into a New England country club. People turned to look at him with distaste, and then Tom realized Artie
was
a hillbilly, and the analogy wasn't far off.

“What-
ever.
We're going to tear this place apart.”

“I'm here on business, Artie.”

“Yeah, but I hear that this Harold guy likes to party. He's taking us out to dinner.”

“I'm telling Margaret about this,” Tom said. Artie followed him towards Keda and the driver. They stepped out onto the rain-soaked front steps of the hotel. Tom could make out the limousine by the streetlights and shop windows, and raised an arm to cover his head.

“After the exorcism, we will be joining Harold for dinner and some entertainment,” Keda added once they were in the car and could hear each other over the drum of the rain. “Initially I didn't know what to make of your friend here turning up, but it could be prudent to have your number one Operator meet with some of his contemporaries in this country, yes?”

Tom pulled the door shut with a slam.

“That's bullshit, Keda. You fell apart this morning. Why aren't we in separate cars?”

“Excuse me?”

The car hummed to life and pulled out of the hotel's driveway.

“This is the most unprofessional load of crap I've ever seen. Artie is an Operator, he doesn't have my training. If Aki starts trying to escape again, he's totally unprepared.”

“I'm not
totally--”
Artie started.

“Artie, shut up. Keda, we should be in separate vehicles. You're still hosting, and frankly, after this morning, I don't want to be in a vehicle with you. You should have organized a second ride.”

Keda was silent. Artie shifted uncomfortably. He pulled his hat down over his forehead and shrunk back in his seat, trying to stay out of the crossfire. The car pulled out onto the street. It had barely gone a block before Tom finally spoke up again.

“Stop the car.”

Keda's eyes widened.

“What?” Keda asked sheepishly.

“Tell the driver to stop the car.”

Keda was silent.

“
Do it.
”

Keda reached slowly and rapped on the glass separating them from the chauffeur. The glass came down. Keda said something in Japanese. The driver responded and Keda repeated himself. The car pulled over and slowed to a stop.

Tom pulled the handle on the door and stepped out into the rain.

“Tom, where are you--?”

“I'm hailing a cab,” he yelled back into the limo. His feet thudded wetly against the concrete as he shielded his face. Streaks of rain lashed his face and soaked into his shirt. He zipped up his jacket. Behind him he heard more wet footsteps.

“Tom. You don't need to take a cab. Come back, it's a short trip.”

Tom snorted incredulously. “I'm not taking a cab, you are.”

Keda stopped in place. Tom gave him a long, stern look and waved down a nearby taxi.

Minutes later Artie watched as Tom climbed back into the limo. He pulled the door shut behind him. Artie's hands shifted in his jacket pockets.

“What's happening?” he asked.

“Keda's riding in a cab. He almost lost control of Aki this morning. He said something about Aki feeding off of me-- he could get into either of our heads and blow this whole thing.”

Artie sighed as the limo sputtered to life again, the engine struggling slightly in the weather.  Tom drew a cigarette from his jacket and lit it. He saw Artie reaching quietly for the box of cigars on the shelf and stuck his index finger out.

“No.”

“What? You're such a
buzzkill
sometimes, Tom.”

“You're here? Fine. You're operating, and you're going deep.”

“I'm
what?
”

“Call Keda. Keep him together.”

Artie sighed loudly. “Tom...”

“Artie, don't fuck with me.”

“You are
unbelievable
sometimes,” Artie said with a groan. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a medicine bottle. He unscrewed the top of the tiny bottle, and poured four white pills into his hand.

“This is a dirty operation, Tom. These are for migraines, for fuck's sake.”

“Just get it done.”

Artie reached for a bottle of water out of the fridge, and downed the pills in a single swig. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed.

“Yeah. Hey, man, it's Artie... listen, Tom's told me to operate for you... do me a favor and clear your head.”

Tom blew out some cigarette smoke, sinking back into his seat to watch. Artie fished around in yet another pocket. He turned on his hip for a closer look, and swore.

“Tom, I don't have any of my conduits.”

“Fuck. Not even your crystal?”

“
Nothing
. Hang on, there's got to be something around here... hold on, Keda, I'll be right with you.”

Artie sat up straight and looked around the limo. His eyes fell on the minibar.

“Keda, did you drink anything from the bar?”

A pause.

“You have to remember for me, come on,” Artie said.

“I think he took a shot from that whiskey bottle before we reached the hotel,” Tom chimed in helpfully. He motioned at a half-empty bottle of top shelf that rested in the glass cabinet.

“Yes. Perfect. Hang on.”

Artie opened the cabinet and took the bottle out. He shook it vigorously and then upended it, so that he was looking at the clear circular bottom. He held it in one hand, his phone against his ear in the other. Tom watched Artie's eyelids flit gently as he stared into the bottle.

Tom waited, and waited. After a minute, he noticed Artie's eyes start to take on a milky, glazed-over appearance. The pupils became obscured behind what might appear to a stranger to be cataracts, giving them an ethereal quality.

Tom sighed in relief. Artie slowly sunk back into the seat, his eyes staring intently into the bottom of the bottle. His mouth fell slightly agape and his eyebrows rose.

“All go, Tom.”

“Good. Keep him steady. Ask him how long the trip is.”

“God... it's fucked up in there, Tom. Aki is... I've never operated on a host to something like this.”

“Ask him how long it will be.”

There was a long pause. Artie said nothing.

“Artie?”

“Hang on, hang on.”

Tom grunted. “Sorry. I'm usually on the other end.”

“Yeah, I know. Chill. This is... awful.”

“Are you getting a clear reading?” Tom asked.

“If that driver doesn't stop running over those little things in the middle of the lane I'm going to break through that glass and strangle him. Keda, how far are we?”

There was a pause.

“About twenty minutes,” Artie said back. His voice was lower than usual.

Tom lowered his voice as well. “Is it under control?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we talk privately?”

“Yeah. I'll hit mute.”

“Okay. What do you know about this guy?”

“Give me your phone,” Artie said. Tom pulled his out and handed it over. Artie set the bottle down next to him then turned the phone sideways and slid it open, making it into a small tablet computer. He rubbed his finger across the screen and fiddled one-handed with the keypad. Tom waited, opening the mini-fridge and getting himself a bottle of beer. It was some kind of local stuff. It went down easily, but at the expense of some flavor.

“Got the DPSD file right here. What do you want to know?”

“Anything important. How long he's been with the DPSD, how he got started, any problems on his record. You-- don't understand, Artie, he took chems before we got on the plane, and on the way to the hotel Aki got out. I had to beat him into submission.”

“Jesus...”

“Tell me anything you can.”

There was a long silence as Tom nursed his beer. Artie finally spoke up after another half minute.

“There are no
problems...
just... Well, he's kind of a loner. He never talks about his personal life. He's refused all but the mandatory psych evaluations.”

“So they only get a report of his mental health every few months?”

“Yeah.”

“The fuck? Don't most Mediums snap those up as much as they can? If only to stay relevant?”

“Yeah, exactly. The better and more consistent your psych profile, the longer they keep you on... but like, a lot of professional hosts usually take a year, two years, sometimes even three year sabbaticals over the course of a six to ten year career. It's taxing stuff.”

“Keda's different?”

“In his thirteen years of being a host, he's never taken a sabbatical. He's taken the mandatory week and month long vacations after missions, but he's never, ever applied for leave.”

“That's insane. How can someone's mind keep functioning like that?”

“That's the kicker, isn't it? His psych profile has remained totally clean and consistent the whole time. He's sought after, really.”

“Any evaluation details? Give me dirt.”

“He never talks about his personal life during his evaluations. Doesn't have any family he's in contact with... says he hasn't even been back home to Japan in over a decade. ”

Tom rubbed his chin, stubbing out his cigarette. That didn't sit right.

“Wait. Never?”

“Let me look at his... nope. Says he's basically been exclusively Stateside since 2000.”

“That can't be right. When we were talking in the airport... we were talking and he offered to show me where he grew up. Then when I said I'd rather stick around the city, he said he could visit his family anytime.”

“Well. Sounds like he wasn't being totally honest.,, Or he was avoiding something.”

Tom lit another cigarette angrily.

“I don't trust him, Artie.”

“Well. You'll be free of him after a couple of days, so just try to bear with it a bit longer.”
“Something tells me that's gonna be easier said than done.”

********

The cab pulled to a stop outside of a block of upscale apartments. By now the rain was almost obscuring the view of the street, but it was easy to make out the multicolored signs blazing in the darkness, and reaching up from the street floor. They stretched well to the tenth and eleventh stories of nearby buildings. They couldn't have been far from the CBD.

“No office?” Tom mused, zipping up his jacket and bracing himself for the weather. “Come on, Artie.”

Artie put the bottle back on the shelf and hung up on Keda. With a curt thanks to the driver, Tom opened the door and the two of them stepped out onto the pavement. They hunched up their shoulders, and rushed quickly to the shelter of the apartments' entranceway. Keda soon followed after paying his cab fare. He stepped out of the car looking sullen and seemed to make no effort to shield himself from the biting rain. It set Tom on edge, seeing him so placid and accommodating about everything.
Doesn’t anything bother him? Doesn’t he have a personality of his own?

“Harold is in the penthouse on the top floor,” Keda said over the roar of the crushing rain hitting the sidewalk. He waited for Tom to start walking inside before following.

“Fuck heights,” Tom said brusquely.

“Yeah. Not a fan,” Artie added.

“This shouldn't take long,” Keda assured them. They stepped into a small parlor, with a glass door separating them from a row of elevators. On the wall was a set of buzzers and an intercom. Keda pushed one of the buttons and waited.

“Moshi moshi?” A deep, clear voice sounded from the intercom.

“Mr. Saldana?”

“Keda… Come right up, I can't wait.”

There was a soft click from the glass door. Keda pushed it open and his companions followed.

“Guy must love his work,” Tom said with a smirk.

“I believe he's looking forward to afterwards.”

They stepped into one of the elevators. The ride was taken in silence. Tom watched the numbers above the door rising from one to two, five to ten, ten to twenty, then finally to the twenty-fourth floor. He shook himself, and tried not to think too hard about the sheer amount of space beneath him as he stepped out of the elevator into a wooden-walled hallway. There was a single door in the middle of the hall. They approached and Keda gave a sharp knock, and waited.

The door opened. Tom could not see inside the apartment for the man in the doorway. Harold looked like a prizefighter who had traded in his gloves for a career at Wall Street.  He was a tall Caucasian man, taller than any of the three of them, with wide shoulders and a visibly toned physique. He had to have been a solid six and a half, even seven feet tall. His blonde hair was cropped short. His handsome facial features were marred by a bent nose and a cauliflower ear, as well as some faint scars across his cheeks. The image was completed by a meaty neck, framed by the sharp collar of a light blue dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A glass of brown liquor on the rocks was resting comfortably in one hand.