Dead Roots (The Analyst) Read online

  “Don't have your own?”

  “I've quit like a hundred times. I'll buy you a new pack if I take too many.”

  “That's all I ever ask.” Tom gave Artie a sideways look. Artie threw up his hands.

  “What?” Artie pleaded.

  The skinny cook approached the table. He laid out a pair of plates with Tom and Artie's sandwiches, then produced two bottles of beer. Tom didn't recognize the label. It must have been a local brew, or at least something from a nearby city.

  “Orchard melt and a cheeseburger. Enjoy your time here,” the man said, with a slow drawl.

  “Yeah, thanks. Maybe tell your cashier to watch his sugar intake,” Tom said with a frown. The cook didn't answer. Tom noted the guy’s sallow cheeks and bagged eyes, and watched him walk back to the kitchen. The poor cook looked like he hadn't slept in days.

  Officer Dawes took a long drag from her smoke and brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

  “So you boys have somewhere you'd like to start?”

  “Yeah, we'd like to check out the Bailey house first,” Tom said, before taking a large bite out of his burger. Dawes raised an eyebrow.

  “The Bailey house? Shit, girl's been missing for months. Be kind of cold by now, don't you think?”

  “We'll find something,” Artie said simply. “This melt's pretty amazing.”

  “What, you going to check for six month old semen samples?” She didn’t look convinced.

  “We'll find something,” Tom repeated. Dawes shrugged.

  “Well, okay. You better eat up fast. We'll want to get up there before it gets dark.”

  “Ha. Let me guess, the real crazies come out at dark.”

  “The Baileys aren't too fond of visitors as it is,” Dawes explained. “Be easier to check the grounds while there's still light, too. We've got maybe an hour and a half before sundown.”

  “Shit. Alright,” Tom said, taking a quick slug from his beer. “You know anything about the other missing people?”

  “Yeah, I have a list in my car,” Dawes said as she blew out some smoke.

  “Any leads?”

  “Only real pattern I can see is most of them are about as far from the center of town as you can get without leaving Orchard completely.”

  “So your kidnapper's got a comfort zone, then,” Artie said through half a mouthful. “Doesn't want to be seen.”

  “No suspects yet. No witnesses, no traces. It's like they were never there. It's the strangest God damn thing.”

  “Well. We happen to specialize in strange cases,” Artie said plainly. Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  “I sure hope so. You boys been at this for long?”

  “What, this job?” Tom said after another gulp of beer. “A few years now, yeah. You?”

  Dawes gave a sardonic laugh. “Too long. I left town a while ago, thought I was done with this shithole. But my pappy got sick and needed me to come take care of him. Wound up getting a job with the local force and now I'm stuck here, until the old bastard finally croaks.”

  “That's a pretty shiny outlook,” Tom said with a grin.

  “Whatever, fuck this town. I wouldn't be surprised if these people just started moving away en masse in the wake of all this. I wouldn't blame them, either.”

  “Pretty quiet around here, then, huh?” Artie inquired.

  “I was working in Detroit,” Dawes said through another drag of cigarette. She reached over and took a sip from Tom's beer, much to his chagrin. “This place is like remedial English compared to The D. Never mind the nightlife. I’m either getting breathed on by a bunch of fat hicks at the shitkicker down the road, or doing crosswords at home with my God damn dog. Ugh.”

  “What kinda dog you got?” Artie said genially.

  “Chocolate lab. Stupid mutt. Love him to death, but sometimes I want to throw him into the gorge.”

  “The sign of true love,” Artie said with a smirk.

  “You boys better finish those beers, come on. We need to get moving.”

  “Alright, alright, hang on. I'll go get a box or whatever.” Artie stood up and made his way to the kitchen. Tom stubbed his smoke out on the ashtray on the table. Dawes kept hers as she stood up.

  “We're looking at a twenty minute drive up to the Bailey house. Tom, was it?”

  “That's right,” Tom said with a grin, extending his hand. Dawes shook it noncommittally.

  “I hope you have clean shoes, Tom.”

  ********

  “Nice place,” Artie said while poking his head out the car window. The Bailey house was two stories of white wood paneling exterior, with cement pillars supporting an outdoor balcony on a wooden veranda. The house sat in the shadow of a hill. Sharing the space was a large fenced-in yard sporting a manmade pond. The car had already passed a wide open paddock that was dotted with horses.

  “The Baileys raise purebred horses. One of the richest families in town. Not that that's saying much, but they're pretty well-off.” Dawes took off her sunglasses as they came into the shade of the hill.

  “Money motive, you think?” Artie offered.

  “Originally, yeah, but there hasn't been word of a ransom since February. It's like she just vanished. Some of the locals think she ran away to the city.”

  “Anything to it?”

  “I doubt it. Susan was a pretty sheltered girl. I can't imagine why she'd want to leave her horse ranch out in the country where she has everything.”

  “Sometimes the most well-off people feel the most trapped,” said Tom. He nonchalantly tossed a cigarette butt out the window. “You said you hate this town yourself, officer.”

  “Yeah, but the girl's only fourteen, for Christ's sake. Usually the wanderlust doesn't set in at least until you're old enough to get a fake ID.”

  “I guess we'll ask what her home life was like,” Tom said with a shrug.

  The car pulled to a stop in the driveway, a few lengths behind the Baileys' black four-wheeler.

  “Bit of a headache,” Artie said. He pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket. Tom folded his arms and looked away quietly, to keep from drawing any attention to his Operator. Artie downed a couple of the pills. Tom knew them to contain doses of codeine, among other things.

  “Let me do most of the talking,” Dawes requested, as she stepped out into the orange light. “The Baileys haven't been doing too well, and they're not very fond of all the strange people coming around. Reporters and cops, and whatnot.”

  “But they're okay with you?” Tom asked shrewdly.

  “Family friends. My younger sister goes to school with Susie. Or did.”

  Tom nodded, and followed Dawes to the front door. Artie looked around uncomfortably. Tom gave him a sympathetic nod. The same unnatural silence that had fallen over the town was present here, too. Tom put it out of his mind. They were out in the sticks. Peace and quiet was to be expected.

  Dawes knocked on the door. There was no answer after about a half a minute, so she knocked again.

  “Anyone home?” Tom asked quietly.

  “Yeah, give him a minute.”

  Sure enough, the door slowly opened. A graying man peered out from the doorway. His face was unshaven, and Tom had seen enough haunting victims to recognize when someone had recently lost a lot of weight.

  “Heather.”

  “Hi, Mr. Bailey,” Dawes said with a big, warm grin.

  “More investigators?” Mr. Bailey looked Tom and Artie up and down, his expression cold.

  “Yep, last ones, hopefully. They're from the FADI.”

  “The what?”

  “Federal Agency for Domestic Investigation. Sir,” Tom said with a placating smile. He took out his wallet to flash his badge. Mr. Bailey grimaced at it.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Splinter branch of the FBI. Specialist cases,” Artie said warmly.

  “Specialist?” Mr. Bailey said warily.

  “Cases where the FBI have trouble digging up leads, mostly,” Artie said without m
issing a beat. “Cold cases too. It varies.”

  Mr. Bailey frowned. He gave the pair of them a suspicious eye before looking back at Officer Dawes. “I'd like to know more about that.”

  “I'll get you some printouts from the station,” Dawes offered with a smile. Tom coughed gently and kept his mouth shut.

  Mr. Bailey paused for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. Just don't disturb my wife.”

  “We won't, Morgan.”

  Dawes stepped into the house behind Mr. Bailey, followed quickly by Tom and Artie. The door shut with a resounding click, and then there was silence again.

  The interior was more or less what Tom was expecting. A shelf with all kinds of strange figurines and snow globes was on display in the entryway, the floors were lined with beige carpeting. From what he could tell, they were in a sitting room. There was some leather furniture arranged around a hearth with a low coffee table, on which were spread several books. To the left was a wooden stairway.

  “I'll be in the den,” Mr. Bailey said quietly as he walked out of the room. “Susan's room is upstairs. Stay out of the study.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Bailey,” Dawes said firmly. With that, it was the three of them again.

  “We need to check everywhere we can,” Tom said in a hushed tone.

  “Morgan keeps the study locked,” Dawes sighed. “Some of our guys swept it months ago. There's nothing interesting.”

  “We need to check everywhere we can.”

  “I'll see if we can get you in there at some point, but you might want to focus on the kid's room and the grounds for today.”

  “Okay. Show us Susan's room?”

  Dawes wordlessly began ascending the stairs. Tom and Artie followed. Tom mused that the only sound for miles may have been their footsteps against the hardwood.

  They turned right into a long hallway. Susan's room was at the end of the hall. Tom went first, gingerly turning the handle and taking a deep breath.

  There was no immediate sign that anything supernatural had occurred here. The room had pale floral pattern wallpaper, and little furniture. A double bed dominated the far corner. Next to the bed was a mahogany desk with a switched-off computer. A mobile of various exotic birds hung from the ceiling, and the bed displayed a family of neatly arranged stuffed animals. A bookshelf and the door to a small closet were the only other things to note.

  “Not much to work with. I take it there's been a sweep through here,” Tom remarked.

  “That's the weird thing. There was no sign of intrusion anywhere in the house. This room is exactly the way it was when we checked it in February.”

  Tom swallowed. He nodded gently and stepped carefully into the room, pulling out his cellphone and switching it to camera mode. Artie did the same.

  “You mind giving us a minute, officer? Small room.”

  “Go right ahead, boys. I'll be downstairs keeping the Baileys happy.”

  Dawes stepped out of the room with a nod and shut the door. Tom's mind began to work as soon as he heard the doorknob click.

  “Okay,” he said quickly. “Check the bed for residue. I'll see if the computer is password protected.”

  “On it.”

  Tom pushed the power button the computer and waited. The computer was serviceable, but not particularly fast. He folded his arms and looked over at Artie, who was running his hand along the bed's quilt.

  “Nothing jumping out at me. I'll keep digging.”

  “Go deep. The room's cold but there's got to be something.”

  Tom rubbed his hands together as the computer finished booting up. To his surprise, there was no password required.

  “I'm gonna sweep the emails and the browser history.”

  “Pervert,” Artie said with a chuckle.

  “Fuck off, it's S.O.P.”

  “Yeah I know. Correspondence and whatnot?”

  “Victim always researches mental disorders and psychotic episodes. If there are letters from a local shrink, then there may as well be ectoplasm all over the walls.”

  “Ectoplasm's not actually a thing, dude,” Artie said glibly as he looked over a stuffed panda bear.

  “Figure of speech.”

  Tom sat down at the desk and shifted uncomfortably in the diminutive chair. He started by opening the web browser. He found bank balance checks, and emails from the previous week. The computer had been recently used. Tom wondered if this was the only one in the house.

  Tom pulled down the browser history and selected the option for 'Show All'. He clapped his hands together.

  “Perfect. Old folks, no idea how to clear their history.”

  “Or no reason to. Not everyone has to hide horse porn from the wife, Tom.”

  “Hardy fuck har.”

  Tom rifled through the history, finding the command to go back to previous months. He happened upon several links to a web-based mail client in the month of February. Clicking on one, he was prompted for a password.

  “Password. Can you get me through this?”

  “I could,” Artie said, by this point having thrown off the sheets to the bed, checking underneath the mattress. “Or you could go into the free email client that came with the computer, since the old folks are pretty much guaranteed to use that, and any psychiatrist's emails will be sent to the parents, not the minor.”

  “Good thinking. You think they're the kind of people who would take her to a therapist?”

  “Fuckin' hope so, but we're pretty deep in Bible country, after all.”

  Tom minimized the window and hunted for the email client. He found it sitting on the desktop. Once opened, it looked like it had been recently cleared. There were only a few emails sitting there. Tom grunted in frustration, but then scrolled down and widened his eyes hopefully.

  “Think I found something.”

  “Read it out to me.”

  Tom clicked on the subject title.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Susan Bailey diagnosis

  Date: 25/01/2011

  Body:

  Hello Mr. and Mrs. Bailey

  we are praying for your daughter every day and hope that soon we can see some lasting results.

  i have enclosed the recommendation from my wife julia for the psychotherapist in charlestown to use at your discretion. whatever you decide I hope that we will be seeing susan again.

  i have also enclosed the contact information for Rev. Hugh Hunter. he is a professional faith healer and i am sure that his fees could be waived for an important community member such as yourself. he is a bit closer to orchard than the city as well.

  upon reflection, the experiences your daughter are describing sound typical of a haunting in your home rather than any sort of possession... this may come as a relief to you or it may not!!!!

  hope to hear from you again soon

  regards,

  Lawrence Marcus

  Pastor & pediatrician

  West Virginia Christian Health Alliance

  “Think they saw the exorcist?” Artie piped up.

  “There's an invoice here from one Hugh Hunter... dated February the tenth. Right before the disappearance. Why didn't we hear about this sooner?”

  “Tons of exorcists in this state,” Artie said matter-of-factly. He had turned his attention underneath the bed itself. “All but a few of them totally unqualified. They show up and read a few verses and shout a lot, and that's about the extent of it. None of the department's people or anyone belonging to a DPSD-sanctioned organization operates much further than fifty miles out of Charlestown. They make the trip when it's necessary, but there's so many false reports coming in from spooked Fundies that it's usually not worth the trouble.”

  “There might be some good stuff on here. You got your flash drive?”

  “Duh.”

  “Okay, copy the emails and the document folders. Give it a once-over when we don't have the locals waiting downstairs.”

  “Sure. I'
m not getting any vibes from this room anyway.”

  Tom stood up from the computer. Artie took his place, bending over to plug his small USB stick into the front of the PC. While he waited, Tom took another glance around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. He was about to reach for a cigarette, then thought better of it.

  Tom knelt down next to the low bookshelf, and ran his finger across the spines idly. A Bible; some fantasy novels; a couple of classics. Tom raised an eyebrow as he came across a particular volume. He pulled it out.

  “Huh. Good taste.”

  “Huh?” Artie said, looking up from the computer screen.

  “At the Mountains of Madness & Other Tales of the Strange. H.P. Lovecraft,” Tom said with a grin. “One of my favorite books as a kid. I had an old copy of this.”

  “Huh. Can't imagine the parents were too happy about that one.”

  “Yeah. Weird that it's on the shelf, and not in the closet or something.”

  Tom ran his finger over the jacket idly. He flicked the dog-eared corner before placing it back on the shelf and turning to the closet.

  He pulled open the door slowly. A strange jet of cool air wafted out at him, making him scratch his nose.

  The closet was empty. There was a shelf above Tom's head, with nothing on it. The clothing rack was barren. Something did catch his attention, however: the carpet, and the wall close to the floor, were caked in some kind of dirt. He knelt down for a closer look.

  “Is this... mildew?”

  Tom ran his finger across the wall and the carpet. A small black smudge stayed with his fingertip. The carpet was rotten with it. The drywall was slightly soft, spongy, to the touch. Tom couldn't see any condensation. Whatever had been there was long gone.

  “What do you make of this?” Tom said. Artie got up and nudged Tom out of the way. He knelt down and planted his palm firmly on the blackened carpet, running his fingertips across it with interest.

  “You find something?”

  “It's... it's too old to tell. I'm getting just a faint... hum. Not even a whisper. Just a throb.”