Dead Roots (The Analyst) Page 6

Thomas was very adamant that these were real images, and that there is in fact a creature living in his bedroom closet; suggestions that he was suffering a recurring nightmare were swiftly rebuked. At this point I attempted to inquire about Tom's home life and what the images meant to him. He quickly diverted the topic back to the tree, explaining that he was “losing his mind” because no one would believe him and he could not call the police. He accused me of not believing him either.

  He asked me directly for help, begging me to believe him. I attempted to console him and explained to him that these things he described were impossible; that his complaints matched the symptoms of night terrors, in which an individual, especially a young child, may experience extremely vivid nightmares that are difficult to differentiate from reality. At this point he used profanity towards me and attempted to end the session prematurely. I explained to him that a regimen of medication may assist in regulating his sleep cycle and went on to elaborate on some techniques his parents could employ to help him, but at this point I had regretfully lost his attention and was forced to allow him to leave.

  Summary

  In my professional opinion, Thomas' psychological development shows signs of being several years behind the expected age level. While his communication and reasoning skills are above average, he regrettably seems to have trouble differentiating between fantasy and reality, shown by his adamancy to prove the existence of his monster, and frequent insistence that he could no longer tell what “was real” or not. He is also showing signs of depression; his speech regarding most topics was uninterested and bleak and parents describe withdrawal from social situations and schoolwork.

  In layman's terms, Tommy is a very bright young man but he still seems to suffer from very early childhood fears. Many children describe monsters under the bed or in the closet, but these fears are usually resolved by the time the child reaches early adolescence. Should this emotional immaturity be affecting other areas of his life, it could severely impair his social and academic development in the future if he does not receive proper assistance.

  It is difficult to pinpoint whether these issues arise from a hindrance in his neural development or from difficulties in his upbringing. His unwillingness to speak about his home life left me to go on the word of his parents, from which I gleaned no abnormalities.

  I recommend a referral to Dr. Isaac Bale's clinic for an electroencephalogram and polysomnography to gather further information. I have enclosed his details in the parents' copy of my evaluation. I have also prescribed Tommy a low amount of the SSRI Fluoxetine, to be taken once daily, and a script of Alprazolam for the parents to give him in case he has any emergencies; however, I stress that these are to be short-term solutions and I strongly recommend that another appointment be made for Thomas to assess his needs and tailor for him a therapy program.

  As a side note, I took the liberty of examining the Rorschach cards and located the one which seemed to cause Thomas some amount of distress. In retrospect (and personal opinion), the problem card mentioned in the analysis bore a resemblance to a tree or shrub, though Thomas did not confirm this interpretation.

  ********

  The world was still darkness.

  Tom could hear heavy rain lashing against the windows of the hotel room. The blinds were drawn, and for now, he remained in bed.

  Through his barely open eyelids he took in the room. Closed maroon blinds and nice wooden furniture. Really quite Western in appearance, all things considered. He was on a queen bed facing a flat screen television. Everything was off-- lights, TV, he'd even unplugged the hotel phone. He looked over at the clock. It was 6:49 p.m. He could still sleep another two hours.

  *

  Suddenly two hours had passed. His phone was blowing up on the dresser.

  “God damn it.”

  He sat up. The cool air hit his naked form, causing him to wrap the blanket over his back. The LCD lit up and Tom had two new messages: one from Margaret, one from Artie.

  Tom stood up and threw on one of his new undershirts and the same dirty pair of boxers. He cursed himself for not picking up a fresh pack. He made his way to the kitchen, navigating to his messages while making a cup of complimentary coffee.

  You can probably handle him. Just be ready to keep up, Margaret had written helpfully. The timestamp said it had been sent at some point during the incident in the limousine.

  Getting ready now. How much coffee do I need? He wrote back playfully. Sorry for the late reply, had a fracas on the ride over. He'd need to report the incident to Margaret later, but paperwork could wait.

  Artie had sent him a message about an hour ago. What are you doing tonight?

  Tom muttered to himself. He punched back a reply.

  I'm in Tokyo, remember? Meeting Keda's boss. Can't make it back to drink tonight. Sorry.

  He set the phone down on the counter and poured the boiling water into a mug. The coffee aroma rose up into his nose as he added sugar and milk, then took a sip. It wasn't bad. He could make a decent mug of coffee out of just about anything, when he needed one. He made his way to the couch and sat down in front of the TV. Switching it on and sipping his mug, he flipped through some channels idly. Most of it was in Japanese. A couple of anime, some sports, some news. He managed to find an American news network and let the TV stay there. At least it was English.

  “--In headlines tonight, more missing person reports have come in from Orchard, West Virginia. Police from the town of eight thousand say they are now searching for as many as four missing individuals. The disappearances are believed to be in relation to the disappearance of Susan Bailey, the fifteen year old that was taken from her home in early February...”

  Tom groaned. He'd heard the Susan Bailey story before. He was simultaneously baffled, and yet soberly disdainful of the fact that it was getting so much coverage. He wondered privately if it would have been such a media circus if the kid had been black, or a Muslim. Or both. Some fat, mustached cop turned up on the TV to give a statement and Tom was already bored. He stood up to go to the bathroom.

  Tom's phone buzzed again on the counter. He idly picked it up and continued into the toilet. He unlocked the keypad while sitting down to relieve himself. Another text from Keda. Going back through them chronologically, Keda had been reminding him each hour since five that their meeting was at ten o'clock. It was just about nine now. Tom needed to be downstairs.

  Waiting in the lobby. Where are you?

  Shaving. Be down in ten.

  He stood up from the toilet, and unwrapped a single-use razor from in front of the rectangular mirror. He leaned forward and examined himself. His angular cheeks were ridden with stubble, giving him a fledgling beard. He regarded his short bangs and the hair hanging around his ears and wondered if he should get a haircut. Taking the razor, he scraped off some of the stubble, but left enough to give his jawline and lip some definition. Ashley had always liked the beard, and back then, so had he. Maybe he could grow to appreciate it again.

  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 fiddle
d 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.”