Dead Roots (The Analyst)

by Brian Geoffrey Wood

  “Half the time I'm operating for you, I'm blazed or ripped or cut. I think I can handle a leisurely country drive.”

  “We might get pulled over, Artie, I’m on thin ice as it is. How fast are you going?”

  “Nobody gives a breathalyzer test at three in the afternoon.”

  “Not unless your breath smells like gas station vodka.”

  “Ugggh. Fine, just give me one of your cigarettes, then.”

  Tom obliged. He lit his own first, pausing to roll down the passenger window, and then passed the lighter over to Artie.

  “To answer your question,” Tom started, “No, I personally don't think a Medium is going to be necessary, but Margaret thought it'd be a good idea to bring him. Apparently he was pretty eager.”

  “He just loves us, I guess.”

  “Yeah, well, this isn't exactly a party town. I'll be surprised if we can buy liquor on a Sunday.”

  “We'll find the fun. West Virginia loves cocaine.”

  “Yeah, and crystal meth. You have a great time with that, I'm gonna keep going over this brief.”

  Tom adjusted his sunglasses and bent his head down to look into the papers. Artie turned up the radio.

  *

  Welcome to

  Orchard

  The Lord's Garden

  West Virginia's best kept secret

  POPULATION: 1,952

  and falling

  *

  “Huh. Did you see that graffiti?” Artie sniggered to himself.

  “Yeah.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “I'm guessing it has to do with the disappearances.” Tom took his sunglasses off. The sun had begun to dip behind the nearby hills, casting shadows over the road, and framing the trees in an orange glow. They passed a boarded-up gas station. Other than that, there was nothing to see for the next mile but trees and hill.

  “More than one?” Artie asked.

  “Do you ever read the brief?”

  “After I get settled in, sure. You're the field agent, man.”

  “You're my support.”

  “You gotta learn to trust me, man. How long have we been working together?”

  “Ever since Susan Bailey disappeared, there's been a string of disappearances all throughout this area. Adds up to something like fifty people, maybe more unreported. That's huge for a small community like this.” The car slowed a bit as it rounded a corner. The vehicle passed a sign for a mobile home park. Tom peeked over at a couple of trailers. Nobody appeared to be home.

  “So who called us in? We have any idea what we're dealing with here?”

  “I wish you'd read the brief.”

  “Come on, Tom.”

  “It's a cold investigation. Bailey shows all the signs of being a normal kidnapping case, but the disappearances have got the department's interest.”

  “What do you think? Anything to it?”

  Tom was about to answer, when he saw someone standing in the woods, watching the car pass. The car swiftly passed a balding man holding a pair of hedge cutters in the air. He gave them a long stare that followed them down the road. Tom watched him in the rearview mirror. The farmer eventually shrugged and returned to pruning the trees.

  There was nothing odd about the gardener. What had caught Tom off guard, was how late he noticed the man. How well his drab green overalls and raised arms had blended into the surroundings--as if he'd become part of the forest. He remembered his strange dream from the subway in Tokyo.

  “Tom? You think?”

  Tom shook himself. “Maybe. You think we're close to town?”

  “Map shows another half mile.”

  “Good, I need some air.”

  ********

  “What a shithole.”

  Artie sniggered at Tom’s remark. The car pulled past another gas station, across the street from a small church. Orchard's main road also boasted a small supermarket, and a short ways away was a diner.

  Artie took a left turn, and they were there. Flanked by a liquor store and a post office, and opposite from a closed-up auto garage, was their motel. The Appletree Inn was a two-story, creamy yellow-colored affair. As they pulled into the parking lot, Tom noticed round steel locks on the doors. That meant they still used metal keys.

  “Quaint little place.”

  “I dig it. Liquor store's next door, better see what kind of workspace I've got.” Artie turned off the car and stepped out. It was a cool evening. A breeze brushed by Tom as he and Artie made their way to the check-in office.

  “Kind of quiet around here, isn't it?” remarked Tom.

  “What do you expect? We're in the middle of bumblefuck.”

  “Yeah, but I mean... you know. Scary quiet.”

  The jingle of the door as they stepped into the reception office could have been deafening. There was little in here but a few chairs, a modest coffee bar on a small table, and a desk with nobody sitting at it. A wooden door was behind the desk.

  “Could hear a cockroach fart around here,” Tom jibed.

  “Reminds me of home.”

  Tom approached the counter. There was a small tin bell. He slapped his palm against it. The tone rang out and broke the dead silence. Given the quiet, Tom was surprised how long it took for someone to respond to the chime.

  A small, bearded, balding man appeared from behind the door. He moved slowly as if through water. He sat down at the counter, his beer gut brushing the desk, and peered up to Tom and Artie. The clerk rubbed his face, as though he had just woken up.

  “Welcome to the Appletree Inn, at the heart of Orchard,” he said simply. There was a long pause. Artie looked over at Tom and raised his eyebrows in amusement, turning away to stifle a snort.

  “Uh, hi there.”

  “Hello, sirs.”

  “My name's Thomas Bell, we have a reservation.”

  “Bell, Bell...” the man typed something, on a computer that Tom was surprised the motel even had. His eyes didn't leave the screen. “My name's Richard.”

  “Hi, Richard.”

  “I'm not seeing you here, Mr. Bell.”

  Tom groaned.“What about under Margaret Redding?”

  Richard looked up slowly, seeming perturbed.

  “And which one of you is Margaret Redding?”

  “Neither. It may have been booked under Margaret's name. We're here on business.”

  “Well, I can't very well check you in if you're not Margaret Redding.”

  “Is that name in there?” Tom asked, tapping his hand against the counter irritably.

  “I can't check you in under Margaret Redding if neither of you are Margaret Redding,” Richard explained in a dull tone.

  “What about Artie Shaw?” Artie offered, adjusting the brim of his cap. He leaned over the counter, regarding Richard.

  “No.”

  “Well fuck. Can you just check us in?”

  “I won't be able to check you in without a reservation until tomorrow. Two in the P.M.” Richard stated.

  “Well can you call Margaret Redding and clear this up, then?” Tom asked, his voice rising.

  “I can't make long distance calls from this hotel, sir.”

  Tom made a groan of irritation and took out his cellphone.“Here. Call her on this. Call Margaret Redding and clear this up for us now, please, we've been driving for a very long time.”

  Tom held the phone out to Richard, who looked taken aback. Richard stared for a long moment at the phone as if he was being offered a gun. His hands lay at his sides, his shoulders slumped. His mouth went slightly slack.

  “Jesus Christ,” Tom said, looking away in disgust.

  “The owner will be here in two hours, sir,” Richard said, still not even looking up. “Sally will be here in two hours. She can clear this up for you.”

  “Wonderful. What time is it now?”

  Richard didn't answer. Tom's eyes widened. Artie turned away, not wanting to witness the impending explosion.

  “Richard. What time is it now?”
<
br />   Richard finally looked up, slowly. “Time's a quarter past five in the P.M., sir... Sally will be here in two hours... clear this up for you then.”

  “Fantastic. You've been an enormous help, Richard. Have a fantastic fucking evening.”

  Tom stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He heard Richard calling to him quietly as he left.

  “Welcome to the Appletree, sir. Enjoy your time in Orchard.”

  “This is off to a stellar fucking start,” Tom barked at Artie as they emerged into the parking lot. Artie chortled to himself. Tom lit a cigarette while Artie helped himself to one out of the pack. Tom sparked it for him with his zippo. He peered over the auto garage’s roof, at the sign for the Garden Diner.

  “Let's just meet this cop. I guess this Sally person will be around by the time we get back from the Bailey's place,” Artie said, starting down the road.

  “Yeah. That guy gives me the fucking creeps,” Tom snarled.

  “Guy’s probably not all there. Try not to hold it against him.”

  “They better not be setting a tone, here.”

  The Garden Diner was only a couple of minutes’ walk. The quiet streets were taking on an orange hue from the sunset. Tom saw an aging man reading a newspaper outside of a small used bookstore, but didn't say anything to him.

  Tom finished his smoke around the time they reached the diner. It was a classic-style coffee house with a red roof and big windows. Another loud jingle sounded as they stepped inside.

  “Look out look out, here come some more. We got a dinner rush going,” called the voice of a wrinkled, portly black man behind a circular counter in the center of the diner. Tom and Artie looked around the diner. There were four other people seated at various places. One old couple, a large man who looked like a trucker, and a man wearing sunglasses with a fisherman's hat, sitting near the jukebox.

  “Wow. Hate to see what this place looks like on Friday nights.”

  “Welcome to the Garden, gentlemen,” said the dark-skinned man behind the counter. His name tag read 'Odie'. He was taller and broader than either of them, and was intently focused on wiping the counters down with a dirty rag. His meaty forearms and hands were smudged with grime. “Never seen you around here before.”

  “We're from out of town,” Artie offered.

  “Outsiders. Tourists. What brings you all the way out to this corner of the world?”

  “Business,” replied Artie genially.

  “Business, business, always business. Business keeps you going. Keeps the lights on.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said, feeling a pang of irritation already. “You got any menus?” So far, the locals were all proving themselves to be quite insane.

  “Here you are, gentlemen,” said Odie. His voice was all enthusiasm, but his face remained stoic as he scrubbed away at the counter. He tossed over a couple of closed up menus that had the diner's logo printed on the front. “Try the patty melts. Made with love, Orchard style.”

  “Orchard style, huh?” Artie piped up with a small grin, opening the menu. “What's Orchard style mean?”

  “Served with our special homemade applesauce on wheat bread, and locally produced cheddar cheese on farm-fresh beef. A local delicacy.”

  “Sounds great. Give me one of those and a beer.”

  “Orchard melt and a beer,” Odie called loudly behind him, without missing a beat. Tom looked over and saw a skinny man in the kitchen, visible through a gap in the diner's wall.

  “Sure thing, Odie,” the cook called back.

  “Prompt service, I like it. Just give me a cheeseburger and a beer,” Tom said as he placed his menu down.

  “Cheese and beer,” called Odie, again like he'd been waiting tensely for the opportunity.

  Tom rubbed an itch on his forehead and looked around. He noticed an ashtray on each of the diner tables.

  “Oh good, indoor smoking?”

  “Bad for your health, son,” Odie stated, once again immersed in cleaning the counters.

  “Oh, save it.”

  “Bad for your health.”

  “How long you been living here, Odie?” Tom asked, leaning against the counter.

  “Four and ten, sir, and happy for it.”

  “Fourteen years? Jeez.”

  “Four and ten sir, that's what I said.”

  “We're actually here to look into the Susan Bailey disappearance,” Tom offered. “You know anything about her? She'd have been born just as you moved here.”

  “Don't know the name, sir. Smoking's bad for your health.”

  Tom was irked. He leaned forward. “Come again?”

  “Linked to emphysema and lung cancer, sir. Pick up a newspaper.”

  “No, I mean, you must know something about Susan Bailey. I refuse to believe you work in this town, in this diner, and haven't heard of Susan Bailey.”

  “I'm not sure who you're looking for, sir. You think you'll be wantin’ dessert?”

  Tom rubbed his forehead. “Okay, what about the other missing people? Have you heard about that?”

  Odie rubbed his face and scrubbed the counter harder. Tom pursed his lips.

  “Odie. The other missing people?”

  “Bad for your health.”

  “Fuck. Try to focus for a second, I'm asking you a question.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Odie bellowed, throwing his rag down on the counter with a wet slap. Tom jolted back in surprise. Artie's eyes widened, and he stepped back from the counter. Odie stared Tom hard in the eyes, and frowned deeply. Creases lined his thick face.

  “I'm just trying to ask you a question, man.”

  “You saying us country folk are simple? Fuck you, city boy. Go back to your fuckin' Jaguar and your stock portfolio and leave us folk alone.” Odie slammed his hand against the counter, causing empty coffee mugs to clatter, and the cash register to chime. “So what if we go to church every Sunday, and our doctors came back home after med school. We get along just fine, and we don't need any high-rollin' city boys coming around here to fuck it all up.”

  Tom just tried to remain calm. He and Odie glared at each other intently. The clerk's dark face became even darker as blood rushed to his cheeks. He shook with rage.

  “What the fuck, man.”

  “You all think you’re so fuckin' great. God's gift to the world. Holed up in cubicles and concrete prisons sky-high. Let me tell you, asshole, the further you are from nature, the further from God. You all oughta fuckin’ choke on your fuckin' decadence.”

  Tom stared the man down. Odie's eyes looked back into his. They had become cold, black-and-white marbles.

  “Ease up, Odie,” came the voice of the cook from the kitchen. “They're just visitors. Calm down, Odie.”

  Odie wordlessly picked his rag back up and resumed wiping down the already pristine counters. Artie had already started making his way to a table.

  “Come on, Tom,” Artie urged his friend. Tom followed him, turning back to quip at the clerk.

  “I'd ask to talk to your manager, but somehow I figure you probably are the manager. Inbred fuck,” he muttered. “You're lucky that's all I do.”

  “Enjoy your Orchard melt,” Odie said, his voice strong and welcoming again.

  “Christ,” Tom said as he slipped into a booth with Artie. They sat across from each other. A voice piped up behind Tom, and he turned to the booth behind him.

  “Odie hasn't been himself for a little while,” said the man wearing sunglasses Tom had noticed before.

  “I hope to fuck not,” Tom said quietly.

  “Don't be too hard on him. He pours his heart and soul into this place. Orchard's his home.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I think that's our contact,” Artie spoke up. He was pointing at the door. Tom looked up.

  The bell jingled, and in walked a woman-- and an attractive one at that, to Tom’s pleasure. He drank in her auburn hair, aviator sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat. She was obviously local law enforcement. A beige button-up sh
irt and black tie underneath a navy-blue leather jacket confirmed his suspicion. A pistol was holstered to her tight khaki slacks.

  She clomped into the diner in polished black boots. She didn't look like she belonged here. The heart-shaped face and tight figure told Tom that she could have been an athlete somewhere, like a gymnast, or a girl he might pick up in a bar, if she was dressed less conservatively.

  “Dios mio,” Artie said to himself with a smirk and a wolf-whistle. “She look like a local girl to you?”

  “Not even half.”

  “Hi there, Odie,” the woman remarked as she approached the counter.

  “Officer Dawes. Always always a pleasure, pleasure.” Odie didn’t even look up from his scrubbing.

  “Yeah, you too. Get me a coffee, would you?”

  “Coffee for Heather,” Odie barked quickly behind him. “Local law's always wired. Do anything wrong in this town, Heather Dawes gonna hear it out,” Odie proclaimed to nobody in particular.

  “Uh-huh. You see a couple of guys from out of town come in here?”

  “Shouldn't drink too much coffee. Human body isn't made for that much caffeine.”

  “Odie, concentrate for me. Two boys from out of town.”

  “That's us, miss,” hooted Artie, raising his hand. Officer Dawes turned to them. She took off her sunglasses and approached the table with purpose. She issued a sigh as Odie muttered something to himself out of earshot. The cop pulled aside a stool from the counter, and sat next to the table, not taking a seat next to either Tom or Artie.

  “You two the feds we were warned about?”

  “That's us, ma'am,” Tom said as he lit a cigarette. He quietly wondered where his beer was.

  “You don't look like feds.”

  “If we looked like feds, we wouldn't be very good feds,” Artie observed with a chortle.

  “I'm sorry about Odie,” Dawes sighed.

  “How'd you know?” Tom said with a snort.

  “Guy's always been a little off. My name's Heather Dawes, by the way, if you didn't catch that,” Officer Dawes remarked with a smirk.

  “Tom Bell and Artie Shaw,” Tom returned politely.

  “Pleasure. You mind if I take one of those?” she motioned at Tom's cigarettes. He gave her a smirk and handed one over. “Thank God,” Dawes added, as Tom’s zippo came up to catch the smoke for her.