“What does that mean?”
“There was something here, but it's gone now.”
“What kind of something?” Tom said with a raised eyebrow. Finally, paydirt.
“I don't know... but whatever it was, it became Visible.”
********
Tom swallowed gently as he and Artie entered the living room. They couldn’t see Dawes or Mr. Bailey anywhere. The den was filled with the last remnants of daylight streaming in through a large window on the far end. It cast a soft glare against the old TV propped against the wall, which was quietly recounting the news.
Facing the TV was a beaten, uncomfortable looking easy chair with wooden legs. Tom presumed that the delicate form resting in it was Mrs. Bailey.
She was haggard. Her thinning hair was tied back in an old-fashioned bun, with some errant strands lying over her forehead. Her eyes stared dreamily at the TV, its glow playing softly across her sagging, sallow features in the unlit room. Her hands were crossed in her lap. Tom could see the familiar signs of rapid weight loss as he’d observed in her husband. It was apparent in her facial features, as well as the way the folds of her simple blue dress pooled around her body.
“Sorry... Mrs. Bailey?” Tom said apprehensively. Mrs. Bailey's eyes turned to meet his. Her head shortly followed. Her eyes widened, and her mouth drew open slowly to respond.
“Are you going to find Susie?”
Tom wasn't sure what to say. He took a step back, folding his arms.
“We're certainly going to try.”
Mrs. Bailey stood up slowly, her dress hanging off of her like a bed sheet. Her eyes kept glancing towards the TV as if waiting for something. Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck straighten.
“Would you like some coffee, dear?”
“No, thank you, we're leaving soon.”
“Would you like some... who are you?”
Mrs. Bailey's eyes widened. She took several steps back. Tom stepped forward with his hands up appeasingly. She stumbled slightly.
“Be careful of the window--”
“Who are you? Who are you?”
“My name is Tom Bell, I'm a federal agent. I'm going to look for your daughter.”
Mrs. Bailey descended to both knees. Tom stopped approaching her. She put one hand to her face and began to weep.
“Mrs. Bailey...”
“I'll make you some coffee,” she said with a strained voice.
“You don't--”
“He said it was just bad dreams,” she interrupted. She looked up at Tom, pleading on all fours. “I told him there was something wrong with our Susie, but he said it was just bad dreams.”
Tom and Artie's eyes widened as Mrs. Bailey screamed the last few words. Tom looked around in a small panic. Dawes was nowhere to be found.
“Officer Dawes?” he called out. “Officer? Heather?”
“Bad dreams. Bad dreams. Just bad dreams. Bad dreams. Bad dreams. Just bad dreams. Bad dreams. Bad dreams. Just bad dreams.”
Mrs. Bailey's hysterics cut the air like breaking glass. Dawes and Mr. Bailey were suddenly in the room. Mr. Bailey hurried to his wife's side, trying to help her up and putting an arm around her.
“Molly,” he pleaded with her. “Molly, get up, get up Molly--”
“Bad dreams. Bad dreams, you piece of shit. Bad dreams.”
Mrs. Bailey pounded her weak fists against Bailey's chest. Her voice cracked as she continued to scream. Tom winced as she struck him across the face with an open palm. Mr. Bailey staggered, bending over his wife but not touching her for fear of being hit again.
“Bad dreams. Just bad dreams.”
“What have you done?” Mr. Bailey demanded in a weakened, but broiling voice, glaring at Tom and Artie. They both put up their hands in bewilderment.
“Tom just said we were going to find Susan...” Artie explained.
“How can you promise her something like that?” Mr. Bailey cried in rage. “What are you doing here?”
“No, we didn't promise--” Tom sputtered.
“You're upsetting my wife. You people never leave her be.”
“Sounds like you're the one upsetting her,” Tom shot back. Officer Dawes bit her lip, looking away with a wince. Mr. Bailey's mouth hung open, and he quaked with barely restrained fury.
“Get out of my house,” Mr. Bailey roared. His wife continued to blither deliriously on the ground. “Get out of here, you motherfuckers.”
“Come on, boys,” Dawes said quickly. She physically grabbed Tom and Artie and began pulling them out of the room. Mr. Bailey leveled a finger at them strongly as they left.
“Put them away, Heather. They can't get away with this. Make them pay for this.”
5
“Branches”
“I'm sorry again, you two,” Dawes sighed as they stepped out of the police vehicle. “Er, agents. Bell and…?”
“Tom and Artie's just fine,” Tom said with a small smile. Artie nodded, drawing a smoke he’d bummed from Tom and lighting it. Tom followed suit.
“One more. I'll bring you a new pack tomorrow,” said Dawes. Tom obliged, and lit it for her. She offered a weak smile in return. The three of them stood against the car enjoying their smokes in the shade of the Appletree Inn, spending a minute in relative silence.
“Not the first time, I take it,” Artie piped up suddenly.
“Not even the third,” Dawes said with a groan. “Some days I feel like I'm the only person in town who can get through to these fucking people.”
“I get the same feeling,” Tom said with a snort. “You've been a huge help already.”
“So listen, here's a list of all the people who've gone missing and a map to all their homes,” Dawes said as they approached the check-in office for the second time that day. She handed Artie a manila envelope, thick with paperwork. “We can start checking these out in the morning.”
“Sure. Thanks for talking to these people for us,” Artie said, letting Dawes enter the office first. He and Tom followed quietly. Richard was still sitting at the desk. His head turned up to meet them.
“Welcome to the Appletree Inn, at the heart of Orchard,” Richard drawled. Tom rolled his eyes.
“Hi there, Richard,” Dawes said through a half-smile.
“Officer Heather.”
“I need to speak to Sally, please,” she said.
Richard nodded slowly. He turned to call into the office behind him.
“Miss Sally,” he stated bluntly. A few moments later, a woman emerged from the doorway. She was wearing a red business suit with large shoulder pads, and had her blonde hair done up in a beehive. She had a huge, plastered-on smile, and what looked like several pounds of makeup. To Tom, she looked like something had stepped out of a 1980s video to talk to him about promoting synergy in the workplace.
“Welcome to the Appletree Inn, at the heart of Orchard,” Sally said in a clear, scripted-sounding voice. “How may we brighten your day?”
“Hi, Sally. I'm Officer Heather Dawes, do you remember me?”
“Of course, ma'am,” Sally said with a beaming grin. “At the Appletree Inn, we maintain strong values and are dedicated to providing strong service to our community.”
“These gentlemen have a reservation here, I think it's under the name Margaret Redding. Richard here turned them away earlier and said you could sort it out for them.”
“Are either of these gentlemen Margaret Redding?” Sally asked through her mechanical smile.
“I think it's obvious they aren't. There was a mix-up in the booking process and I'd like it fixed, please.”
“We cannot provide a room that has been reserved by another customer,” Sally stated firmly.
“Then I'd like you to check them both in under Thomas Bell and Artie Shaw. Right now.”
“I'm sorry,” Sally said sadly. “Check-in at the Appletree Inn begins at 2 p.m. and concludes at 4 p.m. Check-out is at 11 a.m. and concludes at 12 p.m. I'm sorry I can't help you. Would you like to know more about our gues
t loyalty program?”
“No. You're going to check both of these gentlemen in under extenuating circumstances.”
“I'm sorry,” Sally repeated. “Check-in at the Appletree--”
“Listen, bitch,” Dawes said through gritted teeth, leaning forward. Sally stopped, tilting her head. Tom raised his eyebrows, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle a grin.
“Excuse me, ma'am?”
“I'll start over again. My name is Officer Heather Dawes from the Orchard police. I would like for you to check both of these gentlemen into your piss-ant little hovel right now, because I know for a fact you have vacancy. These men are on a federal investigation, and if you don't do this for me, I'm going to drag Richard and your Stepford Wife-lookin’ ass down to the station for obstruction of justice and do it myself. You think you’re hot shit because you know how to click a couple of buttons on a ten year old computer? My baby sister can use a computer. I'm sure I can figure it out. You think you're in fucking charge? How about I cuff your ass and you find out what being in charge is?”
Artie was barely containing his mirth. Tom had at this point turned away to hide his own laughter. He glanced back to see Sally's face twitching. Her smile didn't leave her face. She pushed Richard out of the way of the computer and typed something in.
“At the Appletree Inn we maintain good values and always assist local law enforcement any way we can,” Sally said matter-of-factly. Dawes nodded her head and took a step back. “Thomas Bell and Artie Shaw are staying in room 103. Here's your key.”
“Good. And make sure their meals for tomorrow are comped while you're at it.”
“Yes, ma'am. Is there anything else the Appletree Inn can do to make your stay the best you've ever had?”
“Yeah, wash off some of that fucking perfume. You smell like a Detroit hooker.”
Dawes turned to face Tom and Artie, motioning for them to leave the office with her. They stepped outside, and the bell on the door covered Artie's raucous laughter.
“How much for a night?” he asked Dawes with a chortle. “I'll bring my own whips.”
“I'll see you two in the morning,” Dawes grumbled. She climbed into the police car and rolled down the window. “Ten o'clock, we'll start checking out the other missing folks.”
The squad car sputtered to life and pulled out of the motel's parking lot, disappearing down the road into the blackness.
Tom got his first eyeful of Orchard at night. There were no street lamps, only the glow from the high signs of the motel and diner, and the lights from a few houses dotted around the area. Soon, these too would surely be extinguished, leaving an isolated scrape of human life seen only by the stars overhead.
“So what now?” Artie said, rubbing his nose.
“Now, I go check out one of these houses,” said Tom. He took the manila folder from Artie and slid out the stack of papers. Tom flicked through them until he found the most recently vanished person, one Geoffrey Brooks. On the unfolded map, he located Brooks' house on the outskirts of town. It was marked with a red circle.
“Go get settled in, I'm gonna get to work.”
“Sure thing. Call me when you get there.”
********
Tom puffed some cigarette smoke out of the open car window. He hated driving alone, especially in a place like this. There was no light except from his headlights, which only revealed the road and the trees around him. He felt like he was stranded on some alien planet.
Tom fished around on the seat next to him for his wireless earpiece. He hooked it onto his ear, and reached for his cellphone to dial his Operator. He wasn't at the address yet, but it couldn't be much further.
“Yo,” Artie crackled into his ear.
“Hey. I'm about five minutes from Brooks' house. Got any info for me?”
“Alright, well, the file says he disappeared about two weeks ago. Worked as a mechanic, recently divorced. Used to have a house in town, now he lives in one of the trailer parks on the outer ring of the area.”
“Neighbors?”
“I dunno, man, you have the map.”
Tom grumbled to himself. He couldn't stop to look now. He saw a sign flash past him. It simply read 'Mobile Home Park – 1 mile'.
“What should I be expecting? Anything? Any roommates or whatever?”
“Says he lived alone, so you should be good. Check in with me when you get there.”
The line went dead. Tom took a deep breath. Half a mile now. He tossed his cigarette out of the window and, after some deliberation, reached for another.
Half a mile later, the trailer park came into view. Tom wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. The 'park' consisted of exactly five mobile homes arranged in a dirt lot, a short walk away from the edge of the nearby forest, with a beat-up sign. It wasn't even named. None of the lights were on as he let the car ride to a stop, and unbuckled his seat belt. He reached to his left and collected his equipment: a small camera with a belt-mounted transmitter, which he hooked to the breast of his jacket, and a heavy flashlight like a cop or security guard would carry.
Stepping out, he suspected his feet grinding into the gravel made the only sound the place had heard in hours. He shut the car door as quietly as he could. Tom dialed Artie again and put the cellphone back in his pocket. His left hand clutched the thick flashlight and his right fiddled with the pistol holstered at his side.
“You there?” Artie piped up in the earpiece.
“Yeah. Can you see?”
“I've got a feed, but it's like you're in deep space.”
“Night shot is on. There's just nothing out here.”
“Christ.”
“Looks dead. Should I wake anyone up?”
“Well. If you were police I'd recommend it, but just try not to make too much noise and you should be fine. Don't wanna be mistaken for a burglar.”
“Fuck it, I'm not gonna take the chance. This is second amendment country.”
“Alright, your call.” Tom heard Artie taking a long sniff. He had gotten into his operating tools. Tom started a calm walk towards the trailers. They loomed over him in the darkness like the stumps of enormous trees.
“Which one is Brooks?”
“Brooks lives in the number three.”
“Alright, I'm gonna wake up the next door neighbors.”
Tom leveled his flashlight searching for the mailbox marked '2'. He found it; it was rounded at the ends, real old-fashioned. As he approached the door he pulled his wallet out to prepare his badge, and knocked loudly with the butt of his flashlight.
“Hello? Federal investigator. Anybody home?”
He waited several seconds. No response, not that he was expecting one. He'd have to wake somebody up. He knocked again, his head looking around the area to see if any other lights came on. None did.
“Federal agent. I'm here to look into Geoffrey Brooks’ disappearance? Anyone home?”
Nothing.
“Hell-oooo?”
“Sheesh, it's only eleven thirty,” Artie crackled in Tom's ear.
Tom knocked again. Nothing.
“Ugh, hang on,” he grunted.
Tom made his way around the side of the trailer. He pressed his face against a window and shined his flashlight in. He saw an empty living room, a messy one. Making his way around the other side, he found more windows with the curtains drawn open. Inside he saw the bedroom and quickly lifted up his wallet to make his badge visible. His heart slowed when he realized there was nobody there.
“Empty,” Tom assured Artie. “I'll try another one.”
Tom approached number four. It was a rectangular trailer, painted a sickly yellow color. He knocked louder than before.
“Federal agent,” Tom announced, making sure to project his voice. “I'm here about Geoffrey Brooks. Is anyone home?”
Another minute passed. Tom would knock, and yell, and nothing would happen. He groaned to himself, checking the windows of number four. Again, a messy, abandoned living room. Th
e next set of windows was a kitchen with dishes piling up in the sink, and then finally a bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but the window itself was pushed open. He reached in and gingerly pulled the curtain aside, shining his light in. Again, he was met with an empty bedroom. The sheets were unmade but there was no sign of life.
“Artie, what's going on here? Is the bar down there lively?”
“Let me check,” Artie said. Tom could hear his Operator getting up from his work station. He waited.
“I'm looking through my binoculars,” Artie stated. “The bar is closed. They aren't open this late on Thursdays.”
Tom looked around in frustration. He unhooked his pistol from his side and raised it into the air.
Tom pulled the trigger twice. The gun issued an explosion of sound. It echoed through the night, causing his ears to ring. He waited. One second, two seconds, three seconds.
Thirty seconds.
There was nobody here. Every trailer was empty.
“Nobody's here, Artie. What the fuck's going on?”
“I dunno, but I bet it's related to Brooks somehow.”
“You're probably right. I'm gonna start sniffing around.”
Tom began by pulling the bedroom window open further. He tossed his flashlight into the trailer and ducked down, then wormed himself into the gap. He fished his foot around, finding purchase on the cheap carpeted floor and slipping in.
“Alright. Can you see?” he asked.
“Yeah. Slobs.”
“Your place is worse.”
“Yeah but at least I'm in it.”
Tom picked up his flashlight and waved it around the room looking for a light switch. The room’s air settled around him, drawing him to notice an awful smell. His nostrils flared and he sniffed fervently for the source.
“Christ, something stinks like shit in this place.”
“It probably is shit.”
Tom pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Nobody home, nobody to mind. The smoke masked the rotting smell a tiny bit, but Tom was determined to find the source.
He found a light switch by the door. He flicked it but nothing happened. He tried it up a few more times.
“Power's out,” he stated. “Either the generator's off or someone hasn't paid the power bill.”
Dead Roots (The Analyst) Page 14
