“Beer and cigarettes-- Breakfast of champions,” Artie declared sardonically. “Come on, we can fill Keda in on the way.”
An hour later, Tom saw the sign for the trailer park flash into view again. He burped and patted his chest in a futile bid to stave off some heartburn. Dawes flicked a spent cigarette out the window. Keda was placid as usual, taking in the surroundings with a calm that irritated his Analyst friend. Tom wolfed down the last of a breakfast burrito from a local convenience store.
“So what do you expect to find?” Tom inquired out of the quiet. Dawes tilted her head back to respond from the front seat.
“I'm not sure. That's down to you guys. We did an initial look a week and a half ago after Brooks had been missing for two days, but there haven't been any new leads since.”
“And nobody has come forward as a kidnapper?” Keda questioned. Dawes shook her head.
“Not a peep.”
“Witnesses haven't reported any strange activity around the area?”
“Nothing. People are just... vanishing.”
Keda pursed his lips, looking outside again. “Strange.”
“Strange?” Dawes said with a derisive snort. “Just strange? Is that all you have to say?”
“For now,” Keda said with a shrug.
“Two-headed snakes are strange. A man born with three testicles is strange. This is just baffling, and frankly, frightening,” Dawes said sharply. “We're here,” she added.
She pulled the car to a stop and forcefully removed her seatbelt. She opened the driver side door and shut it loudly behind her. Tom furrowed his brow. He stepped out of the car. Before the others had followed suit, he approached Dawes.
“Something get to you?” he asked.
“Strange, he says,” Dawes spat. “I hope you weirdoes find something, because this whole little band of yours is strange, if you ask me. Here's your smokes,” Dawes said with a sneer, pulling a fresh pack of Tom's brand out of her jacket. She tossed them up in the air. Tom caught them clumsily.
“Thanks,” he said, bewildered-- half with Dawes' sudden attitude, and half with the dedication she'd paid to replacing his smokes. He watched her open the trunk of the squad car to pull out a black duffel bag. Dawes tossed the duffel bag to Artie, who looked down at it nonplussed.
“Hit trailer three and look for evidence,” she stated sharply. “You know how to bag and tag?”
“Yeah, for sure,” Artie said with a small frown.
“Good, make yourselves useful. Bell, you come with me to talk to the neighbors.”
Tom followed her. He shot a look back to Artie and pointed towards the edge of the forest. Artie nodded and tapped Keda on the shoulder. They set off in the other direction from Dawes, where Tom's evidence would hopefully be waiting.
Tom broke into a light jog to catch up with Dawes. She knocked on the door of a trailer, one Tom had not checked the night before. He was shocked to see someone's face appear in the nearby window. His jog slowed.
Just as he caught up to Dawes, the occupant answered the door. A short, older woman opened the door. She had ratty hair and wore a loose-fitting t-shirt that draped down past her thighs. Tom was suddenly acutely aware of the smell of several cats.
“Good morning,” Dawes began warmly. “I'm Officer Heather Dawes with the Orchard police department.”
“I'm Destiny,” the woman responded warily. She eyed Dawes up and down with the same guarded demeanor. Tom scratched his nose, drawing a look from the trailer’s occupant. “Who's this city slicker?”
“This is Thomas Bell from the Federal Agency for Domestic Investigation,” Dawes added. Tom stretched his hand out to shake.
“Morning,” he said with a smile. She didn't return the handshake, or the smile. He withdrew his hand awkwardly.
“What's this about?” Destiny drawled, keeping the door only somewhat ajar. “I done told you people, my boy's eighteen now. I don't gotta have the cops coming around here every time he gets his self in trouble.”
“Your son's not in trouble today, ma'am,” Dawes assured her. “We're here about your neighbor Geoffrey Brooks.”
“Ain't my neighbor no more,” Destiny said with a dumb, rolling chuckle. “Fool done got his self killed somewhere, prob'ly. Haven't seen him in weeks. Y'all know that.”
“We know. Another officer was here a couple of weeks ago. I've looked at the case.”
“So what'chall want from me now, then?” Destiny placed one hand to lean on the door frame.
“We'd like to know if anything else suspicious has happened in the area recently,” Tom piped up firmly. Destiny gave him a defensive look. “Any strange sightings, people you don't recognize, anything at all.”
“Well shit, just last night someone was out here firing a gun,” Destiny said. Tom's throat dried out.
“Really?” Dawes said with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, no shit. I didn't see nothin', I just hid in the bedroom, but some fool was making all kind of noise outside and there were gunshots. Baby said he was breakin’ into Jeremy's trailer.”
“Jeremy?” Tom asked after clearing his throat.
“Yeah, right over there,” said Destiny. She pointed at trailer number four. Tom fiddled with the top button of his shirt. “Baby done saw him climbin’ all up in the window and snooping around and shit. Was gonna go take care of him, but he couldn't find any shot for his rifle.”
Tom's heart picked up gently. Why hadn't they just answered him?
“I'll have the boys look into it,” Dawes said. “Where is Jeremy now?”
“Well shit, he hasn't been here in days,” Destiny said with a tilt of her head. “And I couldn't be fuckin' happier about it, tell you the truth. Him and baby and that idiot Geoffrey always up until all hours of the morning drinking beer and talkin’ about horseshit.”
“Who is baby?” Tom asked.
“My hus-band,” Destiny said, her head tilted almost sarcastically as she said the word. “Roy.”
“Roy and Geoffrey were friends?” Tom asked.
“Like a couple of pigs in shit,” Destiny said. “Him and Geoffrey and Jeremy. Or J-dog, they always called him. Fuckin' morons.” She spat onto the ground in front of the trailer. Tom screwed up his mouth. Classy lady, he thought.
“What can you tell me about them?”
“Geoffrey worked down at the auto shop in town. Pretty fat sumbitch. Never had much more to say than 'yeah' or 'uh-huh' and that stupid fuckin’ laugh of his. Jeremy's a nigger fella, no idea what he does for a living. Sells drugs, near as I can tell,” Destiny said with her eyes widened matter-of-factly.
“And what does Roy do?”
“Baby's the 'smart' one, sad as that is,” said Destiny with a roll of her eyes. “Does some kind of work on the Internet so he's always home, 'cept when he's out hunting deer. Always coming up with some bullshit fuckin’ scheme between those three.”
“Can we speak to Roy?” Dawes inquired further.
“Roy is out,” Destiny said with a sneer of contempt. “Disappeared a couple hours ago. ‘Early bird gets the worm', he says.”
“Where is he?”
“Out huntin',” Destiny said. She spat again. “Prob’ly didn't go too far, but he's been gone awhile. Prob’ly taking a nap in some dirt. He went out that way,” Destiny added. She pointed out towards the forest. “You wanna talk to Roy, you can go find him.”
“Does he have a particular spot he likes to go to?”
“Yeah. Here, let me draw you a map,” said Destiny. She stepped back into her house. Dawes folded her arms and waited. Tom took the opportunity to light a cigarette. He offered one to Dawes, which she declined.
“Regular honeymoon getaway down here,” Dawes said with a snort. “Heaven on Earth.”
“Colorful community,” Tom said with a smirk.
“Not really,” Dawes remarked.
“'Nigger fella'. Sheesh.”
Dawes shrugged. “That’s West Virginia for you.”
“Here,�
�� Destiny said as she reappeared in the doorway. She handed a piece of fresh printer paper to Dawes. A crude map was drawn on it. Tom peered over and saw that the trailer park was clearly marked. A line led to a path through the woods with a red circle marking Roy's favorite hunting spot. “Can I get y'all else anything?”
“That should be fine, we'll be back if there's any further questions,” Dawes said, folding up the map. “Thanks for your time, ma'am.”
“Yeah, sure,” Destiny said. “You find Roy, you tell him the God damn TV is broken again.”
“Will do, ma'am,” Tom said. Destiny shut the door abruptly. Tom couldn't help but chortle.
“It's not that funny,” Dawes said with a sigh. She set off towards the woods. Tom followed her, taking a drag from his smoke.
“Sorry. I'm from the city.”
“I've seen worse,” Dawes replied, her boots crunching against the dirt and then making soft sounds as they came onto grass. “These people have nothing on the druggies in Detroit.”
“I've had my share of weird shit,” Tom added succinctly.
As they approached the edge of the woods, that sense of unnatural calm came over Tom again. He glanced towards the place where he had fought the creature the night before. The chunk of severed meat was gone, but Dawes still noticed the bloodstains against nearby trees and the congealed gore caked onto the grass. She found the hole in the earth, and ran her finger across its surface gently. Her finger came back stained red.
“What the fuck?” she asked. Tom coughed to himself.
“Animals, probably,” Tom added. “Coyotes?”
“There's chunks of this shit all down this hole,” Heather said. Tom watched her start digging with her hands. After a minute or so, she had not made much progress against the hard dirt, but she had revealed that the hole went deep. She had uncovered the top of a narrow tunnel, reminiscent of an animal burrow. How far it went was impossible to gauge.
“Look, it's just caked in here.”
“Injured, whatever it was,” Tom offered. “Got bitten but managed to escape.”
“Tom, look at all this shit,” Dawes said in disgust, motioning at the splatters of blood on the trees and grass. “Whatever lost this much blood didn't fucking escape.”
Tom shrugged, discarding his cigarette. Dawes scoffed in irritation.
“I don't like any of this,” said Dawes. She stood back up and began a hesitant approach into the woods. Tom took another glance around as he followed her. “People disappearing, weird fucking shit all over the place... something is wrong.”
“Like what?” Tom asked.
“I don't know. Something I don't like.”
Tom kept his mouth shut for much of the walk from there. He followed Dawes through the trees, taking long, deep breaths and counting the seconds in and out. He didn't like forests.
Their map led them past a small brook, at which Dawes noticed a set of footprints. Tom noted another hole similar in shape and width to the one from earlier, near the prints. Dawes either hadn't seen it, or had disregarded it as a simple animal warren.
“Size thirteen boots,” Dawes remarked. “Probably our boy.”
She and Tom followed the prints down the length of the brook. Tom noticed that the further they went, the tracks seemed to change. They were closer and closer together, until finally it looked as though the boots had been dragged along the ground at a shamble. Tom's hand played at the handle of his pistol, affirming for himself that it was still there. He checked unconsciously for the pack of Xanax in his left pocket as well.
“Think I see him,” Dawes piped up. Tom looked ahead. There was a figure standing a short distance away by the edge of the brook, obscured by some trees. It was facing off in the distance, its face hidden by the high collar of a fluorescent hunting jacket and a large-brimmed cap. The figure was standing still, its arms at its sides. Tom noted that one arm held a large, black hunting rifle at a lazy angle. Tom grasped the handle of his gun as they approached.
“Hey there,” called Dawes. She waved her arm to signal their approach. There was no response. She waved in a wider arc. “Hey, over there. Roy? Police,” she yelled briskly.
Tom stopped in his tracks when he saw the figure turn its head. He'd seen too many of these situations not to know what was coming next.
“We have a few questions,” Dawes added as the figure turned to face them. Tom saw the man lifting the rifle in his hand and sprang into action. He leapt forward and tackled Dawes to the ground. They both hit the dirt roughly.
“Ow! Shit, Bell, what the fuck are you--”
A gunshot cut off the rest of her protest. She stiffened under Tom's weight. He pulled out his pistol and unhooked the safety. Another gunshot sounded just as he lowered his head. A chunk of the tree blew off into splinters just above them.
“Shit,” Dawes screamed. She scrambled out from under Tom and bounded off into the trees. Tom went in a different direction, leaping over the narrow brook and ducking behind a tree. He watched the hunter follow Dawes with long, deliberate steps, taking pot shots at her with his rifle. She took shelter behind a fallen tree trunk, chunks of which flew off into the air as the gunman bore down on her.
Tom aimed his pistol, and waited for the hunter to walk between a gap in the trees. He exhaled and fired, scoring a hit to the man's shoulder. The hunter flinched, unfazed. Tom waited a few seconds and fired again, hitting the elbow and sending the forearm flopping uselessly at his target’s side. The rifle's barrel took a sharp dive towards the ground just as its barrel discharged. He had the hunter's attention, now. The hunter turned to face him, eyes hidden behind large sunglasses.
“Over here, cousin-fucker,” shouted Tom. He jumped out from his cover and waved his arms in the air. The hunter lazily lifted the rifle with his remaining arm, and fired a shot that made a dent in a tree several feet away from Tom. Nonetheless he took cover again. The next shot sent the rifle flying out of the hunter's hand from recoil. Rather than retrieve it, the hunter started to take heavy steps towards Tom, disarmed.
Tom stepped out from cover and exhaled. He fired at the hunter three times, missing once and hitting him in the chest twice. Despite this the hunter did little more than flinch and stumble as he kept his stride, his boots splashing into the brook. Tom was formulating a new plan when Dawes appeared from the woods. She leapt onto the hunter's back and twisted his weight until they both hit the ground.
“You're under arrest for the attempted murder of two law enforcement agents,” Dawes said in a winded voice as Tom approached at a jog. The ratchet of a pair of handcuffs sounded. She had subdued the hunter, his hands now bound uselessly behind his back. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”
Dawes was interrupted by a loud, sick groan. The hunter vomited a torrent of red and pinkish slime. She planted her knee in his back, sighing.
“Fuck, he must be on drugs,” she said.
“No-- get away--” Tom tried to cry out a warning, but he couldn't articulate the words.
Tom heard a familiar wet, snapping, crunching sound. The hunter's bound arms jerked violently as they popped free from their sockets.
“Knock it off,” Dawes demanded, putting her weight further into the hunter's back. “Knock it--”
The hunter's head turned... and turned... and turned. Bile dribbled from his lips. His head had wrenched all the way around to face Dawes. He choked out a threatening scream that was muffled by the chunks of gore clogging his throat and mouth.
“What the fuck?” Dawes screamed, finally trying to get up. Her struggle came too late. The hunter's hands, bent backwards at the elbows, sprung out to grip her neck. His legs lifted up and wrapped around her like a second set of arms. She found herself being held to the ground and strangled.
“Tom. Tom, help me.”
Dawes flailed her arms, grabbing at the hunter's face. She succeeded only in knocking off his hat, revealing a gaping hole in the top of his head. The inside of his open skull was visible. T
here was no brain. His sunglasses fell off to reveal empty holes peering into his spent shell of a head.
“Fuck,” Dawes screamed. Tom found his legs and sprang into action. He knelt down and pushed the two of them over. He started patting the hunter down.
“Bell, what are you doing?”
Tom found his mark: a thick hunting knife in a rubber scabbard on the hunter's hip. He pulled it out and plunged it into the hunter's shoulder. He worked his arm back and forth to separate skin and bone.
The hunter vomited more gore and bile onto Dawes. She could do little more than scream. She dug her nails into the hunter's handcuffed hands, breaking the skin. Tom sawed away for half a minute before finally seeing results. Thick, jelly-like blood spilled from the severed arm and shoulder wound. Tom found his hands caked with the stuff.
“Faster, Tom.”
“Just calm down,” said Tom, trying to keep a level head himself. He discarded the hunter’s arm and placed his knee against the other, accidentally bumping into Dawes’ face. Vomit sloshed against his ankles. He placed the blade against the hunter's wrist and began to saw. The hand came off easily, leaving only the legs.
Dawes threw the hand from her neck and reached for her pistol, pushing Tom out of the way. She pushed the handgun's barrel hard up against the hunter's neck and fired. She emptied the clip.
For a long moment Tom wasn't sure if it would work, but slowly the hunter's leg lock loosened. Bile and blood cascaded from the neck wound.
“What the fuck. What the entire fuck,” cried Dawes. She stood up and made a feeble bid to wipe the bile and blood from her chest. Before Tom could wipe his forehead in relief, Dawes screamed again. A hand appeared on the ground, attached to what Tom could not call an arm, but more a flesh-colored appendage, a tentacle. It gripped the hunter's ankle, causing Tom to jump back.
The tentacle retracted like some foul fishing line, its length disappearing into another conspicuous hole in the forest floor. The hunter's body dragged along in the dirt. Dawes could do little more than breathe out several panicked, shallow screams.
Dead Roots (The Analyst) Page 16
