The Dreaming Tree

by Matthew Mather

  Roy had his wool hat pulled low. He adjusted his sunglasses, the scarf still wrapped tight around his neck. Not unusual attire for the middle of December, but still, this kid could be a problem. Roy held out the passport, his thumb half over the photo. He and Jake might look similar from a distance, but there was no way Roy looked in his midtwenties.

  The kid didn’t even look up. “You’re locker sixty-four,” he said. “One of our biggest.”

  Roy put the passport away. “Thanks.” He turned to open the door out.

  “Hey, man, you owe six months’ rent on that unit,” the kid called out as Roy walked away. “It was scheduled to go up for auction.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t one of the outdoor lockers. Roy took the cargo elevator to the second floor of the main building. Indoor. Climate controlled. Polished concrete floors, exposed steel joists and corrugated metal ceiling. The air was stale, smelling faintly of mothballs.

  The main corridor was lit, but the access corridors off it were dark. The place was deserted, creepy, even at 9 a.m. He found the sign for his locker grouping, clicked on the light timer at the start of the corridor, and walked down to number sixty-four.

  After unlocking the unit, he put the lock and key in his pocket and rolled up the metal door. He felt around for the light cord and pulled it, and a single incandescent bulb lit up. Exposed aluminum studs held up exterior drywall along the left side, the wall unfinished on this side. Cheap. The enclosed space smelled of fresh rubber, like new tires. At the back, cardboard boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling. A pile of tents and camping gear and fishing rods lay near the front. It was a big unit—twenty feet square.

  Roy got to work.

  Boxes full of Christmas lights. Others filled with books on nutrition, running, and weightlifting. A box of obsolete electronics, old cordless phones, wires. A washer and dryer covered with a tarp, an old dog crate. Going through the camping equipment, he found a switchblade knife and three years’ worth of Penthouse and Playboy magazines.

  This was a waste of time, he realized.

  His stomach was knotted, but maybe he was just hungry. It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten an actual meal in two days.

  There was nothing of interest in here.

  He rolled the door back down and locked it, then walked down the hallway to the elevator, keeping his eyes on his feet the whole way. Maybe he should find the safe-deposit box. There had to be something in there, though he doubted the passport trick would pass muster at a bank.

  He had to call Angel.

  Roy strode down the hallway to the elevator, counting the linoleum tiles underfoot—an old habit. Still looking down, he stopped at the elevator, just at the entrance to the next corridor.

  He turned and took twelve measured strides back up the hallway, back to Jake’s storage locker. He opened it and took measured strides toward the back. He made only five, but it was twelve strides corridor-to-corridor outside. Maybe the other side had deeper lockers. But no, the kid said Jake had one of their biggest ones.

  He inspected the back wall.

  The same unfinished drywall, but no exposed aluminum studs this side. Was it just better finished in the back? He tapped the wall in several places. It sounded hollow, but then, it should. Each four-by-eight sheet had screws along its edges. One didn’t.

  He pushed the boxes away from the wall, then grabbed the knife from the camping gear. Fitting the blade into the joint between the unfastened drywall sheet and the adjoining sheet, he worked up and down the joint until he had opened a half-inch gap—enough to get his fingers around the end of the sheet.

  The drywall board shuddered against the floor but slid open another three feet. There was no lighting behind the wall—only the illumination from the single bulb at the front of the unit. Metal shelving ran from just behind the drywall, to the next unit, three feet behind the false wall.

  The shelves were stacked with jars. Preserves or home-canned vegetables? On the shelf below the jars were piles of clothing. Everything had a light covering of dust.

  Except for one corner.

  One of the jars seemed to be a more recent arrival, the dust just disturbed, the glass still clean.

  Roy got his phone out and clicked on the flashlight.

  The jars were filled with a translucent tea-colored liquid, and each had something in the bottom. Roy leaned closer to get a better look at the one in front of him. He turned the jar, and the blob inside spun lazily around. It was an eye.

  The cornea was opaque, but there was no mistaking it. Bits of gray flesh stuck around the edges, and the ragged end of an optic nerve trailed from the back.

  The hair at the back of Roy’s neck prickled.

  He looked at the next jar. In the bottom lay a human finger, right up to the third knuckle. And below this was the clean new jar. The liquid was clear. At the bottom lay an ear, still red and ragged where it had been cut off.

  Roy staggered backward and fell on his backside in the pile of camping gear.

  32

  With a shaking finger, Roy punched in the number. One … six … four …

  Damn it. He pushed the off button. He had already tried twice, but his hand shook too much to key the numbers. Deep breaths.

  He sat on the edge of bed in his basement apartment on Avenue C, surrounded by the bank statements and receipts from Jake’s house. He barely remembered leaving the Self Store, though he did remember going back upstairs twice to make sure the unit was locked.

  He paid the kid at the desk whatever was owed, plus a year in advance. At two hundred bucks a month, that was almost four grand from his dwindling supply of cash. The kid had watched, wide-eyed, as Roy peeled off the bills. He told him to keep the change from the last hundred.

  The drive back into the city was a blur of constantly looking up through the windshield for helicopters and waiting for police lights behind him. And always the feeling that someone was close, just out of sight.

  What was Jake doing with a locker full of human body parts? Only thing possible, said a voice inside. You know what it is.

  “But that’s not possible,” Roy muttered, answering the voice.

  He had ditched his cell phone on the drive in—threw it onto the shoulder of the highway and picked up a new one at a CVS. The first thing he did was call Sam to ask for the Chegwiddens’ number. Sam protested, saying they needed to talk, but coughed up the number anyway.

  Roy asked whether Sam had heard any news of their neighbor, the one who hated cats, who Penny had said went missing a few months back.

  Sam hesitated but said that no, it was still a missing-persons case. The whole neighborhood was talking about it. Roy hung up halfway through Sam imploring him to come over because there was something else they needed to talk about.

  Should he have emptied the storage locker? But, how would he? Just cart out a dozen jars of human remains on a trolley, past all the security cameras?

  Anyway, why would he? It was Jake’s locker, not his.

  Whatever it all meant, it wasn’t Roy’s fault. He should just call the police. Call that Detective Devlin at Suffolk County PD.

  Except …

  That jar with the ear. A segmented golden fish earring lay in front of him on the bed. Roy had pulled it out of his backpack. Was it Primrose’s? Was it possible? He had blacked out for more than two days after the vampiric rejuvenation party at Hell. He remembered being disgusted by Primrose. He had never really liked her—despised her, if he was being honest.

  It would answer the mystery of why Jake killed himself. The man was trying to protect Hope and Elsa from himself.

  Roy squeezed his hands together to stop the shaking. He tried the number again.

  Six … three … three …

  The line began ringing. “Hello?” said a British voice.

  “Charles, it’s me, Roy.�
�

  “Ah, my god, Roy, it’s good to hear from you.” Charles paused. “The news isn’t good, I’m afraid.”

  Roy had been about to ask to speak to Primrose. “About what?”

  “Yes, yes, she’s gone, just gone.”

  “Primrose? Since when?” Roy felt the bottom falling out of his perception, as if the ground were opening up to swallow him.

  “One of those blasted rejuvenation parties that Eden holds. The police haven’t been able to find anything.”

  Roy paused a beat and then asked, “What police?”

  “Ms. Devlin, that wonderful detective woman. She was here just yesterday, and Captain Harris was over as well. Nobody can find my dear Prim. I’m just beside myself with worry.”

  * * *

  Music blared out through the half-open entrance. Roy had knocked twice and got no answer, so he pushed the massive black wooden door in. The leaves of the spider plants hanging from the rafters ruffled in the breeze over his head. He had phoned earlier, said he needed to speak with Angel in person. It was late, past midnight.

  “These are a few of my fa … vo … rite things,” sang a hulk of a man in an olive-drab T-shirt and ripped jeans. His sloping shoulders came almost up to his ears, the muscles bulging as he raised his arms wide. His jaw was wider than his temples, and thick cauliflower ears stuck out from a close-shaved head.

  Behind him, Julie Andrews sat in bed with two children to each side of her, a thick blanket pulled up to their chins. Lightning flashed on the TV screen.

  The big man saw Roy and smiled but just kept singing. “Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes …”

  “And Blackhawks and M-Sixty fragging grenaders,” Angel sang, joining in the next verse. He stood to put his arm around the hulk’s waist. The man was at least a foot taller than his Puerto Rican chum. Angel gave Roy a sheepish grin and waved him over. He waggled his beer bottle in the air, did Roy want one?

  The Sound of Music played on the big wall screen to one side of the apartment. Charlie was on one of the couches, waving his arms to conduct the sing-along. Another man, almost as big as the massive one and with the same battle-tested look, sat man-spread on the other couch. Empty bottles littered the table between them.

  “Come in,” Angel called out as Roy held back. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Maybe I should come back.”

  Angel let go of his big friend and covered half the distance to Roy. The other men kept singing along with Julie Andrews, giggling at their improvised lyrics as they danced and mimed the characters on the screen.

  “What was so important?” Angel asked.

  “What are you celebrating?”

  “Our adoption papers are finalized.”

  “Oh, right. Congratulations again.”

  “Tomorrow we’re picking up little Rodrigo. He just turned five.” Angel was wobbly. He put an arm around Roy’s shoulders. “Guys, guys, this is Roy, my friend I’m doing some work for.” He pointed at the hulk. “This is Alpha”—he moved his finger to the other man—“and this is Dog.”

  “Fellow SEALs?” Roy asked.

  “You know it. They just rotated back into the world. Came by for a few drinks.”

  Roy mumbled hello, and the men nodded back in greeting. “And are they, uh …,” he said to Angel under his breath.

  Angel frowned but then laughed big, throwing his head back. “Gay? Now you think all SEALs are gay? No, man, these are just my brothers from other mothers. Both straight as a gun barrel, sad as that is.”

  Alpha and Dog wore amiable grins. Dog had the remote in his hand and fast-forwarded the movie.

  “Do you have somewhere we can talk privately?” Roy whispered.

  Angel leaned back and sized him up. “Come into my bedroom.”

  He walked past the couches and into the back room, stopping to grab some papers from the kitchen table. The bedroom was spacious, with white walls and a king-size bed covered in a cream comforter. A gray couch stood against the left wall. Candles burned on the bedside tables, filling the air with the scent of lavender. A single painting hung on the wall—a stylized image of the phoenix with flaming yellow wings, rising from the ashes.

  “I think I’m attached to the body of a killer,” Roy blurted out as soon as Angel closed the door.

  Angel wagged his head to one side. “No kidding. That Jake Hawkins was an animal. Saw some videos of him taking people apart in the octagon. That fight in Hartford, man—”

  “No. I mean, he really killed people. Not just in the ring.”

  “Come again?”

  “He was a murderer.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Roy was about to tell him about the storage locker, but he felt a weight in the pit of his stomach. His gut, telling him no.

  Angel’s face brightened. “Ah, I get it. You went and talked to his lady. Hope Hawkins. She’s beautiful, from what I saw in the pictures. She said he killed people? I don’t know, man. Talking to her wasn’t a good idea. No telling what she might say.”

  “You know I talked to her?”

  “I got that tail on you. You asked for it, remember? My boy Romero. He’s been following you, but he hasn’t seen any other tails. You’re clean, man. He’s good at this.”

  “And he followed me all the way out to the Hawkins place?”

  “He stopped following you in the Midtown Tunnel. I told him to stop. The way you were heading out there? In a hurry, in the middle of the night? I figured where you were going and thought it better that Romero not follow you.”

  “Don’t tell Charlie, okay? I’m dangerous, Angel. This thing—”

  “Being a dangerous man can be a good thing. I know whereof I speak.” Angel was really drunk. His eyes skittered from one side to the other.

  “Let’s cancel your investigation,” Roy said. “Can we do that?”

  From behind the door, the muted singing of Julie Andrews bidding so long and farewell and auf Wiedersehen.

  Angel said, “But we’re not done yet. I’m talking to this doctor, at the hospital where you were born—”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I don’t like to leave jobs half finished.”

  “This is for your own safety.”

  “My own safety?” Angel’s eyes leered comically. “From who?”

  “From me.”

  He snickered. “I’d like to see you try.” He put his arm around Roy again.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Me, too,” Angel said. “I’m the one worried about you.” He jabbed Roy in the chest.

  Roy had been trying to be nice. He had come here to end things, to protect Angel, to call this off, but the guy was drunk, hanging off him, his face right in Roy’s. That new-but-now-familiar cresting wave of anger boiled up. Get this guy off me.

  “I told you nice. I’m canceling the investigation.” He shrugged Angel’s arm off. “And get that tail off me permanently. Your Romero guy—get him to stop following me.”

  “I took your money, my friend, and I’m going to help you. No matter what. I leave nobody behind.”

  This guy just didn’t know when to quit. Roy remained silent.

  The idiotic tunes of The Sound of Music blared beyond the bedroom door. They stared at each other. Roy glaring, Angel puzzled-drunk.

  “I’m worried about you,” the detective repeated.

  “Worry about someone else.”

  “That dog, your girl Leila?”

  “What about her?” Roy’s frustration vanished. “Did you find out something?”

  Angel took the papers from his hip pocket—the ones he had grabbed from the kitchen table. “She died five years ago.” He gave the papers to Roy. “From the East Hampton vet. Charlie got them.”

  “Five years …?” Roy took the papers. They w
ere for the cremation of an animal. “Leila,” it said at the top. The signature at the bottom. Roy’s. Unmistakable. “I don’t understand. I remember she was alive before the accident.”

  “Yeah, three years before. Did you have another dog?”

  The painting of the phoenix on the wall seemed to flutter, the flames warping. The room tilted on its axis. No. No. Not now.

  Roy clutched the papers. “I need to go.”

  He pushed past Angel, past the SEALs still singing along with Julie Andrews, his mind flowing out ahead of him, down the stairs and out into the frigid air.

  33

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Del said. She pointed at the second and third video feeds. “Try that.”

  They flipped through archived footage from cameras positioned at Ninth and Fourteenth, and Tenth and Hudson. In the fast-forward view, the late-night crowds of the Meatpacking District scurried about like ants. These weren’t like the old security cameras with grainy black-and-white images. These were high-definition, in vivid color. The NYPD applied all kinds of algorithms to them to find people—facial recognition, gait recognition, and more.

  “Gotta get this done before the other guys get back from lunch,” Officer Esposito said. “You got that thing for me?”

  Officer Coleman, Del’s partner, slipped an envelope from his sport jacket to Esposito, who slipped it into his desk drawer without taking his eyes off the video feeds. Coleman said, “Good to see you.”

  “Yeah, man. Been a while,” Esposito said. “And good to see you, too, Del. Say hi to your dad for me.”

  “And good thing your dad has fifty-yard-line season tickets to the Giants,” Del whispered to Coleman. To Esposito, she said, “Go back to the feed on Ninth. I think that has the best view. And rewind to eight p.m.”

  The images on the three monitors in front of them switched up and scrambled into reverse.

  “I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Coleman whispered to his partner.

  Del’s eyes remained on the screens. She said, “You want to make an omelet …”

  “We’re not breaking eggs. These are laws.”