Dead Roots (The Analyst) (17 page)

Mr. Bailey frowned. He gave the pair of them a suspicious eye before looking back at Officer Dawes. “I'd like to know more about that.”

“I'll get you some printouts from the station,” Dawes offered with a smile. Tom coughed gently and kept his mouth shut.

Mr. Bailey paused for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. Just don't disturb my wife.”

“We won't, Morgan.”

Dawes stepped into the house behind Mr. Bailey, followed quickly by Tom and Artie. The door shut with a resounding click, and then there was silence again.

The interior was more or less what Tom was expecting. A shelf with all kinds of strange figurines and snow globes was on display in the entryway, the floors were lined with beige carpeting. From what he could tell, they were in a sitting room. There was some leather furniture arranged around a hearth with a low coffee table, on which were spread several books. To the left was a wooden stairway.

“I'll be in the den,” Mr. Bailey said quietly as he walked out of the room. “Susan's room is upstairs. Stay out of the study.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Bailey,” Dawes said firmly. With that, it was the three of them again.

“We need to check everywhere we can,” Tom said in a hushed tone.

“Morgan keeps the study locked,” Dawes sighed. “Some of our guys swept it months ago. There's nothing interesting.”

“We need to check
everywhere
we can.”

“I'll see if we can get you in there at some point, but you might want to focus on the kid's room and the grounds for today.”

“Okay. Show us Susan's room?”

Dawes wordlessly began ascending the stairs. Tom and Artie followed. Tom mused that the only sound for miles may have been their footsteps against the hardwood.

They turned right into a long hallway. Susan's room was at the end of the hall. Tom went first, gingerly turning the handle and taking a deep breath.

There was no immediate sign that anything supernatural had occurred here. The room had pale floral pattern wallpaper, and little furniture. A double bed dominated the far corner. Next to the bed was a mahogany desk with a switched-off computer. A mobile of various exotic birds hung from the ceiling, and the bed displayed a family of neatly arranged stuffed animals. A bookshelf and the door to a small closet were the only other things to note.

“Not much to work with. I take it there's been a sweep through here,” Tom remarked.

“That's the weird thing. There was no sign of intrusion anywhere in the house. This room is exactly the way it was when we checked it in February.”

Tom swallowed. He nodded gently and stepped carefully into the room, pulling out his cellphone and switching it to camera mode. Artie did the same.

“You mind giving us a minute, officer? Small room.”

“Go right ahead, boys. I'll be downstairs keeping the Baileys happy.”

Dawes stepped out of the room with a nod and shut the door. Tom's mind began to work as soon as he heard the doorknob click.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Check the bed for residue. I'll see if the computer is password protected.”

“On it.”

Tom pushed the power button the computer and waited. The computer was serviceable, but not particularly fast. He folded his arms and looked over at Artie, who was running his hand along the bed's quilt.

“Nothing jumping out at me. I'll keep digging.”

“Go deep. The room's cold but there's got to be something.”

Tom rubbed his hands together as the computer finished booting up. To his surprise, there was no password required.

“I'm gonna sweep the emails and the browser history.”

“Pervert,” Artie said with a chuckle.

“Fuck off, it's S.O.P.”

“Yeah I know. Correspondence and whatnot?”

“Victim always researches mental disorders and psychotic episodes. If there are letters from a local shrink, then there may as well be ectoplasm all over the walls.”

“Ectoplasm's not actually a thing, dude,” Artie said glibly as he looked over a stuffed panda bear.

“Figure of speech.”

Tom sat down at the desk and shifted uncomfortably in the diminutive chair. He started by opening the web browser. He found bank balance checks, and emails from the previous week. The computer had been recently used.  Tom wondered if this was the only one in the house.

Tom pulled down the browser history and selected the option for 'Show All'. He clapped his hands together.

“Perfect. Old folks, no idea how to clear their history.”

“Or no reason to. Not everyone has to hide horse porn from the wife, Tom.”

“Hardy fuck har.”

Tom rifled through the history, finding the command to go back to previous months. He happened upon several links to a web-based mail client in the month of February. Clicking on one, he was prompted for a password.

“Password. Can you get me through this?”

“I could,” Artie said, by this point having thrown off the sheets to the bed, checking underneath the mattress. “Or you could go into the free email client that came with the computer, since the old folks are pretty much guaranteed to use that, and any psychiatrist's emails will be sent to the parents, not the minor.”

“Good thinking. You think they're the kind of people who would take her to a therapist?”

“Fuckin' hope so, but we're pretty deep in Bible country, after all.”

Tom minimized the window and hunted for the email client. He found it sitting on the desktop. Once opened, it looked like it had been recently cleared. There were only a few emails sitting there. Tom grunted in frustration, but then scrolled down and widened his eyes hopefully.

“Think I found something.”

“Read it out to me.”

Tom clicked on the subject title.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Susan Bailey diagnosis

Date: 25/01/2011

Body:

Hello Mr. and Mrs. Bailey

we are praying for your daughter every day and hope that soon we can see some lasting results.

i have enclosed the recommendation from my wife julia for the psychotherapist in charlestown to use at your discretion. whatever you decide I hope that we will be seeing susan again.

i have also enclosed the contact information for Rev. Hugh Hunter. he is a professional faith healer and i am sure that his fees could be waived for an important community member such as yourself. he is a bit closer to orchard than the city as well.

upon reflection, the experiences your daughter are describing sound typical of a haunting in your home rather than any sort of possession... this may come as a relief to you or it may not!!!!

hope to hear from you again soon

regards,

Lawrence Marcus

Pastor & pediatrician

West Virginia Christian Health Alliance

“Think they saw the exorcist?” Artie piped up.

“There's an invoice here from one Hugh Hunter... dated February the tenth. Right before the disappearance. Why didn't we hear about this sooner?”

“Tons of exorcists in this state,” Artie said matter-of-factly. He had turned his attention underneath the bed itself. “All but a few of them totally unqualified. They show up and read a few verses and shout a lot, and that's about the extent of it. None of the department's people or anyone belonging to a DPSD-sanctioned organization operates much further than fifty miles out of Charlestown. They make the trip when it's necessary, but there's so many false reports coming in from spooked Fundies that it's usually not worth the trouble.”

“There might be some good stuff on here. You got your flash drive?”

“Duh.”

“Okay, copy the emails and the document folders. Give it a once-over when we don't have the locals waiting downstairs.”

“Sure. I'm not getting any vibes from this room anyway.”

Tom stood up from the computer. Artie took his place, bending over to plug his small USB stick into the front of the PC. While he waited, Tom took another glance around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. He was about to reach for a cigarette, then thought better of it.

Tom knelt down next to the low bookshelf, and ran his finger across the spines idly. A Bible; some fantasy novels; a couple of classics. Tom raised an eyebrow as he came across a particular volume. He pulled it out.

“Huh. Good taste.”

“Huh?” Artie said, looking up from the computer screen.

“
At the Mountains of Madness & Other Tales of the Strange.
H.P. Lovecraft,” Tom said with a grin. “One of my favorite books as a kid. I had an old copy of this.”

“Huh. Can't imagine the parents were too happy about that one.”

“Yeah. Weird that it's on the shelf, and not in the closet or something.”

Tom ran his finger over the jacket idly. He flicked the dog-eared corner before placing it back on the shelf and turning to the closet.

He pulled open the door slowly. A strange jet of cool air wafted out at him, making him scratch his nose.

The closet was empty. There was a shelf above Tom's head, with nothing on it. The clothing rack was barren. Something did catch his attention, however: the carpet, and the wall close to the floor, were caked in some kind of dirt. He knelt down for a closer look.

“Is this... mildew?”

Tom ran his finger across the wall and the carpet. A small black smudge stayed with his fingertip. The carpet was rotten with it. The drywall was slightly soft, spongy, to the touch. Tom couldn't see any condensation. Whatever had been there was long gone.

“What do you make of this?” Tom said. Artie got up and nudged Tom out of the way. He knelt down and planted his palm firmly on the blackened carpet, running his fingertips across it with interest.

“You find something?”

“It's... it's too old to tell. I'm getting just a faint... hum. Not even a whisper. Just a throb.”

“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.