Dead Roots (The Analyst) (4 page)

“So because you took that pill, Aki could come out and take this whole plane down?”

“I said it was possible, not that it was probable.”

“We have to turn around.”

“No, we don't.”

“We can't risk—”

“I am already on the plane, Mr. Bell.”

“Fuck your phobia. You're risking lives.”

“Is it peoples' lives you are worried about, or your own?”

“
What.
”

“Sit down and relax, Tom,” Keda said with a sigh. They made it to their seats. Keda slipped into his like a liquid and put on his seat belt. Tom was still staring Keda down, a hand resting on the seat back in front of him as he glared. Keda looked up at him.

“Sit down, Tom,” Keda repeated.

“Tell me why I should sit down on this plane with you.”

“I will be awake the entire flight, reading, Tom. Aki will not escape. We will have a pleasant flight, and by tomorrow you will be free of me. Can you trust me for twelve hours?”

“Right now I don't know if I can trust you for twelve seconds.”

“Sit down, Tom.”

Keda drew his new book from his bag and stashed the satchel under the seat in front of him. He relaxed into his own seat, and the conversation was over.

For all his bluster, Tom really had no choice. He had to be here—but he didn't have to like it.

As the plane rumbled and he felt himself sink back into his seat, for the umpteenth time that day Tom would have killed for a smoke.

********

Tommy awoke around three in the morning, like usual. He was thirsty, so he thought he'd go get a glass of water.

He climbed out of bed, pulling up the hem of his pajama pants and stepping over his discarded t-shirt. By the light of the street lamp peeking through his room's venetian blinds, he looked over at the small TV set in front of his bed, excitedly remembering the game console hooked up to it. It was three A.M. on Saturday. He could get in an hour or two of playing and then go back to bed. Nobody would know the difference.

The door to his room creaked loudly. He left it open as he crept out into the hallway, careful not to make too much noise on the old hardwood floor. Once he got downstairs, however, it was all carpet. A loud pop sound startled him, but he quickly calmed down. Just the house settling.

In the kitchen, he felt around in the dark. He turned on the tap over the sink and waited to feel the cool water overflow onto his hands. When it finally happened, he gasped, dropping the glass into the sink with a loud CLUNK. He stepped back from the counter top. It wasn't the water on his hands that had surprised him—it was the water on his feet.

He pressed his foot into the tile. Water surrounded the soles of his feet now. He wasn't sure what he had done, but he needed to get back to his room, and fast. Between the noise in the sink, and the rising water now flowing from under the kitchen counter, his possibility of not being blamed for this was growing increasingly slim. To make things worse, as he grabbed his glass of water and hurried out of the kitchen, the tile floor felt almost spongy underneath him. Something was really wrong in here, and it sure wasn't going to be his fault.

Mopsie started barking from the living room. Tommy hushed her as loudly as he could without making the situation worse. It wasn't helping. He crawled over the couch and put his arms around the Husky, putting one hand around her muzzle. She growled through it, looking up the stairs to the second floor.

“Be quiet,” Tommy said soothingly. “Be quiet or we're gonna get in trouble…”

Mopsie quieted down to a low growl, one which threatened to erupt back into a bark at any moment. Tommy held her mouth shut. She shifted her head around in annoyance and gave a small bark. Tommy had to get back upstairs before Mopsie woke his parents. He crawled back over the couch, sneaking a peek over his shoulder at Mopsie.

“Bad dog,” he growled. Mopsie, silent now, stared back at him. Their eyes locked together for a long moment before Mopsie turned around and left the living room in silence.

“Tommy? Is that you?”

Busted. Tommy resisted the urge to say a bad word under his breath.

“Yeah, Mom,” Tommy called back up in defeat. “I was thirsty. I'm sorry I woke you up.”

“Come upstairs, Tommy.”

“Is Dad angry?”

There was a long pause.

“Come upstairs, Tommy.”

 Tommy ascended the stairs with one hand on the bannister. By the time he reached the second floor, he realized something was off.

“Come in here, Tommy.”

The voice was coming from the left side of the stairs, behind the door to his room, instead of the right, down the hallway to his parents' bedroom.

“Mom? Are you in my room?”

“Yes,” her voice rang back. It was reserved and unusually low, like she wasn't feeling good—like she had one of her migraines.

“Are you okay, Mom? Why are you in my room?”

The door to Tommy's room was closed.

“I'm okay, Tommy. Come here.”

Why does she keep saying that?

Tommy turned the doorknob and stepped into his room. There was nobody there.

“Mom? Where
are
you?”

“In here.”

The voice came from his closet. He shut his creaky door behind him.

“...Are you in the
closet?
”

“Come here, Tommy.”

He flipped the light switch, and found it didn't work. The room remained in darkness. His breathing quickened with anxiety. He heard his mother's familiar groan from behind the closet door on the other side of the room.

“Turn the light off, Tommy. Mommy has a headache.”

“The light's not working, Mom.”

“Turn it off... turn it off, Tommy.”

“The light's
out,
Mom.”

He approached the closet. He wasn't very tall, and the door loomed over him like a skyscraper. He looked down vainly at the floor under his feet. It felt cool and slightly damp, like clay, like the tiles in the kitchen had felt.

“Mom, what's going on?”

“Come in here, Tommy,” her voice repeated from behind the closet door. As scared as he was, his mom would be able to explain everything. He reached for the door handle.

“Turn the light off, Tommy. Mommy has a headache.”

“It
is off,”
Tommy insisted in frustration. He wrenched the closet door open.

Tommy dropped his glass onto the floor. It cracked and shattered. Stepping back from the closet, he cried out and fell onto the ground, holding his cut foot in pain.

Even though it was dark, he saw it. A great, thick, mottled thing filled up his closet, and with how tall the closet door was, he could see almost the whole thing. The ground underneath him was cold and wet, not like clay, he now realized, but like soil. A tree had taken root in his closet—a huge tree with red, ugly bark, like raw muscle or irritated skin. Through the open door, branches now grew out and up against the door frame, spreading like veins across the ceiling of his room. He crawled backwards, staring up, and seeing that the trunk of the tree expanded and shrunk as if it was breathing.

“Tommy, turn off the
light...
”

“
Mom…
”

“Tommy, Mommy has a headache.”

His heart sunk into his chest, and he grabbed at it to make sure it was still there. From one of the branches extending from the closet, a head hung upside down on a red rope, the hair reaching down to the floor. It was his mother's. Her mouth hung open, groaning loudly. It floated down towards him as the thick branch grew longer.

“Mommy has a headache, Tommy!
Turn off the light!”

2

“Keda”

Tom awoke, less with a start than at top speed, clumsily shaking himself aware. The plane's engine around him was like a dull roar reverberating across all of existence. His hand flapped around as he came to and breathed in, hard.

 He stood up sharply. The other passengers were sleeping, making it a clean stumble to the lavatory. He snapped the door shut behind him and clutched his head, sitting down heavily on the closed toilet seat. One hand flew to his chest and the other smacked the surface of the sink repeatedly. He was still one foot in his nightmare, unable to focus on anything around him.

“Nightmare,” he said to himself slowly. “Just a dream. I'm just--
agh.
”

He turned on the sink, putting his hand under the water and burying his head against his shoulder. He babbled to himself while he slowly returned to lucidity. Very gradually, his breathing returned to normal. It was another few minutes before his heart rate was anything resembling calm again.

He stood up hesitantly, turning around and unzipping his pants to relieve his bladder. The image of his mother's face returned to him. He shook his head heavily.

Unlatching the bathroom door, Tom half expected to step into his old bedroom, but thankfully-- or not, as the case may have been-- he was still up in the air. He walked gingerly back to his seat and settled down in it, taking deep breaths.

Tom pulled out the personal television built into his seat. He hunted for something decent. Some Seinfeld reruns would do for the time being. While fishing around for his shitty little thin plastic headphones, he noticed Keda was sitting up straight. He was stiff as a board with his hands cupped in his lap. Was he asleep?

“Hey,” Tom said. Nothing. He reached over and pushed him on the shoulder. “Hey, Keda... Shinichiro.”

Keda's eyes fluttered open. He turned his head and his mouth curled up into his abiding smile.

“Yes, Tom?”

“Were you asleep?”

“Regretfully, no. I cannot sleep until after Aki has left me. We have not been together long enough for that measure of control.”

“What happens if you do?”

“I lose control, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Tom shifted uncomfortably. He was putting his headphones on as Keda continued.

“Is something troubling you?”

“Bad dream. Nothing major.”

“Oh, dear... I apologize.”

“Not your fault.”

“No, it may well have been. Aki is... unusually insistent.”

“What are you saying?” Tom asked, frowning.

“He may have reached out to you, while your guard was down. Do you have nightmares often?”

Tom screwed up his mouth. Great, he wasn't getting much sleep either, it looked like.

“I thought you had it under control.”

“He is not affecting the other passengers, as far as I'm aware. You, on the other hand, he must have... seen an opening. Do you have these dreams regularly?”

Tom sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, sometimes. Usually it's not a big deal but some nights it just... sneaks up on me, I guess.”

“Again, I apologize. Go back to sleep, Tom.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it. I will make sure he doesn't get to you again.”

“You're doing a great fucking job.”

Keda sighed, his eyes closing again. Tom was left in solitude, pulling the headphones on. He checked his watch: six hours to go...

'The Land of the Rising Sun' felt an appropriate nickname as the plane began to descend. The dawn was breaking over the Tokyo sprawl. Tom, stuck as he was in his center row seat, could only catch fleeting looks at anything other than the sky as the plane dipped and tilted, and what he could catch in this light was little more than dark grey concrete jungle, broken up by dashes and hairlines of color from cars, streetlights and logos.

“You shouldn't be so glum,” Keda said suddenly. Tom turned, frowning.

“Who’s glum?”

“You've been opposed to this assignment from the start, Mr. Bell,” Keda said matter-of-factly. He peered down the aisles of the plane. “Breakfast soon,” he said.

“Hrm. Airline food.”

“It's better than starving.”

“I think I have a right to be pissed off,” Tom said, reverting to the previous subject. “Escorts aren't my line of work, and I'm supposed to be on recuperation leave now.”

“I think you underestimate Japanese hospitality,” Keda said. His face brightened at the appearance of a young flight attendant pushing a heavy cart full of foil-covered meals and coffee. “Have you ever been to Japan?”

“Nope.”

“And we have two nights, do we not?”

“That long? Ugh.”

“You are very pessimistic,” Keda said, nodding his head in a knowing way, with that God damn smile of his. Tom didn't like it.

“Like I said, I'm supposed to be on leave.”

“Let me explain how this works,” Keda said. He pulled down the tray from the seat in front of him. Tom did the same, resting his elbows on it. “Once we arrive, we will be taken to a nice hotel. I will be given a few hours to prepare my body for the exorcism. During that time, you can sleep, or do whatever you want.”

“Hang on. This is different from how they do it in the states?”

“Very. For me, this will be something of a vacation.”

“The last time I went on an escort, we had to drive for seven hours and then they just shuffled us straight out of the truck and into a basement.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“I had to stay and observe the area for a day, but after that my relief arrived. They picked me up and shipped me back home in the middle of sitting down to lunch.”

“The Americans are a very cautious, paranoid people, Tom. I say this without malice or judgment, for a great deal of it is perfectly warranted.”

“Right. It's not paranoia…”

“If people are actually out to get you, exactly right. Many of my fellow Mediums are very exhausted by their work in America, and for a great many of them the compensation is little solace.”

“They're not paid enough?”

“Right again. The American approach to these exorcisms is to get the Medium to their destination, quickly expel the aberration with as little fuss and subtlety as possible, and then get all traces of the DPSD out of the area once it's been shown to be secure. Why do you think that is?”

“Because these things are dangerous and people can't know about them.”

“Your answer is telling. Accurate nonetheless-- but in Japan, there is a fundamental distinction.”