Rotted Roots — Part 3: Contact is Lost
Ryder sat on a broken couch looking at a bank of phone booths in an empty lot on the outskirts of the city. An overpass above his head reflected the sounds of unseen violence and secret rendezvous occurring all around him. He flicked the card, still stiff despite his constant fondling, between two of his fingers.
Of the three parts to the card, the first had been the easiest to crack. When he had stepped out of the post office he pulled out his phone and searched the numbers 46.877186 and -96.789803. The result was a geographic coordinate outside of town. When he arrived there the rain had stopped but the cool dampness remained. The only things on the lot that wasn’t garbage were the payphones.
It followed that the ten numbers after the coordinates — 4442382866 — must have been a telephone number. But with close to two dozen phones there, it would take too long to punch the number into all of them. Saturday was in danger. His gut told him that. His gut also led him into trouble once too many times. This was going to be another.
The final piece of the message — MAY.DAY. — was what threw him the most. Ryder stood up from the decaying couch and walked to the antiquated landlines. He picked one up and was greeted with a dull hum of a dial tone. There had to be more to it than just a call for help. It was too obvious a message. The dots, breaking up the word into its components, also left him puzzled. He let the black receiver fall from his hand and paced through the mud around the phones.
Ryder thought. The mud squelched under his shoes as he thought. His eyes wandered and his fingers played with the card as he thought. His mind burrowed into this as if it were any other mystery he was hired to solve.
The graffiti didn’t stand out to him until he saw the heart. It was carved into the wood dividers and filled in with what looked like maroon nail polish. A few beads of rainwater shone in the faint glow from a nearby streetlight. Carved inside, and colored with a blue polish, was the message “Jude & MAY.” Beneath that was a message scrawled in silver sharpie — “What a futzing DAY.”
MAY.
DAY.
Ryder squeezed into the tiny booth and picked up the receiver. This time there was no dial tone to greet him. But he knew this was the place he needed to be. He punched in the number and waited.
After several seconds of emptiness, a whirring and buzzing came through. Static, not unlike a television, scratched at his ear drum. A final click silenced the noise.
“Maintenance.”
“I need to get in contact with someone.”
“Which of our services are you requesting?”
“It’s about Agent Saturday.”
A faint rumbling of voices came from the other end of the line. “I don’t think we have anyone on our staff by that name.”
“Look, I don’t know how all of this works, but he came to see me a few weeks ago and now I think he may be in trouble.”
“How did you get this number?”
“My name is Maxwell Ryder and I need someone to help sort out what Pierce Saturday was working on involving my family.”
Click. The line went dead again.
“Hello?” Ryder banged his receiver against the booth. “Hello?” There was no response. Ryder punched the telephone box and regretted the decision immediately. There was no one coming.
Ryder stepped out of the booth and pulled his jacket against him. A cold breeze kicked up over the empty lot. A tired-looking car with no hubcaps drove by. The faint thrum of a bass echoed from a housing complex. The receiver clicked against the divider in the wind. He thought of dialing again, but knew it would have been a waste. Instead he began walking back to his office.
It was only a handful of blocks until he got to a part of the city where he could hail another cab. As he walked he avoided the gaze of men and women wandering out from empty bars and shadowed alleys. He didn’t need any trouble. He was already in it.
His siblings had Saturday. It could be the only answer. Somehow they had found him out and kidnapped him — stashed him away somewhere after he had dropped off the note saying he was in trouble. If that were the case, the person who had been in the post office might have been working for Ethan and Sarah. Now they would know who Saturday was working with. He quickened his pace to get back to his apartment. If they did have him they’d let Ryder know soon enough.
Ryder was pulled so deep into his thoughts he didn’t see the men in cheap suits converging on him.
The first one jammed a Taser into his stomach, causing Ryder to double over against the electric charges pulsing through his body. Another smashed a blunt object — The butt of a gun? Brass Knuckles? — into the back of his skull which made Ryder’s knees give out. While he was on the ground trying to catch his breath a black mask was pulled over his head and plastic zip ties were fastened to his wrists. Someone roughly dug through his jacket and found the gun in his pocket. They tossed it into the street.
“You’re just gonna toss it out there?” asked one of the men. “What if someone finds it?”
“Just get him in the car,” replied another. “We have bigger problems.”
Ryder was blinded from the pain and the bag, so he didn’t see the van drive up alongside the group and stop beside them. Nor did he see the door slide open to reveal two other men in suits waiting inside to help pull him in. But he heard it.
The cold metal floor underneath him felt good against his burning skin. His mind tried to get him to kick out and fight in an effort to escape. But the cold floor felt good against his burning face. The back of head itched and it was driving him crazy.
“Alright, Mister Ryder,” said a voice in the darkness. The van jerked forward and sped off. “You’re going to tell us everything you know about Pierce Saturday.”
Ryder’s eyes clouded over. The floor felt nice and cool. He started to close his eyes…
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK…
Part 2: https://medium.com/the-assortment/rotted-roots-part-2-a-meeting-is-set-1c879ad163ee#.m5ejkesx1
