Project REDWOOD: Part 1

A Deadly Premonition Fan Novelization
CHAPTERS 00-05
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CHAPTER 00: RED ROOM
TIME AND LOCATION: ???
WEATHER REPORT: ???
FORTUNE: "Expectations are premeditated resentments."

Red.  All around me, red.  Red leaves under my feet, red leaves fluttering through the air.  I'm standing in a crimson clearing, red trees as far as the eye can see.  Various pieces of furniture of no particular style or era are scattered around me in a rough circle, lit by a crystal chandelier suspended from nothingness and the uneasy glow of a television screen off to my left.  A closed door made of some cold, dark substance stands isolated in its frame, without floor or ceiling to support it.

And in the center of all this, two little boys dressed in white robes, white wings and haloes sit whispering endlessly to each other as if I'm not there.

Or am I here, Zach?  Where are we?

Zach?

Remember when we dissected that rat in biology class?  That was quite an experience.  The formaldehyde should have rendered the corpse bloodless, but I remember cutting it open and seeing its heart, still beating, bright red.  That's what this room reminds me of, Zach: A beating heart, holding me in its rhythmic pulse, like being back in the womb.

It'd almost be soothing, if it weren't for that creepy stuffed deer head mounted on the mantelpiece over there.  

As I watch, the head turns and regards me silently, as if waiting for me to do something.  As if on cue, one of the twins speaks up in a clear, ringing voice, and I notice for the first time that they are not exactly the same: One of them is glowing faintly blue, and the other gives off a soft green light.  Aside from this, their sandy brown hair, their eyes, their mannerisms, are exactly alike.

"Could you wait just a little longer?" one of them implores me.  

"It will begin soon..." says the other.

Their smiles are identical.  I shrug.  Waiting implies the expectation of future events, and when time is meaningless, there is no future and thus no expectation.  You taught me that once, Zach.  I thought it was pretty deep.   A clock on the mantelpiece below the deer head seems to agree with our theory, spinning its hands around at impossible speeds as if driven mad for lack of purpose.  I turn away and begin to examine some of the paraphernalia on the table next to me.

...Hmm, interesting.  A map of the United States of America, with a strange symbol repeated in red over various states.  Over here, standing on Washington, a little plastic doll of a jolly-looking fat man in coveralls and yellow flannel.  

Make anything of this, Zach?

Yeah, me neither.

Just as I make a move to pick up the doll to examine it further, the twins speak again.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the blue angel says.

"It's about time to get started," the green angel says.

The black door opens silently on its hinges.  Beyond it, a thick purple cloud billows and swirls ominously, threatening to spill out of the frame at any moment.  Obviously we're meant to go through it.  Red leaves crunch as I step towards it, not hesitating for a moment.  I don't know what the significance of this is yet, Zach, and I'm sure you don't either.  But I figure we're not going to find out by hanging around any longer than we have to.

So, let's get out of here.  The murder took place out in the country this time, Zach.  We'll take it slow.

The door beckons, the deer head nods.  One step, and we're out.  The twins are laughing in unison.  Then the door shuts behind us, and all is silent...

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CHAPTER 01: MEET AND GREET
TIME: 5:36, mountain highway
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy rain and thunderstorms
FORTUNE: "Tomorrow, you'll arrive in a place that will change your fate."

"...Sure, that's one way of looking at it.  But your theory is totally flawed."

Francis York Morgan, FBI Special Agent, powers his custom-built Ford Mustang through the rain-slick mountain roads, as if the perils of driving at such speeds up here are the product of some parallel dimension where death is a dim possibility at best.  The fact that his focus is currently divided across three distinct pieces of technology- the steering wheel of his car, the laptop sitting open on the seat beside him, and the cell phone lodged between his head and shoulder- is further indication that his attention has gone where roads cannot follow.

"...Listen, it's called "inter-dependency".   They both need each other.  ...Yeah, he does terrible things to Tom... Nasty, sadistic things.  But have you ever considered that might just be what Tom wants?"

While York peers ahead into the sheet of rain, his right hand reaches down to the laptop's keyboard as if under orders from a power higher than its owner.  The screen calls up images of bright red splatters on walls, carpets, expensive furniture.  People sprawled with dark stains on their clothes, dark smears around their mouths, eyes staring at nothing.  They are photos taken from the scenes of many crimes, too many, all depicting the same unhappy ending.

"Think about Tom's actions.  He's always asking for it.  It's his partner's job to fulfill that need, and Jerry knows it."

One photo in particular shows a handful of small, elongated pods, the seeds of some sort of plant, scattered across a hardwood surface.  They, too, are the color of blood.  There is nothing in these photos, even the black and white ones, that is not ultimately related to the color of blood.

The cell phone conversation continues above the escalating intensity of the storm.

"You want proof?  Well, first of all, they're a cat and a mouse.  Yet they continue to live with each other.  If that's not conclusive proof of a mutual relationship, then I- Hello?  Hello!"

Agent York pulls the now silent phone away from his ear, shakes his head.  "Zach, l can't believe the bureau still can't get me a satellite phone," he mutters, reaching into the glove compartment.  

After a moment's rummaging, he pulls out a plastic evidence bag, holds it up to his face.  Three red seeds lie at the bottom.  York knows they are not quite as innocuous as they look, though some of his colleagues might beg to differ.

"Looks like these puppies are making me go all the way out to the boondocks again," he sighs.  "Well, I'll be a happy camper, even if it ends up being a waste of time.  What do you think, Zach?  It'll be nice to get out of the cramped city for a while."

There is a pause.  Then York says, "No, I doubt this'll be anything like our last case.  There won't be any Catwoman wannabes with razors laced into their nails out here, at least I hope not."

He winces at the memory, then laughs, resisting the urge to glance at himself in the mirror.  He doesn't need to look, anyway, he knows what he'll see: Close-cropped dark hair, green eyes, fairly symmetrical features.  Maybe a bit of stubble; he's been driving almost non-stop for the last day and a half.  The scar running from his left temple down to his eye is a new feature, though.

"At least I have a war wound to show off.  It's kind of a badge of honor, in some circles."  He digs out a pack of cigarettes, eyes flitting from the road to the laptop screen.  "Crazy.  Just crazy..."

Thunder rumbles in the near distance.  York reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a lighter.  He had bought it very innocently from a gift shop somewhere, years ago, during one of his first assignments.  Only later did he notice the red non-smoking symbol printed on one side, someone's ironic joke, no doubt.  Since then, he's treasured it far longer than a cheap plastic lighter ought to be.

"Women... " York mumbles around the unlit cigarette in his mouth.  "They're crazy.  Don't you agree, Zach?"  The lighter won't work, no matter how hard he flicks the wheel.  He tries technique over force, putting a bit of fancy whipping action into his wrist.  The lighter stays dead.

Just as York turns his head to give it a reproachful glance, something dark and hulking in the middle of the road catches the light of his high beams and snaps his attention forward like a football being put into play.  It looms for a few seconds in his windshield, a stocky red form with glowing eyes, and that's all the first impressions York can make before he wrenches the steering wheel sideways and sends his car off the side of the road and into the dark forest below.

Branches snap across the hood of the Mustang, punishment for this violent incursion into their leafy territory.  York struggles for control, lips still clamped around his cigarette.  He feels like he might have a chance of slowing down before he feels something slamming into him from below, then a slow-motion vertigo in his gut as his car flips upside down and slides several feet down the mountain with its tires spinning helplessly in the air.  Finally, a treet trunk halts its momentum with a crunch of metal on wood.

A short interval ensues, in which a family of squirrels whose lives had been endangered by the thundering impact of York's' car scamper towards the wreckage, chattering angrily.  Then they are gone, and the rain continues to fall.

A few seconds later, the car's interior lights dutifully activate as the passenger side door is flung open, the driver's side having been blocked by a fallen log.  The laptop gets pushed out first, landing with a wet plop, then the cell phone; finally, York himself crawls out into the mud and darkness of his Mustang's final resting place.  Of all the casualties, York is the least harmed.  And, hey, now the lighter is working!  York smiles grimly and puts it away without using it.  He's already soaked to the bone, and it's not even time for breakfast yet.

After a brief eulogy for his car (the phone and the laptop get nothing; neither York nor Zach has any special sentiment towards these particular machines), York starts walking.  In a matter of minutes, he finds himself on what looks like a crude pathway through the forest.  His direction is confirmed when he encounters a wooden road sign, the letters worn and faded but still announcing his arrival into "G... RE... N... V... LE."  He is on the right track.

"I don't want to count my blessings too quickly, Zach, but I'd say this is a pretty good stroke of fortune.  We didn't even need coffee to make it happen, either-"

York's ebullience is cut short by a strangled yelp, somewhere off to his right.  York freezes, listening.  His gun has somehow made it to his hand without his noticing, and now the yelps are getting louder, more protracted, until abruptly, they stop.  There is a slight rustle of movement, then the sounds of the rain rise up to cover any lesser noises.  York advances around a bend in the path, gun held at the ready.  He can feel Zach nudging him forward, a comforting pressure; the danger must have passed for now.  Still, there was something unnatural about the regularity of those screams...
  
Lightning flashes.  The split-second illumination reveals a dead dog lying across the path, rivulets of blood mixing with the rain and dirt at York's feet.

"Zach!  Look at this!"  It's a harsh whisper, York's composure beginning to fray slightly.  It's not the corpse that bothers him, or even the idea that the killer might be in close proximity to his own; no, there is something else going on here, something connected to his current assignment.  York feels the connections winding deep into his bones, deeper even than the black chill of the weather, and he knows Zach feels it too.

Still, the middle a storm is no place to do a profiling.  York hurries onwards, slipping slightly in the undergrowth choking the path.  Something strange about the plants here, York thinks; in the dim beam of his flashlight, they look almost like red tendrils.  Perhaps it's some foreign strain that somehow made it to America, and is now intent on blotting out the local flora.  York's no botanist, but he's read articles on the subject.  Amazing stuff.

Zach rings alarm bells in his head; preoccupied, York has almost run right past the dilapidated shack standing desolately in the clearing to his left, wire fences criss-crossing the area.  He takes quick stock of the place.  There's a generator inside, still functional, and a door in the fence with an electronic lock.  Automated doors, a sure sign of the civilized world!  Zach shares York's renewed enthusiasm for Project Get-the-hell-out-of-Spookywood, and neither of them notice the lone figure shuffling up the path towards them as York huddles next to the generator, flipping switches and turning dials with his back to the open door.

"This is a pretty fancy set-up for such a small town, Zach, but I think I can get it to unlock.  Why would they build such an elaborate barrier around here, anyway?  Maybe it's bear proof, or something.  Anyway, it's not like we're dealing with HAL 9000 here, although that would be incredible.  Imagine, being able to talk directly to that fence outside.  We could have simply asked it to open up for us, without all this button-pushing.  Though, we both know how that movie ended, so maybe this is the better method for humanity's sake.  Still, nobody ever cares about the fence's opinion of things.  Think of the questions we could ask it.  Zach, what would you ask the fence if you had the cha-"

Something falls off a shelf behind him and clatters to the floor.  Startled, York turns around.  There's a woman standing in the open door, as drenched as he is, long dark hair falling forward over her downturned face.  She's wearing a floral print dress, the thin fabric sticking to her pale limbs and revealing intimate details of her body that York would be embarrassed to catch sight of in public.  But here, in these dark, pre-dawn woods, it's clear she needs help.  

Her arms are covered in mud, so it takes York a moment to realize that some of the dark streaks are wounds, deep gashes cut into her flesh.  He stands up, hand extended in concern, until she raises her face and tries to bite him with a toothless maw that is nothing more than a bloody Muppet-like gap where her lips should be.

York stumbles back against the generator, pistol aimed between his would-be attacker's gaping eye sockets.  Zach tells him now would be a good time to shoot, so he shoots, the woman's head rolling loosely on her shoulders, absorbing the impact.  She starts moving towards him, writhing unpleasantly and flinging drops of purplish goo everywhere, a hideous moan emerging from the depths of that ragged excuse for a face.  It's harder than it should be to draw a bead on her; something about her movements, so unnatural, it's like she's sliding between mirrored plates.  He puts another bullet down her throat and suddenly, as if he'd activated a switch inside her, the moans turn into English:

"I dooooon't waaaaant to diiiiie," the woman-thing seems to howl, before she falls flailing to the ground, black tar dribbling from her mouth.  Her body heaves without any coherent rhythm until it is consumed by a dark purple mist that bubbles over her without warning.  Eventually, this too fades away.

A smell lingers in the air that York is unable to describe within the current limits of human language.  He puts two fingers to his temple and closes his eyes, willing his pulse rate to drop to manageable levels.

"Zach.  That was no Catwoman, but it definitely takes the cake for one of the crazier things that have happened to us on assignment.  It's the first time I've been attacked so directly...  What do you think that was?"

York stands there with his hand raised, then drops it and sighs.  "Never mind, don't answer.  Life is fun because of the mysteries, right, Zach?  It's like putting ketchup on your pancakes.  Nobody expects it."

He slams his palm down on the generator console without looking.  Somewhere, out in the downpour, a red light turns green.  York reloads with practiced efficiency, then steps back out under a gradually lightening sky.  He feels strangely lightheaded, almost exhilarated, as the metal door blocking the way to his destination slides open, revealing the way.

Once on the other side of the fence, he comes across a similar sign, this one protected from the elements by a small wooden enclosure.  On this one, the letters are clear.

"'Welcome to Greenvale'," York reads aloud.  "Sounds like a victory, Zack.  And first prize is a hot shower and warm hotel bed.  Let's get going!"

He holsters the gun and begins walking rapidly, but without too much hurry, towards the growing light between the trees.  The purple smell has evaporated from his nostrils, replaced with the heavy gray odor of wet soil and vegetation.  Even his encounter with the dead dog seems far away now, like the dead cell phone lying in the mud at the site of his accident.  He can't help but grin at his unwarranted good mood, and picks up his pace.

Somewhere off the path a bird begins to sing, prematurely, in advance of the end of the storm.  Soon, the rain, too, will become a fine mist and seep back into the earth.

________________________

CHAPTER 02: BRIDGE PARTY
TIME: 07:36, bridge into town
WEATHER REPORT: Overcast, light showers
FORTUNE: "You will meet your destiny on one bridge, and burn two."

Deputy Sheriff Emily Wyatt is sitting in the passenger seat of a police van parked on the side of the bridge, wishing she had some music to listen to, when she spots someone walking towards her about a hundred yards away. She squints through the light drizzle, the remains of what had been an all-out thunderstorm just twenty minutes ago, then snorts when she realizes that this must be the man they've been waiting for. She jumps out and leans against the side of the car with her arms folded, trying to make an impression despite the water seeping into her uniform.

"Well, you are very late," she says as the man approaches her, looking bedraggled but walking with an easy, untroubled step. "I didn't think you'd keep us waiting in the rain for so long."

To her amazement, the guy pulls his badge and flashes it in her face. "FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan," he recites with rapid precision. "Please, call me York. That's what everyone calls me."

Emily hesitates under this sudden onslaught of syllables. "Agent... York?"

The man doesn't smile, but seems pleased anyway. "Good, that's good. Are you the sheriff?"

"Ah, no, I'm the deputy. George is the sheriff. He went looking for you, actually. Come to think of it, I should radio in and let him know you're here-"

"I'd appreciate that." He turns abruptly away from her and stares out at the river flowing under the bridge, its banks partially submerged due to the torrential rainfall over the past few hours. Emily isn't the sort of person that gets easily flustered, or at least she'd like to think so, but she's not quite sure what to make of this... situation. She calls George, an activity that is over all too soon, and then she is alone on the bridge with Agent York.

"If you don't mind me asking, Agent, ah, York... Did you walk all the way here? You're soaking wet."

"My car broke down."

After it becomes obvious that he isn't going to elaborate, Emily gives up the small talk. The two of them stand there on the bridge, like two ghosts unaware of each other's presence. The silence seems unbearably awkward to Emily, but she also realizes that the feeling is probably one-sided. York seems perfectly content to stand there and stare into space, lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed.

As they wait, she sneaks sidelong glances at him, even though she could probably be breathing down his neck and he wouldn't notice. His suit is rumpled and muddy, and there's a weird smell coming off him in waves; not exactly unpleasant, both foreign and familiar at the same time. Physically he looks like one of any number of men she could have passed on the streets of her former neighborhood in Seattle without a second thought; haircut a conservative trim, average build, perhaps a bit broad in the shoulders. His eyes, gazing out at the river, are the only really remarkable thing about him: They are strangely intense, the only clue that there might be something else going on behind his mild exterior. And the facial scar, of course. It raises questions in her that she doubts she will ever have the opportunity to ask.

Otherwise, though, he seems like a bland, overbearing urban type, just who George had predicted would show up. The way he pushed that badge in her face- Yeesh. She's had enough of that kind of man from her father.

Mercifully, George arrives on the scene to rescue Emily from York's conversational purgatory. Unfortunately it all goes downhill from there.

"I'm George Woodman. Sheriff of Greenvale," George introduces himself. He blinks when York practically shoves his badge up George's nose.

"FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Please, just call me York. It's what everyone calls me."

Emily tries to hide her incredulity. George already looks pissed. He starts stalking around York, as if the agent were a deer whose head might look good on his office wall.

"Mind telling me why the FBI is so interested in a small town homicide?" George growls. "Your supervisor was a little short on the details."

"Let's just say I've got a personal interest in killers of young women, " York replies, seemingly oblivious to the hostility mounting around him. "I'm always looking for new sample cases to help me with my profiling. You know what that is, don't you?"

Emily and George look at each other with raised eyebrows. York goes on without waiting for a response.

"My presence here has been cleared with both our superiors. You can remain in charge, for now. I hope this isn't a problem for you."

"No, no problem," George says, every facial tic expressing the contrary. "I just want to get one thing straight. I'll admit, our small town has its share of troubles. I've been working here for years, fixing them one by one, maintaining peace and order. You can have your profiling sample, but I need you to understand this: You aren't from around here. You don't know Greenvale like we do."

He nods at Emily, who feels a sort of pride, united with George against this common interloper. It makes her feel like she's a part of something big; even though she's been a Greenvale deputy for almost three years now, sometimes it's like she still doesn't belong. It's been this way every since she was young, even back in Seattle among her friends and family. But next to Agent York, she's a perfect fit.

George continues lecturing. "That's the kind of knowledge that a couple of days, even weeks or months, won't buy. You won't get very far if you don't follow our lead."

York lights a cigarette, exhales cancerous smoke into the clear mountain air. Emily wrinkles her nose; George just scowls.

"Of course, of course." York nods cordially, then changes the subject. "Oh, by the way, George, I had a little... accident with my car. Could you send someone to take care of it? My clothes and luggage are still inside."

George looks annoyed at this unannounced shift in tone. "Yeah. Don't worry. I'll get my assistant Thomas to take care of it."

They start heading towards the van. George puts the vehicle between himself and York and calls across the hood, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Thanks. That'll be all. I'll rest up at the hotel, and then I can join you on your investigation."

To Emily, he makes it sound like a proposition to become a member of their weekend paintballing team. Like it's a sport. George can't seem to resist; he snaps, "Don't know how to say this, but we really don't need your help, Agent Morgan. I don't know what kind of corrupt incompetence you have to put up with every day in the big city, but out here, we play it by the book. I hope you'll come to appreciate that."

Agent York says nothing, expressionless. George leans back, getting comfortable with his scorn.

"Just let us handle the investigation. Relax, take it easy. You don't have to be a damn tree hugger to enjoy the nature around these parts. Think of it as a vacation."

With that, George gets behind the wheel, and Emily rides shotgun. They wait for York to climb into the back, humbled by George's words, but instead he stands motionless outside the van, two fingers to his temples, apparently deep in thought. Emily can't be sure, but it looks like his lips are moving.

Half a minute passes. Feeling George about to explode beside her, Emily opens her door and shouts "Agent York, we should get a move on! Polly was expecting you half an hour ago!"

They watch as York comes slowly out of his reverie, or whatever it is, then turn towards the van with an odd look on his face.

"Sorry," he says as he clambers into the backseat, rainwater dripping from his tie onto the floor. "I was just thinking over the events of this morning. I know you don't want me telling you your job, but there's definitely something going on in this town."

"And what makes you say that, Agent York?" says Emily. "You haven't even set foot in Greenvale yet."

"My coffee warned me about it."

The forty minute drive back to the hotel seems impossibly long, and nothing further is exchanged between the three people in the van. Agent York has the final word after all.

________________________

CHAPTER 03: BREAKFAST AT POLLY'S

TIME: ?
WEATHER REPORT: ?
FORTUNE: "A foamy secret will float upon dark, tasty waters."

We're back in the red, Zach. I know what that means in an financial sense, but here? It simply describes what I'm looking at. A red corridor this time, cutting through a forest of red trees, leaves forming a crimson carpet. I'm walking towards another of those free-standing metal doors when a man pops up in front of me. Well, maybe "pop" is the wrong word. It's more like he boils up out of the ground, a dark purple mist accompanying his rather melodramatic entrance. At any rate, his condition is strikingly similar to that of the unfortunate young woman we met in the forest after our car crashed.

Remember, Zach? How pale she was, the cuts on her arms and legs, that awful mouth? And that moaning howl she gave when I killed her.

...No, I guess you're right, Zach. You can't kill what's already dead. And these... things, whatever they are, certainly can't be classified as "living" in the biological sense of the term.

Anyway, there's another of them blocking the path to the door. He- It- wears a stained lumberjack's outfit. His eyes, the dark places where he should have eyes, lock onto mine. I look around for a way to get past him, but the only course of movement is backwards, away from the door, and of course I don't want that. But he's coming towards me, forcing me to retreat. I back up, nowhere else to go, when I feel something tugging at the hem of my jacket.

I look down. There is a small dark-haired boy by my side, hauntingly familiar, though I can't seem to place him no matter how I try. His pajamas are blue with pictures of moons and rocket ships printed all over. He's barefoot, too, but it doesn't seem to bother him. His large grey eyes peer earnestly into mine, and when he speaks, it's in quite a different tone then that of the twins from the clearing. Where their voices ran like bells, his is like a small animal scratching at the door, begging to be let out.

"York! York!" he says, tugging my jacket. "Hold your breath! They can't see you if you hold your breath!"

I comply, mimicking him as he puts one small hand over his nose and mouth. His other hand reaches for mine, and thus linked, he begins to lead me towards the bloody lumberjack jerking spasmodically in the middle of the path.

As we start to move past it, the creature's head begins to sway back and forth, as if questing for something. I can hear the bones in its neck grinding savagely against each other. My heart is pounding in my chest, a red bird in a white cage fighting to get out. This time, it's different. I'm unarmed and vulnerable, and this is not my home court. The little boy's hand feels too small, almost insubstantial... It's like he might as well not have been there. Am I being abandoned? Is he fading, or am I? My vision blurs in and out of focus in time with my pulse. He's slipping away. No. Don't leave!

And as soon as I have the thought, I feel his tiny hand squeeze tighter around mine.

We are moving. So. Slowly. It seems to take an eternity. Just when I think my lungs are about to give out, we are past the danger, and we can breath freely again.

The little boy watches me as I bend over, panting with fear and exertion. He doesn't say another word, not even when I ask "Who are you?", desperate for an answer. Instead of replying, he simply opens the door for me and smiles. The smile is heartbreaking to me for reasons I can't explain. Reluctantly, I walk past him and step through the door. Just as I'm turning around to say goodbye, I

wake up in a hotel room with late morning light spilling through the window onto my face.

I lie there for a moment, assessing the situation. When I'm convinced that I am in fact awake, I sit up on the edge of the bed. You light a cigarette for me as I take in my surroundings. The walls are covered in wooden paneling, finished with a handsome dark varnish, and most of the furniture is wooden, too. The ceiling is a little high for my tastes, but the tasteful decor and manner of furnishing gives the room a cozy, lived-in feel. There are framed prints of butterflies and flowers in faded pastel all over the place, and a fireplace that looks like it's been well-tended over the years. I catch myself looking above it for a deer head, but thank god there are no stuffed animals here.

The best part, however, is the bed I'm sitting on. It's so enormous, so soft and inviting, that I feel like I'm getting spoiled just by putting my head on the pillow. I usually pride myself for being able to fall asleep anywhere, but who knows how I'll feel about another mattress after having slept in this queen-sized beauty.

In fact, the only thing wrong with my sleep last night are these dreams I've been having. Zach, the weird symbolism continues to intensify. Red trees, red leaves... The connection to the seeds I've been collecting is unmistakable, but dreams aren't usually so obvious. Of course I would dream about red trees. So what, you might ask? No, it's that little boy that worries me... I swear I've seen him before. I just can't remember where.

Well, it'll probably come back to me eventually. For now, we need coffee.

To the cafeteria, then!

I change into business attire (Emily was kind enough to point me to a dry cleaners for my other suit, which did not handle the events of the storm too well, I'm afraid), shave, and walk out into the hallway. The carpeting is worn but clean, and it's so quiet I can almost hear the birds chirping outside. Black and white photographs of the town's history line the walls; I pass a peaceful shot of a calm lake, a pale sky with a few clouds and a bristle of trees in the lower right corner, and an old man with a straw hat and a pitchfork standing on a bale of hay. The images make me feel the kind of faux-nostalgia you get when you miss something you've never had in the first place.

I keep walking. This place is huge for the number of guest that are probably registered. You know what this hotel reminds me of, Zach? I'll give you a hint: "Heeeere's Johnny!" Of course, that line could have only been delivered by Jack Nicholson in The Shining. 1980, classic Kubrick. I didn't know this at first, but apparently people hated this movie when it first came out. Critics claimed it was too slow, and not scary at all. Now it's one of the top-rated movies of all time. Well maybe people really do have the power to change.

For some reason, this makes me think of my encounter on the bridge with the shining stars of Greenvale's police force. It wasn't an entirely charmless ordeal- Deputy Wyatt was certainly easy on the eyes, definitely worth a trip to the primitive world- but her boss... Well. I don't want to be so judgmental this early in the day. Suffice to say that there are no cavemen around here. We're as far forward as the Medieval ages, and I think we've already met the King.

Oh, and Zach? Let's not mention anything of what happened after the accident. They'll think you're a psycho.

I find my way to the front desk, located in a spacious lobby off the main hallway. Polly Oxford, the hotel owner, perks up when she spots me.

"Mr. Morgan! Did you have a good rest?"

I met Polly briefly when the sheriff dropped me off yesterday, but I was so tired that there wasn't much time to introduce myself. Now I can start getting to know the locals. I nod towards her and smile.

"Wonderful, Polly. The beds here are incredible."

Polly cups her hand behind her ear. Zach, she's must be pushing seventy by now, but her eyes behind those spectacles of hers are bright and lively as a sparrow's. Her white hair is pulled back into a bun, and looking at her gives me the same sensation I had out in the hallway with those old photographs.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. You said you were starving? Breakfast comes free with the room."

"That's not exactly what I said, but I am pretty hungry."

"Then right this way, Mr. Morgan. It's ready to be served in the cafeteria."

And before I know it, I'm sitting across from her on the opposite side of the longest dinner table I've ever seen. They don't have tables like this at the Ritz-Carlton. The tablecloth is linen white, freshly washed, from the look of it. And the food... Amazing. Again, score one for the Great Deer Yard Hotel over pretty much any other fancy schmancy lodgings I've ended up staying at throughout my career.

I try to tell Polly all of this, but there must be half a mile of table between us, and my voice coupled with her hearing isn't enough to do the job.

"I said, my compliments to the chef!" I practically holler at her.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Morgan! I'm hoping my cooking will bring back repeat guests. Honestly, though, it's been a while since anyone has stayed here."

I hesitate to mention that it's a little hard to ignore, what with the long, silent corridors and the twenty or so other tables in the cafeteria that aren't being used. In fact, it almost feels like I'm the only guest here. A shame, really. Her cooking is fantastic.

"Please don't be offended, Polly, but I did notice a conspicuous lack of workers around here. Surely you can't be the only one in charge of running this place."

Polly cocks her head, then points to something in the middle of the table. "The salt's in that white shaker over there," she says brightly.

"Thank you." I raise my voice. "I was wondering if there were any other guests or workers here?"

"Oh no, it's just me. My husband and I used to run the Great Deer Yard, but he's in heaven now."

"You've been alone here since then? Must be hard by yourself."

Polly titters like a schoolgirl. "Oh my. Mr. Morgan, you're embarrassing me!"

"IT MUST BE HARD TO RUN A HOTEL BY YOURSELF."

"Well, yes, I suppose... I could just live on my pension, but I have to admit, running this hotel seems to be in my blood. It's almost like a hobby!"

"That's nice." Okay, Zach, time to bring out the heavy artillery. "Polly, it might help to hear you better if you could sit a little closer."

She laughs again, a cheery sound like the peal of wind chimes in the breeze. "So early in the day, too! I think I'm a little too old for you. And besides, I still love my Frederick, may God rest his soul." She wags a playful finger in my direction. "I appreciate the invitation, but I'm fine over here. Besides, it won't do to be all clumped together with all this space around!"

Just when I feel like I'm starting to slip into some kind of verbal netherworld, she starts asking questions about my scar. Zach, her hearing may be poor, but she must have the eyes of a hawk.

"Just what have you been getting into?" she asks innocently.

"Let's just say I had some trouble during the last case I was working on. I'm sure it'll heal. It's just a flesh wound."

"Well, no need to play tough guy here, Mr. Morgan. I want you to be able to relax." Polly clasps her hands together, eyes shining. "That room I've prepared for you is special. A famous rock star once stayed there!"

"Thank you. I'm honored." We're not really interested in rock-and-roll, are we, Zach? Theme songs from animated kid's shows, especially the eighties and nineties, that's more our thing. But I am touched by the gesture.

I've almost finished eating. Polly asks if there's anything else I want to know, and I ask her a few questions about the town and the residents. She doesn't have much to offer that I'm not already aware of, but the conversation is pleasant and refreshing. Finally, it's time.

"Well, Mr. Morgan, I'd better start cleaning up. You just take it easy. I'll bring you your coffee in a moment."

She gets out of her chair and begins puttering towards the kitchen. I raise a finger and she stops, head to one side.

"Polly," I say with utmost import. "I must warn you. I am very particular about my coffee. The very best you have, please. It's... imperative."

Polly nods and disappears behind two swinging doors. A few minutes later, she returns with a white mug on a saucer and a pitcher of milk, which she sets almost reverently down in front of me. I'm pleased that she's taking this as seriously as I am. These country folk are pretty perceptive.

And now, the moment of truth. I pour the milk in steady, concentric circles, being careful not to disrupt any patterns that may already be forming on the surface of the liquid. I put the pitcher down and wait. Then I pick up the mug by the handle and stare attentively into it, breathing in the steam rising from the top. Jumbled words and images float into my mind, swirling about without context or meaning. I ignore them, let them float by. One in particular seems to snag on a corner of my mind. I probe at it. Yes, this might be what we're looking for. I can feel you with me, helping me dredge it up from the foamy depths. There's a rushing sound in my ears, as if I'm reversing out of a long dark tunnel.

And just like that, there it is. Two shapes, spiraling around and around inside the cup. The letters form slowly, creamy white on dark brown, and then it's unmistakable.

F...

K.

In the coffee.

"Zach! Do you see that? Clear as a crisp spring morning!" I laugh and snap my fingers. "I knew I could count on it. It never fails!"

"Mr. Morgan?" Polly ambles towards me, soap suds falling from her rubber gloves to the carpet. "Is something the matter? Who are you talking to?"

"Thank you for the coffee, Polly. It was superb."

"Oh? You enjoyed it that much? I'm flattered." Polly giggles, then holds out a hand. "Would you like me to take your empty cup now?"

I raise the mug and point to it. "Actually I haven't drank any of it yet. But I assure you, it did the trick. Absolutely."

After a moment, with Polly looking on, I do drink the coffee. It's quite good. Rich and dark, with a complex aroma. Tastes a little like fate, in fact. I imagine FK swirling down my throat, soon to appear before me in the near future. It could be a person, place or thing, animal, vegetable or mineral. We'll just have to keep a close lookout for it, Zach.

And so ends our first real meal in Greenvale. It's almost nine. Time to go meet the king in his very own fortress stronghold. Castle Woodman, you might call it. But that sounds a little too romantic for our sheriff friend. What do you think?

________________________________

CHAPTER 04: MISSING

TIME AND LOCATION: 9:23, Greenvale Sheriff's Department
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies
FORTUNE: "The key to your enlightenment lies in the curve of a tail."

"He's late again," George complains, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded.  "I can't believe the nerve of that guy."

"Me neither," Emily agrees.  The two of them are sitting in the meeting room, waiting for Thomas to show up with the case files and hopefully Agent York in tow.  Based on their first impressions of York and his behavior on the bridge, neither of them have a good feeling about how this conference is going to turn out.  Maybe York had just been feeling out of sorts after having walked for two hours through a forest in the middle of a rainstorm.  Emily supposes she can't blame him.

George grumbles, adjusting the wide brim of his hat.  His hands are large and careworn, the hands of a hard worker.  Emily has known George ever since she was in high school, but her opinions of him have changed since she joined the force a few years ago.  At first, he'd scared her with his imposing stature and blunt manner of speech.  Now that she's been made deputy, Emily is able to discern a good man inside him, a man who uses his strength for justice.  He can still be a bit hardheaded, but he's always treated the other police officers with the utmost respect, even his assistant Thomas.  They seem to get along just fine, despite the talk that goes around about Thomas sometimes.

"Emily, would you mind going out to the front and asking Thomas if he's seen Morgan?" George says.  "Ask him if he's got the files on Anna's murder, too."

"Sure thing, boss."  

Emily trots down the hall and checks the front lobby.  Nobody there.  She heads to the filing room next and pokes her head in.

"Thomas, what's going on?  Have you seen Agent York yet?"

The sheriff's assistant looks pained.  "I, uh, he's not in the waiting room?"
"You mean he's already here?"

Thomas gulps and adjusts his glasses.  "Well, I, ah, lost the keys to the filing cabinet, so I told him to wait until I found them.  It's taking a little longer than I thought, though... Maybe he went to the bathroom?"

Emily stops herself from rolling her eyes just in time.  Thomas can be a bit of a space cadet, but he doesn't deserve the scorn he gets from some of the other officers.  Instead, she says, "Well, forget the keys for now.  We'd better find Agent York first, before he gets into any trouble."

"O-of course," Thomas stutters.  He follows her out into the hallway, and the manhunt begins.

"I, ah, thought his name was Agent Morgan.  That's what George told me to call him."

"Yes, well, I don't think George is overly fond of him.  Can't say I am either, but I don't think we need to make this investigation any harder than it already is.  We've got to be a little more flexible."

Thomas bobs his head nervously.  "He showed me his badge and told me I could call him York, so I was a bit confused as to which name I should use.  York or Morgan.  It feels almost like taking sides, doesn't it, Emily?"

They check the materials room, the kitchenette, and even both washrooms.  They ask one of the other officers coming up from the shooting gallery if they've seen York, but nobody they talk to has run into him.  Finally, the security guard in the basement locates their rogue federal agent on one of the cameras posted all around the station.  Emily and Thomas hurry upstairs to the locker room, unsure of what they'll find.

Agent York is standing in the corner next to George's workout equipment, staring fixedly at something in his right hand.  The index and middle fingers of his other hand are pressed lightly against his temple, and he appears to be muttering to himself.

Emily stops one row of lockers away and crosses her arms.  "Agent York, what are you doing in here?  We have to review those case files."

Agent York turns to them with an infuriatingly mild expression, as if they've interrupted a telephone conversation he'd been having.  

"Oh, hello, Emily.  No need to introduce me to your assistant, we've already met."  He nods at Thomas, who blushes furiously.  "By the way, do either of you know who 'Arnold' might be?"
He's holding a dumbbell in his hand.  "ARNOLD" is printed along the shaft in permanent marker.  Thomas makes a little gasp.

"That's... George has been looking for that dumbbell for weeks!  Where did you find it?"
"In the kitchenette, behind the recycling bin.  I'm assuming Arnold is friends with Sylvester, here."  He motions with his foot towards an identical weight in the corner, its name also printed in black.
Just then, George walks in, dark eyes flashing irritably.  

"What the hell is going on in here?  This isn't a Christmas party!  We've got a murder to solve!"
"Well, uh, I, ah," Thomas says eloquently.  Emily rescues him.

"I'm sorry, George.  It seems Agent York here got a little restless and decided to wander off while Thomas went looking for the files.  Isn't that right, York?"

York does not even have the grace to look abashed.  "That's right, Emily.  And of course, we wouldn't be having a Christmas party in the middle of summer."  

Before the sheriff can say anything, York hefts Arnold in one hand and extends it towards George with a smile.

"I hear you've been looking for this, Sheriff Woodman.  I happened upon it during my travels, so I'm glad you've shown up now to take it back into your custody."

George approaches the offering warily, taking the dumbbell from York's hand.  He stares at it as if York's touch might have poisoned it somehow; then something seems to loosen in him.  Emily can see his shoulders relaxing.

"Hmm... Well done, Agent Morgan," George says gruffly, putting Arnold back on the rack with the other equipment.  Emily and Thomas look astonished.  "I can finally get back to my regular workout routine, thanks to you."

"Thanks.  I really admire that kind of consistency.  Zach, remind me to get more exercise."
"Um... Yes.  Anyway, we've wasted enough time," George says, leading the others out into the hall.  "We need those files ASAP.  Thomas?"

Before Thomas can open his mouth, York snaps his fingers.  The others turn to look at him.
"Oh yes, one other thing.  Here, Thomas, catch."

Thomas' large eyes grow even wider behind his glasses as York tosses something in his direction.  Thomas fumbles it, recovers just in time.  He holds up the object for all to see.  A set of keys on a shiny metal keychain, embossed with a little silver squirrel.

"Ah!  The keys to the filing cabinet!  How-"

" I believe I'm correct in my deduction that the creature on that keychain is in fact a Southern Flying Squirrel," York says matter-of-factly.  "The distinct pattern on its back is a dead giveaway.  Yet, what's truly puzzling is that I found it on top of the toilet tank in the washroom.  Perhaps it was storing nuts for the winter?"

"Oh, thank you, Agent Mor- I mean, York!"

Thomas exits the room like a schoolgirl whose secret crush has just given them a compliment about her hair.  Emily turns to York, shaking her head in disbelief rather than disdain this time.  

"How on earth do you do it?  I mean, I know it's part of your profession, but where did you even know where to look?  You've barely been here for half an hour."

York holds up a finger and gives a rather unsettling grin.  "The training helps, as well as natural talent, but you know what they say: Two heads are better than one."

"I... don't think I've heard that expression used that way before."

"Okay, that's enough chitchat from both of you," George says loudly.  "Agent Morgan, please come with us to the meeting room.  Thomas should be back with Anna's files soon."

George turns on his heel and stalks off.  Emily rushes to follow, not wanting George to think that she might be forming alliances with York.  She can almost hear him smirking behind her, so self-satisfied.  Certain that he's impressed these small town hicks into submission.  The investigation will fall under his control more smoothly if the locals have stars in their eyes when they look at him.

He probably thinks that finding a keychain in a bathroom somehow makes him qualified to solve murders, Emily thinks, knowing it's uncharitable of her.  It's not like her to be so petty about stuff like this, but something about the guy just rubs her the wrong way.  He may have charmed Thomas, but Deputy Emily Wyatt will be a harder nut to crack, and George Woodman even more so.  No matter what breed of squirrels are involved.
_________________

CHAPTER 05: THE CASE OF ANNA GRAHAM

TIME AND LOCATION: 9:41, Greenvale Sheriff's Department
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies
FORTUNE: "A good biscuit can be a dangerous thing."

Castle Woodman certainly is not what I was expecting, Zach, at least from the outside. It actually does look fit for royalty. Spectacular woodwork, certainly one of the crowning achievements of the architects who have had their hands in Greenvale's construction. Although, I did hear from Polly and some of my early research that this town has quite an impressive clock tower as well. I hope that the surprises awaiting us on this case are confined to the scenery, but you're right. That's wishful thinking at best, a sloppy investigation waiting to happen at worst. Let's focus on the facts, then.

Deputy Wyatt reads to us aloud from Anna Graham's file, perched on the edge of the table where the four of us are seated. Besides me and the deputy, there's Sheriff Woodman and his assistant, Thomas MacLaine, the young fellow who welcomed me so warmly- if rather timidly- as I walked through the station's impressive oak doors. He's been bustling around for the last ten minutes, fetching papers and taking notes, and- this is the most crucial part- bringing out a tray of the most delicious cheese biscuits I have ever tasted in all my years as a federal agent. Oh my. To describe them in mere words would be an injustice.

I nibble in sheer ecstasy as Deputy Wyatt brushes back a stray lock of straw-colored hair and reads: "Anna Graham, the victim. Age 18, just recently graduated from high school this year. Her dream was to move out and become a model, but for the time being, she was working at the A&G Diner here in town. She lived with her mother, Sallie Graham, but her father died in a lumber mill accident when she was a child."

Beyond the fireworks my tastebuds are experiencing, Zach, let's take a look at these photos scattered all across the tabletop. It's not hard to see why Anna Graham might have been considering a career in modeling; if she had gone to our high school, ninety percent of all the male students would have been tripping over their own tongues. Not me, personally, of course. The girl in the photo just doesn't seem like a good fit for eighteen-year old York. There's something in those shining, youthful eyes that would have disturbed me, even at that age. You agree with me, Zach, though you could have probably dated her if you'd been so inclined.

It's all moot, though. Both adolescent me and adolescent Anna are dead, things of the past. In the photos, Anna's blonde hair falls in waves over her shoulders and breasts, and her full mouth is almost always curved in a smile or open in laughter. I can't look at her for very long, and turn my concentration back to enjoying my food.

Deputy Wyatt continues, "Sallie is unemployed, living off the insurance of her husband's accident. After all, it's a small town with a low cost of living. Financially, the Grahams seemed to get by fine. They led fairly normal lives, as far as anyone can tell."

"A normal life is exactly what a curious teenager doesn't want," I murmur, contemplating my cigarette. It's smoldering, though I don't remember having lighted it. Was that your doing? I stub it out on my empty plate, having picked up the last of the biscuits with my free hand. Deputy Wyatt is giving me a dirty look for some reason. Perhaps she thinks I'm not paying attention, although surely my last comment should have alleviated her of that particular concern? I take a bite out of the biscuit I'm holding.

"City folk, huh?" Deputy Wyatt says, apparently talking to Thomas who is standing right by her side. "No. No, I take it back. They can't all be as bad as he is."

I don't get a chance to hear her explanation for that mysterious little aside, because my mouth is once again full of the fluffiest, moistest, most flavorful baked good I have had since... Well... It's not often I get homemade treats like this. I ask Thomas where in town I can find them, and his response is astonishing: His pale face goes beet red, and he turns sharply away as if he might start crying at any moment.

"Um, ah, well, you see, Agent York, I... Um... Actually, I made them myself."

"I'm very particular about biscuits, I'll have you know," I say, still chewing. "You've achieved the perfect balance of milk and butter, as well as somehow managing to circumvent the common bane that plagues most other cheese biscuits. Namely, the grease!" I brandish my half-eaten portion. "Nowhere to be found. Amazing!"

"Oh! Oh, I... Thank you, Agent York. I d-don't know what to say," Thomas stammers, turning, if it's possible, even redder.

"Agent York, do you have any questions related to the actual case?" Deputy Wyatt asks sharply.

We don't have any questions, do we, Zach? I'm about to say that it sounds like the usual headline blurb, and that we're going to have to look elsewhere for deeper answers, when there's a knock on the door. Sheriff Woodman, who up until this time has been sitting at the far end of the table without a word or a glance towards any of us, gets up to answer it. It's another officer, with a phone message: Anna's autopsy has just been completed over at the Greenvale General Hospital, and it seems the consensus is to take advantage of the good timing and head over as soon as possible.

Sheriff Woodman nods in my direction, and I try to swallow my last mouthful quickly. It's hard, though, Zach. You know me: If it's good food, I like to linger over every crumb.

"Agent Morgan, if you have no further questions, you're welcome to accompany us to the hospital if you wish," George rumbles. "Emily, you come too. Thomas, stay here and tidy up these files."

Thomas salutes as if he's just been given an order of the highest magnitude. "Yes sir!" he says, without stuttering. It's great to see that kind of enthusiasm, in any level of any job. I know there are some junior paper-pushers in the Washington office who could a learn a thing or two from young Mr. MacLaine, not the least of which are his fantastic baking skills.

The three of us head out to the parking lot. It's a short trip, but along the way, King Woodman manages to work in more hints that he is still less than thrilled with my involvement in Anna's case.

"You might think this is just a small town police investigation," he addresses me, "but our inspections are thorough and solid. I'm hoping you won't slow us down."

"Don't worry, Sheriff," I say brightly, getting into the car. "When it comes to investigating, I'm like Muhammad Ali. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."

Woodman doesn't respond to this. Guess the King isn't a boxing fan. Instead, he snaps, "Agent Morgan! There's no point in getting behind the wheel if you don't know your way around yet. Let Emily drive us there. It'll take too long to explain the route to you."

Deputy Wyatt comes up behind the sheriff and crosses her arms. Neither of them look too happy.

"George is right, Agent York. We all know our way around this place, so none of us carry roadmaps of Greenvale in our cars. I can go over the directions with you later-"

"Ah, but this is the perfect learning opportunity for an outsider like me," I say, very reasonably. "I've done a bit of research into the area, and I'd like to think I'm pretty handy with spatial memorization, so if you don't mind, I think it would be a good idea if I drove everyone there instead. Best way to learn to swim is to start in the deep end, Za- I always say."

It's true, you do always say that. I don't like to cover up the truth about matters, but you're right, we don't want to make them nervous. They're on their guard with me enough as it is. And I did say we should take it slow...

In the end, they both cave, and relinquish me the wheel. Sheriff Woodman rides shotgun, though he behaves more like a backseat driver.

"All right, Morgan," he grumbles under his moustache. "Get us there quickly, but stay within the speed limit. Just because you're from the city doesn't mean you can drive like a maniac."

"George, what are you, his mother?" Wyatt says half-jokingly from the backseat. I guess she can't see the both of us bristling at the mere notion. "He's not accustomed to the town yet. Cut him a little slack."

"We just need the autopsy results, plain and simple. If I wanted to make it more complicated than getting from point A to B, I would have just gone myself!"

It's at this point that I decide to start calling everyone by their first names. Don't ask me why. Maybe it was the biscuits; my stomach being full tends to make me less formal, even when the situation calls for it. A good biscuit is a dangerous thing, Zach. Don't let me forget that.

"But George, it's important that I check out the body firsthand. That's the whole point of this excursion, isn't it? After all, there are certain clues on a murder victim that you would never know to look for without outside information. And as the only outsider, I am uniquely qualified."

George waves an impatient hand in my face. "All right, all right. Let's just get going. We can't keep Ushah waiting the way you've been making us wait."

I pull out of the station lot, making sure to abide by every rule of the road I can think of. The handling of the police car, though barely passable, only reminds me of our Mustang lying busted off the side of the highway, now probably sitting all alone in some dingy Greenvale mechanic's garage. You were even fonder of that car than I was, Zach. I had to custom order half the parts, cost me a good chunk of my agent's salary. It was totally worth it, of course, but we're just going to have to make do without it for now. Something tells me this mission won't provide a good time to ask George where he put our ride, no matter how much it would enhance our emotional well-being.

Emily? Yes, she might be able to help us out. It's kind of hard to tell at this point. She did briefly defend us from the monarchy a few moments ago, but that may have just been like a single spark from a dying lighter. Now Thomas, on the other hand. He seems to be on our side, even though his complete fealty to King Woodman is obvious... He's just got a naturally helpful streak, I guess.

You don't get men like Thomas in the big city, Zach. Well, in one sense, we do. But you know what I mean.
___________________

To be continued in Part 2 of Project REDWOOD.