“Yeah. I think we can get the fucker, Mikey. I really do.”
Drakanis pulled out a fresh cigarette and lit it. He remained silent for a time. Then he responded, deadpan. “Better not be lying to me, fuckwad. I’ll kill your ass myself.”
Chapter 3
9:00 am, December 8, 1999
To those on the outside, a place like Reno seemed like a paradise; whether it was one of unlimited excess or simply lost souls depended on the viewer—or the luck of the craps table. To those who lived there, it was merely another place, though one that seemed to draw annoying tourists like flies and one that could turn on the residents if they weren’t careful. To people like Drakanis, people who made a living by crawling through the muck of the broken hearts and the lost ones who found themselves with no other option or desire but to turn to crime, it was a heat mirage, a heat mirage blanketed in neon and glamour that hid a rotten core. But to one being, it was a place of exaltation, the site of holiness and history, and the seat of his destiny.
Unaware that he was being spoken of by those who would call him their enemy, the murderer smiled serenely at the talu`shar, finding peace in the rhythmic pulsing of light and color that came from within.
To many, the item he knelt before was simply a worthless art project, some ugly-looking thing that was passed around at flea markets and greeted with terse smiles and nods as the viewers explained that of course they liked it, yes, excellent buy, all the while feeling its power, even subconsciously, and hating it for the feeling.
Many were disgusted with it; only a few could sense the power about the thing, and only those the talu`shar chose felt compelled to appreciate it. Fewer still—those not chosen simply as prey—were exalted by it. In the soft glow that bled from it, which few were able to bear without going mad, the killer felt completely at ease with himself and with the ordained fate of all things; his spirit drank from the tainted well of the talu`shar’s influence and was refreshed.
It had always been like this; the painting would find its way to a new place, and the killer would follow it. In time, he would reclaim it and return it to its proper place. But never had it moved so often in such a short time; always before, it seemed as though decades would pass before it found a new home for him to claim it from. Yet in this city, this marvelous den of blind sheep, it had found seven owners already and might yet find half a dozen more before the time came.
The killer, thinking of the blood he would grant to his masters before the talu`shar blossomed, found his smile growing wider. He had spent nearly an entire human lifetime in service to his master, and unlike those before him, he would see the great result. He considered it a fine honor, as he did all things regarding the painting, and awaited only greater glories when the millennium turned. He felt certain that was the final key to opening the way and granting the desires of those who had protected the painting during the long wait.
His voice, having long ago lost any capacity for human emotion or resonance, cut into the darkness, the fawning tone in it made all the more disgusting by the lack of any hint of soul behind it. As he spoke, the marks within the painting shifted from red to deep blue and then to black and back again, seeming to pulse and writhe in time with his voice. This also pleased the killer, for he considered it well that the talu`shar would acknowledge him in such a fashion.
“The time comes soon, Master. I ask only to serve. This you know.”
The painting returned to its former state, going dark once more. The killer, understanding that whatever brief audience he had been granted was now over, laid his forehead on his hands and knelt, remaining that way until all the blood had ceased to flow to his feet. When at last he stood, it was on blocks of wood, stilts of flesh that felt nothing. Such was required, for to reach the chamber where the talu`shar was kept, one must first pass over a floor carefully arrayed with nails. Only the proper trance and positions would prevent one from being skewered and left to rot there.
Casting a final glance at the talu`shar, the murderer again smiled, before starting down the hallway, to brave the nails.
“May much blood be spilled in your name, before the time comes, and may mine be the hand to spill it.”
The painting gave a single pulse, this one an angry, glaring red, before going dim again. The killer was pleased.
As he made his way out of the cell of the talu`shar, past the hallway filled with nails, through a door that would open only to one such as him, and past a dozen or more other traps that had been built by his forebears through the centuries they had waited for this moment, the killer thought of those whom he had given up as sacrifices—the woman and child especially. Though it had been long years—and many victims more—since them, no others had granted him the satisfaction that those had. The woman had been nothing but cattle, worthless save for her spirit and the fact that the painting had been in her possession, yet still she had fought like a lion, trying especially to save the boy.
And the boy… oh, such glory in that one. The killer had never before taken the life of a child and was not sure if he would be granted leave to do so again, but they were so different. Something in taking the life of one who has yet to live it invigorated him, made him almost drunk with the force that poured from such a death, and that boy had been special. The blood of the noruk-to had been in him, or so the killer had been told, and when that blood was spilled, it sang.
A pity I could not have had him before I broke him. Too bad I’ll not have another like that, even if I am granted a hundred children, the killer thought. Not many of his breed left, and the father is nothing now.
The murderer did not find such thoughts troubling; the shattering of a man, the murder of a child, the thought of violating either or both before their deaths, these things were but his granted rights as a servitor of the talu`shar, the things that made life worth living, the perks, to use the vulgar Western term. Having worked for this moment as long as he had, he felt he was entitled to such entertainments, and the talu`shar most often agreed. Only on the matter of the father had it been adamant—he was not to be touched, not yet.
At last, as the killer reached the piercing eye of daylight hanging above him like the sword of Damocles, about to judge him and find him wanting, he pushed such thoughts aside. Two men lived in this simple body, one the murderer of children and servant of the talu`shar, the other a humble man who swept floors and occasionally muttered to himself; it would not do for the sunlit world to see his secret face, not yet.
But what greatness will come, when at last that face can shine forth, he thought to himself, the last allowance of the killer’s ideals for the day. They will look upon me and see a god.
Beginning to whistle, he walked down the street, smiling pleasantly at those he passed, occasionally offering a hello and always receiving one in return. The day was still young, and so the killer slept within, biding his time.
Chapter 4
10:30 am, December 8, 1999
Outside the dingy little pawnshop, Reno was just now beginning to wake. When a city never really slept, the only people out and about before 10:00 am were the truly lost: those trundling to work on legs that weren’t really aware of where they were taking their owners or those being shuffled away with dazed looks from the roulette table, their last chip cashed and lost.
Here, just off the main drag of Virginia Street, just a quick turn away from the glamour of downtown, the city reeked of depression and exhaust. Whereas neon and music flooded the senses at all hours just twenty feet away, here, there was nothing but the droning chant of the homeless on each corner and the fly-speckled forty-watt bulbs that burned in each window. While there was probably a zoning ordinance on Main Street that said you couldn’t have a “closed” sign in a window, on this side, they were the standard, with only a few brave—or foolish—open doors remaining.
Parker had dragged Drakanis through one of these open d
oors, after a furtive glance around, almost as if to check if they were being followed. Seeming satisfied that there was only the usual conglomeration of drunks at the corner, arguing over how just one more dollar would have been enough to win the MegaBucks, he had headed in.
Parker thought Drakanis looked both uncomfortable and tired, leaning in the doorway of MegaPawn with a notebook in his hand; Parker tried to get him to come further into the room—if only so they could ask the questions they needed to without the whole damn world hearing—but Michael seemed to prefer to keep a door within easy reach, as if he needed an escape hatch.
Parker supposed the other man might well need just that. For all he knew, this was the first time Drakanis had even been out of the house since the funeral. Going so far as to actually get dressed, shave, drive through the morning traffic snarls, and come into a store he disliked was probably a huge step on one of those wonky charts like Belinda was always showing him, the ones that always started with “First admit you have a problem.”
Drakanis, for his part, was uncomfortable, though not as uncomfortable as Parker thought. He just didn’t trust the place, the way the clerk’s eyes kept flicking behind him at the shotguns mounted on display or the general odor of the store. To him, it smelled like too many people had come down this street with pockets full of hope only to lose it all in there. He supposed they might have; given the casino across the street and the large number of watches and wedding bands in the display case, it wouldn’t surprise him at all. So he stood near the door, propping it open with his body, in the hopes it might push that smell back, even though he knew it wasn’t something he smelled with his nose.
Drakanis was occupied picking his mental nits, not really paying attention to the conversation. To him, this was just police procedure shit, nothing at all to do with actually finding this shitbag or tracking down whatever clues might remain. It was just filling out paperwork, and since he was no longer required by some employee’s manual to do it, it bored him to tears. When Parker said something to him, his only response was an intoxicated, “Huh?”
“Pay attention. I asked you if that sounded right.”
Parker sighed inwardly. This was going to be a long, hard road. Dragging Drakanis out of his hole wasn’t a job that he particularly relished. Still, it had to be done and better to do it while it was just the boring shit than when something really counted, or so he thought.
“Erm. Right. Did what sound right?”
The clerk, a pimple-faced youth, who looked as though he might have more than one rodent ancestor, emitted an unpleasant sound that some might have termed a chuckle. It seemed as though whatever thought had just crossed his mind was deliciously funny, and he gave another snort to counterpoint it.
“Your buddy, there, he ain’t all there, is he?”
Parker turned slowly to look the clerk in his ratlike eyes, pulled himself up to his full height, and glared downward. The clerk’s snorts stopped almost immediately; he was still except for the occasional twitch at the corners of his mouth. He raised his hands in supplication.
“All right, all right. Sorry. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
“Quit with the commentary, Marvin. Just tell him again, and maybe he’ll process it this time.”
Parker shot Drakanis a look, and seeing that made it almost like old times. It was the look that said, “Wake up, pay attention, and don’t fuck up,” and Drakanis used to laugh when he saw it, since it was usually directed at some wet-behind-the-ears rookie about to flub something that might actually be important. Of course, it stung that the look was now being turned on him, both because his friend would give him that look in the first place and because his skills had atrophied to such a point that he needed that look put on him. He straightened a bit, rolling his hand in a “go on” gesture to the clerk, actually making an attempt to listen this time.
“Like I said, man, some old dude sold the thing to me. Foreign, I guess. Talked all like those ragheads that wanna give you a slurpee, you know? But nice enough. Trying, at least, which is better than I can say for the—”
Parker’s disapproving eye had found its way back to Marvin again, and the giant didn’t have to speak to get his message across this time. Again, the hands came up in a “peace, okay, sorry,” gesture, before he continued, “Anyway, right. The old guy sold it to me. I wouldn’t have bothered, except Pops was out, and the guy said he only needed five bucks for it. I figured he just wanted to go try to kill himself across the street some more, since they’re always thinking it’s that last five spot that’s gonna do it. Then he just breezed back out again. I’ve got the receipt, if you wanna see it in a bit.
“But the painting, that’s what you wanted to know about. There ain’t much I can tell you, except the frame was scratched. Had this weird design on the bottom, looked like that one on that Metallica album, only with extra points. Star-like thing, got it? And the old dude said it meant something to his family. I remember that, because I asked about it. Gotta check for defacement during the appraisal, or Pops is liable to clout me.
“So I ask, he gives me that line, I shrug, give him his five bucks, and off he goes. He stopped just long enough to tell me that I’d know when it was time to sell it and that I should take good care of it. And how’s that for fucked, ditching some family heirloom for five bucks to play the one-armed bandits, and telling me to take care of it? Then out the door he goes, never to be seen again.”
Drakanis shrugged, scribbling down the high points: foreigner, Arab or Indian, family crest, Metallica. Then he looked at Parker, brows raised. With the kind of pseudo-telepathy that develops among close friends and partners, Drakanis told him, That’s it?
Parker returned the shrug. Never know when that shit might be useful. Then he turned back to Marvin.
“Okay, great. So a raghead sold it to you, told you to take care of it, then what?”
The clerk shrugged. “I forgot about it, really. Didn’t even remember putting it out. Last I remember seeing it, I shoved it in the back, since we were overstocked anyway. Didn’t think I’d get more than twenty bucks out of it. But there it was, sitting on the rack, right in front, when those old dudes came in.”
Drakanis looked a little ill at hearing this, as a small flash of memory from the day Gina’d brought the thing home came to him.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she asked him, tipping it in his direction; he’d had to resist the urge to go into dramatics, since it was the only way he could have expressed his opinion without offending her.
“I . . . guess. Not bad, anyway. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, the market up the street, you know, the one with all the junk on sale. It was sitting right in the window. Want to hear the weird part, hon?”
“Uh-huh . . . ” Drakanis was already looking away then, looking for something else to do, something to fixate on, before he could get dragged into art appreciation.
“The owner didn’t even remember putting it up! Almost like it was just there, just for me, when I came by! Isn’t that a scream?”
Years later, standing in a different pawnshop hearing a variation of the same story, Drakanis thought that it was indeed a scream, but not a good one. It was the sort of scream in that Munch painting, one that comes when you crack and goes on… and on… and on.
Parker sensed something wrong and shifted his focus back to his partner. Scowling, he said, “You okay, man? You look like you’re about to hurl.”
Drakanis shook his head, biting down on his tongue and fighting with his gorge. It came close, but the fresh air—what little of it there was—blowing through the open door helped a bit, and after a pair of gasping lungfuls, he managed to fight back the panic that wanted to claim him. He rolled his hand at the clerk again, trying to get him to hurry up and finish the damn story before he died of old age.
Christ, you never should have started this. Let thos
e bodies lie, man, and just give it up. Great advice, he thought. Too bad it was also the wrong advice. If he let this go, just gave up and went back to his pretend life with his pretend entertainment and his pretend dreams, he’d be doing the worst thing he could to the memory of his wife and son; he might as well just dig them up and kill them again.
Marvin and Parker were both staring at him, he realized, the latter with genuine concern, maybe a little upset that it was his doing that was putting his friend through this; the former with a cold gaze that was trained only to look for profits and fat wallets, discarding the rest as the trash that accumulates on the floor of human existence.
Drakanis flapped his hand again and managed to grunt out a “Get on with it,” in between gulps of fresh air. Still trying to banish the psychic aroma of the failed hopes that customers of this place left behind, he slumped a bit further and focused on keeping his pen on the notebook in something resembling a straight line.
Marvin didn’t need much prompting. He was eager to get the cop and his weirded-out friend the fuck out of his store, hopefully before Pops came back, and he figured the sooner he could get this story finished, the sooner he could do just that.
“Right, so the old dudes come in and start dancing around like a pair of ballerinas, ranting about the color and the power and something this and something that… fuck if I know. I ain’t no art student, and the damn thing looked uglier than hell to me anyway. They want to argue about it, since it didn’t have a price on it, but I figured fair is fair, and they want it so bad, why not stick it to them?”
Parker grunted at this, his own general disdain for places like this bleeding into his voice. “Right, why not?”
Marvin went on as if he hadn’t heard, and both Parker and Drakanis figured it entirely likely that he hadn’t. Most people in these places were in a hurry and didn’t tend toward observing the niceties, so it was an understandable and common defense mechanism to just tune out anything that didn’t directly relate to the situation at hand. While Drakanis and Parker were used to it, it was one of the more annoying tics of the twentieth-century male in their opinion.
Darkness of the Soul Page 3