Darkness of the Soul

by Kaine Andrews

  “So I tell ’em it’s a hundred bucks; they sit and chitter to each other, some fuckin’ foreign language or something, like a pair of squirrels or whatever, then turn back, try to give me fifty. I can read all over their faces that they’ll pay craploads more than that—shoulda asked ’em for half a K. Bet they’d have paid that too, they were so hopped up to have it—so I tell ’em that Pops sets the prices, and if they want to haggle on that one, they’ll have to ask him about it.

  “We go back and forth a little more, then they finally cough up the hundred. I ask ’em if they want it wrapped up or anything. They say no, and out the door they go with the damned thing. I can tell you, for whatever reason, the place felt better once they were gone. My pops says it was just how weird they were about it, but my girl says it’s cause the painting was out of here; I don’t really care one way or the other. A hundred bucks goes in my pocket, a hundred bucks I didn’t have before they came in, and I’m just glad to take it.”

  Parker shook his head, muttering to himself. He’d hoped that there’d be a bit more to it, some useful detail, but it was just more of the same old shit wrapped in a different package. He blew air out over his lower lip, making an exasperated sound that summed up his feelings on all things bad before he glanced at Drakanis.

  “Anything worth a shit?”

  Drakanis paused for a moment, going over his scribbled shorthand. He came to a mostly blank page with the word buyers at the top, double underlined. He nodded and then put his eyes back on Marvin, who seemed even more sallow and sickly than he had when they’d entered.

  “You mentioned they sounded foreign, like foreign how? Any idea what language it was that they were speaking to each other?”

  Though he hadn’t expected it—and wasn’t really expecting to get much else out of the little turd behind the counter—Parker gave the kid at least a little respect when Drakanis asked his question, primarily because the kid actually stopped long enough to think about it, which was a rarity these days. Most of the time, when a cop asked a question, the best answer he could hope for was a pair of birds stuck up his tailpipe.

  As the silence spun out, Parker thought he could almost smell poor Marvin’s circuits frying upstairs, but the kid finally broke it.

  “No, I don’t think so. When they were talking normal, they were all ‘bugger this’ and ‘cricket that’—figure they’re probably British—but there wasn’t much to whatever they were saying to each other, hard to figure out what it was. But I can tell you it wasn’t Spanish; it wasn’t French; and it wasn’t Latin. Just gibberish, so far as I could tell.”

  Drakanis sighed, though he hadn’t really expected much. There wasn’t any reason to expect some low-rent pawnshop owner’s kid would speak in tongues, let alone know what the hell a couple of art collectors were gibbering in. At least he could eliminate the obvious suspects, but without a recording, it still didn’t help much.

  “Fair enough. Got the receipt?”

  The kid nodded, seeming grateful. Probably because we’re about ready to leave, and he knows it, Drakanis thought. He headed into the blocked-off back area, not bothering to turn on the light and give either detective much of a view inside. He came out a moment later holding a pile of thick papers stapled together.

  “Not much to go on, I guess, but we don’t need ’em anymore.” He passed the papers over to Parker. He skimmed them briefly before passing them on to Drakanis, who folded and shoved them into the notebook.

  Parker gave a last upraised set of brows to his partner, who just shrugged and gestured toward the doorway with his head before disappearing out the door and letting it swing shut. Parker nodded to the now-vacant space and then glanced back at the clerk.

  “All right, your lucky day. We got what we wanted, and we’re gone before your pops shows up. You think of anything else, Marvin, you give me a call. We’ll see if it matters or not.”

  While he was talking, Parker was advancing on the counter. He was satisfied when the kid backed up a step, looking a tad nervous. Parker let the moment string out and then flopped his card onto the countertop. “Have a pleasant day, Marvin. Stay out of trouble.”

  Grinning like some kind of crazed baboon, Parker stalked out of the store to join Drakanis by the car.

  Chapter 5

  11:30 am, December 8, 1999

  The main dispatch office of the Reno Police Department wasn’t much to look at. It was made up, for the most part, of a line of cubicles marked off with simple glass doors designed to block sound but affording little in the way of visual privacy. This had always annoyed the dispatchers, who seemed to be engaged in a secret crusade for offices of their own—though for what nefarious purpose they had never stated. They also lobbied for the occasional plant or two. The offices were always in a discussion phase; the plants were generally vetoed outright. This led to a rather stark decor, with only the occasional designer coffee mug or family photo to distinguish one cubby from the next. The phones sat mute this morning, a relative rarity in a city that ran on a twenty-four-hour schedule, and an event the dispatchers were more than willing to take advantage of by playing a game of gin rummy while they waited for something to do.

  Like the scent of prey to a pack of predators, the ringing of the phone—the first call in over an hour—led to a flurry of activity. All heads jerked up. They glanced at the phone bank and then at each other. Five hands of rummy—one of which was apparently ready to be laid down for the win—were cast down. Five sets of feet took off for the phone banks and catapulted their owners into their chairs. The winner seized the telephone and spoke with no indication of the petty power struggle that had just occurred.

  “Reno Police Department, Officer Brokov speaking. How may I assist you?”

  Sheila Brokov’s voice was clear and accented with just the barest fragment of her one-time Valley Girl ways. When she spoke pleasantly and at the perfect pitch between high and low, she found that most people responded in kind. The individual on the phone, however, was apparently not most people. When his voice came through the lines, it carried with it more malice and a greater suggestion of violence than any she had known in her three years with the force, even though what he said, in itself, seemed perfectly innocent.

  “Good afternoon… or is it still morning? I always forget little things like that. Good, regardless. I’m hoping you can assist me with something, Officer Brokov.”

  She repressed a shudder—and scolded herself, for there wasn’t really anything in what he’d said to provoke it, let alone anything on the topside of his voice. That part was calm, even velvety, reminding her of old reels of Colt .45 commercials with Billy Dee. It was the undercurrent that was setting off her alarms, making her think of that movie, the one with Brad Pitt and the killer who seemed like a nice guy until you saw what he’d done. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to take a sip of the Jolt Cola in front of her before responding—she was never without the stuff and never mind the ribbing of the other officers.

  “Well, I’d certainly like to, sir, but first I need to know how I can assist you. Do you need to report a crime, or do you have some other emergency?” Sheila couldn’t believe a man with a voice that calm could be undergoing any kind of emergency, but the department was careful to coach everyone on the proper script to follow, and Sheila had been a good listener.

  “I’m hoping to get in touch with Michael Drakanis. This was the last number I had for him, though I understand he’s moved on now. It’s a very important matter; otherwise, I wouldn’t have troubled you.”

  Sheila paused again. Drakanis was a sore subject for nearly everyone, given what had happened. She’d been new then, just finishing up her POST, but she remembered him well enough and had liked him for the brief time she’d known him. Nearly stuttering now and growing more disturbed with every word that came from the caller’s mouth, Sheila answered.

  “I’
m sorry, sir, but as you yourself just noted, Detective Drakanis is no longer with us. I am not authorized—so far as I know, nobody is—to give out any further information regarding him.”

  The caller laughed then, and though it was a happy sound, full of self-satisfaction, it still rang alarms even more deeply in Sheila. It had that undertone, and what she heard in that laugh was one thing, pure and simple: death.

  Oh, stop it. You’re freaking yourself out for no reason. Probably some old buddy, just trying to dig up his high school friends.

  Really? Some other part of her mind wasn’t buying that one. Then how come he won’t identify himself and knew to call just when Parker was trying to get Mike back in here?

  Deciding she was going to listen to that jumpy part, Sheila took the phone away from her mouth for a second and glanced around the nearly empty front office. Stan was in the corner, despite it being his day off. The usual guy, Karim or some such, was out sick. He was mopping studiously at a coffee stain—at least, she hoped it was coffee, though you were never sure when new stains popped up over night shift. Other than Stan, she was the ranking officer. The remaining dispatchers had been there for less than a year. That only made her nervousness worse, but she figured the best thing to do was the simplest: let someone else handle it. Her hand moved quickly. The caller was still laughing. She scribbled on a scrap of paper and then held it up and waved it to get Stan’s attention.

  Stan, whose eyes were always wandering, saw quickly enough. He nodded at the instructions:

  Get the captain to pick up line six. Be quiet. Nutjob, maybe. Record?

  Without complaint, he headed into the bullpen, and his thick New York accent bellowed out after, asking for Captain Morrigan.

  It was several seconds later that the caller finally stopped laughing, though he was still snorting through his words.

  “That’s fine, Officer Brokov. Fine, indeed. May I speak to Detective Parker then? I’m sure he can relay my message, if he happens to be present. His voice mail will do me fine, as well. I’m sure he’s a busy man.”

  “Hold a moment, please.”

  Sheila put the call on hold, and then her finger hovered over the transfer button. Had the captain picked it up yet? She couldn’t tell. Unlike in all the crime fiction she read—another source of departmental jabs—there hadn’t been any telltale clicks or anything to announce another listener, but there never seemed to be in this place anyway.

  Quit being a goose and do something, for God’s sake. You think you’re ever going to get away from this desk if you keep pulling shit like this?

  Once again, the internal voice was 100 percent correct, and Sheila hated it for it. But she had an idea at least. Smiling with a bit of timidity, she pressed the button to transfer the call to the captain’s phone. Let the caller think it was a mistake. Let the captain sort it out. If it was nothing, no harm, no foul. If it was something, she could reap a bit of a reward for handling it carefully. Excellent.

  Captain Morrigan, for his part, had been listening to the last part of the conversation, having come in just as Parker’s name was mentioned; when his own line lit up a second later, he nodded to himself.

  “Good girl,” he said, as he reached for the switch to pass it through his answering machine, to get a record, before picking up.

  “Parker speaking.” Morrigan wasn’t happy about impersonating another officer, but he was getting the same sense of wrongness from the voice that Sheila had. If this turned out to be a mistake, he’d just relay the damn message and apologize. His thoughts were promptly derailed, and his expression shifted from one of terse expectation to shocked surprise when the caller spoke again.

  “Come now, Captain Morrigan. May I call you Ashley, instead? Never mind. You surely didn’t think such a simple trick would get past me, did you? No wonder your boys haven’t managed to get anything right lately, with someone like you as their supervisor. Such a pity. I was hoping for better, really.”

  Stan was standing in the doorway, gaping at the captain. He’d never seen the man so much as break wind, let alone allow himself a totally unguarded expression like the one he was wearing now. For his part, Morrigan was sputtering like a fish out of water, trying to figure out just what the hell had happened, but the voice was continuing on without him, holding up his end of the conversation without needing the captain to speak.

  “I know, yes, certainly. Tell the janitor I said hello, by the by, and never worry about how I know these things. Satisfy yourself with simply knowing that I do. Now, if you will be so kind, please pass my message on to Detectives Parker and Drakanis—and none of the hogwash about him no longer being with you. You and I both know darling Vincent has drug him back in, just as we both know he’s hoping to get him back permanently. A simple courier service, I know, but in this era of trouble, it is so difficult to get people to drop off notes, wouldn’t you agree?”

  There was more of that self-satisfied laughter, and Morrigan slumped into his chair. He was feeling a sudden tightness in his chest, which was making it difficult to breathe, and pain seemed to be radiating from every nerve ending in his body, working its way inward.

  “Doesn’t that feel better, Captain? Just let it go. It will make things easier, but do remember to tell my esteemed friends that I rang. And be sure to tell them that they’d best enjoy the holiday. I don’t imagine they’ll be seeing another, and what with the anniversary to celebrate and all… well. Merry Christmas, Captain. Pass it along.”

  A click, and the line went dead. The captain was falling, all sensory information shorting out; there was just enough left in him to keep his eyes open as Sheila burst in, her mouth a shocked “O” of surprise. Stan darted for the phone. He had just enough time to see the other officers and detectives clustering around the door.

  Then he went into the black, accompanied by a final burst of pain that started just under his left shoulder and raced down his arm like dark lightning.

  * * *

  The killer whispered his good-bye into the handset and then racked the phone. All around him, the bustle of the casino continued, the happy idiots inside completely unaware of what walked the halls with them, blissfully ignorant of the power he’d pushed through the phone lines and likewise unaware of the energy he’d been siphoning from them as they milled about. They might notice it later, as headaches or aches and pains, and a few of the older ones might die in their sleep tonight, but this didn’t concern him. They wouldn’t be able to pick him from a lineup, point at him and exclaim, “This is the one,” and that was all that mattered for the moment.

  Smiling to himself, he walked toward the balcony, pushed through a gaggle of laughing college kids—Probably someone turned twenty-one last night, he thought—who did feel something when he passed, but they were deep in drunkenness already or still and so put it off on that rather than his presence.

  When he reached the large window—tamper proof and shatter resistant, of course, the better to dissuade suicides—he laid one hand on the glass and glared down at the pawnshop across the street and the two figures standing by the ancient-looking cruiser.

  “Hello, my friends. Not having much fun, are we? So sorry.”

  A few of the patrons, stopping to admire the view or simply standing about with a zombie-like look of “what happened?” on their faces, glanced at him oddly and then continued on with their business. People talking to themselves in casinos were generally better left alone, the consensus stated, and something about this man made most consider this very sage advice indeed.

  Parker and Drakanis, in the lot below, continued their discussion without noticing the man staring down at them. Parker didn’t notice at all, while Drakanis felt a brief tingle. It was there and then gone.

  “You okay?”

  Drakanis shook his head. “Goose over the grave. Let’s go.”

  The killer smiled down a
t them still, wishing they were closer, so that he could have a taste—just a taste, mind, else the thing that lived beyond the talu`shar would have his head—but knowing to do so now would be to risk their attention, and he was not yet ready for it.

  All in good time, though. Drakanis especially. He’ll be such fun to play with.

  He cracked his neck, the sounds as loud as gunshots, heard even over the constant ringing of the machines and the pants of those desperate and yet somehow certain that their luck would change any minute now. Then he started back the way he had come, following the labyrinthine trail back to the front doors. On a whim, he reached out and touched the shoulder of one particularly grim-looking player. A moment later, she was dealt a sequential royal flush, though by the time her own bell went off, she was too far gone to notice it, a stroke having taken her as soon as she’d seen the layout.

  “People really should take better care of themselves.” The killer laughed again, shaking his head and making “tsk-tsk” sounds, before stepping into the sunshine once more. He donned a pair of glasses he’d bought at the casino’s gift shop before making his calls and headed home. He had a lot of work to do and only so much time to do it in, after all.

  As he walked, he whistled to himself. The few people on the streets steered clear of him; it seemed the wisest choice.

  Chapter 6

  11:30 am, December 8, 1999

  “Well, that was a waste of a perfectly good morning.” Drakanis’s voice was sullen and despondent, nearly as bad as it had been in the morning when Parker first woke him up or before his “retirement.”

  Parker shrugged. “They’re not all winners, Mikey. At least we’ve got a signature, can compare it to whoever we pick up.”