Darkness of the Soul (6 page)

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 doors, 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.