Darkness of the Soul (3 page)

Mendoza
sighs,
shakes
his
head,
and
backs
up
a
step.
The
Drakanis
that
will
exist,
the
one
who’s
dreaming
this
moment
three
years
from
now,
sees
this;
the
Drakanis
that
does
exist,
the
one
who’s
living
this
for
the
first
time,
doesn’t.

The
living
room
looks
like
it
always
does;
the
same
leather
couch
is
just
inside
the
door
with
the
stairwell
and
the
new
big-screen
TV—it
had
cost
a
fortune,
but
Gina’d
had
a
run
of
luck
that
week
and
they’d
been
on
sale.
Michael
had
never
been
able
to
deny
her
anything,
and
they’d
had
the
money.
Little
clay
figures
that
Joey’d
been
making
in
art
class
are
sitting
on
top.

One
thing
is
missing
from
the
room,
but
it
isn’t
until
later
that
Drakanis
will
think
of
it,
and
by
then,
the
moment
to
know
why
has
passed.
All
he
can
see
is
the
blood.
The
carpet,
which
used
to
be
a
thick
powder
blue,
installed
only
six
months
earlier,
is
now
a
sodden
red
from
wall
to
wall.
The
television
screen
looks
like
some
bad
play
on
a
blonde
joke,
with
blood
instead
of
whiteout.

Drakanis
takes
all
this
in,
seeing
the
lump
in
the
middle
of
the
floor,
lying
against
the
back
of
the
couch,
but
not
processing
it.
His
eye
runs
up
to
the
stairwell,
following
the
trail
of
bloody
progress
marked
on
the
rail.
Obvious
handprints
are
dragged
down
it
as
if
someone
had
been
leaning
on
it
for
support
while
bleeding
badly,
probably
from
a
hand
or
chest
wound.
He
sees
this
and
can
picture
it
clearly
in
his
mind’s
eye:
Gina
running
down
the
stairs,
blood
running
out
of
her
at
a
rate
that
would
render
any
concept
of
help
worthless,
Joey
screaming
in
the
crook
of
her
arm,
and
some
as-yet-unnamed
and
unseen
assailant
coming
down
the
stairs
after
her,
taking
them
two
at
a
time,
the
gleam
of
a
knife
in
his
hand.

That’s
the
point
at
which
he
looks
at
the
lump
and
really
sees
it.
It’s
also
the
point
when
Perez
comes
up
behind
him
and
lays
a
hand
on
his
shoulder.

“You
don’t
want
to
see
this,
Detective.
Please,
come
outside.
We’ll
get
you
some
coffee.
Parker’s
on
his
way.”

Drakanis
can
see
the
shape
his
wife’s
body
makes.
The
formerly
glorious
black
hair,
always
waist
length
and
shining
like
a
piece
of
jet,
is
slicked
into
a
tangled
mane
of
blood
and
less
easily
identified
fluids
and
clots.
Drakanis
can’t
see
her
face,
and
that
is
a
mercy;
later,
when
he
does,
he
will
scream—he
won’t
be
able
to
help
himself—but
for
now,
he’s
spared
that
experience.

He
can
see
the
way
her
body
is
twisted
in
the
middle,
and
the
part
of
him
that
was
trained
to
really
see
a
crime
scene,
not
just
to
look
at
it
but
really
to
see
it
for
everything
that
it
was,
could
be,
and
hadn’t
been,
could
tell
from
the
shape
that
her
spine
had
been
broken.

He
could
see
the
tiny
hand,
still
pristine
but
too
white,
clutching
at
a
scrap
of
Gina’s
sweater,
and
that’s
when
Drakanis
could
see
no
more.
Later,
he’ll
be
able
to
face
his
son,
look
at
the
mangled
remains
that
had
once
been
his
boy,
the
Rembrandt
in
training,
and
he’ll
manage
to
say
good-bye,
but
for
now,
it’s
all
too
much.
There’re
no
more
guts
left
in
him.
He’ll
labor
along
for
another
year,
pretending
that
he’ll
be
okay,
that
there’s
still
some
of
the
steel
left,
but
here
and
now,
he
knows
that
it’s
gone.
The
life
he’s
led
up
to
today
is
over,
and
there’s
no
going
back.

When
he
falls
to
his
knees,
Perez’s
hand
stays
with
him.
When
he
begins
to
shake
and
scream,
it’s
Perez
who
gets
him
to
the
ambulance
and
makes
sure
he’s
taken
care
of
as
best
they
can.

Drakanis
will
remember,
later,
that
a
rookie
whose
nose
he’d
just
broken
was
the
only
one
out
of
that
group
to
bother
trying
to
help
him.
Mendoza,
Tarson,
and
Woods
just
stand
there
watching
and
then
go
on
about
their
business
as
soon
as
he’s
out
of
the
way,
and
Drakanis
will
remember
that
too.