The Dead Soul Read Online Free PDF Page A

difficult. The school was in total disarray. Students fought. Threw feces at each other. Screamed obscenities at teachers. The stress on the family now that Dawn worked full-time and coached was getting to them both. She knew Jake hadn’t mentioned it earlier because he was preoccupied with his new case. But in time the resentment and I-knew-its would resurface. Probably when he was at an impasse in the investigation and fed up with not making any progress. Dawn would bear the brunt.
    “Can we get a Wii, Mommy?” Brendan asked. He sat in the backseat, his short legs not yet touching the floorboard.
    Dawn looked in the rearview mirror at her son. “Who has one, Brendan?” She took a right onto Woodycrest, headed toward home.
    “Nobody.”
    “Come on, fess up, kiddo?”
    Brendan smiled. “Tara.”
    “Is her last name Jones?” Dawn laughed at her own stupid joke. “We’ll have to discuss this, honey, okay.”
    “Car, Mommy,” Brendan said. He pointed to their driveway. Brendan had a perpetual look of just having woken up. His hair always tossed about, clothes wrinkled, fingers in his mouth. He liked to wear shorts all the time, winter or summer. He had a hard time separating himself from his favorite Red Sox T-shirt. There was a picture Brendan had colored in daycare on the seat next to him—a sunset, house, stick-figure mom holding the hand of a sad child, the dad standing off to the side.
    “I see, honey.” Dawn didn’t recognize the vehicle at first.
    As she drove by a heaping pile of dry copper-colored maple leaves in the gutter of the road, they blew away like confetti from the whoosh of the car. The neighbor, Mr. Groeshel, was clipping hedges. He waved as Dawn went by.
    “When is Daddy going to be home?” Brendan asked. He took one of his planes and pretend-flew it in front of him, making a buzzing sound, spittle spraying on the back of the headrest of the front seat.
    “Soon, I hope.” Dawn was puzzled by the presence of her guest after realizing who it was. Father John O’Brien stood, leaning on the trunk of his battered Ford Escort, reading the newspaper.
    When Dawn emerged from her green Accord, Father John walked over and hugged her. Brendan grabbed his book bag, said hello with an embarrassed smirk. Being around clergy made the boy nervous.
    “Hi, Father. What brings you around?”
    “I need to speak with Jake, Dawn. Our last conversation ended on a bad note. Will he be home soon?” Father John’s cloud-white hair blew in the slight wind. “It’s chilly for this time of the year, eh?” He wore a knee-length black wool coat with a bat-wing collar, Russian spy-like. “I didn’t want to call and warn him, you know what I mean.”
    She did. “Smart, Father. You want some tea? Come inside.”
    “You ready for First Communion?” Father asked Brendan, rustling the top of the boy’s head. “Only a few years away, my son.” Father John was in his early seventies. One of those old-school Boston Irish Catholic priests with rosy-red, chubby cheeks, bulging belly, and gentle manner. “I should have called first.”
    “No, Father. It’s quite all right.”
    As Dawn and Father John chatted, Brendan ran off with a neighborhood friend into the backyard. Dawn watched him and the other boy race around the corner, wishing life was as simple as a childhood game.
    “Last one there’s a rotten egg,” Brendan screamed.
     

 
    6
     
    Thursday, September 4 – 3:23 P.M.
     
    Jake Cooper grabbed his keys and Motorola. Before heading out of his office, the big man stopped. One hand on the door, hesitation saddled him. It was time to man up, Jake supposed. Prove all those bastards how wrong they were.
    Just as he was about to leave, Jake turned and caught a glimpse himself in the mirror on the opposite side of the room. He looked pale, pasty, and worn out. Six foot three, 210 pounds, all chest and arms, Jake hadn’t changed much physically since becoming a cop fifteen years ago. He once read that