The face of death [antikvár]

1 I dream of the face of death. It's an ever-changing face, worn by many at the wrong time, worn by all eventually. I have looked into this face, over and over and over. It's what you do, dummy. A voice in my dream tells me this. The voice is right. I am in the Los Angeles branch of the FBI, and I am responsible for hunting the worst of the worst. Child killers, serial killers, men (and sometimes women) without conscience or restraint or remorse. It's what I have done for over a decade and if I haven't seen death in all its guises, I've seen it in most. Death is endless and erosive. Its unfettered face wears on a person's soul. Tonight, the face changes like a strobe in a fog, moving between three people I once knew. Husband, daughter, friend. Matt, Alexa, Annie. Dead, dead, and dead. I find myself facing a mirror with no reflection. The mirror laughs at me. It hee-haws like a donkey, it lows like a cow. I hit it with my fist and the mirror shatters. A purple bruise blossoms on my cheek like a rose. The bruise is lovely, I can feel it. My reflection appears in the mirror shards. The voice again: Broken things still catch the light.