She kept going, and heard the steps stop abruptly behind her. Panting, the cold air burning her lungs, she leaned against a tree and looked back. The young man was racing back across the field. Through the snow she could see the young girl standing indecisively next to the car, unsure of which way to run. She took a step back down the road and then considered going the other way. It was clear to Vera that the girl had neither the stamina nor will to get away from the young man, but she herself was now confident of survival. She took a deep, cold breath, warmed her mittened hands under her armpits and plunged through the trees.
Ilyusha caught Natasha Granovsky no more than ten feet from the car. He had to hold her for five minutes before he could either catch his breath or speak. Only then did he force her back into the car. He drove slowly, the girl at his side, the scissors in his hand as he gripped the steering wheel. In five minutes, he could drive no further. The road was too little and the snow too much.
“Out,” he ordered. She was wearing boots, coat, and a warm hat and he a jacket. He pulled his scarf from his neck and tied it over his head and ears.
“That way,” he ordered, pointing down the road with his scissors.
In ten minutes, the snow stopped and the moon came out. They walked. As steadily as the moon would guide him, they walked along the side of the road through the trees. Ilyusha led the way, feeling the chill patiently taking over his body. Behind him he could hear the light steps of the girl, who walked on numbly, allowing herself an occasional sob.
In Ilyusha’s mind was a crude map almost eighteen years old. He had no idea whether he would reach his goal, or die in the snow.
They were a pitiful sight against the sky, the one lean figure in front, a scarf around his head, and a thin figure in back, stumbling. Ilyusha was muttering and lurched forward, step after step, the scissors clinking open and closed in his hand and echoing through the trees.
When they broke through the woods into an open field, Natasha sagged against a birch tree, and Ilyusha was forced to abandon his reverie and turn his attention to the girl.
“I think we’re getting near,” he told her. “We’ll find a place to sleep.”
Ilyusha led the way again for twenty minutes until they found a small, darkened farm. They crept to a low barn and crawled through a wooden door. A cow snorted and rustled, ignoring the two intruders who fell heavily against the cold stone wall.
Ilyusha’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he could make out the cow, the walls, a small window, and finally the girl, who lay next to him with eyes open, afraid to sleep. She looked feverish to Ilyusha.
“You’re sick,” he whispered.
“Because of you,” she cried.
“I’m doing what I must,” he said. “
In the morning maybe I’ll milk the cow for you. Sleep. I won’t hurt you.”
Inside Ilyusha, vying with the bloody face of the cab driver on Petro street, was the vision of himself and the girl making their way to his destination. He would steal something to eat in the morning early and get going. Ilyusha fought down the image of his wife Marie dangling in their apartment, her face…
Suddenly, he did not want to die. He sat up quickly and looked around, afraid. The small barn threatened to grow large. He could kill the girl, that might stop the barn from growing, but then he would be alone and he did not want to be alone. The sound of the cow and the steady breathing of the girl soothed and blanketed his thoughts. He lay back and slept but did not dream.
With first light, the barn door flew open and so did Ilyusha’s eyes. The boy who looked at him was frightened, and for a moment Ilyusha did not know where he was. He had the feeling that the boy was himself eighteen years’ earlier, that he was looking at himself.
The boy stopped and turned.
“My name is Ilyusha,” Ilyusha shouted, and Natasha sat up suddenly. “This is my sister. Our automobile got stuck on the road last night, and we wandered in here.”
The boy stood about a step outside, framed in the sunlight and snow. Ilyusha made no move to rise and frighten him. He tucked the scissors carefully into his pocket and kept his hand on it. The boy’s black eyes were curious and traveled from the voice in the darkness of the small bam to the safety of his own house behind him.
“My sister is ill,” Ilyusha said softly. “We would be grateful for some water and maybe some bread.”
The boy turned and ran into the house. Ilyusha reached down and forced the girl up. She was dazed and ill, a weight without thought.
“Say nothing or you die,” he whispered. “You know I’ll do it.”
Ilyusha prodded her toward the door and looked back at the cow. The cow, he could see, had some kind of growth near its udder and Ilyusha shuddered, thinking that he had considered touching and taking milk from the animal. The world was indeed rotten.
The madman and the girl stood stiffly in the morning cold and sun. They turned to face the house and the voices inside. From the farmhouse, a one-story mud and wood building tilted slightly to the west from age, the boy and a man came out. The man held an axe. He was lean and wearing a cowhide jacket. His face was bearded and dark, and he did not squint into the sun.
“We’re from Moscow,” Ilyusha explained. “We’re on our way to visit relatives.”
“Come into the house,” the man said nodding his head. The little boy stepped back and allowed Ilyusha and Natasha to step in ahead of him. The lean man held tightly to his axe as he followed, watching them. The girl stumbled and Ilyusha led her to a chair where he took a position behind her.
The room was dark in spite of the windows letting in the morning light. A bed stood in the middle of the room against the wall, and on the bed lay a thin woman looking at them. Next to the bed was a set of crutches.
“My wife,” explained the man, putting his axe against the wall but staying near as he ordered his son to pour tea for the two young visitors. The woman on the bed did not speak or move. She watched Ilyusha for a second and then fixed her eyes on Natasha Granovsky. Then she turned to the window, where her eyes remained.
“You can have some tea and bread,” said the man. “We haven’t much at the moment.”
“We are grateful for whatever you can share with us, and I’m sure-”
“Are they coming here?” the man interrupted.
“Who?” asked Ilyusha, starting to pull out his scissor, trying to determine if he could get to the man before the man reached the axe.
“Whoever is after you. The girl’s parents, brothers?”
“I-” began Ilyusha.
“When you finish, you leave,” said the man, gesturing to the boy, who hurried to refill the visitors’ cups with tea.
They ate in silence and rose.
Ilyusha asked the man if he was on the right road to his destination. The man replied that he was.
“In an hour, maybe less if the road is clear, you’ll come to Nartchev Road. Take it left.”
“We thank you,” said Ilyusha, taking the girl’s arm and leading her out the door. The boy and man remained inside. He urged the girl to hurry. When they reached the road, Ilyusha goaded her into a trot. He began to smile again. The sun was out, and he knew where he was going.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The night had been long for Rostnikov and Tkach as they dozed in his office. However, Rostnikov thought, it had been a much longer night for Sonya Granovsky and her daughter-if she were still alive-and for Emil Karpo, and even for Ilyusha Malenko.
The sun had not yet come up, but Rostnikov’s watch told him it was five in the morning. He looked at Tkach and was surprised to see the stubble of a yellow beard that made the junior inspector look even younger.
“Let’s shave,” Rostnikov said, clearing his throat. “I have a razor in a drawer here someplace.”
Rostnikov leaned over to open a drawer and discovered that the pain in his leg had neither gone away nor eased. He found the razor and handed it to Tkach, who took it with a nod and left the room.
> As soon as he was gone, Rostnikov picked up the phone and called his home. Sarah answered before the second ring.
“I’m still in the office,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t tell you last night, but I have reason to believe that Iosef may be on his way back to Kiev or possibly on his way here.”
“How could you…” she began and stopped. “I don’t care. Is it true?”
“I think so,” he said quietly. “We’ll know soon.”
“What did you have to do to get this information?” Sarah said with sympathy.
“Nothing I don’t have to do every day of my life,” he said. “Now I must go back to work. I’ll let you know if anything…if I learn more.”
“You’ll be careful, Porfiry,” she said.
“About what?” he chuckled.
“I don’t know,” said his wife and hung up.
Tkach came back in five minutes, clean-shaven and bearing hot tea and hard rolls. Rostnikov ate quickly and took the razor.
“Can I use the phone to call my wife?” he asked Rostnikov, who limped painfully to the door.
“Call,” said Rostnikov.
His leg would not bend without great pain, so he marched stiff-legged past the desks of the few junior officers who were either still on duty from the night before or had come in early. A phone rang, and Zelach picked it up about fifteen feet in front of the slow-moving Rostnikov.
“Yes,” came the officer’s voice. “I understand. The location. Yes. Inspector.” Zelach had his hand over the mouthpiece as he called to Rostnikov. “I think we have a woman on the phone who had her car taken by Malenko.”
Rostnikov hobbled over to the desk and grabbed the phone.
“Yes,” he said swiftly.
“My name is Vera Alleyanovskya, and my car was stolen last night by a mad young man with a young girl.”
“Where did this happen and why didn’t you call us earlier?” Rostnikov said, motioning for Zelach to go to his office and get Tkach.
“I almost died in the woods,” she explained. “Some people on a farm took me in. They had no phone.”
“Tell me where you are, and I’ll have a man out there to pick you up immediately.”
She told him, and Rostnikov hung up just as Tkach moved to his side.
“Another chance, Sasha,” he said. “Take Zelach and a car and find this woman whose car was stolen. Try to follow Malenko’s trail.” Tkach nodded and motioned for Zelach to get his coat.
What, thought Rostnikov, is Malenko doing out there? The thinking of this madman still eluded him. He headed for the washroom, to shave. He would worry later about thinking.
By six in the morning, Emil Karpo was prepared for surgery. He lay in the preparation room next to another patient, a woman who, he heard, had a stomach cancer. They said nothing to each other. Karpo’s arm had ceased to hurt. It had no feeling at all, which allowed Karpo to channel his thoughts elsewhere.
“Emil,” came a voice through his thoughts. He looked up at Rostnikov, whose eyes were heavy with sleeplessness.
“Inspector,” said Karpo, his mouth surprisingly dry. He tried to lick his lips but there was no moisture. “They are going to take the arm.”
“I know Emil,” said Rostnikov.
“It will be a great inconvenience,” said Karpo, growing drowsy.
Rostnikov laughed. The sick woman prepared for surgery looked at him, as did a male nurse.
“A great inconvenience,” agreed Rostnikov. “I’ve asked Procurator Timofeyeva to assign us together permanently. You are too valuable an officer to lose over a disability. Many of us operate under disabilities. My leg…”
“I will be pleased to serve with you,” said Karpo, fighting sleep. “But there is something else. Something I have figured out that will be of value. How long will I be asleep from this procedure?”
“The doctor tells me it will be six or more hours before you can speak,” whispered Rostnikov.
“Too long,” said Karpo, his voice fading. Rostnikov had to lean forward to hear his words. “The sickle.”
“The sickle?”
“Yes,” said Karpo weakly, “the sickle. A rusty sickle and a rusty hammer. We thought it was political, but the hammer and sickle are more than a symbol. They are a symbol of something. The union of agriculture and labor. And you said Malenko was carrying a rusty scissors. Hammer, sickle, scissors. Tools, old farm tools. They are not political symbols. They are memories of his childhood. He was raised on a farm until he was ten, his father’s farm.”
“How can you remember such things?” Rostnikov shook his head.
“My job,” said Karpo, his voice fading. “My job.” And he was asleep.
Rostnikov moved away and took a doctor by the arm. The doctor was busy and glared at the inspector. But something in the heavy man’s eyes and the firmness of his grip made the doctor stop and pay attention.
“Is his life in danger?” asked Rostnikov softly.
“Yes,” said the doctor, who was dark and seemed foreign in some way. “But he will most likely survive. He is a very strong, determined man.”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov, letting the doctor’s arm go.
Rostnikov left the hospital and got back into his waiting car. Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki turned on the engine and drove into the street.
“May I ask Chief Inspector, how Sergeant Karpo is?” said Dolguruki.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “He is improving.”
Ten minutes later Rostnikov was at the office of Sergei Malenko’s factory. It was a large factory with machines and a modest office, but Malenko was not in the office. His secretary, a young man, informed Rostnikov reluctantly that Malenko was at a meeting with some foreigners at the Praga Restaurant. Rostnikov was welcome to wait, but Rostnikov had no intention of waiting. Natasha Granovsky might still be alive. He went out of the factory and stepped into the silence of the street. It was only then that he realized how noisy the factory had been and understood why Sergei Malenko had been so slow to respond to him during the interview at his dacha. He was probably partly deaf. The price Malenko had paid for his success was mounting.
Rostnikov felt uncomfortable at the Praga Resturant. He did not normally go to resturants. Only once a year did he, his wife and Iosef go to a restaurant and that only on Iosef’s birthday. It had been delayed this year because Iosef had been unable to obtain leave at his birthday.
The waiter at the door greeted Rostnikov and asked him if he wanted a seat.
“No,” said Rostnikov, afraid that his leg would lock if he sat. “I am looking for Sergei Malenko. Police business. Tell him Inspector Rostnikov must see him.”
“Very good, Inspector,” said the man and walked away. Rostnikov stood in the small lobby, watching the lunch eaters and listening to the pleasant hum of soft conversation in the darkened dining room. Maybe he could afford to take Sarah and Iosef here. The extra weights could wait. He could make do for another year.
The waiter, a particularly thin man, came back with rapid step and came very close to Rostnikov.
“Comrade Malenko asks that you wait here. He will be done in no more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
“In ten or fifteen minutes, a fourteen-year-old girl can be dead,” said Rostnikov walking past the waiter and heading across the restaurant dining room toward the door from which the waiter had come after bringing Malenko’s message. He bumped into a chair protruding into the aisle, and a man with a dark suit and black eyes turned to say something and then changed his mind.
Rostnikov did not hesitate at the door behind which he heard voices. Nor did he knock. He pushed it open and found himself facing five men seated around a table. One of the men was Sergei Malenko, who stopped in mid-sentence and stood up angrily.
“You will have to wait, Inspector,” he said.
The table was set with a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, caviar, baked veal, and potatoes steaming in the well heated private room.
“I cannot wait,” he said firmly. “I
am sorry, gentlemen.”
“These gentlemen cannot understand Russian,” Malenko said with a smile and a nod at the men.
“Good,” said Rostnikov. “I need some answers from you very quickly.”
“You will be sorry for this, Rostnikov,” Malenko said without losing his smile.
“Not as sorry as you will be if you fail to answer me.
“Ask your questions quickly and then leave,” said Malenko patiently.
“You lived on a farm before all this,” said Rostnikov.
“That was a long time ago,” said Malenko. “Eighteen, twenty years ago.”
“That was where your child was killed by your wife?”
“Yes,” said Malenko, unable to keep up his false front and glaring at the policeman.
“Where is that farm?”
“North of the city, beyond Druzhba. A farmer named Breask or something like that owns it. Why do you ask?”
“I think,” said Rostnikov, “that your son may be heading there. I think he may have kept some tools of yours from that farm and is now using them to kill people, kill people who he thinks betrayed him. Does that make sense to you?”
“No,” said Malenko, his dark face turning pale.
The four other men in the room looked at the two antagonists in confusion.
“He has a young girl with him,” said Rostnikov. “Give me complete directions for getting to the farm, and give them to me quickly.”
Rostnikov handed a notebook and pencil to Malenko, who sketched a map and handed it back to the policeman.
“Thank you. Would you like to come?”
“No,” said Malenko sitting back down. “I…no.”
Rostnikov turned and left the room.
Tkach and Zelach had found the abandoned car with the help of directions from Vera Alleyanovskya. Forty minutes later they found the trail of footprints in the snow. It was faint and had been obscured here and there by falling and drifting snow, but it could be followed.
“This is ridiculous,” mumbled Zelach an hour later. Their car had been left on the road behind Vera Alleyanovskya’s vehicle, and with each step they moved further and further from it.
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