Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Gav-gav, av-av.” Bow-wow, he said, trying to make light of himself. “Maybe there was a dog fight.”

  Sitting down opposite, Boris reached across the table for Lara’s hand. Then he leaned forward, just as she did, and their lips met. Her soft greeting closed everything else out, pushed all his worries far away.

  He jerked away.

  “There—did you hear it that time?” he asked, looking toward the door.

  She wiped her lips. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t hear a thing.” Lara laughed and tried to pull him back. “Boris, you’re being ridiculous. We left all our troubles back in Leningrad. Everything’s okay now. It’s just you and me.”

  “Yes, but…” He turned back to her and was met by her green eyes sparkling excitedly.

  “Boris,” she began, “I was thinking…” She lifted his hand to her mouth and nibbled at each of his fingers. Embarrassed, she laughed a bit.

  “Back home—there’s just not that much privacy. My apartment’s so small and the walls are so thin.”

  Still thinking about what could lie in wait outside, he gazed back at the door. “So?”

  She sat up. “I was thinking it’d be fun… you know, like I talked about, to… to make love. Outside.”

  He spun around and grabbed her hand. “Lara, no. I don’t think that’d be such a—”

  “Boris, no one followed us here and you know it. We both kept checking all the way out.”

  “What about the hounds?”

  She made a face expressing her concern. “Well, you said yourself Tyotya had penned them up. Besides, we could go right down by the river. Or… or just behind the dacha.”

  “Lara, I…”

  “Boris, you sound like an old married man.”

  She beamed red with her own accusation and flashed him a mischievous grin. Then, impulsively, she bolted for the door.

  “Lara!”

  Right before his eyes she threw open the latch. He sat there stunned. What in the devil’s name was she doing? She looked at him one more time, laughed, then charged outside. He raced to the doorway. Her lithe figure stood on the edge of the dark some ten meters away.

  “Lara, come back!”

  “Come on, Boris! Don’t be stodgy. Come on out! We’ll do it like the cossacks!” she hollered disappearing around the edge of the dacha.

  “Nyet, Lara!” he screamed. “Nyet!”

  But she was already gone, swallowed up by the night.

  Chapter 37

  Helplessly, they rolled to the ground, Musya and the hound, a panicked bundle of arms and legs. She tried to scream as teeth bit into her, claws scratched down her, but she had no air in her lungs. No power to fuel her shriek. She felt the dog’s legs tear into her as it scrambled madly to dig away, to push the massive body to the side. Like steel traps, jaws snapped here, there, grabbing into her arms, ripping into clothing. Instinctively, Musya rolled to the side, wrapped her arms around her neck and kicked with her feet. Steamy hot breath spewed into her face, and Musya twisted as if she were being raped. She squirmed for escape, found none, as again and again fangs sunk into her. Dead, she thought. She was going to be killed, chewed to a pulpy mass by a crazed hound.

  She opened her mouth to scream for Kyril’s help. Pathetically, her mouth opened and formed the words, save me! save me, my love! But there still was no air within to animate her vocal cords. Thrashing, she opened her eyes and was terrified at what she saw through the meadow’s grass. The other hound was attacking Kyril. It was over, she sobbed in her mind. They were both dead. Oi. Let this evil creature rip my throat out and be done with me right now.

  Suddenly, the earth below her vibrated with a tremor. Musya struck the hound above her on the side of its head and glanced back. A red and white carcass lay there, a dead, broken mass. Then she saw Kyril’s dark shoes cutting through the weeds, and, an instant later, a silvery blade appeared, a shinning spot of hope like a bright moon in the sky. She kneed the animal in the stomach, forced it up just as the cleaver came flying down. The blade skimmed past her, connected with fur and flesh. There was a crack of bone, and the paws on Musya’s chest flexed as if electrocuted, then went soft. The hound fell off her.

  “Are you all right?” asked Kyril, his voice hushed.

  She managed to nod as she clambered to her feet. Then she spun into him, and Kyril wrapped his one good arm around and patted her.

  “What about you?” she gasped.

  “Okay.”

  “Oi…” Her breath was returning to normal. “It… it bit me but I think…”

  She stepped back and examined herself. Her legs were dotted red, her skirt torn. Touching her arm, she felt the aching muscles where jaws had locked.

  “Da, da. My clothing protected me. I’m bruised but just… just a few nips. Oi, Kyril.”

  Again she let him hold her.

  “Do you want to turn around, go back?” he whispered.

  Shaking her head, she pushed away. “Nyet! There’s no turning back until Boris is dead. Do you understand? I… I think I’ll go crazy if we don’t dispose of him tonight. Kyril, I can’t wait another moment, I…”

  “Ts-s-s.” Kyril glanced toward the distant cabin on the other side of the river. “We don’t want him to hear us, do we? So we’ll proceed.”

  The two of them set off down the path, melting into the gathering of birches. The trees grew thick all around, a small dense forest on the edge of the river. Abruptly, Musya stopped. Someone was calling out. There, again, a voice came, the clarity of the words lost among the birches. But even though she couldn’t understand what was being said, she recognized the speaker.

  She pulled on Kyril’s sleeve, and whispered, “That’s Boris!”

  Trying to get a clear view of the dacha, she dodged, gun in hand, in and out of the trees and toward the river. Finally, she could make out Boris standing there in the front door, the light from inside the dacha casting out his shadow. His head turned from side to side as he stepped onto the ground. And then he rushed off to one side, disappearing into the dark woods.

  “What did he say?” whispered Kyril, hurrying up behind her.

  “I… I don’t know. The trees sort of blocked it. I couldn’t hear.”

  “Someone else is with him.”

  “Well, maybe there is,” she said, glaring through the leaves at the dacha. “So I was wrong.”

  “Didn’t he call a woman’s name?”

  Musya gawked at Kyril and her response, though hushed, was quick. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he doesn’t have a woman out here.”

  “What about a lover?”

  “Boris… with another woman?”

  Musya shook her head, brushed back a wisp of hair. What Kyril was suggesting was utter nonsense. After all, why did they have to kill Boris and why had he been so hard to kill? For one simple reason: Boris was crazy about her, Musya. He adored her, lusted after her.

  “Boris could never cheat on me. He’s terrified of hurting people. And he’d never hurt me, in particular.”

  Kyril grabbed her and pulled her down. “Perhaps it was someone from the gang.” He stared over at the dacha.

  “Da, da,” agreed Musya. “That’s the answer.” Yes, it had to be someone from that silly gang. “We’ll just have to take care of them both.”

  Kyril, peering through the trees, searched the other side of the river. The dacha’s door was still open, spilling light outside. There was, however, no sign of Boris or anyone else from the gang.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Whoever they are and wherever they are, we’ll just have to get them both. We might have to split up, you and I. Find them and go at them from opposite sides.”

  Musya kissed Kyril’s rough cheek. She rose and started back toward the path, pistol held ready in front of her.

  “At least,” she whispered right behind her to Kyril, “we know about them, but they don’t know about us.”

  He nodded and, crouching, the two of them made it to the river and across the na
rrow bridge.

  Chapter 38

  Boris froze by the side of the dacha and listened as Lara ducked behind the cabin. What was she doing this for? And why now? It wasn’t like her to do something foolhardy, especially after their encounter last night with the hounds. Perhaps she was just trying to help him escape into pleasure, make him forget all that had happened back in town. Instead, her actions served as a bracing reminder of all the dangers.

  When he heard her steps continue past the end of the dacha and into the dense grove of birches, he could stand it no more.

  “Lara!”

  Nothing came back, not even an echo. Shaking his head, he rushed to the back of the little building. This wasn’t a game he liked.

  His eyes searched the white birches. No, he wouldn’t go any farther. She was certain to give up any moment. Confident, he wandered to a tree, leaned against its white bark, and stared at the river. Its soft rippling was so soothing. The music of nature, that’s what he was listening to. A gentle procession of sounds that had always been in harmony, from the time of the tsars, through the occupation, to today. Now how could he write something like—

  The crushing of leaves filled his ears, and he spun around. Ah-ha! So he had won. She was coming back. Slava bogu. Thank god.

  But the woods before him fell silent again and still there was no sign of Lara. He stared in the direction that he thought the noise had come from, but heard nothing. He opened his mouth to call to her when he heard rustling off to his right. Then more noise back to the left. Dread pumping through his body, he realized that Lara was not alone out there.

  Liking this situation less and less, he realized he couldn’t afford to outwait Lara. Taking a deep breath, he started for the woods. He stopped at the first birch, the very edge, and took hold of its papery bark. Those were definitely running steps he heard, and they were coming from up there on his right. He took off.

  There was just enough moonlight for Boris to realize how poorly he could see. A blend of darkness and shadows, of faint light and white birches danced before him. He tripped on a fallen branch, caught himself on a tree. Dusting his hands off, he stood perfectly still. Crinkly steps came from over there.

  Wait! No, from across there. He turned around and around.

  “Nyet,” he muttered.

  So deep had he already passed into the forest, so repetitive were the trees, that he no longer knew which direction he’d come from. Was the dacha there, beyond that leaning birch? Or back there, toward that grove of straight ones? If he walked in one direction he would surely come to the other edge of the forest—eventually, anyway. But which edge? The other side of Zarekino or the side along the river? Ach! For the first time he was truly mad at Lara. Why was she doing this?

  Something rushed to his left. He tried to locate the source of noise. Was it charging him? It was so close, growing with each moment. He turned to his left, then to the right. There. Something over there flashing in and out of the trees. A person? An animal? But it passed too quickly, then fled out of reach and out of sight, whatever it was gobbled up by the birches.

  “Come out!” he shouted.

  A noise came from straight ahead and he charged forward. Weaving between the slender trees, he used his hands to deflect the branches, to propel himself. With each running step, his feet pounded the fall leaves, cracking the dark silence. He was going to find Lara, take her up in his arms, and carry her back to the dacha. He ran like either a hunted animal or the hunter, just which he couldn’t say.

  Then he stopped. This was hopeless. He was becoming ever more lost and farther, he sensed, from finding Lara. He leaned back against a tree, his heart pounding, his breath spewing out. Suddenly, he heard more footsteps. They were coming from right behind him. He opened his mouth to shout when suddenly a pair of hands shot out and grabbed him. One hand clasped over his mouth, the other over his stretched out neck, then pinned him back against the tree.

  Chapter 39

  Tyotya relaxed her grip on her axe and her knives. She was all wrong. She’d thought the cry of her dogs had come from down here, to the south of the palace and on this side of the river. Those hooligans from the nearby village had entered from this direction before. Perhaps they had changed their strategy, though. Or perhaps it wasn’t the hooligans but acquaintances of Boris Ankadievich. Well, whoever it was, she wouldn’t have anyone stirring up trouble here at Zarekino. She’d find Milka and Toozik and together they’d chase the intruders away.

  She scanned the field one last time, checking the open area, the smattering of oaks and pines off to the side. With no sign of life, she turned toward the river. Da, da. She was certain of it now. They must have invaded Zarekino directly, passing through the old entrance. Milka and Toozik must have caught them in the meadow just the other side of the footbridge.

  Pausing a moment, Tyotya itched her thigh with the blunt end of her axe. There was a better way to accomplish this patrol. More subtle. If she passed back down this open field to the footbridge, the hooligans might spot her black figure in the moonlight. And what would they do? Attack her? Perhaps. Which only meant she had to be more careful, retain her element of surprise.

  The bend in the river. Downstream, that’s where she’d cross. At its broadest point there, the river was shallow and filled with stones and also out of view of the footbridge. The best place for catching crayfish, the water was also easily traversed there, some peasant long ago having laid rock after rock from one bank to the other.

  Wasting no time, she hurried through the field, down the embankment and across the river. Making her way through the birch grove on the other side, she neared the footbridge, spied no one, then edged along until she came to the meadow. With one hand to an ear, she listened. Certainly she should be able to hear Milka and Toozik. But the beating of their paws, their deep panting, and certainly their howls were oddly absent.

  Puzzled, she emerged from the birch grove into the moonlight and started down the path. Axe held ready, she moved along, her eyes scouring the meadow and the edge of the forest beyond. It was then that she glanced across the river and saw the open door of the dacha. Yellow light poured out on the ground, but there was no one about. Not a single person could be seen inside, nor anyone out front. What had happened? What would cause Boris Arkadievich to abandon the dacha and leave the door wide open on such a cool night? Had this trouble of his followed him from Leningrad?

  Not sure what to do, Tyotya stopped. She stared across the river at the dacha, then gazed up the path. It was then that she saw the odd shapes, two unfamiliar mounds lying off in the grass.

  Immediately, she raised the hatchet and crouched down. The pale light of the moon gradually yielded vague shapes. A leg, but not a human one. A covering, but not cloth.

  “Gospodi!” she cried out.

  Her short legs carried her quickly down the narrow path, and each second the horror became more distinct. But no, she begged, don’t let it be them!

  But it was. Yes. Bozhe. Those two slaughtered piles of red and white fur were her hounds, her Milka and Toozik. A knot formed in Tyotya’s throat. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. And for the first time since before the war, tears spilled out of her eyes.

  Chapter 40

  Boris ripped the hands away from his mouth and throat with surprising ease and threw himself forward. Get away, he screamed inside himself. Get away! But the tip of his right shoe caught in the dirt and he tumbled forward, his hands breaking his fall on the ground. He scrambled desperately in the leaves and rolled on his side. If he was caught, he wasn’t going to make it easy on his enemies. He’d fight to the death.

  “Boris?” The person paused, then moved closer. “What… what are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? Lara—what the hell do you mean what am I doing?”

  Her thin figure knelt down, and she caressed his face. An apologetic smile crossed her face. Her game had backfired.

  “I’m sorry, I only—”

  “No, don�
�t! Don’t touch me!” He glared at her. “Why did you come all the way out here?”

  “I heard you following and I just went a little bit further. And then I got lost. I’m… I’m sorry. Really. You’re right. It wasn’t funny at all.”

  Fetal-like, he drew his legs up into him, wrapped his arms around himself. The night air burned his lungs. “I thought you were someone from that gang!”

  “Borinka, mili moi.” My dear. “Really, I’m sorry. I…”

  She touched him lightly on the knee. He recoiled. Of all the times to pull something like this….

  “It’s just all so recent,” he said. “Sergei’s death and—”

  “Ts-s-s. Of course. But we’re at Zarekino. We’re safe from that gang, from everyone.”

  That was it, he realized. He was edgier than he wanted to admit. The events of the past days—could it be less than two days since he’d delivered those stolen parts?—hadn’t sunk in yet. Yesterday he’d missed out on so much sleep that it had numbed him, protected him in a way. Today, however, he was just beginning to experience the shock of what had happened.

  “One day in the life of Boris Ankadievich.” He tried to force laughter and sputtered instead. “Oi yoi yoi.”

  Instead of pushing herself on him, Lara crouched down and sat next to him. She, too, brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. Relieved at her distance, comforted by her proximity, Boris began to relax.

  For a long time, the two of them sat staring into the endless birches that had lost most of their leaves for the season. Above, through the naked branches, the white orb of moon provided a heavenly night-light. Like the luminous hands of a watch, the white birch bark reached skyward and pushed back the dark.

  Boris gazed at Lara’s pale cheeks, her open blouse. Like the birches, her skin, too, seemed full of its own light, and he was drawn to her. His lips met her body at the base of her throat. Lara’s chin rose, her knees sank, and she held his head, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, cradled him in her bosom. Nestled in her warmth, Boris never wanted to move again.