Wolf

by Kelly Oliver

“We’ve solved the mystery of the thesis and the post-dated letter. Come on, we’ve got to catch Alexander before Detective Cormier comes back looking for us!” Lolita started down the stairs. “Jessica, you’re going weasel hunting. Jack will take care of your thesis and continue searching the professor’s office. Now, let’s get going.”

  “How do you know Alexander will be there?” Jessica asked.

  “Because you’re about to send him a message telling him to meet you there to discuss that damned paper you’ve been carrying around in your bag for the last week,” Lolita said. “He’ll be there.”

  “But, I haven’t read… ”

  “Read it while you’re waiting for him,” Lolita said. “Jack, meet us at the café when you’re done here. I’ll pick up Amber. Her place is close to the café and I need her to do something for me. Remember, text me the minute he gets there. Now get going.”

  ◆◆◆

  After Lolita dropped her off at the Blind Faith, abandoned by her friends, Jessica made her way through late night diners padding their stomachs before bed and summer-school coeds drinking their homework. She headed to the bar and sat down on a swiveling stool.

  She needed a drink after the deadly poker game and revelations about her stolen thesis. After downing a double shot of Jack Daniels, she decided to have dessert and splurge on a ten-dollar Cosmopolitan. She deserved it if she had to face Alexander’s twenty pages of existential angst.

  She opened her book bag and pulled out Alexander’s crumpled paper. It was frayed and stained from spending a week inside her only bag. If Lolita had succeeded in poisoning the little twerp, she wouldn’t have to read the damned thing. While she waited for her Cosmo, she started speed-reading the paper in hopes of finishing before Alexander arrived.

  “Beyond Common Morality, Raskolnikov as Übermensch,” by Alexander Le Blanc. Argg. She already wanted to puke.

  Just as Nietzsche’s Zarathustra divides the world into Supermen and sheep, Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov divides the world into extraordinary and ordinary men. Supermen or extraordinary men have the right to do anything. They are above the law. Most people live their lives like lice, thinking only of filling their bellies or finding pleasure…

  Jessica grinned when her cocktail arrived and sat it on top of the deadly boring paper. She admired her drink’s sunset colors and the triangular shape of the glass. An orange peel tail spiraled off the rim of the pastel pink martini. She took a sip and pursed her lips when the collision of sweet and sour zapped her taste buds. Then she gulped and it disappeared. She needed to take the sharp edge off the rough night, so she ordered another fruity cocktail and went back to reading.

  The idiot fraternity brothers who care only for drugs and sex and the prickteasing sorority girls in their slutty clothes are ordinary sheep who deserve to go to slaughter. Extraordinary men go beyond mere bodily ecstasy and face the abyss, the tragedy of existence, with courage and violence. They suffer from their superiority.

  “What the hell?” Jessica blurted out, spitting some of her drink onto the bar. She started the next paragraph, paying more attention to whatever it was she was reading.

  Professor Schmutzig, you have inspired me.

  He’s addressing the professor in his final paper? What’s this kid up to?

  It is truly Nietzsche’s “twilight of the idols.” Perhaps it’s apt, you are the only one who can appreciate what I am about to do. You argued that Raskolnikov could never prove himself superior by murdering the pawnbroker and her retarded sister because they were clearly inferior to him and therefore in order to prove himself he needed to murder someone of equal stature.

  Jessica blinked hard and stared at the paper. Without looking up, she picked up her drink and sipped. She flattened the paper on the bar and continued reading.

  Isn’t it true that we repay our teachers best by going beyond them? I will prove to you, Professor Schmutzig that I am extraordinary. You will taste my bittersweet ascent.

  She couldn’t believe what she was reading. Alexander was bat-crap crazy! Maybe he was like Hitler and misinterpreted Nietzsche’s theories to justify killing. Could it be? Had he murdered Wolf to prove he was a superior man?

  It would be ironic if Schmutzig’s twisted reading of Dostoevsky had inspired Alexander to murder him. She’d always wondered at Wolf’s suggestion that Raskolnikov’s mistake wasn’t murder, or even going back to the scene of the crime with a guilty conscience, but rather killing an old pawnbroker woman and her half-wit sister, low-lives below even the poor student’s dignity. It made her queasy just thinking about it. She downed the rest of her second Cosmopolitan and ordered another shot of whiskey. She needed to think.

  She’d last seen Alexander in Schmutzig’s office the day before he was killed. As usual, he was milking Wolf’s office hours, sucking up and gushing about his passion for existential philosophy. They were eating croissants and drinking coffees together as usual, compliments of the little suck-up weasel.

  Holy crap! The diary. Schmutzig said Alexander was bringing him gifts. Lolita was right. They were poisonous gifts. Alexander must have laced Wolf’s coffee with enough GHB to kill him. Did the little weasel plant the heroin and needle on the professor to make it look like a suicidal overdose? Whoa. The scrawny kid was way more dangerous and deranged than she’d ever imagined.

  She rummaged in her satchel looking for her phone and fished around some more trying to find the detective’s card. He’d written his cell number on the back of it. Her hands were shaking as she pulled it out of her bag. When she tapped in his number, the line went directly to voice mail. Damn! She quickly texted Lolita, “OMG. A killed W. HB2BFC!”. She’d just poked send when someone snatched the phone out of her hands. Alexander Le Blanc was somehow sitting next to her at the bar. She shot up from her barstool. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Well, what did you think of my paper?” Alexander grinned. He grasped her wrist.

  She struggled to free her hand. “You won’t get away with it.”

  “You’re the only one who knows about this paper and my plan,” he said. “My housemate Gerard makes a mean Cosmo, n’est-ce pas?”

  Jessica stared at the empty glass, and her stomach sunk. “That’s why you’ve been trying to poison me. It wasn’t for Kurt.”

  “Kurt’s an idiot,” Alexander said. “Do you still think Raskolnikov is a superior man, justified in what he did? Have you heard of Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb? They thought they were smart enough to commit the perfect crime, but they got caught. Getting caught is for fools and I’m no fool.” He put his arm around her waist.

  She tried to push him away, but she was so dizzy she had to hold onto the bar. “Alexander…” Nauseous, she could barely stand.

  “I’ll take my paper now, bitch.” Alexander pulled his paper out from under her elbows on the bar.

  She grabbed at it, tore off the first page, and held it tightly in her fist. When he pried her hand open and snatched it, she wobbled backwards, willing herself not to fall. She swatted at his hands trying to get her phone back.

  “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Jesse dear. Don’t worry, I’ll help you get home safely,” he said loudly, glancing around the crowded café. He was holding her around the waist, pulling her across the restaurant. As a few anxious faces turned their way, he said, “She’s had a bit too much to drink, that’s all.”

  She tried to resist, but her limbs were heavier than lead. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound at all came out.

  A waitress intercepted them near the door, but just then quarterback Kurt Willis showed up. “No worries, folks,” he said. “My girlfriend is a little tipsy.” Kurt scooped Jessica up and carried her outside, cradling her in his brutish arms.

  She kicked with all her might, but her legs weren’t moving. She looked around for help, but the street was empty.

  They were standing at the curb when Alexander’s phone started singing, “You can be the President, I’d rather be the Pope. Y
ou can be the side effect, I’d rather be the dope.”

  “What the hell is that ghetto noise?” Kurt asked.

  “Damn, it’s the Pope,” Alexander said. “Wait a minute, I have to take this… Hello, hello, are you there? Vladimir?”

  “What’s going on Zander?” Kurt asked.

  “He hung up. He drank Jessica’s spiked whiskey at the poker game, so I hightailed it out of there. At least Vladimir is okay. He owes me money.” Alexander put his hand over Jessica’s mouth. “Let’s get her in the car and I’ll give her another dose. The little bitch refuses to die.”

  “Can I have her first?”

  “Be my guest, if you must.” Alexander’s phone started another chorus of “You can be the President, I’d rather be the Pope. You can be the side effect, I’d rather be the dope.”

  “It’s Vladimir calling back.”

  “What’s with that ringtone?”

  “Prince’s Pope. Cool, eh? It’s my ringtone for Vladimir.”

  “Hello, Vladimir? Hello?”

  “Let’s get Jesse into my car before someone sees us,” Kurt said.

  Alexander’s phone was rapping again. “Damn, the connection must be bad. I’ll call him back from the car.”

  The car was around the corner from the café, parked on a quiet street. Alexander was yanking at her hair from the other side of the car while Kurt shoved her body inside. Her legs scraped against the car door as they stuffed her into the backseat and metal ripped at her skin. Kurt pushed her inside, pulled down his pants, and threw himself on top of her. She tried to shove him off, but he was too heavy and her limbs weren’t responding to her brain. His hot breath on her face and the stale smell of onions and beer, made her gag. She could hear Alexander answering his phone again in the driver’s seat, “Hello? Vlad…”

  “Freeze! Hands up!” Detective Cormier’s baritone vibrated through her limp body.

  Kurt elbowed her in the face as he scrambled to sit up. The detective opened the back door and pulled him out by his ankles and his face slammed the pavement with a satisfying thwack. Detective Cormier handcuffed him, read him his rights, and then turned him over to a uniformed officer.

  Jack crawled into the backseat, sat down beside her, cradled her head in his lap, and caressed her face. “Sweet, Jesse. Poor little cowgirl.” He was whispering into her ear when she made out another noise from the front seat, a car door squeaking open, followed by the sounds of footfalls on the pavement. Alexander was making a break for it.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot,” the detective yelled.

  Jack helped her out of the backseat and out onto the sidewalk. She leaned against his body, and he held her around the waist.

  Detective Cormier sprinted after Alexander and tackled him from behind before he got around the corner. The detective fell on top of the fugitive and flattened him on the sidewalk. Squirming, Alexander tried to escape, but the muscular cop had him pinned. Detective Cormier flipped him over, cuffed him, then pulled him up off the ground, and dragged the puny kid back to the squad car.

  Alexander laughed. “You won’t have me for long. Vladimir will post bail.”

  “I doubt that,” Detective Cormier said. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Alexander asked. “I don’t think so. He called me just a few minutes ago.”

  “There’s no need to lie. The autopsy showed Vladimir was poisoned with GHB and ketamine. You killed the Pope the same way you killed the professor. That’s two counts of first-degree murder.” Sirens screamed and lights flashed as an ambulance pulled up.

  “Thank God we prevented a third,” Detective Cormier said.

  “Can I ride with Jessica to the hospital?” Jack asked as two paramedics lifted her onto a gurney. Everything spun as they wheeled her toward the ambulance.

  “But who was calling me then?” Alexander asked, shaking his head. “It was Vladimir’s ringtone.”

  Another smaller hand caressed her head. “There, there, it will be okay. Open your mouth, sweetie,” Amber said. “Let me give you some detox drops.” Jessica opened her mouth and bitter liquid dropped onto her tongue.

  “Look what I can do,” Amber said, tapping on her cell phone. Alexander’s phone started singing again, “You can be the side effect, I’d rather be the dope.”

  “I hacked the Pope’s phone. Cool, huh? I was distracting Alex the Pharmacist to slow him down so we could get here in time.”

  “I’d like to give that little creep a side effect or two,” Lolita said. “Sweet Jessica, we got here as fast as we could when I got your text. Detective Cormier, I found this cell phone under the table when we were cleaning up after the poker game.” She handed it to him.

  “No, this isn’t possible!” Alexander shouted. “It was the perfect crime. I’m no fool and you can’t prove anything. You idiots can’t do this to me. It wasn’t murder. I wanted to prove to Professor Schmutzig right by killing someone equally intelligent…” His rant faded into the distance.

  Jessica threw up blood. Then everything went black.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Dmitry hung up the phone. His daughter had called to say she had a surprise for him, and he had one for her, too. He was feeling better after a good night’s sleep, and his mother was still asleep on the sofa, a tiny silver leaf curled up under a cigarette burned hotel blanket. They’d stayed up too late catching up on the last twenty years. Dmitry hadn’t had the heart to tell her the paintings were missing.

  As he made tea in the kitchenette, he remembered how much he’d loved tea and toast with marmalade when he was a boy. Sometimes he and his mother would have tea together in the afternoon when no one else was in the house, just the two of them.

  His mother sat up, rubbing her eyes, and he brought her a cup of tea, then sat in the easy chair across from her.

  “Can I ask you something, Mother? Why did you give me those two paintings? I’ve always wondered why those two in particular.”

  “That trip to Caën was one of the best times of my life,” his mother said. “I was hoping the paintings might take you back there, in memory if not in body. We were like a real family then at Konstantin’s estate, having picnics and picking Tiger Lilies instead of hiding behind bodyguards and living by violence.”

  “That was my favorite trip too.” The words stuck in his throat. He still hadn’t come to terms with the revelation that the Count was really his father. Thirty-seven years being tethered to Anton Yudkovich could not be severed overnight, or perhaps ever. He’d tried to cut the cord his whole life, but he was still carrying the Oxford Don in the crypt of his unconscious.

  “And, wasn’t Kandinsky’s Fragment 2 your favorite painting?” his mother asked. “I wanted you to have it. As you know, Natalia’s Gathering Apples was mine. I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

  “I’ve thought of you everyday mother,” he said. “I’ve missed you with all my heart.” His eyes were watering, and he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe them.

  “My handkerchief!” his mother exclaimed. “You still have it after all these years.”

  Dmitry cradled the worn cloth in his palms. It had become such a part of his daily life, he’d forgotten his mother gave it to him all those years ago on the train platform. He stared down at the tattered fabric with its faded embroidery.

  “Why do you love Goncharova so much?” he asked. He had never understood his mother’s preference for those primitive blocky forms and folksy peasant scenes.

  “Natalia Goncharova was an extraordinary woman,” his mother said. “She was everything that I am not.”

  “You’re extraordinary, Mother.” Dmitry got up from the overstuffed chair and sat next to his mother on the couch. She smiled and took his hand.

  “But Natalia was truly an independent spirit,” she said. “People thought she was crazy. She painted flowers and elephants on her cheeks. She wore colorful nightgowns in public. When she was the belle of the Ballet Russe in Paris as a costume and set designer
, she became a Moscow fashion icon.” His mother laughed. “Soon, the upper crust of Russian society were painting their faces and wearing nightgowns in public.”

  Dmitry smiled. He still didn’t see why such antics appealed to his mother.

  “Natalia valued what others denigrated,” his mother continued. “Gathering wood, cutting ice, picking fruit,” she said. “Picking flowers.” She paused and looked as if she’d been transported to another world. Perhaps she was back on the bank of the river picking Tiger Lilies. “Natalia saw beauty in our peasants and our homeland. Even after she went to Paris, her heart belonged to Russia.” His mother patted his hand. “She made her own way in a man’s world, never caring what others thought of her or what risks she took.”

  “What will you do now, Mother?” he asked. “Sabina and I would love for you to stay here with us.”

  “Stay in this temporary apartment on a sofa bed?” she laughed.

  “Of course not here,” he said, his face warm. When he realized he had gotten used to the Residence Inn with its cramped quarters and lack of comforts, the thought worried him. He surveyed the room with fresh eyes. Of course they couldn’t stay here.

  “We’ll buy a new house,” he said, “one with a separate apartment for you.”

  “You are kind, milyi,” she said. “But Konstantin is waiting for me. He has been waiting for decades, and now it’s our turn for happiness. After I return to Moscow and make arrangements for your father… for Anton’s funeral, I’ll move to France to grow old with my beloved.”

  The door to the apartment burst open. Lolita bounded in. “You’ll never guess what I’ve got,” she said. She stopped in the foyer and gazed at her grandmother. She dropped her packages and dashed to the couch.

  “Grandmother?” she asked, “Is it really you?” She fell to her knees in front of the sofa, gazed up, and then put her arms around her grandmother’s waist. “Grandmother.” She buried her head in her grandmother’s flowing lavender pantsuit, one she’d been wearing since the day before.