“If either of you has another idea…” he began, thinking that his own plan was, at best adequate, at worst stupid. Neither detective had an idea.
“I think I should go with you,” ventured Tkach.
Rostnikov looked at him evenly.
“He has seen you,” Rostnikov reminded him.
“I’d cover my face.”
Doguruki returned with a heavy blanket tied with rope and folded over. Rostnikov took it and hoisted it to his shoulder.
“Give me half an hour, no more. If you do not see me or hear from me by then, I want the three of you to make your way across the field behind the house and use your judgment. You understand, Sasha?”
“I understand, Inspector.”
“Good,” said Rostnikov. “Now, we shall see.”
With that he started down the road. The bundle was light, and Rostnikov welcomed its rough warmth against his face. He tried to think of a plan, but no plan came to mind. He would simply do what had to be done. There was not even any point in hoping for the safety of the girl. She was either alive or dead. Rostnikov’s interest turned to Ilyusha Malenko. He had come to know the young man superficially in the last two days and wanted a direct contact—a look at the eyes, the body, the movement, a sense of the smell and feel of the man—to understand his madness. The walk was deliberately slow. He did not want to appear in a hurry. Slow, slow. A neighbor returning a tool. He tried to whistle but his mouth was dry, and the vision of Karpo raced across his consciousness.
The farm was small, a two-story wooden house with a barn about thirty yards behind it. The path to the house was not shoveled, but someone had come up it. Rostnikov could not make out if the footprints were of two people.
By the time he got to the front door, his heart was beating furiously, and his leg needed a long massage. He tried to force the whistle out, but nothing came, so he knocked.
“Comrade Rodnini,” he shouted in what he hoped was a friendly neighbor’s tone. “It is I, Porfiry.”
There was no answer. Rostnikov set down his bundle and knocked again, but still there was no answer. Then he tried the door and it was unlocked. He went in.
“Rodnini?” he said with a smile on his face.
There were no lights in the house. The room into which he stepped was a large combination dining room, kitchen, and living room. A large rough-hewn grey rug was on the floor. An old sofa stood in one corner and a heavy table beside it. On the walls were farm tools.
Malenko had clearly been here. Furniture was broken. A window above the dining table was out, and the wind sprinkled the room with drifting snow and sent the sun-bleached curtains billowing into the room.
There was no blood, but neither was there any sign of life.
“Rodnini?” he shouted, and above him Rostnikov heard a sound of someone or something. He moved to the narrow stairs and looked up into the darkness.
“It is I, Porfiry,” he said. “Did you and mamalushka have another quarrel?” He laughed as he moved up the stairs, slowly trying to pick form out of shadow. At the top of the stairs, he braced himself for an attack. None came and he looked around. There were only two rooms, neither of which had doors. The sound came from the larger of the two rooms, a bedroom. Rostnikov stepped in and looked around without moving, as his eyes adjusted. The sound came from behind a door across the small room. Rostnikov moved to it, took the handle and pulled, his free hand and arm ready to ward off an attack, but again no attack came. On the floor lay two human figures. Rostnikov kneeled and pulled them out into the bedroom. Both were bound and gagged, and the man was looking around wildly with amazingly blue eyes. The woman’s eyes were closed and a dark gash bubbled blood from her scalp. Both were in their sixties, heavy and small. Rostnikov pulled the gag from the man’s mouth.
“Where is he?” Rostnikov asked softly.
The man coughed and gagged.
“He broke in…began breaking things. My wife tried to stop him. It was so fast. He hit her in the head and me in the stomach. He is mad, crazy.”
“I know,” Rostnikov soothed. “But where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” cried the man. Then he looked at the still form of his wife. “Is she dead?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rostnikov, moving to the woman.
“Oh,” wailed the man, but Rostnikov couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.
“Go out on the road,” Rostnikov ordered, “toward town. There are two cars and some men. We are the police. Tell them to come and get your wife. You understand?”
“Yes,” said the man, standing on weak legs. He looked back at his wife and stood transfixed.
“Go,” ordered Rostnikov and the man fled down the stairs. Rostnikov checked the woman’s eyes and listened to her breathing. He couldn’t tell if the labored sound was from asthma or trauma. He put her on the bed and went to the window to see if he could see Tkach from the farm. He could and he could see the farmer Rodnini hurrying through the snow to the road, slipping and falling in his haste. Rostnikov could also see two clear sets of footprints leading from the house to the barn. He squinted out the window with his head cocked to see if he could see footsteps leading away from the barn, but there were none.
Rostnikov went down the stairs and out the front door into the snow. There could be no more surprise, no tricks, and so there was no great reason to move slowly, but then again his body and leg did not encourage rapid movement. Yes, the footprints were clear and fresh and not in his mind. He looked at the small barn but could see no face at the window. He moved to the door and opened it slowly.
“Ilyusha,” he said firmly.
Something stirred inside, and he heard a clear whimper. The barn was chilly but there was no wind breaking through.
“Ilyusha Malenko, I know you are here,” he repeated, stepping in and seeing nothing but a cow in the corner, some small sheds, and a dozen chickens looking at him with curiosity.
“Father?” came a young man’s voice from one of the sheds.
“No,” replied Rostnikov, moving forward slowly.
“Who is it?” demanded the voice.
“My name is Rostnikov,” he said. “Porfiry Rostnikov. I am a policeman.”
The shed was low, and Rostnikov stepped to where he could see over the rough wooden slat at the top.
“Stop,” shouted Malenko, and Rostnikov stopped. Huddled in the corner of the shed on a bed of grain were two people, a whimpering young man with wild blond hair and frightened eyes who held a knife to a girl’s throat. The man wore heavy black pants and a workman’s shirt. The girl wore absolutely nothing.
“I’ve stopped,” said Rostnikov. “I have a message from your father.”
“He is good at having other people deliver his messages,” Malenko laughed.
“If you don’t want it…” Rostnikov shrugged.
“What is it?” The knife touched the girl’s throat and she coughed.
“The girl is very sick,” Rostnikov said. “Can we put my coat on her?”
“My father’s message,” demanded Malenko, his eyes darting wildly to the window in search of more police.
“He wants you to know that he will support you in your trial. That he is sorry for a great deal and finds it ironic that it should take events such as these to bring you together,” Rostnikov lied.
“Too late,” said Malenko, shifting his weight slightly.
“Why is it too late?” Rostnikov said taking another step forward. “Maybe the worst you’ll get with his help is ten years of buterskalia ichurmo, hard labor.”
“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop,” screamed Malenko scrambling to his knees, his knife constantly at the pulsing throat of the girl. His movement caused a slight, thin cut and the girl’s face distorted in fear. Rostnikov looked away and then back quickly.
“I’ve stopped. Let us talk.”
“No time for talk,” said Malenko. “There’ll be more of you soon and you’ll shoot me down. I know the police.�
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“We’ll not shoot you down,” Rostnikov said evenly. “And there is time for nothing but talk. You killed—”
“Marie and Granovsky—her father,” Malenko said looking at the girl’s frightened face.
“And the cab driver,” Rostnikov added.
“He didn’t count,” said Malenko.
Rostnikov shrugged.
“We can debate that another time,” he went on. “But what do you want with the girl? Why do you want to harm her?”
“You don’t understand,” Malenko cried in despair at the policeman’s ignorance. “I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to do with her what her father did with my wife. Then…”
“What was that?” Rostnikov asked, thinking only of keeping the drama at the level of conversation as he tried to inch his way forward.
“You know. You know. She knows. He was supposed to be my friend. She…You know what they did behind my back. He was in my bed. They laughed at me. Now they are dead, and I will laugh at them.” He did, indeed, laugh.
“That is not the happiest laugh I have heard,” commented Rostnikov.
“That’s because there is no joy in it,” the young man sobbed.
“It is a laugh we Russians have known for a thousand years,” said Rostnikov.
“And the girl?”
“Her father is going to kill her after I finish. No, I am not mad, or perhaps I am. He will kill her by the chain of events he started when he and Marie…”
“But he will never know,” interrupted Rostnikov. “He is dead, unless you believe in some religion of spirits or souls.”
“I don’t care if he knows, don’t you see,” explained Malenko, taking the knife briefly from the girl’s throat to point it at himself. “I know. That is enough. That is all that counts.”
“I see,” nodded Rostnikov. “I shall watch with curiosity. You plan to rape this sick girl and then kill her, all with one hand. For surely, if you put down the knife, you will have to contend with me.”
“I’ll manage,” he said. “I’ll manage, and if I can’t, I’ll simply kill her.”
“You didn’t manage so well with her mother,” Rostnikov whispered. “Is that a general problem you have, Ilyusha?”
“You want me to kill her? Is that what you want? Is that why you taunt me? Are you crazy, policeman? Will it simply be easier to kill me once I kill her? Do you just want to get this over so you can get back to your dinner?”
“Many questions, Ilyusha,” he said. “I don’t want you to kill her. I want to take her to a hospital. Look at what you have done to her, and she was not in conspiracy with her father to harm you. I know you are mad, but even within your madness you should be able to recognize logic when you hear it.”
“I used to live here,” Malenko shouted, putting the knife to the young girl’s stomach. His eyes moved around the barn. “I used to sleep in this barn with my brother when I was young, and we used to talk and watch the room grow…and I told him stories.”
“You brother died when he was an infant. Your mother killed him,” Rostnikov said.
“You are a fool, policeman,” screamed Malenko. “Don’t they train you to humor people like me, not to provoke them?”
“Ilyusha, may I lean on the railing? I have a very bad leg from the war and I cannot stand like this for long.”
Malenko looked confused and Rostnikov ambled slowly another step and leaned on the rail four or five feet from the two figures. The girl was shivering with fever and fear.
“Thank you,” sighed Rostnikov. “You were saying?”
“Don’t provoke me.”
“I won’t.” Rostnikov held up his right hand. “I don’t want to provoke you. I am just a weary cripple who would like to understand a situation which has gotten far away from him. Can I ask you a question?”
“A question?” Malenko tried to pull himself and the girl further into the corner of the shed. The grain shifted under them, and the sound made the chickens behind Rostnikov scurry with excitement.
“How did you find out about your wife and Granovsky? Did you catch them?”
Malenko’s head nodded, and his body shook with emotion. Rostnikov realized that he was on the verge of action or breaking.
“He told me.”
“Granovsky told you?”
“No, a man, a friend, a member…a friend.”
Rostnikov shook his head in disbelief.
“No, no one told you. You’re starting to tell lies again. You had no evidence for what you did.”
“He told me,” Malenko insisted pointing the knife at the policeman. “Fero Dolonick told me. He saw them. He had a photograph. He showed me.”
Rostnikov scratched his head and tried not to look at the frightened face of the girl.
“He had photographs of your wife and Granovsky? Did you ask him how he got them?”
“I didn’t care. He had them. It was true. Aleksander came to see her the day I killed him. I waited. I saw him go in. I saw. No more talk. No more pain.”
Malenko’s eyes were filled with moisture, and his free hand went up to cover his ears.
“May I make a practical suggestion?” Rostnikov said, leaning forward.
Malenko wiped his sleeve across his eyes. The cow mooed behind them.
“I suggest,” said Rostnikov, “that before you attempt to get your clothes off and rape the girl that you put me out of the way. It will make your task much easier.”
“This is a trick,” smiled Malenko, his eyes going to the window and door.
“Of course,” agreed Rostnikov, “but not a very promising one on my part. I am tired, unable to move, unarmed, slow. You are young and, I understand, a madman has enormous strength. You seem quite mad to me. Consider it, Ilyusha. Or better yet, consider simply giving up. You have done enough. You have won your victory.”
Malenko seemed to be considering the choices. He pursed his lips and got to his knees.
“And you young Natasha, what do you think?” Malenko said to the girl who had followed none of the conversation. “Perhaps I won’t kill you. Perhaps, to have you will be enough. I’ll—”
He turned and leaped at Rostnikov with the knife before him. Rostnikov had been ready, but had not anticipated the speed of movement from Malenko. The knife blade scraped along the top of his skull, opening a long thin cut and sending Rostnikov sprawling backward onto an unwitting chicken which was crushed beneath his body. Malenko came over the top of the shed, and Rostnikov brought up his good leg to kick at the young man. The kick caught Malenko’s shoulder and sent him sprawling across the barn into the legs of the frightened cow. Chickens went wild, and Rostnikov tried to rise. His own blood blinded him, and Malenko was on him again.
Rostnikov caught the hand with the knife and pushed it back. The young man grunted and struggled and threw his knee toward Rostnikov’s groin, but the policeman turned sideways, taking the knee against his thigh. Rostnikov grabbed for the young man’s leg and caught it at the thigh. With one hand gripping the arm with the knife and the other squeezing into the young man’s shoulder, Rostnikov lifted. Malenko weighed at least one hundred fifty-five pounds, a simple bench press with a dead weight, a bit difficult with living, unevenly distributed weight. With a tensing of his shoulders Rostnikov prepared to throw Malenko into the shed door and end the battle.
Then something exploded in the room. For an instant Rostnikov thought that the wound to his head had been more severe than he had sensed, that he must be suffering some kind of hemorrhage, but the sound cleared and Malenko’s body went limp. Still holding the limp form over his head, Rostnikov tried to see through his own blood and had only the image of Malenko wearing a red mask. He dropped the body and rolled over.
“Are you all right?” came a voice. Rostnikov wiped his face with his sleeve and turned toward the barn door, where he could see a man in a policeman’s uniform. It was Dolguruki, the driver. A gun was in his hand.
“I am all right,” said Rostnikov, struggling to
his knees. “You did not have to kill him.”
“He had a knife,” said Dolguruki, stepping toward the body. A crowd of chickens followed him.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, pulling himself up and removing his coat.
He looked over the top of the shed at the girl, who cowered back when she saw his bloody face.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch. You are all right now. We’ll get you to a hospital.” He handed her his coat and she grabbed for it and hugged it to her thin body.
“He’s dead,” said Dolguruki, kneeling at the body.
“I’m not surprised,” said Rostnikov, opening the shed to help the girl.
Tkach and Zelach ran into the barn, guns drawn, to take in the sight. Zelach’s eyes went from the body of Malenko to that of the crushed chicken. Tkach looked with horror at Rostnikov.
“It’s a deep scratch,” Rostnikov explained, looking around for something to stop the bleeding as he lifted the girl in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her fever right through his coat.
“Does it hurt?” said Tkach.
“Only when I think,” replied Rostnikov, looking at Doguruki and the sprawled body of Ilyusha Malenko. “Only when I think. Now we must get her to a hospital.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMIL KARPO HAD A DREAM. In the dream, he was floating on his back, absolutely stiff, as if he had been hypnotized by a magician. He was quite comfortable and mildly surprised to see the magician hovering over him. He was even more surprised that the white turbaned magician looked exactly like Porfiry Rostnikov. Rostnikov looked as if he were deep in concentration to insure the success of his trick, and Karpo wanted to insure that the trick would indeed work.
“What can I do?” Karpo mumbled in his dream.
Rostnikov touched his arm, and Karpo started. It was not a dream. Rostnikov did hover over him in a turban. He also discovered that it was true that one had the illusion that one could feel an amputated limb. Karpo, had not logic stayed him, could have sworn that he felt Rostnikov touch his non-existent arm.
“Turban?” Karpo mumbled dryly through the first sign of coming out of the anesthetic.
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