Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “Why not?” And in the car, and buckle up, and away they went. But not in the direction of home. And the seatbelt was jammed so it would not unlatch. And Lorna was not alone, Sergei was lying down on the back seat under a blanket and they were on the highway heading to the end of the earth. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “You have to talk to me, Anya. We’re running out of time.”

  “You perhaps. I have all the time in the world.”

  “We have to take care of this. Too many things have happened.”

  “Yes, and too many people have been killed. I do not wish to join their number.”

  “You won’t. I promise. Just give me what I want. It’s no good to you. It doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Why not? Who does it belong to?”

  “Everyone. No one. How do you think the Tsar got it? Legitimately, you think? The poor man in Mandalay who found it two centuries ago. Did he hold on to it for long? The Mogul who held it for a year. And then there was a Persian, and a Turk, and two brothers from India stole it, one killed the other, then another thief killed him, and a bigger thief killed that one, and then one of the biggest thieves of all took it to the Metropolitan of Moscow who pronounced it holy and declared it sacred and from there it went to St. Petersburg to be part of the great Romanov treasure. So, Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya, who do you think it belongs to now?”

  “Whoever is holding it, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. Where is it?”

  “You searched my studio, you searched my home. Did it look like I was holding the biggest treasure in the world?”

  “It’s a process of elimination. Vassili didn’t have it, Viktor didn’t have it. The last person who is known to have held it is you. So. Where is it?”

  “I am so sorry for you, Doctor. You have been terribly misled all these years. Do you not know? It is not real. It is a big fake. Years ago I took that ugly red thing to a man who showed me, most conclusively, that it was just a piece of glass. Nice red Venetian glass, blown, cut and polished by a fine glassmaker and made to look quite legitimate. But only glass.”

  “So where is the glass?”

  “It is in ten thousand red pieces. I used a hammer. It is no more. It was the only way to be rid of it. If you are looking for the real ruby, I would start with Uncle Joe. That little devil Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, known as Stalin, was quite the thief. He robbed banks before he started robbing royalty. I hear he got a hundred thousand rubles from that bank in Tbilisi. I hope he got more for the Ember. We poor gypsy smugglers got a piece of glass. It is tragic, is it not? So many lives wasted over a fake. And laughable, too. If not for so many deaths it might be the funniest joke in the world.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Sergei from behind her. “You are too good a liar.”

  According to Mikhael Tomashevsky, Dr. Lorena Wisneski did have a doctorate in psychiatric medicine from Vienna, although since psychiatry was still held in low regard by many bureaucrats in Moscow, it was not listed as part of her credentials at the Ministry of Culture. Dr. Wisneski explained that an understanding of the criminal mind was a useful weapon in her arsenal, along with her doctorates in art history, archeology, certificates in gemology, restoration and her command of six languages. Until 2003 she had been one of the most respected reclamation operatives in the field, responsible for the return of hundreds of items looted during the Second World War. And then she disappeared.

  “She appears to have done it again.”

  “So it would seem, Chief Brennan.”

  “And at the time she disappeared she was on the trail of this ruby specifically?”

  “Well, initially of course she was searching for the missing cross of the Empress Feodorovna. Among its most valuable components were the four large Kashmiri sapphires, three of which I believe have been accounted for, a large number of diamonds, most of them sold or lost over the years and, of course, a ninety-seven-carat stone worth as much as anyone who lusts after such things would be willing to pay. Ten million, twenty, thirty, it doesn’t matter. It would be worth it to a government that believed it had a justifiable claim to the ruby.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “I can think of at least three. India, Pakistan, Iran. But one might get bids from Myanmar, China, who knows? Perhaps even England, although I’m not sure they’d care to spend that much money. The stone has passed through so many hands in its travels, and since it was usually stolen before it made its next stop, a claim could be made and even substantiated by a number of governments. And they wouldn’t have to hide it. They could proudly declare that one of their great treasures had been successfully recovered.”

  “And the person who recovered it?”

  “Would have done a great service, would be handsomely rewarded and no doubt set for life in a very comfortable sanctuary.”

  Adele drove into Dockerty from the east end, just for the hell of it, and because she wanted the extra ten minutes that avoiding 35 and coming up 11 added to the trip. Not that the extra time was going to answer any questions about O’Grady’s murder, but it did give her a chance to finish the sack of Twizzlers she had in her glove compartment before showing up in “Dockerville.” Hey, what d’ya know, there’s the 7-Eleven. How lame is that? I’m visiting this burg so much I’m starting to know my way around. Fuck gas and mileage, cheaper to just move here. Her cellphone started jangling. She swallowed the last wad of red rubbery goodness before answering. “Yeah, what? I’m here, Stace, I’m turning the corner right now.”

  Stacy was waiting outside the station. She waved Adele to the curb and climbed in. “Make a U-turn. Got a break and enter.”

  “Oh yeah? Who got robbed?”

  “Nobody, yet. We’re doing the B&E. The shrink’s office.”

  “We are? Cool.” Adele got them headed in the right direction. “Horrible thing? I actually know how to get there.” Stacy was picking a Twizzler off the floor mat. “Darn! Missed one. Well, it’s no good now. Stick it in the glove compartment.” She made a left onto Evangeline. “I’ll wipe it off later.” The glove compartment held an assortment of traveller’s rations: Cheetos, beer nuts, half a Snickers bar. Stacy laid the red whip on top of the Cheetos bag and closed the lid. “Hey, you never know,” Adele said, “a person could get caught in a blizzard and then where’d you be?”

  “Up the creek, definitely.”

  “So? Wanna give me a hint? We looking for anything in particular?”

  “We’re looking for her. Where she went, what she’s driving, where she took our dancer.”

  “She scooped her?”

  “Or she went willingly. Don’t know. One of our constables spotted Zubrovskaya getting into a car near the bus station. Don’t have a plate number, don’t have a positive ID on the driver except our guy says she had a bandage on her head. Car was a dark blue GM product. Unfortunately the doctor drives a Honda.”

  “What about her hubby?”

  “Ford pickup. He’s moved out of the marital house. Could be anywhere.”

  Adele pulled into the parking lot beside the two-storey Evangeline Medical Centre. “We got a warrant or anything?”

  “I’ve got a credit card. You got anything better than that?”

  “Check under the beer nuts. Lockpicks. Black zipper bag. Not kosher, but I’m always losing my house keys.”

  She was in a barn. She knew it was a barn. She could smell straw, she could hear the echo of pigeons cooing high above. She hoped they’d aim their droppings at the scarf tied over her head. The Hermès scarf. She should have picked up on that right away when Lorna came into the studio wearing it. She had seen it once before. It belonged to Sergei. He will be furious if it’s ruined by bird shit. It would serve him right. And to think she almost had warm feelings for him the previous evening. Well, if not warm feelings, at least she hadn’t been filled with loathing when the two policewomen brought h
im in. Her own fault. So sure that she was finally in control of events, directing the situation, driving things to a conclusion of her own choosing. She had forgotten the most important rules: never let your guard down. Trust no one.

  And she was paying for her stupidity. The crows had won.

  “I always thought they would send a man.”

  “I am not a killer.” Lorna’s voice was the same as it used to be in her office, calm rational, dispassionate, understanding.

  “And yet here you are, prepared to kill me. Who are you? Who employs you?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Moscow?”

  “At one time.”

  “And now?”

  “And now we don’t have a lot of time, Anya. I tried to do this the soft way. The others who came after you over the years were crude, and ultimately unsuccessful. I hoped that I could gain your trust.”

  “Ha. You did. I got into your car without a second thought. I think it was when you cried in my studio. And then that wicked cat sat in your lap. I should have known better.”

  “Just give it back and it will all be over.”

  “You guarantee that, do you?”

  “Of course. I don’t want to kill you, I never wanted to kill anyone.”

  “Is it necessary for me to wear this thing over my head? I do not know where I am, and I already know who you are. What point does it serve?” She heard a hollow clumping noise. Someone was leaving. Then, after a silent moment, the scarf was untied and lifted from her eyes. She was in a small room inside a big room, a space like a stall, or a storage area. There was straw on the floor and rusted things hanging from rusted nails along one wall. The barn boards were loosely fitted and thin shafts of light entered from behind and above. She was tied to a wooden chair. Lorna was standing in front of her. “Why did Sergei have to leave? I already know what he looks like.” Lorna didn’t answer. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. It wasn’t Sergei.”

  It took Adele just a few seconds to pop the lock. “Smooth,” Stacy said.

  “Shit, I could open one of these with a dirty look. Can’t be much worth stealing.” The door swung open. The place was bare. “Or much of anything.”

  Stacy stepped into the place. “Definitely cleared out.”

  They split up, made a search of outer office, inner office, washroom, closet, and came together in the middle of the main room. “Gonzo,” said Adele. “Totally. Last time I moved I left enough crap behind the Three Stooges could’ve tracked me down. What’s next?”

  “House.”

  “I’ll need directions.”

  It was Constable Charles Maitland who had spotted Anya Zubrovskaya getting into a car outside the bus station. He had waved to her but she hadn’t seen him, and as he was busy writing a ticket for a car with one wheel on the curb in a well-marked no-parking zone, he hadn’t waved a second time. When he learned that the Chief was concerned about Anya’s whereabouts, he reported in that he’d spotted her driving away but was unable to furnish a plate number. These facts nagged at him all through his lunch break until he remembered the couple whose car he’d cited for the lousy and illegal parking job crossed the street to yell at him for sticking the ticket under their wiper blade. They claimed that they’d only been there for a few minutes while seeing the wife’s parents off. By that time Maitland had already written the ticket and couldn’t do anything about it. He did say that they had the option of appealing the citation in traffic court, a suggestion that was met with overt hostility. It was while mulling over these events that it occurred to him that the couple in question, a Mr. and Mrs. Amos Wallace, had been taking pictures of Mrs. Wallace’s parents prior to their departure and that the parents were posed with their backs to the street. Constable Maitland further remembered that at the same moment the pictures were being taken, Anya Zubrovskaya was getting into a dark blue Chevy Malibu and driving away. There was a chance, a slim chance to be sure, but a chance nonetheless that the Wallaces had a picture of the car in question.

  They left her alone for a while. What did they expect her to do? Lose heart? If she had any hope of getting out of this, it rested on her ability to hold fast. She had no doubt they would kill her when they were finished with her. What else could they do? She knew their faces, some of them anyway, they would need to get away somehow, to somewhere. They couldn’t afford to keep her alive. They must be desperate. Something must have happened to force this. Well, of course, I forced it, did I not? But they forced it, too. Maybe none of us had a choice in the matter. No choice from the time Viktor bought his suitcase of silk shirts and expensive cologne. From that moment on, the die was cast, and all the players were pawns pushed around a board. Vysotsky, Romanenko, Kolmogorov, Kapitsa — they all paid for knowing Chernenko and what he had stolen. It is quite possible they would have died anyway, even if they had not lost his treasure. Just knowing about it might have sealed their fates. Men like Konstantin Chernenko did not value any lives but their own. So who would care about the little lives of gypsy smugglers caught in a misadventure? Not him. And after he was dead? Not anyone who followed him. How many people had been on the trail over the years? Whoever Lorna Ruth was, she was just the last in a long line of corrupt officials, outright thieves, opportunists. And for what? Was it really worth so much?

  How did it happen? How did she let Lorna get so close?

  Another rainy night. I only drink when it rains. Not precisely true, but true enough, rain had a way of making her feel more acutely all that she had lost — homeland, career, family, friends — all gone. She was not a person to wallow in self-pity, she was stronger than that, but always, deep within, a secret ache like the ghost of a missing limb kept her company. And on rainy nights it called to her more insistently. The only way to dull the pain was . . . well, what else?

  The Rose, a lounge attached to the big family restaurant in the West Mall, not far from the hospital. It was almost exactly six months ago. That afternoon, while showing her students a tour en l’air, a girl dropped her three-ring binder and in a desperate attempt to pick it up, the unfortunate child kicked it with her toe, sending it sliding across the wood floor. It came to rest exactly in the wrong place. Anya twisted her ankle so badly upon landing that she was forced to cancel the rest of the class. The student whose binder had caused the accident sobbed and hid behind the piano. Anya laughed and told her not to worry, ballet dancers were always getting sprains, she would be fine in a day or two. One of the students was dispatched to the store for a bag of frozen peas, and then Anya sent them all home.

  For two hours she huddled in her corner filled with dread, the bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel, wrapped around her ankle. Pain she could put up with, but being unable to dance, to even walk, made her quite crazy. It brought back such bad memories.

  It took them three hours to get around to her in the emergency ward, but in the end they pronounced it a very bad sprain, nothing more, try to stay off it as much as she could for a few weeks. She knew how to look after sprains, she didn’t need the lecture, just the reassurance that she hadn’t ruptured something, broken something or torn a ligament. A sprain she could deal with. They bandaged her ankle, gave her a few painkillers and an ugly metal walking stick to lean on.

  When she stepped outside the rain had begun to fall, a steady, heavy rain. The taxi company said it would be half an hour at least before they could get to her. She told them not to bother. The little shop in the hospital lobby sold her a cheap umbrella and a magazine and she limped the two blocks to the Rose to drink some vodka and ease her various aches and worries.

  And that’s when Lorna Ruth came in to sit at the next table, or perhaps she had been there all along, Anya couldn’t quite remember.

  “What are you drinking? Vodka? Brandy for me, on a night like this, warms my blood. I worry about getting a chill. I’m Lorna Ruth. I’m a doctor. Your leg all right?”

 
“Just a sprained ankle. I will be fine.” She hadn’t wanted conversation.

  Just a few drinks. Perhaps the rain would slow down and she could limp the three blocks to her apartment without getting soaked. But the woman had kept talking to her. Not asking questions, not prying, just making pleasant conversation about weather, and life in a small town, and how the world was changing, and Anya only half listening, half responding, and somewhere along the way the woman bought her another drink without offering, it just appeared, and perhaps one more, and sometime after that she found herself in her own apartment being put to bed. Maybe it was the painkillers, or the painkillers in combination with the vodka, or there might have been something else in her drink, but whatever the case the woman had, for an hour or two at least, taken control of her life. When she woke up she didn’t remember much. It didn’t look as though her apartment had been disturbed.

  The doctor had left a card beside her telephone.

  The next day Lorna Ruth called, just to see how she was doing, she said. She suggested that the combination of painkillers and perhaps one too many vodkas had caused her to pass out. She mentioned that when she was being put to bed she appeared to be having a nightmare. She said she was a psychiatrist, and that if Anya ever felt that she needed someone to talk to, she shouldn’t hesitate to call.

  And then the dream started coming back, and after a few bad nights she called the only doctor she knew. All she wanted was some sleeping pills. Maybe they would kill the night terrors. Dr. Ruth didn’t expect pills to help but she suggested, gently, that perhaps a few sessions talking about what was at the root of her anxieties would do some good.