"So?" said Maya puzzled.
"So," repeated Sasha. "You get attacked. I catch the hounds who did it and they get spanked and sent home to their parents. I catch a dealer in stolen goods who has probably never physically harmed anyone in his life and he'll go to jail for years, without evidence. If the KGB gets involved he might even be shot."
"How do you know he never physically harmed anyone?" she asked as the baby paused to catch her breath before continuing.
"Actually," he said with a laugh, "I don't know. He's probably murdered hundreds of innocent people. He had a gun when we caught him. I was just trying to set up a contrast so I could feel even more put upon by the system."
Maya laughed and Tkach felt better, much better. He even considered laughing but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it.
Mirasnikov moaned through the night, moaned and ranted, growing feverish, perspiring, going quiet and cool for brief periods and then burning with fever.
After three hours, Rostnikov had the old woman sit with her husband while he dressed, went out and made his way across the square and up the slope. He doubted if the killer would make another attempt on his life. It was possible, but the killer would have to be waiting up all night in the hope that Rostnikov would come out of the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity. In addition, it was much lighter out now that what passed for day in this part of Siberia was coming. The killer would find it much more difficult to hide.
Rostnikov stopped at Galich's house and knocked at the door. There was no answer. He pounded mightily and the sound of his pounding vibrated through the village. Finally he heard movement inside and Famfanoff in his underwear opened the door.
"Comrade Inspector," he said.
"Get dressed, go down to the People's Hall of Justice and guard Sergei Mirasnikov," said Rostnikov. "I've got to get the doctor."
"What happened?" Famfanoff asked half asleep.
"Mirasnikov was shot last night," Rostnikov said. "You heard nothing?"
"I… I was…" Famfanoff stammered, resisting the urge to scratch his stomach.
"Get dressed and get down to the People's Hall," Rostnikov said and closed the door.
, Famfanoff cursed, turned and moved toward his small bedroom, wondering if he had lost his last chance to escape from the arctic circle. I was drunk, he thought, hurrying to his room to get into his badly wrinkled uniform. His wife had warned him but he hadn't listened. Now it would be different.
"No more drink," he said aloud to himself. "Tonight, right now you begin. No more and that's final."
But even as he spoke, deep within him Famfanoff knew it was a lie.
Ludmilla Samsonov answered the door when Rostnikov knocked. She was dressed in green, her hair pinned up on top of her head.
"Please come in," she said. "We've been unable to get to sleep. Is Mirasnikov worse?"
"I am afraid he may be," Rostnikov confirmed.
"And you?" she said examining his face with her large, moist brown eyes. "You look very tired. Let me get you some coffee. We have real coffee we save for special occasions."
"Thank you," he said, "but I would appreciate your telling your husband that I think he should come down and take a look at the old man."
"I will," she said, starting toward the rear of the small house and then pausing to look back and add, "I heard about your call to Moscow. I hope your wife will be well."
"Thank you," Rostnikov said, sinking back into the same chair he had sat in the last time he had been in the house.
"How long have you been married?" she asked.
"Twenty-nine years," he said. "And you?"
"Lev and I have been married for almost two years," she said.
"Then Karla was not your daughter?" he asked yawning and closing his eyes.
"Inspector," she said with a small smile. "You must have known that."
Rostnikov held up his hands in mock defeat.
"It's difficult to stop being a policeman."
"I loved the child very much," Ludmilla said, her eyes growing more beautifully wet. Rostnikov regretted not having paused to shave before coming up the slope. "She was so… I'll get your coffee and my husband."
Rostnikov was dozing, probably even snoring when he felt the presence of someone in the room and came suddenly awake. Samsonov stood nearby, his coat on, his black bag in his hand. He looked tired. At his side stood his wife holding a cup and saucer. Rostnikov rose with a grunt and stepped forward to accept the cup of steaming coffee.
"I warned you," said Samsonov. "He is an old man, conditions here are not the best even for a simple procedure such as I performed last night. Add to this that I've not worked with shoulder trauma in years."
"No one blames you, doctor," Rostnikov said, sipping the black, hot coffee, feeling both its liquid heat and caffeine surge through him.
"Is that right, Inspector? I am blamed for a great deal but I also hold others responsible for a great deal. What have you discovered?"
"About your daughter's death? Very little. About Commissar Rutkin's death, possibly quite a bit more. Perhaps when we find out about one we will find out about the other."
He gulped down the last of the coffee, returned the cup and saucer to Ludmilla Samsonov and gave her a small smile before turning to her husband.
"Shall we go," he said.
A moment later the doctor and the policeman stepped out the door and looked down the slope. The frantic figure of Famfanoff was rushing toward the People's Hall, his flowing coat only partially buttoned, his hat perched precariously atop his head.
By the time Rostnikov and Samsonov reached the square, the navy vehicle had broken the silence of the morning by cranking to life. In moments, a sailor would drive around the corner of the weather station and start the morning ritual of clearing a path.
Samsonov entered the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity first. After the doctor entered the building, Rostnikov paused for an instant to look back around the town. In the window of his own room across the square he caught a glimpse of Sokolov who danced back out of sight. Rostnikov turned and entered the People's Hall, closing the door firmly behind him.
Rostnikov followed the doctor across the wooden floor and into the room where Mirasnikov lay on his bed, his wife kneeling next to him. Famfanoff tried to rise to stand at attention.
"All is secure, Comrade," Famfanoff announced.
"I had complete faith in you, Sergeant Famfanoff," said Rostnikov as Samsonov moved to the bed, pulled a chair over, examined Mirasnikov's face, eyes and wound and pulled a stethoscope out of his bag.
Liana Mirasnikov looked at her husband, the doctor and the two policemen for answers but they had none for the moment. She let out a wail of pain and frustration and Rostnikov wondered where the old woman got the energy for all this grief after being up all night. He suppressed a fleeting image of himself at the bedside of his wife Sarah, her head bandaged, a woman doctor with huge glasses hovering over her and clucking sadly, refusing to give Rostnikov attention, an answer.
Rostnikov met the old woman's eyes and motioned with his hands for her to be calm.
It took Samsonov no more than three minutes to complete his examination and change the bandage on the old man's shoulder. Mirasnikov groaned when his body was moved. He opened his eyes, looked around in fear and closed them again.
"Give him one of these now," he told the old woman, handing her a bottle of capsules. "And another every two hours. Wake him if you must but give them to him."