“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.”
“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…”