“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.