The boy got off the chair quickly and hurried to the door. He reached for the handle then turned back to the policeman. “You want me to come back with her?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “You can go to school.”
“There is no school today. They closed the school because of my grandfather and Sister Nina. The streets are full of people from the city.”
“Then play,” said Rostnikov.
“My mother is very frightened,” said the boy.
“I will be gentle.”
“I’m going to the church,” the boy said, and went through the door and into the street.
Rostnikov wanted to read more of the nun’s journal, but he had no time. The wife of Peotor Merhum must, indeed, have been standing directly outside the door, for she came in only seconds after her son had left.
Sonia Merhum was not what Rostnikov had expected, but that did not disturb him, for he had learned long ago not to be caught short by his expectations.
The woman was somewhere between thirty and forty years old, certainly older than her husband, but her beauty made it impossible to determine to which decade she was closer. She was tall, and her blond hair was cut short. Her body was full and firm, and she wore a plain dress of blue with white flowers printed upon it. As she approached, Rostnikov could see that her skin was perfectly smooth and unblemished and her mouth full and wide. Though the boy had spoken of his mother’s fear, Rostnikov could see none of it on her face as she moved to the chair across from him and sat like an uninvolved spectator at a trial.
“Sonia Merhum, wife of Peotor Merhum?” he asked.
The woman nodded.
“Would you like some tea? I am afraid it is no longer really hot.”
“No, thank you.”
Her flat tone of voice indicated that she was trying not to express her feelings or, perhaps, trying not to accept them. Or perhaps the woman had been numbed by all that had happened.
“You would like this to be quick,” he said.
“Please,” said the woman.
“I have only a few questions,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“And your son? “
“Twelve.”
“And your husband?”
“Thirty. But why-?”
“You have any other children?”
“No,”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“Yes, one. Katrina, who lives in-”
“Your husband?”
“My-”
“Does he have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Your husband and his father did not get along,” said Rostnikov.
“Peotor did not kill him,” she said. “And Peotor loved Sister Nina. He would never hurt her.”
“Where is he?”
“I … I don’t know. He will be back. Perhaps he has gone away for the day. Sometimes he is like a child. This is … I think the news of Sister Nina may have been too much.”
“So, you don’t think he has run away?”
“No,” she said without conviction.
“What did you think of your father-in-law?”
“Father Merhum was a great man, a great social and spiritual leader,” she said as if she were reading from a script. “He will become a saint.”
“And your son will become a priest like his grandfather and his great-grandfather?”
“Never,” said Sonia Merhum, suddenly standing as she strained to keep her voice under control.
“You are not a believer, I take it,” Rostnikov said.
The woman said nothing. She turned her head to one side, and Rostnikov thought that she looked even more beautiful in profile. She reminded him of a cameo his mother had worn on a chain.
“And Sister Nina, what did you think of her?”
“Her faith was strong,” said Sonia Merhum softly.
“Faith in …?”
“Father Merhum and the Lord,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.
“And so you liked her?”
“Everyone loved Sister Nina,” she said, so softly that he could barely hear her.
“Perhaps not everyone,” he said. “She has been murdered.”
Sonia Merhum gently bit her ample lower lip and nodded in agreement.
“If-” he began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Vadim Petrov burst in, hurried across the room, and stood before Rostnikov. He looked down at Sonia Merhum, who did not look back at him. The farmer’s huge right hand held a cap that was crumpled into a ball.
“People are exploding into town,” he said. “We can’t control it.”
“People?” asked Rostnikov.
“I don’t know. The curious, foreigners, another television crew in a truck from Moscow. Gonsk cannot handle it with the few volunteers we can get. I ask you to call for more police to keep order.”
Rostnikov looked at the woman, and Petrov followed his eyes. She had pulled herself together, and her face was an emotionless mask.
“I believe that we have a near-perfect ratio of police to crowd,” said Rostnikov, standing up to relieve the pain in his leg. “Too few police and you risk disorder. Too many and you risk reaction and even riot. I would rather err on the side of too little than too much.”
“You wish to protect yourself,” said Petrov.
“I wish to allow myself to profit from experience,” replied Rostnikov.
“There is a madman in this town murdering priests and nuns,” said Petrov.
“I don’t think any more priests or nuns will die,” said Rostnikov, tapping his hand on Sister Nina’s journal.
“We don’t have many left,” said Petrov.
“Those few you have are probably safe.”
“You truly believe there will be no more killing?” Petrov challenged.
“I believe,” said Rostnikov, “there will be no more killing of nuns and priests.”
“The people of Arkush expect me to do something,” Petrov said. “Their priest is dead. The mayor needs support; he doesn’t give it. I am not capable of representing the state. I don’t know if I even have a function. The party is … I’m tired and I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I am a farmer. I was up at dawn trying to find wood to build a fence around my potatoes. People are starting to steal potatoes. I cannot deal with this madness.”
“Madness,” Sonia Merhum suddenly said. “The policeman thinks that Peotor killed his father and Sister Nina.”
The two men looked at her again.
“No,” said Vadim Petrov, his broad face turning to Rostnikov. “He wouldn’t. He is not capable. You don’t know him.”
“He could have been enraged,” said Rostnikov, pacing the floor slowly, coaxing his leg to life. “He could have lost control.”
“He would never openly challenge his father,” said Sonia, and Rostnikov was certain that he heard more than a touch of bitterness in her voice.
“He would never,” Petrov agreed.
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “we had best find him and give him the opportunity to make that as evident to me as it is to both of you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some reports to read and a murderer to apprehend.”
Rostnikov helped Sonia Merhum from her chair and guided her toward the door. Along the way he motioned for Petrov to join them. “Comrade Petrov will help you home,” he said, opening the door.
Outside, a small crowd, perhaps twenty people, had gathered. Most of them pretended to be chatting by chance in the cold street. A few, and Rostnikov assumed they were the curious from Moscow and the foreigners, made no secret of their interest in the three people at the door.
Petrov looked as if he were about to say something, but Rostnikov nodded at Sonia Merhum. Petrov gave in, took Sonia’s arm, and guided her down the street as Rostnikov closed the door.
As he moved toward the room where Karpo had slept, Porfiry Petrovich considered the things he would have to do. First, he would have to find a phone and report to the Gray Wolfhound. Second, he would try to find Elena Timofeyeva and Sasha Tkach to get a progress report on their search for the Syrian girl. Third, he would read Karpo’s report. Then he would settle down to Sister Nina’s journal.
Rostnikov moved across the hall, stopped before Karpo’s room, and ran his fingers along the rim of the wooden door from top to bottom. Almost instantly he felt a piece of thread firmly caught in the closed door. When the door opened, the thread would fall. The person opening the door would not notice. But Karpo, when he returned, would feel for the thread and know that the room had been entered. Rostnikov was sure that there was at least one more thread or sliver of paper, but it did not matter. He was not trying to keep Karpo from knowing that he had entered the room. He was simply checking to be sure that Karpo, who was obviously deeply moved by the death of the nun, had not lost the professionalism that kept him balanced.