“Go on!”
She finished her story, lit a cigarette, and quietly asked, “How did you find me and why?”
“Gradskaya put a hit on you,” he said after a long silence.
“You accepted the contract?”
“I didn’t take any money.”
“But you didn’t refuse?”
“If I’d refused, she would have hired someone else. Or tried to do it herself again.”
“Why didn’t she come to you straightaway?”
“I don’t kill women with small children. She knows that. In Moscow you had your daughter, but here you’re alone.”
“Did you kill Mitya?” Lena asked.
“Yes.”
“Were you supposed to stage my death, too?”
“No. Not you.”
“How did you do it… to Mitya?”
“I did it the way I was ordered. I climbed in the window, knocked him out while he was sleeping, injected a large dose of morphine in his wrist, dragged him out of bed. The rest you know.”
He spoke so calmly and in such an ordinary way, it was as if he were sharing a recipe.
“You made just one mistake,” Lena said thoughtfully. “Just one. You injected the morphine in his right wrist. But Mitya wasn’t left-handed.”
“I injected it in the arm that was hanging from the bed. It was easier that way. I didn’t think about which it was, right or left.”
“What if his wife had woken up?”
“I wasn’t hired to do the wife. But she couldn’t have woken up. She was too high, and I did it all very quietly.”
The helicopter had flown away while Blindboy was talking. It was quiet now. The killer peeked out of the dugout.
“I’m going to light a fire now,” he said. “Help me gather tinder. Only don’t take fir. Fir smokes a lot.”
He cut a layer of bark off a young birch, rolled it into a neat cone, and deftly secured it with a flexible twig. Sitting by the fire, Lena watched the killer make a pot from birch bark.
“Are you planning to boil water in that?” she asked.
“What else?”
He filled the birch pot with snow and secured it over the fire between two forked sticks. The snow melted and he added more. Half an hour later, the pot was full to the brim with melted water, which quickly boiled.
“Why didn’t it burn?” Lena said, surprised.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “That’s what the Khanty taught me.” Carefully removing the pot from the fire, he held it out to Lena.
They sat there taking turns sipping the hot water, handing the bark pot back and forth.
“Didn’t you feel sorry for Mitya?” Lena asked cautiously. “You must have recognized him.”
“Yes,” the killer nodded. “I did recognize him. But this is my job.”
“Why did you take pity on me?” Lena tried to keep her voice from breaking. She spoke slowly and softly, almost in a whisper.
“Because you once took pity on me.”
CHAPTER 40
Venya woke up very early. It was still dark outside. He knew the only morning flight from Tyumen arrived at 9:15. It would be foolish to rush just to watch Lena enter the arrivals hall only to be met and embraced by her husband. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was dying to see her. The ten days had stretched out like an eternity. And now today she was flying back.
He wouldn’t get too close. He’d just look at her. And tonight he’d call her and ask her to have a talk with her husband. He hoped he could see her first thing tomorrow. But he wasn’t going to rush her. Let things go however she wanted, so that no one got hurt, her husband above all.
Regina was sleeping in her office. He slipped past the closed door, but she immediately appeared in the doorway in a short nightgown.
“What’s got you up at this ungodly hour?” she asked, yawning.
“Business,” he said, and he headed for the bathroom. He emerged from his shower cheerful and fresh. His face was glowing. While he was putting his boots on in the front hall, Regina appeared again. She was carrying his favorite mug full of steaming coffee with cream.
“You don’t have time for breakfast,” she said, “so at least have some coffee.”
“Thank you.” He took the mug from her.
It was true, hot coffee wouldn’t hurt right now. Regina knew how to prepare it the way he liked—very strong and sweet, with lots of heavy cream. Right now it seemed especially delicious. Venya drank down the entire mug, gave Regina a peck on the cheek, grabbed the keys to his old Mercedes, and left.
Regina stood there a little longer, waiting for the sound of the engine to fade, headed for the kitchen, and washed out his mug very carefully with baking soda and chlorine.
It was a sunny morning. Volkov drove his favorite car and thought about the best way to get to Domodedovo.
On the way, he passed a small flower market, stopped, and bought a bouquet of large tea roses. He wasn’t going to go up to Lena and give her the bouquet. But still, they were for her.
Stopping at the light, he slipped a cassette into the tape deck, an old Beatles album, Help!
He sang along with the first verse, barely understanding the words.
The light turned yellow. He felt a strange, nasty tingle all over his body. A moment later, a sharp, burning pain filled his chest.
Seven girls were looking at him from far away, through a bloody fog. Looking at him gravely and sadly. One was Tanya Kostylyova, and her long, wet braid was tossed over her naked shoulder. The other six remained nameless. He hadn’t wanted to know their names.
Behind him, cars were honking. The light had turned green. He didn’t hear their impatient honks. The pain mounted. It was unbearable. His right hand fumbled desperately over the dashboard. His eyes saw nothing but the bloody fog and the seven young girls’ faces.
His head slammed into the steering wheel. The old Mercedes honked desperately, then immediately fell silent. Venya Volkov’s head had slipped off to the side.
“Hey, buddy, what’s with you?” A truck driver asked after looking into the open window of the black Mercedes, which was blocking his way. “Yesterday” was playing softly in the car. A bouquet of large tea roses lay on the front seat. The man at the wheel was dead.
When the phone rang, Regina looked at the clock.
“Regina Valentinovna Gradskaya?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband, Veniamin Borisovich Volkov…”
“Where should I go?” she asked hoarsely after hearing the news.
“The Botkinskaya Hospital morgue.”
“All right. I’ll be there in an hour.” Her own voice seemed dead to her.
She hung up, lit a cigarette, and was surprised to see that her hands were trembling.
“Venya, Venya, my love,” she whispered. “I had no choice. It was the only way to save the business. Curly would have gobbled us up. And what then? Do you think it was easy for me to pour poison into your coffee? Making the decision, that wasn’t hard. Getting a poison that wouldn’t leave a trace in your blood was even easier. But opening the vial, pouring it into your coffee, and then handing you the mug and watching you drink it—that was completely different. You’re gone now. And no one is going to be able to prove a thing. Ever.”
After their break, they were again walking through the taiga. Lena kept hearing a noise. It would get closer, then move away, and sometimes disappear altogether. The noise seemed to be in her head, from exhaustion and hunger. But the killer explained it was a drill.
“Where are we going?” Lena asked.
But he didn’t answer. She suddenly had the thought that he himself no longer even knew where they were. They were lost. How much farther could they go without food? There was only a small piece of chocolate left. It was getting dark. The twilight was gloomy, and the sky grew overcast. If the moon didn’t peek out, it would soon be pitch black.