There was a great deal of warmth and light in his dream. The scarlet taiga cranberries glowed in the sun and looked nothing like drops of blood. His dark-haired little neighbor Larochka ran down the creaking stairs, smiling gaily and tapping her heels. No one ever raped her in the deserted park in spring. She didn’t know how painful and terrifying it was, which meant she was going to live a completely different life.
Sixteen-year-old Tanya Kostylyova stepped out on the bank from the calm nighttime river, shook her long wet hair, and, huddling in the predawn chill, pulled her graduation dress over her damp body.
“Venya, I’m freezing! Why did you talk me into swimming?” she whispered, pressing her warm forehead to his chest.
Tanya Kostylyova was alive, and she was forty. The six other girls were alive, too. He hadn’t pursued anyone, hadn’t attacked anyone, hadn’t strangled anyone, hadn’t killed anyone. They were all alive, and each had followed her own path, lived her own life, happy or unhappy, dissolute or righteous—but her own. Four of the six had children. The children were growing up, some of them had children, too. Those grandchildren were girls Venya Volkov had never raped or killed.
Somewhere far away, in another dimension, on another planet, there was an enormous business, Veniamin Productions, an invincible iron horse that fed on intrigue, cruelty, and blood. But he, Venya Volkov, had nothing whatsoever to do with that. He lived peacefully and happily. Lena Polyanskaya looked at him with her clear gray eyes. He wished he could touch her face and feel her long black eyelashes flutter. He reached out, but around him was emptiness, cold, dead air. He couldn’t breathe that air. It burned his throat and shredded his lungs. He had to wake up, but he didn’t want to.
“Veniamin Borisovich, wake up, please,” he heard a voice from far away.
“Venya, the doctor’s here to see you. He has to examine you.”
He opened his eyes and saw over him two faces—Regina’s doll-like face and the soft, round, bespectacled face of an older man he didn’t know.
It pained him to pull himself out of his dream. It felt like he was falling straight from his warm, Technicolor world into a dull, icy, black-and-white nightmare. The round-faced otolaryngologist had dry, rough hands. He palpated Venya’s glands and looked at his throat.
“I don’t see a postpharyngeal abscess. The throat’s enflamed, but not badly.”
“So you’re ruling out angina?” Regina clarified.
“What angina? It’s the flu. A perfectly ordinary case of the flu. This should not get to the point where there are complications. But I would recommend a course of antibiotics. In any case, he’ll require a thorough examination. You should bring in a cardiologist.”
“Yes.” Regina nodded. “I think you’re right. Thank you, Doctor. My driver will take you home.”
She handed him a hundred dollars.
When she heard the car departing, she went back to the bedroom and took a disposable needle and a cardboard box of ampoules filled with a colorless liquid from the nightstand. She sawed the ampoule’s neck with a diamond saw, broke the thin glass—and cut her finger. The cut wasn’t deep, but it bled. She had to set the open ampoule carefully on the nightstand and go to the bathroom, where she had hydrogen peroxide and iodine in the cabinet.
When she returned to the bedroom, Venya was sitting on the bed, holding the open ampoule in two fingers and examining it in the light.
“Why isn’t there a label?” he asked.
“I can see you’re already feeling better.” Regina smiled delightedly.
“Yes, I am. What were you injecting me with all that time?”
“Antibiotics and vitamins.”
“I don’t need any more medicines. Or specialists. And stop trying to turn me into an invalid. Bring me the phone.”
“Whatever you say, my love.”
Lena curled up under her jacket and tried to fall asleep. She didn’t know what time it was. Her watch had gone missing. The leather strap had probably broken when they put on the handcuffs. All she could see out the tiny window was a sliver of sky, which had brightened considerably.
Now I know almost everything, she thought, but what good is that? Even if a miracle does happen and I do get out of here, I can’t prove anything. I don’t understand why Regina Gradskaya needed to take this kind of risk. What is it all for? Is she that in love with Venya Volkov? Or did she decide to tame the monster so he could help make her beautiful and rich? Plastic surgery in a Swiss clinic is expensive. But she has the brains and energy to earn that independently, without the help of a monster. She’s taken risks, and not only when she framed Nikita Slepak. She’s taken a risk all these years, living with Volkov, and lying down next to him every night. Or did she manage to cure him after all?
What about Mitya Sinitsyn? Why did he only bring this up fourteen years later? And who with? Volkov himself! Yes, he only had a suspicion, but no actual proof.
Lena imagined Mitya’s torment as he tried to decide what he should do with his suspicions. He couldn’t say nothing and forget it. At first he’d thought of blackmail, but he couldn’t do it. He probably found a way to meet Volkov alone and ask him a direct question: “Are you or aren’t you a murderer?” Knowing Mitya, she could imagine that. He thought he was acting nobly, that he had no other option. And what did he achieve?
What would I have done in his place? Lena asked herself. Actually, I am in his place. I know much more than Mitya did when he went to see Volkov. But what’s the point? I’m locked up God knows where. My only goal is to get out of here alive and see Liza and Seryozha again. That’s much more important to me than some abstract idea like justice.
Lena had nearly fallen asleep when the door opened and two young goons appeared at the threshold.
“Get up. Let’s go,” one of them said.
Lena laced up her boots and threw on her jacket. They led her down a dim corridor where she couldn’t make out anything other than a few closed doors. Then they went up a short wooden staircase to the second floor. A minute later, Lena was in a large living room. The floor was covered with a light-colored, thick-piled rug, and in the corner a fire flickered in an antique fireplace. The dark, heavy, red drapes were pulled tight. In front of a low zebrawood magazine table, in a white leather armchair, sat a flabby, perfectly bald man of sixty or so with a good-natured, snub-nosed face.
“Hello, Elena Nikolaevna,” he said. “Please, come in. Take a seat.”
“Hello,” Lena echoed back. She took a few steps into the room and sat in the armchair facing the bald man.
The two goons stayed in the doorway behind her.
“Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?” the bald man offered with a polite smile.
“Coffee, if I may.”
The bald man’s eyes were light brown, almost yellow, small, and lashless.
“Okay, Vadik, get some coffee for us.” He nodded to one of the goons. “Don’t worry, Elena Nikolaevna,” he addressed Lena kindly, even rather paternally. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions, we’ll have our coffee, and we’ll part on good terms. On one condition, of course. You know perfectly well what that is. You’ll answer my questions honestly. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Question number one.” The bald man grinned. “Who is Michael Barron?”
“Michael Barron is a US citizen, a professor, and a historian,” Lena said calmly.