Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

“Step forward, alone,” the large figure said.

Peotor nodded and stepped forward. A flashlight came on and pointed to a table against the wall. Four large suitcases stood on the table. The suitcases were old, of different colors. The light caught metal in the suitcases as Peotor advanced and examined the contents.

Boris tried to penetrate the darkness but could see nothing and only heard the pleased humming of Vasily. After a long minute and the sound of metal clanking and the tunnel of light from the flashlight bouncing from suitcase to suitcase, Peotor turned.

“All right,” he said.

Vasily’s humming got louder, and the Oriental woman stepped up next to Boris.

“Good. Let’s see the money and get out of here,” said the large figure.

“No money,” said Peotor. “Not that kind of money. We can’t afford it. We need it for living. A revolution is expensive, and we have too few friends. But we do have something of greater value for you.”

“No money, no weapons,” the man in the dark said angrily.

And then a flash and a boom, a cacophony that echoed through the barn, causing a sonic boom in Boris’s head, but that was only the beginning. At his side, Vasily lined his automatic weapon and began firing. People tried to scurry, but there was nowhere to go. A figure went for the open window and was torn by a fresh burst from Vasily. At Boris’s side, the Oriental woman prodded him. She had a handgun and was firing into a corner at something that may or may not have been human.

“Shoot,” she said with a hiss. Boris pulled his hand from his pocket, and in it was a pistol he could barely see. Behind them the barn door opened. Boris turned. A woman, perhaps a boy, stood in outline like a perfect cutout. In the hand of the woman-boy was a shotgun. Without thought, Boris Trush fired at the figure and wet his pants at the same time. The figure fell as the noise of death and weapons throbbed through Boris’s head.

And then all was silent.

In the heartbeat of that instant of silence, Boris considered turning his gun on the Oriental girl, on Vasily, on Peotor, but before the instant had throbbed he knew he could not do it. He might kill one of them, but the others would turn him into one of the lifeless, bloody creatures that lay in the darkness around him.

“Vasily?” Peotor’s voice called from the darkness.

“Yes.”

“Lia?”

“Yes,” the woman replied.

“Boris?”

Boris could not speak. He looked down at the dead figure in the doorway.

“Boris?” Peotor repeated impatiently.

“Yes,” Boris answered.

Someone moaned near the table. Another shot.

“Good,” said Peotor. “Let’s do this.”

Boris could see a bit better now with the door open, but he did not want to see. Peotor closed each of the suitcases and handed one to Vasily and the woman. He took one himself and held one out for Boris, who could not move.

“Boris,” Peotor said firmly, and Boris shuffled forward, stepping over the large dead man near the table, taking the suitcase.

And then they were back in the car. Vasily had taken the pistol back from Boris. The suitcases had been placed in the trunk.

Boris needed a change of clothes, but it took him a moment to realize it. He was also afraid to say it, afraid Peotor would tell him to take the pants of one of the dead men.

As they pulled away, Boris looked back at the doorway of the barn and told himself, It was a small man, not a boy, not a woman, a small man who would have killed me. A small man. But he was not sure.

“Hurry. I’ve got to get back to the city tonight. Wait. There,” Peotor said as the woman hit the outer road. “Look. Against the sky. The old church. See it?”

Boris turned his head in the direction Peotor was looking. Perhaps he saw something. Perhaps not. Two days earlier he had simply been a bus driver.

Emil Karpo sat on the hard wooden chair in the darkened bedroom, considering what he would do if he resigned his position. He could think of nothing. He had spent his life till now serving the State. He existed to serve the State. He had no interests but the service of the State. His task was to locate those responsible for crimes and turn the criminals in for trial. Criminals were parasites draining the energy of communism. Emil Karpo was, at that moment, in need of a metaphor, but none came to mind. In fact, the “parasite” image was not his own but Karl Marx’s. Karpo did not imagine a crawling or flying or slithering creature attacking a determined and noble bear named Russia. Emil Karpo had no imagination. He considered this his principal strength.

The person on the bed in front of Karpo stirred but did not awaken. Karpo watched unblinking, unmoving. Karpo had to be on a street corner more than two miles away in less than twenty minutes. If the figure in the bed did not awaken soon, Karpo would have to awaken him.

Because he had no imagination or had used it so little, Emil Karpo could not put words to his present feelings, though he knew his dilemma. His responsibility was to catch Yuri Vostoyavek and the girl in the act of conspiring to kill Andrei Morchov or to stop them as they were about to perform the act. Never before had Karpo’s duty been so clear. Morchov was a key member of the Politburo.

Karpo did not want to admit to himself that he had disliked Morchov. That was not relevant. Should not be. Karpo did not want to admit that he could see the anguish, desperation on the faces of the girl and Yuri Vostoyavek. But Karpo was not easy on himself. He acknowledged these realizations and considered them threats to his effectiveness.

The penalty for conspiring to assassinate a member of the government was death.

“Huh,” the figure in the bed grunted in the darkness, perhaps sensing another person in the room. He sat up, eyes blinking.

“Mother? What are you …?” and then Yuri Vostoyavek knew that the outlined, straight-backed figure in the chair next to his bed was not his mother. It didn’t even seem to be human.

“Who are …” Yuri began and then whirled and reached for a weapon, any weapon. His hand closed on the metal alarm clock on the table next to his bed. He jumped out of bed naked and breathing heavily as Karpo rose and caught the descending hand holding the clock. Yuri tried to punch at the skeleton face before him with his free hand, but that, too, was stopped by Karpo.

The boy did not scream. He was afraid. Karpo could feel that, had felt it many times before. Karpo could smell his fear, and the boy could smell a dry cleanliness on the night figure, a smell he immediately equated with death.

“He found out. He sent you,” Yuri said, trying to control his breathing. “You’re the one I saw this morning.”

Karpo held the boy’s hands so that he could not move. Their bodies were together. When Yuri had awakened and leaped from the bed, Karpo saw that he had an erection. The erection was gone now, but the boy was not limp.

“Then kill me,” he whispered and dropped the clock.

The clock clattered to the floor, and a voice called from the next room. The voice of Elena Vostoyavek, Yuri’s mother.

“Yuri, what … are you all right?”

Yuri’s face was inches from Karpo, and his eyes were now sufficiently adjusted to the minimal light to see the unblinking, gaunt face before him.

“I’m fine,” Yuri called. “I knocked over the clock.”

“Yes,” his mother called and went back to sleep.

“Then do it,” he whispered to Karpo. “Do it and be sure it looks like murder. I don’t want my mother and Jalna to think I was a coward.”

“I’m not going to murder you,” Karpo said. “I’m going to warn you. One warning. What you plan to do is known. Stop and it is the end. Stop, Yuri Vostoyavek, or it will be your end and that of the girl. You understand?”