Stuart Kaminsky - Death of a Dissident

“It is I, Porfiry,” he said. “Did you and mamalushka have another quarrel?” He laughed as he moved up the stairs, slowly trying to pick form out of shadow. At the top of the stairs, he braced himself for an attack. None came and he looked around. There were only two rooms, neither of which had doors. The sound came from the larger of the two rooms, a bedroom. Rostnikov stepped in and looked around without moving, as his eyes adjusted. The sound came from behind a door across the small room. Rostnikov moved to it, took the handle and pulled, his free hand and arm ready to ward off an attack, but again no attack came. On the floor lay two human figures. Rostnikov kneeled and pulled them out into the bedroom. Both were bound and gagged, and the man was looking around wildly with amazingly blue eyes. The woman’s eyes were closed and a dark gash bubbled blood from her scalp. Both were in their sixties, heavy and small. Rostnikov pulled the gag from the man’s mouth.

“Where is he?” Rostnikov asked softly.

The man coughed and gagged.

“He broke in…began breaking things. My wife tried to stop him. It was so fast. He hit her in the head and me in the stomach. He is mad, crazy.”

“I know,” Rostnikov soothed. “But where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” cried the man. Then he looked at the still form of his wife. “Is she dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rostnikov, moving to the woman.

“Oh,” wailed the man, but Rostnikov couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

“Go out on the road,” Rostnikov ordered, “toward town. There are two cars and some men. We are the police. Tell them to come and get your wife. You understand?”

“Yes,” said the man, standing on weak legs. He looked back at his wife and stood transfixed.

“Go,” ordered Rostnikov and the man fled down the stairs. Rostnikov checked the woman’s eyes and listened to her breathing. He couldn’t tell if the labored sound was from asthma or trauma. He put her on the bed and went to the window to see if he could see Tkach from the farm. He could and he could see the farmer Rodnini hurrying through the snow to the road, slipping and falling in his haste. Rostnikov could also see two clear sets of footprints leading from the house to the barn. He squinted out the window with his head cocked to see if he could see footsteps leading away from the barn, but there were none.

Rostnikov went down the stairs and out the front door into the snow. There could be no more surprise, no tricks, and so there was no great reason to move slowly, but then again his body and leg did not encourage rapid movement. Yes, the footprints were clear and fresh and not in his mind. He looked at the small barn but could see no face at the window. He moved to the door and opened it slowly.

“Ilyusha,” he said firmly.

Something stirred inside, and he heard a clear whimper. The barn was chilly but there was no wind breaking through.

“Ilyusha Malenko, I know you are here,” he repeated, stepping in and seeing nothing but a cow in the corner, some small sheds, and a dozen chickens looking at him with curiosity.

“Father?” came a young man’s voice from one of the sheds.

“No,” replied Rostnikov, moving forward slowly.

“Who is it?” demanded the voice.

“My name is Rostnikov,” he said. “Porfiry Rostnikov. I am a policeman.”

The shed was low, and Rostnikov stepped to where he could see over the rough wooden slat at the top.

“Stop,” shouted Malenko, and Rostnikov stopped. Huddled in the corner of the shed on a bed of grain were two people, a whimpering young man with wild blond hair and frightened eyes who held a knife to a girl’s throat. The man wore heavy black pants and a workman’s shirt. The girl wore absolutely nothing.

“I’ve stopped,” said Rostnikov. “I have a message from your father.”

“He is good at having other people deliver his messages,” Malenko laughed.

“If you don’t want it…” Rostnikov shrugged.

“What is it?” The knife touched the girl’s throat and she coughed.

“The girl is very sick,” Rostnikov said. “Can we put my coat on her?”

“My father’s message,” demanded Malenko, his eyes darting wildly to the window in search of more police.

“He wants you to know that he will support you in your trial. That he is sorry for a great deal and finds it ironic that it should take events such as these to bring you together,” Rostnikov lied.

“Too late,” said Malenko, shifting his weight slightly.

“Why is it too late?” Rostnikov said taking another step forward. “Maybe the worst you’ll get with his help is ten years of buterskalia ichurmo, hard labor.”

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop,” screamed Malenko scrambling to his knees, his knife constantly at the pulsing throat of the girl. His movement caused a slight, thin cut and the girl’s face distorted in fear. Rostnikov looked away and then back quickly.

“I’ve stopped. Let us talk.”

“No time for talk,” said Malenko. “There’ll be more of you soon and you’ll shoot me down. I know the police.”

“We’ll not shoot you down,” Rostnikov said evenly. “And there is time for nothing but talk. You killed-”

“Marie and Granovsky-her father,” Malenko said looking at the girl’s frightened face.

“And the cab driver,” Rostnikov added.

“He didn’t count,” said Malenko.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“We can debate that another time,” he went on. “But what do you want with the girl? Why do you want to harm her?”

“You don’t understand,” Malenko cried in despair at the policeman’s ignorance. “I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to do with her what her father did with my wife. Then…”

“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.”