Stuart Kaminsky - Red Chameleon

“Good,” she said, beaming. “I like that. Until today, I have never been responsible for anyone’s death. What is your real name?”

Sasha did not answer the question but inched toward the chair behind the table where he hoped he had thrown his clothes.

“There are policemen at the exits to this building,” he said. “It is best if you simply gather a few things and urge your partners to come out with me.”

She shook her head as if a small child had tried to play a trick on her.

“No,” she said. “There are no policemen at the exits. You would not have gone through all this, would not be sweating quite so hard, if you were not alone. Shall I guess, my little policeman? You simply stumbled on us here. You and maybe others are making the rounds, checking places on your own.”

“Make no mistake,” he said, knowing that dignity was impossible without clothing.

“I’ll make no mistake, policeman,” she said. “Ilya will kill you, and we will cut you into little pieces, very little pieces, and bury the pieces deep below the floor.”

With that and before he could move or speak, Marina threw open the door. Beyond it stood a burly, sad-faced man in a rumpled suit who looked something like a massive washtub.

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov looked beyond the startled woman at the naked detective and pursed his lips. His head shook slightly, and Sasha realized that he could hear the man sigh. The sounds of machinery in the outer room had stopped. Sasha didn’t know when it had happened.

“Put your pants on, Sasha,” Rostnikov said.

“Inspector, I-” Sasha began, but Rostnikov interrupted.

“Pants, Sasha. Dignity.”

Sasha went for the chair, found his pants, and began dressing quickly, without looking at what he was doing, pushing his sockless feet into his untied shoes, buttoning his shirt incorrectly.

Beyond Rostnikov, Sasha could see the man called Ilya and the other two in overalls. Their goggles were off their eyes and on their heads, pushing back their dark hair. All three were taller, younger, than the inspector, who seemed not in the least perturbed.

“He came to the door,” Ilya explained to Marina. “Said he wanted to see the man who had come to buy a car. I didn’t know-”

“It’s all right,” Marina interrupted, looking directly at the rumpled inspector before her with interest. “Inspector-”

“Rostnikov. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” the inspector supplied. “Sasha, come.”

Tkach stuffed his sock into his pocket, brushed his damp hair back, and hurried across the room, past Marina, and to Rostnikov’s side. Ilya and the two goggled men stepped back a bit, confused, into the crowded shop but blocked the path to the door.

Marina, apparently unconcerned and quite curious, closed the door behind her.

“Inspector,” she said, “I had planned to kill one policeman today, but you afford me the opportunity to kill two.”

“Marina,” one of the men in overalls said.

“We kill them quickly,” she explained, “and go out the back through the apartment. It is what we planned from the beginning. These are the only two who have seen us. Even if there are more outside, once we are gone, no one knows our faces. We start again, Ilya.”

Sasha looked at the sullen Ilya, who examined the younger policeman with quite obvious jealousy and hatred. Something metal and tarnished and heavy rested in Ilya’s oilstained hand.

Marina’s eyes met those of Rostnikov. She smiled, and he smiled back. There was something sympathetic in the man’s eyes that she didn’t like, that made her confidence falter. The man was about to die because she willed it, and yet he looked at her with-

“Do it,” she said. “Do it and let’s get out of here. Just leave the bodies on the floor and let’s go before the others outside start breaking down the door.”

Sasha stepped back and felt his bare ankle scrape against metal as Ilya raised the wrench to Rostnikov’s back.

“No,” Sasha screamed, and the Washtub stepped back quickly and to the right. The wrench sliced across his shoulder, and the two men in overalls leaped forward to grab the inspector’s arms. Sasha moved quickly forward toward Ilya and felt Marina’s push. He felt himself tumbling over a blanket-covered engine. His back struck something hard and jagged, and he rolled over, trying to grab something, to help the inspector and himself. Panting, he looked up as Ilya stepped forward toward Rostnikov, whose arms were held by the two men, and made it quite clear that he planned to aim his large wrench more carefully.

The grunt Rostnikov gave was less of exertion than of minor concentration. His two arms came forward, taking with them the full weight of the men holding him. They barely had time for surprise to register. Their bodies collided, and Ilya brought the wrench down solidly on the shoulder of one of the two, who screamed in pain and panic.

The injured man let go of the inspector and grabbed for his broken shoulder while the other man continued to hold his grip on the policeman, which proved to be a mistake of the highest order. Sasha scrambled up and saw a calm look of satisfaction on the inspector’s face as he grabbed the man in overalls with his now-free hand and lifted him off the ground to ward off Ilya’s resumed attack. The injured man, meanwhile, staggered blindly toward the office door and crumpled; gripping his shoulder as Rostnikov, now carrying the bewildered man above him, advanced on Ilya. There was no strain-on Rostnikov’s face, though the man he held above him easily weighed two hundred pounds.

Sasha looked around for Marina and saw her duck behind the half-painted Volga. He staggered after her, skipping over the whimpering man with the broken shoulder and watching with fascination as the wrench-armed Ilya felt his way back from the advancing Rostnikov.

A pause, a beat, and with a slight grunt Rostnikov hurled the screaming man toward Ilya. The grimy missile struck Ilya, sending them both sprawling backward into and over a heavy automobile jack. Ilya scrambled, dazed, out from under the apparently unconscious man atop him and searched for a way of retreating from the patient, limping figure that moved toward him. Sasha would later swear that Rostnikov was humming, humming something that might have been Bach, though later Rostnikov would claim that it had been Vivaldi.

Marina was nowhere to be seen. Sasha moved around the Volga, looking behind machines and parts, into corners. He thought he saw a movement ahead but stopped when the sound of that whirring machine screamed behind him.

Across the room Sasha saw the steadily advancing Rostnikov less than a dozen feet from the now-wild-looking Ilya, who held the grinding saw in front of him. Ilya’s muscles and T-shirt were dark with sweat.

“I’ll cut you in half,” he said through closed teeth, but Rostnikov, whose humming could no longer be heard, simply continued forward until the younger man had his back against the wall, the saw held out in front of him.

Something was said by Rostnikov that Sasha could not quite make out. He thought it was a patient “How long can you hold that?” or something equally conversational. He wasn’t sure over the sound of the saw. If indeed that was the question, it was never answered. Ilya shouted and rushed forward, the saw in front of him. Rostnikov’s left arm shot forward, his sleeve brushing the blade, which tore into the dark material. With his right hand, Rostnikov grasped Ilya firmly by the shirtfront while the inspector’s left arm continued its movement and slapped the still-spinning saw away. The saw struck the floor, sending up sparks as it bit in frustration at the cement. The cord slithered, and it looked to Tkach like an angry snake with a whirring, screeching metal head slithering out of control.