Stuart Kaminsky - Red Chameleon

Rostnikov held Ilya up in front of him with one hand as the younger man tried to free himself and punched at the thick arm. Rostnikov whispered something as the snakelike saw skittered and continued to scream until it hit the wall, let out a bright final flash of anger, and went quiet.

“… were going to cut us into little pieces,” Sasha could now hear Rostnikov saying. The man with the broken shoulder was sobbing very gently, feeling sorry for himself.

Ilya’s T-shirt had begun to tear as he screamed, “Bastard,” and swung again at Rostnikov. Rostnikov shook his head in disgust at the inability of men to learn from their mistakes. His arm came back, and with a slight grunt he sent the startled Ilya sailing through the air, his arms flaying behind him, trying to grab something, to look back at where he was going, but the flight was too short. He hit the wall with a sick thud and slipped down in an unconscious heap. There was a stain of blood on the wall where his head had hit, and Sasha was sure that the man’s head was at least broken, if he wasn’t dead.

Rostnikov stood watching as Ilya shifted slightly, tried to rise, and failed, and sat back. Only then did he turn to look for Sasha, whose eyes met his across the room.

“The woman,” Rostnikov said.

“I-” Sasha began, but never finished his answer.

“Here,” she said, and the two men looked around, finding her at the same moment.

She stood next to an old wooden hoist dangling from the ceiling behind the Chaika in the air. The hoist was connected to the chains that held the Chaika in the air. Her hands on the hoist had set the dangling car slowly spinning like a massive white magnet seeking the elusive north. What troubled Sasha even more was that the slowly spinning car was directly above Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.

“You move and I drop the car,” she said with a smile, her hands firmly on the lever of the hoist. “And I don’t think you are fast enough with that dead leg to get out from under in time. What do you think?”

Rostnikov shrugged rather indifferently.

“We must deal,” she said.

Her eyes were fixed on the inspector as Tkach slowly edged behind the Volga and moved behind her.

“What can we do?” Rostnikov said gently. “Would you believe my promises? You let go of that and we have you. You might crush me, it’s true. I don’t think I can make it out from under here in time, but what do you gain? You don’t leave here free.”

“But,” she said, “I’ll have the satisfaction of smashing one bear of a policeman and destroying someone important’s beloved car.”

Rostnikov glanced up at the car slowly spinning over his head and remembered Procurator Khabolov’s look of concern about his beloved white Chaika.

“I don’t like cars,” Rostnikov said softly, conversationally. Moving slowly, carefully, Tkach knew that the inspector was stalling, giving him time and cover to move. Marina’s grip on the hoist lever was firm, and for a horrible instant Tkach considered that his life might well be easier if he shouted, and let her crush Rostnikov, who had seen him naked and compromised. He could then simply murder Marina and- But it was only the next level of guilt upon guilt. He knew it was not in him to act on the evil thought. It came, went, was gone. He crept forward, very carefully.

“You are going to die, policeman,” Marina said with a laugh. “Do you know that?”

“You mean I’m going to die eventually or now? The former I am well aware of and have come to terms with. Of the latter, who knows? The scene is not yet played.”

Tkach was now about seven or eight feet away from her. He crouched next to the fender of the dark car. He could see the woman’s fingers slipping on the lever and knew that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. If Rostnikov were to be crushed, would Sasha wonder if he had purposely made the wrong move?

“Policeman,” she said with some admiration, “you are mad.”

Rostnikov put up a hand-his left hand, with the sleeve that had been cut by Ilya’s saw-and let it sweep the room.

“You are standing there with a dancing car threatening to kill me. Bodies are strewn over. You have no chance to get away, and you call me mad.”

“Perhaps we are both mad,” she countered.

“We are both Russians.” Rostnikov sighed. “You will do what you will do.”

The man with the crushed shoulder decided to let out a small whimper, and Ilya stirred slightly against the wall. The other man Rostnikov had thrown lay quite motionless.

Tkach tried to signal to Rostnikov as he stepped away from behind the dark car. He wasn’t sure the inspector saw him, but he had no time to check.

“Marina,” he shouted.

She turned quickly toward him, her hand touching the lever. The Chaika began to spin wildly as it jerked to a stop.

“No,” she screamed, and Sasha stopped no more than four feet from her, hesitating, watching her hand on the lever, but she was too late. She turned quickly toward the space under the car and realized that Rostnikov had stepped back, limped just beyond the shadow of the massive weight dangling from the chains.

Her eyes met those of the inspector and asked a question. Tkach glanced at Rostnikov, who looked up at the car and shrugged.

Marina’s hand pulled back as Tkach lunged for her, and the Chaika dropped on screeching chains, dropped with a massive crash, its front end hitting first and then its rear. Glass and metal exploded through the room, and Tkach threw himself to the floor. The Chaika and the car-theft operation were no more.

The pain was much worse that day than it had been the day before, but Vera had expected that. Actually, she welcomed it, for she had already committed herself, found meaning to the end of her life. If she were suddenly and miraculously to be cured, to discover it had all been a mistake, then the policeman and the others she had killed would have died for nothing. Well, not for nothing. The corruption would still have existed, but there would have been an irony she did not want to face. There was just so much irony a human can take, she thought as she finished putting the rifle in the trombone case, snapped the flimsy latch, and glanced over at her mother, who had fallen asleep over her sewing.

Adriana Shepovik snored gently, a slight breeze touching her face through the open window. Vera felt nothing for her. Then the pain in her stomach punished her and told her to feel. She tried, tried to imagine her mother alone, as she would be, but Vera could feel nothing but its truth. Vera would not be, and her mother would. Her mother would live without meaning, but she would live and suffer. She was good at suffering, had turned it into an old woman’s art.

Vera took seven or eight deep breaths and then a series of short ones before taking five of her pills. She had bought the pills from a clerk in the medical-supply store. He had been furtive, demanded extra money, refused to give the name of the pills, insisting only that they would temporarily eliminate pain. He guaranteed it. He was right, but the pain stayed away for only short periods, and more and more pills were required to relieve it.

Vera made her way to the metro station and glanced at the sky as she went. There was the possibility of rain, which would be fine. Her original plan was to wander around till night and move to the station she had picked out, but the pain might come again. She didn’t have much time. Maybe if it rained, if the rain came, it would grow dark, would provide an artificial night. She had a sense of incompleteness. It was like reading a newspaper. If a word from a story caught her eye, she had to read the whole story even if the subject didn’t interest her or the story would haunt her. Things once begun had to be finished, and she had decided within herself that she must destroy at least one more soldier or policeman, one more at least. Was that too much to ask after what she had been forced to suffer? If a God existed, would he not grant her this wish, look down at her and say she deserved that satisfaction? If a God existed, he could simply take the soul of the policeman and do with it what he would do, anyway, at some point, as he would do with Vera’s soul if one existed. Vera didn’t think one existed. One’s satisfactions and rewards and revenge came in this life, no other.