Stuart Kaminsky - A Cold Red Sunrise

"You will have no visitors," Karpo said. "Shall I wait outside?"

"No," said Rostnikov, yawning. "We will go into Mirasnikov's room. My questions are few and simple."

Karpo nodded. Galich walked to the Evenk still kneeling on the floor.

"Will you ask him to join us?" Rostnikov said and Galich spoke the language again.

Kurmu, apparently satisfied that he had what he needed, closed the sack, nodded and got to his feet. For the first time, he looked at Rostnikov and a smile passed between the two men. Rostnikov liked the man instantly.

Inside the nearby room, Liana Mirasnikov lay on a bed in the corner sleeping soundly. Sergei Mirasnikov lay, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his face drenched with perspiration.

Rostnikov watched Kurmu whose eyes fell on the dying old man. Before Rostnikov could ask his next question, Kurmu moved to Mirasnikov's bedside, sat cross-legged on the floor and opened his sack. He paused to loosen his parka and toss the cape back to reveal his peppery-white hair that hung straight and shining to his neck.

"You want me to ask him what he is doing?" Galich offered.

"No," said Rostnikov watching the old man reach into the sack and pull out a small wooden bowl, a gnarled root and a brownish thick block.

"The root is ginseng," Galich said. "The other piece is panti, raindeer horn."

Rostnikov watched with interest as the shaman pulled out a large knife with a white bone handle and began to shave pieces of ginseng and panti into the bowl.

"That's wild ginseng," Galich said. "During the Mongol occupation, a natural root like that would have been worth thousands of rubles. Even now that root looks like it would bring a good price in Manchuria."

The shaman was rocking back and forth slowly as he reached into the sack again and pulled out a smaller jar that looked as if it had once held jelly. He opened the jar, took out a pinch of yellow, flaky material and mixed it into the bowl. While he mixed, he said something.

"He wants water," Galich said. "Water from snow. I'll get it."

"How are you feeling?" Rostnikov asked as Galich moved toward the door.

Galich's eyes were heavy, tired and dark, and the man's white stubble of overnight beard reminded Rostnikov that the bulky former priest was not a young man, that he had been drunk when he went out into the Siberian winter, that he probably hadn't had much sleep in at least thirty hours.

"Fascinated," Galich said with a grin and he left the room.

The closing of the door woke Mirasnikov who looked up at the wooden ceiling, blinked, wiped his face with his already soaked blanket and looked toward the sound of something moving at his side. When he saw Kurmu, Sergei Mirasnikov tried to scream. It was only the ghost of a scream because he had no strength, but his mouth and face made clear his intent.

Kurmu paid no attention and continued rocking and mixing his brew. Rostnikov moved to the bed quickly and looked down at Mirasnikov.

"Be calm, Sergei," Rostnikov said. "The shaman is trying to help you."

"He means to kill me," Mirasnikov said. "He means to kill me for telling you that he sent the demon."

Then Mirasnikov said something which Rostnikov didn't understand and the old shaman answered with what sounded like a single abrupt word that brought a dry laugh of disbelief from Mirasnikov.

"I say he means to kill me," Mirasnikov said, getting up on his elbows. The sheet fell back showing the old man's thin, white bandaged chest.

Galich returned with a pot of snow which he brought to the shaman who accepted it with firm, brown hands. Mirasnikov lay back moaning and his wife paused in her snoring for a beat during which Rostnikov feared she would wake up.

"Can he talk while he does that?" Rostnikov asked.

Galich asked the shaman something and the old man nodded.

"Ask him if he saw Commissar Rutkin killed last week," Rostnikov said.

"Time doesn't mean anything to an Evenk," Galich said. "I can ask him if he saw someone killed in town but to an Evenk a week ago is like ten years ago. It is the past and the past merges. They think the past, present and future are the same."

"Ask him, please."

While the shaman mixed and then poured his concoction into a tea cup, he answered questions Rostnikov put to him through the former priest and discovered that the shaman had, indeed, seen the death of the man from the West, that he had been murdered, that the murder had been done by a man and not a demon.

"Ask him if he knows who the man is, could recognize the man," Rostnikov said.

The shaman was holding Mirasnikov's head up and urging him with grunts and words to finish the cool brew. Mirasnikov, eyes closed, was drinking and gurgling. He opened his eyes, saw Kurmu and closed them again. A thin line of the dark liquid trickled out of the corner of the old man's mouth but most of it got into him.

Galich spoke and Kurmu, concentrating on his task, get-ring the last of the cup's contents into the old man, said something quickly, and nodded at Galich.

"My God. He says the man who killed the other man is the one with the black bag, the white shaman," said Galich.

The shaman slowly let Mirasnikov's head back onto the thin, moist pillow. Then he stood, looked around the room, saw what he wanted and moved to a shelf against the wall where he pulled down a jar half full of dry beans. He emptied the beans into a bowl on a lower shelf and brought the jar back to the bed where he began to fill it with the remainder of the liquid he had mixed. While he poured, he spoke.

"He says the old woman should give him a full glass every water cycle which means, approximately, three times a day till it runs out."

"Tell him we will see that it is done," said Rostnikov.

The information was passed on and the shaman reached into his sack and pulled out a small, very old red leather bag. With his ginseng root in one hand and the sack in the other, he walked up to Rostnikov.

"What does he want?" Rostnikov asked looking into the shaman's unemotional face.

"I don't know," said Galich.

Kurmu held up the ginseng root and nodded at it. Rostnikov reached up to touch the root and found it warm, almost hot to the touch.

"Hot?" asked Galich. "Not surprising. Hot ginseng roots have been reported for hundreds of years. Some think it's some kind of natural radiation."

Kurmu spoke softly, directly to Rostnikov, holding out the small sack.

"I didn't hear him," said Galich.

Rostnikov took the small sack, which contained something light that shifted like sand or grain, and pointed at Mirasnikov. The shaman shook his head no and pointed west. West, Rostnikov thought, toward Moscow. Porfiry Petrovich placed the red sack in his pocket and nodded his thanks. Kurmu smiled and looked over at Galich.

"So, Inspector," Galich said with a massive yawn. "Your killer appears to be Dr. Samsonov, which should come as no great surprise. You've seen his temper. Rutkin must have come to a conclusion about his daughter's death that he found unacceptable. Who knows? Samsonov certainly was bitter at Rutkin, at the entire Soviet system. In that, as you know, I am not in great disagreement."

Kurmu turned, moved back to the bed and began packing.

"And my only witness is an Evenk shaman who speaks no English and doesn't believe in time. What does he think about space?"

Galich smiled and said something to the shaman who was bending over his sack, back turned when he answered.

"It and time are endless, he said," Galich translated. "And there is no point to thinking about it."

The Evenk finished his packing, threw the sack over his shoulder and turned to Rostnikov, pointing at the jar of dark liquid. Rostnikov nodded and Kurmu headed for the door.

"I hope you're not going to stop him from going," said Galich. "I certainly won't help you."