Stuart Kaminsky - A Cold Red Sunrise

"I don't know what you're talking about. You just said I don't want Samsonov to leave," Galich shouted.

"You don't, but I wasn't talking about you. Now, let's talk about you. I understand a man can live in those forests indefinitely if he knows what he is doing. I believe you told me that."

"One cedar tree can provide enough for a man for a year," agreed Galich with a laugh. "I might be able to live in the taiga, but I'm too old and too civilized. Is that the option you give me, Rostnikov? I run and disappear and you announce that I'm the killer. The case is closed and everyone is happy. Everyone but me."

"It is a chance to live, Dimitri," Rostnikov said softly.

"I've just come back to life," Galich said. "I'm too old for any more changes, too old to live alone in the cold and darkness."

"Dimitri…" Rostnikov began, but before he could say more the Mongol spear was in Galich's right hand, had been hefted over his shoulder and was whistling across the room. Rostnikov rolled to his right breaking the arm of the chair. He didn't see the spear break through the back of the chair but he did hear it clatter to the floor and across the room.

Rostnikov tried to rise quickly, but his leg would not cooperate and he had to roll back toward the chair anticipating another attack by an ancient weapon.

"Dimitri Galich," he called. "Stop."

"I lied," shouted Galich, picking up a rusted knife with a curved blade. "I did try to shoot you. I did shoot Mirasnikov."

Rostnikov was on his knees now as the former priest came around the table knife in hand. Using the remaining good arm of the almost destroyed chair, Porfiry Petrovich managed to stand ready to meet the attack of the advancing man. Galich stepped into the light of the window and Rostnikov could see his red eyes filled with tears. He could also see the ancient flecks of rust on the blade of the knife. He wanted to say something to stop the man, but Rostnikov had seen that look in the eyes of the desperate before. Words would not stop him.

The bullet cracked through the window as Galich raised the knife to strike and Rostnikov prepared to counter the attack. The bullet hit Galich under the arm and spun him around. A rush of frigid air burst through the broken window sending papers on the worktable flying like thick snow. Beyond the window, Emil Karpo stood, arms straight, pistol aimed. Galich recovered a bit and turned for another lunge at Rostnikov. The second shot hit him in the chest and the third and final shot entered his eye at approximately the same angle Galich had stabbed Commissar Rutkin with an icicle.

As he fell the former priest let out a massive groan that sounded almost like relief. When he hit the floor, there was little doubt. Dimitri Galich was dead.

"Come around," Rostnikov called to Karpo who put his pistol away and made his way around the house as Rostnikov bent awkwardly over Dimitri Galich's body to confirm what he already knew. The wind through the broken window suddenly grew angry, tumbled a book to the floor and whistled shrilly into one of the ancient bottles on the table.

Karpo came through the door and moved to Rostnikov's side.

"Did you hear?" Rostnikov asked.

"A little," said Karpo.

"He confessed to the murder of Commissar Rutkin," said Rostnikov, pulling his coat around him as the house quickly grew cold. "The reasons he gave were muddled. He was a bit mad, I'm afraid. I imagine living in Tumsk for several years does not minimize that risk."

"Shall I tell Famfanoff to free Dr. Samsonov?" Karpo said.

"Not yet. I have something to do first. Attend to Dimitri Galich's body and then prepare your report."

"Yes, Inspector. Shall I inform Procurator Sokolov and arrange for air transport back to Moscow?"

"The sooner the better," said Rostnikov, finally looking away from the body. "You know, Emil, I liked the man."

"So I observed," said Karpo.

And with that Rostnikov headed for the door and a meeting he dreaded.

A slight snow was falling as he stepped out of Galich's house, the first since Rostnikov had come to Tumsk. He wondered if a plane could get through the snow, if there was a chance that he would be snowed in and unable to get back to Moscow, back to Sarah.

He stepped off the small porch and walked the thirty or so yards to the Samsonovs'. He didn't have to knock. Ludmilla Samsonov opened the door as he neared the house.

She was dressed in white, her dark hair tied back, tiny earrings of white stone dangling from her ears. He lips were pink and shiny and her eyes full of fear.

"I've been hoping you would come," she said fighting back a chill.

"Let's get inside," he said stepping in, close to her, smelling her, unsure of whether the smell was natural or perfume. She closed the door and smiled at him uncertainly.

"I have some coffee ready," she said nervously. "Would you like some?"

"No, thank you," Rostnikov said removing his hat and unbuttoning his coat.

"Please have a seat," she said pointing at the sofa. "Let me take your coat."

Rostnikov removed his coat, handed it to the woman who brushed his hand as she took it. He sat on the sofa and made room for her when she returned from placing his coat on a table near the window. She straightened her dress, revealing her slim legs, and looked into his face.

"I heard something," she said. "It sounded like shots."

"Yes," he said. "I heard it. I'll have Inspector Karpo investigate. You said at the hearing that you wished to speak to me?"

"Yes," she said leaning close, almost weeping. "My husband did not kill Commissar Rutkin. He didn't shoot Mirasnikov. He has been distraught by Karla's death. That is true. But he is a gentle man. You must be mistaken. I would do anything for him, anything."

"Anything?" Rostnikov asked.

"Yes," she said, holding back the tears.

"Even be very friendly to a rather homely old police inspector?"

"I believe in my husband's innocence," she said, her eyes pleading, her mouth quivering.

Her teeth, Rostnikov noted, were remarkably white and even. Rostnikov took her hand. She didn't resist.

"And how would I do this? How could I let him go after the hearing?"

"You could find new evidence, evidence that the murderer is the Evenk, the one Mirasnikov saw, the one you talked to," she said eagerly. "The Evenk accused Lev to protect himself. Someone, Dimitri Galich, could tell the Evenk, tell him to go away. I'll ask Galich right away."

She looked into his eyes, squeezed his hand.

"Dimitri Galich is dead," he said.

Ludmilla Samsonov withdrew her hands and shuddered.

"Dead?"

"Inspector Karpo had to shoot him no more than ten minutes ago," said Rostnikov. "He attempted to kill me after confessing that he killed Commissar Rutkin."

"That's…" she began. "Then my husband will be freed."

She breathed deeply and sat back. Rostnikov said nothing.

"I'm sorry," she went on. "I was so… My husband has been through so much."

"And it is very important that he be allowed to move to the West," said Rostnikov.

"It is what he wants, what he needs," she said. "He cannot contain, cannot control his beliefs. If he remains in the Soviet Union, he will get into more trouble. If he remains in Siberia unable to practice, to do his research, he will probably die."

"And that is important to you?" asked Rostnikov.

She nodded.

"Would you like to know why Dimitri Galich killed Commissar Rutkin?" Rostnikov asked.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Dimitri Galich, before he died, said that he killed Commissar Rutkin because you asked him to," Rostnikov said.

"I… he said I…" she said, her eyes opening, her hand moving to her breast.

"Absurd on the surface," said Rostnikov, "but he claimed with the sincerity of a dying man that you and he were lovers and that you said Rutkin was going to reveal your affair as part of the hearing into the death of Karla Samsonov."