David Duffy - Last to Fold

“I’ll take care of him,” Victoria said. Things were looking up. Not that I had strength to do anything about it.

“Okay,” he said, putting the vodka bottle away. I felt a small regret, but that was the last thing I needed.

Foos said good night and was gone. Victoria sat watching me.

“Y’all don’t look bad in black and blue and yellow, but I think I prefer the plain shaved head.”

“Thanks for everything you did. I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for all the music in New Orleans—except for what happened to you, of course. People in my position, especially people like me who get to my position, we rarely get to see the bad guys face-to-face, and never in their own lair. I’m sorry about what happened, and I do mean that, but I wouldn’t trade that visit for ten trips home.”

“Glad it worked out for someone.”

“I still have to ask you about Rislyakov.”

I had the same thought I had at Lachko’s about lying and telling the truth. Might as well get some benefit from my injuries. “I know. Tomorrow. I’m not good for much more today.”

She gave me a long look. “Okay. You think if you lean on me you can make it to your room?”

“Leaning on you…”

“Don’t start.”

“Let’s try.”

She came over, and I pushed myself up. The painkillers were still doing their thing. I tried not to put too much weight on her. She took what I had with ease and guided me across the floor. We got to my room, and she let me down easily on the bed.

“Can you get undressed or you need help?”

“Help.”

She took a step back. “Sugar, remember I’ve already seen it all, and I’m excited, but we both know for a fact excitement ain’t gonna rule tonight or anytime soon. You really need help?”

“No, but I’m not happy about it.”

“Neither am I. Although the why of it mystifies me.”

She put her arms around the back of my neck and kissed me gently on the forehead. I felt good for the first time in two days.

“We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

She left, and I managed to shed my clothes before I fell asleep.

The Chekist lighted a cigarette and put the computer aside, his mind still back in the Valdai barn. He’d made Kosokov drink until he polished off the vodka bottle. The man was drunk when he got there; he had to be borderline blotto now, but he wouldn’t talk. The Chekist asked again and again about the CDs. Kosokov kept lying—they don’t exist.

“I have you on tape, Anatoly Andreivich. You made copies. Tell me where they are and you live.”

Kosokov laughed and threw up on the floor. The Chekist hit him with the gun, and he fell in his own vomit. The Chekist kicked him in the face.

The banker was a weak man, but he’d decided to make a stand. Why?

He left Kosokov unconscious and made a survey of the barn, looking for something he could use to break his will. It couldn’t be that hard, but time wasn’t on his side.

He was passing through the horse stalls when he sensed movement again. The stall to his left. He stopped by the gate and listened motionless. Breathing? A scratching sound. He raised his pistol, kicked the gate open, and fired. The bullet sank itself in old timber. The stall was empty. Had to be rats.

In the garage he found several gas cans. He’d give Kosokov one more chance to talk or burn in the hell he deserved.

The driver helped him bind the banker’s hands and feet to a post. The Chekist poured gasoline in his hands and threw it in Kosokov’s face.

“Whaaaa?”

“Wake up, Anatoly. This is your last chance. CDs—where?”

“Fuck you.”

The Chekist gave him another splash and carried the can around the perimeter, pouring as he went. When it was empty, he went back to the garage and got another to finish the job. There was more than enough to run a liquid fuse out the door through the snow. Kosokov watched from his stake, still in a stupor, with rising terror. He tugged at his knots.

“You wouldn’t,” he croaked . “Even the Cheka…”

“I would and I will. CDs—where?”

Something passed through Kosokov’s eyes—realization, resignation, defiance, he couldn’t tell, but he knew he’d lost the battle.

“One more chance, Anatoly Andreivich. Where are the copies and you live.”

Kosokov spat. “For what? To be shot later. The Cheka’s its own worst enemy. Someday you’ll understand that.”

“There’ll be no someday, Anatoly, unless you tell me what I want to know.”

Kosokov spat again—in his face. He could smell the alcohol and gasoline as it ran down his cheek.

“I’m going to light a match. I estimate you’ll have five minutes. Shout if you change your mind.”

He walked through the open door, waiting for the banker to call his bluff, but he didn’t.

Fuck him. Maybe they were still in the house. Maybe Polina had them. He’d deal with it. He fired the match and dropped it in the snow.

The fire snake slithered into the barn. It took a matter of seconds before the walls leapt into flame. The old timber burned fast. He hadn’t even needed the gas. He waited for Kosokov’s call, but it didn’t come. The fire spread across the doorway, shutting off his view. The flames climbed the walls to the roof and kept leaping upward. A few minutes later, sections of the roof began to fall. A few more minutes, and it was over. The whole structure collapsed in on itself, a bonfire of heat and orange flame.

Damned fool.

He had to move fast now. The fire would attract attention, even out here.

There was still Polina to be dealt with.

I awoke at six, having slept almost ten hours, to find that I felt semihuman, I could move, with difficulty, and Victoria was still with me. She was in the kitchen, making coffee and looking fresh and rested even though she wore the same clothes as yesterday.

“Look who’s back among the living,” she said. “Sort of.”

“Thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome. How do you feel?”

“Better than yesterday.”

“Better than you look?”

“I haven’t checked the mirror yet.”

“Don’t.” She handed me a steaming cup. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Me? “I don’t remember beating myself up.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You think I go looking for trouble.”

“Yes. Not intentionally, maybe, but you don’t care if you find it—or it finds you. That’s not normal.”

“A pig will always find mud.”

“Another goddamned proverb?”

“We’ve got one for just about everything.”

“Everyone you know is either dead, has one foot in jail, or is trying to do you harm. Like I said, that ain’t normal.”

Didn’t seem unusual to me, but my brain was probably still addled.

“You think you can manage for yourself today?”

“I do most days.”

“Most days aren’t the day after you were in the hospital. You want my advice, you stay right here, try to get some more sleep, get your strength back.”

“Your concern is still touching. I’ll try to take it easy.”

“You want to tell me about your friend Rislyakov?”

“Don’t you Americans have an amendment that protects against self-incrimination?”

“We do. It works in a courtroom. I’ve got a rule against fooling around with felons. That applies right here in your kitchen. So you can tell me what you know or I’m outta here—and not coming back.”