Eric Lustbader - Last Snow

Jack, noting that it was the first time she’d referred to Annika as anything other than “the psycho-bitch,” rose to welcome Annika back and to thank Dr. Sosymenko. One step at a time , he thought.

“The wound was clean,” the doctor said as soon as he and his patient entered the living room, “and because of the tourniquet the loss of blood was acceptable. I’ve cleaned everything, bandaged the wound, and given Annika a shot of antibiotics. She also has some painkillers and a vial of antibiotic tablets she needs to take twice a day for the next ten days, not a day less.” He turned to Annika, whose left arm was in a sling. “You understand me?”

She nodded, smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

He clucked his tongue and, addressing Jack, said, “Please take care of her; she does such a poor job of it herself.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jack said.

“All right then.” Dr. Sosymenko rubbed his hands together briskly.

Annika adjusted her arm in the sling. “There’s one other thing.”

Dr. Sosymenko produced a wistful smile and said to Jack, “With my dear Annika there is always one more thing. She’s like that American detective, what’s his name, Columbo. That detective makes me laugh—and he’s so clever!”

Annika, unperturbed, said, “I wonder if you’d mind giving us the name and address of your antiques dealer.”

“Not at all.” The doctor went into the kitchen and rummaged through several drawers, returning with a small notepad. “Are you thinking of becoming a collector of teapots?”

“I found what might be an old Russian weapon. I’d like it identified.”

He nodded. “A weapon, of course, what else would appeal to you, my dear?” He chuckled. “In that event you want Bogdan Boyer, a Turk, but his first language is English, which makes things easier. He’s a specialist in many things, weapons included.” He neatly wrote several lines on the pad with a ballpoint pen. Tearing off the top sheet, he handed it to Annika.

Annika thanked him as she folded away the slip of paper.

“He opens at ten A.M., not a moment before. Tell him you’re friends of mine and he won’t try to overcharge you.”

Annika seemed shocked. “You associate with a dealer who’s dishonest?”

“Bogdan isn’t dishonest,” Dr. Sosymenko corrected punctiliously. “He overcharges when he thinks he can get away with it. That’s being a businessman.”

_____

THE APARTMENT to which Igor had provided the key was in the Vinohrader, an older district, but because of its beautiful park, it had a softer and therefore more welcoming atmosphere than many of the newer districts. The apartment itself had the advantage of being high up, and the windows in the living room overlooked the park. The rooms were not large, but they were adequate for the trio’s needs, which at the moment consisted largely of showering and sleeping.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, not eerily, as if he were in a haunted house, but in a comforting way, the sound of a fire in a grate, cozily cracking through burning logs. This apartment, furnished comfortably, painted in warm shades of biscuit and toast, felt lived in by a benign presence, as if it belonged to Dyadya Gourdjiev. There were drawings on the wall of sinuous nudes and young faces incongruously filled with wisdom, and a depiction of a Tibetan mandala over one end of a sofa, which stood against the wall opposite the windows. Thick curtains hung to either side of the windows, which were concealed by blinds, directing the street light upward onto the plaster ceiling with its molding of twined acanthus leaves. There didn’t seem to be a speck of dust anywhere.

By mutual consent, Alli went into the bathroom first. She had just stepped out of the shower, winding a towel around her small body, wondering dispiritedly if she’d ever look any older than she did now, when Annika walked in.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Annika said.

Alli turned away to wipe the condensation off the mirror over the sink. “Too late for that.”

“I feel like I have fifty layers of sweat, dirt, and blood on me. I’m dying for a shower, but Dr. Sosymenko said I can’t get the dressing wet.”

“Why don’t you ask Jack? I’m sure you’d love to get him in the shower with you.”

Annika closed the door behind her. “I was wondering if you would help me.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Alli. You.” Annika kicked off her shoes and started to fumble behind her, trying to find the zipper on her ruined dress. “But first I have to get undressed, which I see is damnably difficult with one hand.” She turned around.

Making sure her towel was tucked in tight, Alli unzipped the dress and helped Annika off with it. They had to maneuver the sling off before it was possible, and Alli saw the tears spring into Annika’s eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Annika nodded, but a flash of pain had compressed her lips into a thin line.

Alli reached into the shower, turned on the water, then unhooked the other woman’s bra. Annika stepped out of her thong and, leaning against the sink, rolled down her ripped and filthy stockings.

She stepped awkwardly over the tub rim while extending her left arm outside the shower curtain. Alli ripped the other sleeve off her ruined shirt, wrapped it around the bandage to help keep it perfectly dry.

Alli tilted the mirror until Annika’s reflection appeared, the side of her neck slick and shining, trisected wisps of hair plastered to the porcelain skin. There was something intensely intimate about watching someone soaping their naked body, possibly because they were unaware of your presence, their expression at once relaxed and engrossed, as if in meditation. Even the most well-armored personality seemed vulnerable to scrutiny. The tip of Annika’s tongue appeared between her lips, moving slightly as she concentrated on soaping herself with one hand while not slipping.

“So what’s your story?” Annika asked so suddenly that Alli startled, as if she’d been caught smoking in bed.

“I don’t have a story.”

It was an automatic defense that Annika saw through at once. “Bullshit, everyone has a story. Why do you look seven years younger than you are?”

“Graves’ disease,” Alli said, thinking she’d gotten off easy. “It screws around with growth and development.”

“So you’ll be stuck looking fifteen all your life?”

Alli was startled again because the question echoed her own thought. “Hell, no. At least I hope not.”

“Why not? I think it would be kind of cool. Everyone’s aging around you.” She laughed. “Just think, when your daughter is fifteen everyone will think you’re twins.”

For some reason, Alli didn’t think that was funny, and said so quite emphatically.

“So now we’re back to my original question: What’s your story?” Annika turned slightly, putting a further strain on the arm Alli was keeping dry. “It sure as hell isn’t your Graves’ disease, you got over that years ago.”

“How would you know that?”

“You talked about it without hesitation. But there’s something else, isn’t there? A kind of shadow hanging over you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alli saw Annika’s reflection shrug.

“It’s always possible, but I doubt it.” She tried to rotate her arm. “Hey, you know, I can’t wash my back.”

Alli cursed, unwound her towel and, drawing aside the curtain, put one foot into the shower. She took the soap Annika offered and used quick, circular motions to lather her back. Annika moved the showerhead up a bit and bent her head forward so some of the spray reached her back. There were a series of vertical scars down her back.