to begin, or what to do. Or why he needed to see the guy so urgently … Since Felix had homed in on the creep, reason only intermittently guided his actions. The situation was dictated exclusively by emotions: Felix was impatient to see the monster, to stand near him, to observe him at close range—and to let him know that he knew everything. That this bastard had no way out—he would cringe in fear, he would feel terror so fierce it would hurt …
“My name’s Shakhlinsky,” Felix finally said, in the same strangled voice.
“Uh-huh,” Korenev replied, nodding slightly to himself. Something flickered behind his eyes—but no, it wasn’t fear.
“I’m Yanka’s uncle,” Felix added.
“Please accept my condolences,” Korenev said after a slight pause, and Felix was ready to rip him apart right there. He knew why the son of a bitch had suggested meeting here, in a place full of people. He was afraid …
“I’m a colonel in the police force, Criminal Investigation Department.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“You know what I want,” Felix said, and mastered himself with a deep intake of breath. “They say it was several hours before she died. And you, son of a bitch, will suffer ten times longer, and worse. Do you think I’m going to send you up for this? No, you don’t, of course.” He struggled to assume a gentler expression. “You know there’s not enough evidence. Only I don’t need any friggin’ evidence; I’m going to kill you myself …”
The bastard smirked. Felix could hardly believe his eyes—the guy was smirking without the slightest sign of fear.
“So you think I killed her?”
“And you didn’t think anyone would find out? Right. No clues, and—the main thing—no motive. But I was lucky. Just by chance I learned about a few of your acquaintances. About what happened to them during the past year. The year when you suddenly disappeared. When no one could find you, except a few who died soon after. Or ended up as vegetables on life-support systems—like Gleb Mezentsev.”
“Wait a minute—Gleb was in a car crash.”
“Right. His BMW flew into a ditch after someone drove him off the road … It was a hit and run.”
“You think I did that? That’s crazy—I’ve never even had a driver’s license. Although the fact that you single me out at all is kind of cool. You say you were lucky …?” Korenev stared at Felix, who had a hard time not averting his gaze. But he held out, of course—the bastard lowered his eyes, and nodded. “So you decided I killed them … There’s just one thing I don’t get—why me?”
“Because you, motherfucker, envied all of them. Because you’ve been a sniveler your whole life. Because your life has been a pile of shit. Because you never got a fucking thing you wanted. Because you, you little shit, hate everyone who has it better than you, who lucks out—”
“Lucks out,” Korenev interrupted. “What does that mean, ‘to luck out’? You think you have the right to judge who’s lucky and who isn’t? Do you think there’s any logic to anything? But of course. We always look for some rationale, some system to explain things. But we really invent them ourselves. Simply because we think in these categories; we don’t know any other way. Only there is no system, and no explanation.” Still staring, Pasha Korenev shook his head slowly back and forth. “They only exist in our own minds. That’s what none of you want to understand. What I myself didn’t understand for a long time. I kept thinking there had to be rules of some kind. And I tried to play by them! To do things conscientiously. To keep my word. Not let anyone down. I kept thinking if I was good to people, they’d be good to me.” The corners of his mouth contorted. “But it’s all a load of crap. There are no rules. Nothing depends on your personal qualities or the efforts you make. Either you’re lucky or you aren’t. Only
“Mm-hmm.” Now Felix moved forward slightly, forcing Korenev to fall back a step. “And you took the role of fate upon yourself?”
Korenev snorted in exasperation. “You’re not listening. You try to attach meaning to everything. To find someone to blame. Naturally, it’s easier that way, when there’s someone to blame.” He took another step backward, as if to observe Felix from head to toe. “But you must understand—there is no one to blame. And nothing you can do.” Another step backward. And then, from the side, a group of loud, gesticulating young people surged around him. There was some minor scuffling, after which Korenev ended up about five meters away from Felix. Somehow following fluidly in the wake of the young people, he moved away, skirting the fountain. He quickened his pace, weaving in and out of people in the crowd.
When the bastard was about fifteen feet away, Felix started following. He had no plan—but he wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch get away. Felix had to somehow lead him to a more secluded place, to set him straight or just tie him up and gag him …
In pursuit of Korenev, who maintained a fairly brisk pace and never turned around, Felix crossed the square and made it to the corner of the station—and there he realized the bastard was heading for the subway. He sped up, gaining on Korenev; but only when he was in the crowded vestibule of the station, only when he saw the bastard getting in line to pass through the turnstile leading to the escalators, did he look back at the ticket booth—a hopeless throng of people—and think:
Korenev pushed his way toward the escalator without having bought a ticket … He completely blended in with the crowd at the turnstile. Felix watched him descend underground—his feet, his waist, finally his neck and head vanished from view …
Rudely pressing against some heavyset lady (who cackled at him indignantly), Felix slipped through the turnstile. Pushing his way in front of everyone else, he hurried to the escalator, expecting to see Korenev rushing down the stairs.
The descent at Kievskaya is a long one; but the bastard was nowhere to be seen.
Shuffling around aimlessly for another minute or two, Felix sighed deeply several times then made his way back outside.
No big deal, really. He knew who to look for, and, thank god, he knew how to search. He’d been doing it his whole life. He never even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t find the bastard again. And besides, Felix was always lucky …
Moving toward the parking lot where he had left the car, he came to the street. He waited for a lull in the stream of traffic and stepped out onto the pavement. In his pocket he felt a buzzing—then he heard the beep of his mobile. Felix hesitated, his hand scrambling around for his phone … Kostya from the Criminal Investigation Department. Felix finally managed to press the answer key, then turned his head at the furious sound of screeching brakes—but for some reason he didn’t feel the impact of the blow at all.
“Hello, Felix? Hello! Hello!?” But after a short, sharp sound, he heard a steady beeping—the connection had broken off. Never mind; he’ll call back.
Kostya stared at the monitor again. Huh, no way, colonel. That Pasha Korenev, the one the Petersburg cop was looking for, had died; according to a document Kostya had just located, it happened twelve months earlier. In the Sklifosovsky Hospital, in the intensive care unit. Fractured skull, swelling of the brain. They found him by the fountain on Europe Square. He had been beaten, and his wallet and cell phone were gone. That place was bad news, Kostya thought, always full of bums.
What a stupid death …
MOSCOW REINCARNATIONS
BY SERGEI KUZNETSOV
