and caught the descending hand holding the clock. Yuri tried to punch at the skeleton face before him with his free hand, but that, too, was stopped by Karpo.
The boy did not scream. He was afraid. Karpo could feel that, had felt it many times before. Karpo could smell his fear, and the boy could smell a dry cleanliness on the night figure, a smell he immediately equated with death.
“He found out. He sent you,” Yuri said, trying to control his breathing. “You’re the one I saw this morning.”
Karpo held the boy’s hands so that he could not move. Their bodies were together. When Yuri had awakened and leaped from the bed, Karpo saw that he had an erection. The erection was gone now, but the boy was not limp.
“Then kill me,” he whispered and dropped the clock.
The clock clattered to the floor, and a voice called from the next room. The voice of Elena Vostoyavek, Yuri’s mother.
“Yuri, what … are you all right?”
Yuri’s face was inches from Karpo, and his eyes were now sufficiently adjusted to the minimal light to see the unblinking, gaunt face before him.
“I’m fine,” Yuri called. “I knocked over the clock.”
“Yes,” his mother called and went back to sleep.
“Then do it,” he whispered to Karpo. “Do it and be sure it looks like murder. I don’t want my mother and Jalna to think I was a coward.”
“I’m not going to murder you,” Karpo said. “I’m going to warn you. One warning. What you plan to do is known. Stop and it is the end. Stop, Yuri Vostoyavek, or it will be your end and that of the girl. You understand?”
Yuri looked at the emotionless face inches in front of him, tried to see the eyes in dark shadow, tried to understand what was happening and thought only that he had to get to the toilet, had to get there very quickly.
“I understand,” Yuri said. Karpo let him free and stood back.
“I was not here,” Karpo said, stepping back into the dark corner of the small room, where there was a door that led to the hallway in front of the apartment. Karpo did not think about the name of the girl that Yuri had uttered. He did not have to think. He knew from the file he had carefully studied that Morchov’s daughter was named Jalna. He knew that in the morning he would check to be sure that the girl who wanted Morchov dead was his own daughter. And he knew what he would find.
“I was not here,” Karpo repeated softly.
Yuri nodded, not knowing if the dark figure was still there when he did so, not hearing a sound. And then Yuri headed for the toilet.
Emil Karpo was not late. It was eleven twenty-one when he arrived in front of the Tass building just off of Koltso Boulevard. Rostnikov was sitting on a bench reading a book by the light of a streetlamp. Sasha had not yet come. The hour was late, the area deserted but for a pair of late-night lovers who crossed the street, moving toward the Church of the Ascension to avoid the strange pair of men who seemed to be waiting for a bus long after the buses had stopped running for the night.
Rostnikov put his book away, nodded at Karpo, and invited him to sit next to him on the bench. Karpo hesitated and then sat.
“I have a car,” Rostnikov said. “Around the corner. It must be back before dawn. What do you have, Emil Karpo?”
“What do I have? Nothing,” said Karpo.
“You look like you have something, the memory of a nightmare or a bad conscience,” said Rostnikov, shifting his weight. “Would you rather not join us tonight?”
“You believe you may need my assistance?”
“Yes.”
“I will join you. If you sense a restiveness in me, it is not about what we will do tonight.”
“The Morchov business,” said Rostnikov with a sigh.
Karpo said nothing.
“Would you like me to take it over?”
“It is my responsibility,” said Karpo firmly.
“Your responsibility is to see that, if possible, no one gets hurt,” said Rostnikov. “The courts are crowded with cases. People sit in their homes, in cells waiting for a hearing on whether they stole a neighbor’s potato pie or failed to meet a quota in their small factory. Our duty is often done best if we bring a case to conclusion without the need of a court.”
Somewhere behind them came the sound of footsteps. They were soft, faint, and almost certain to be unheard by anyone not listening for them, anyone but a policeman. Both Karpo and Rostnikov heard the steps coming in their direction.
“A trial is the right of every citizen,” Karpo said with less man his usual full conviction on such issues.
“It is a right that many citizens would gladly forgo if they could be given other options,” said Rostnikov.
At this point Sasha came around the corner, breathing heavily.
“I’m late,” he said.
“It gave me an opportunity to discuss the philosophy of the legal system with Emil,” said Rostnikov, standing up.
“I was trying to find a woman in the Arbat who may be a lead to the missing bus and … that can wait,” Sasha said. “I had to call Maya. I haven’t been home.”
“You want to go home?” Rostnikov said, reaching down to massage his leg. “Emil and I can continue our discussion and handle the situation.”
“You said you might need me,” said Sasha, brushing his hair back. He had not shaved since early this morning, and amber bristles on his cheeks caught the light from the streetlamp and, strangely, made him look even younger man usual.
“We might,” Rostnikov said.
“Then let’s go,” said Sasha.
Moments later they were in the green four-door Moskvich Rostnikov had signed out from Petrovka. On his application for use, he had cited a stakeout to catch a factory thief. The garage clerk was not a dim fellow but he was not secure and would not question the authority of a superior unless the clerk was being watched. Zelach had driven Rostnikov and the car to the street just behind Tass and then had gone home on the Metro, as Rostnikov requested. Zelach had neither asked what was happening nor had appeared to have any curiosity about the matter.
Karpo drove. They had turned the corner and were a block away from where the car had been parked when the dark Chaika, its headlights off, began to follow them.
Boris Trush lay on his cot in the run-down farmhouse beyond nowhere and tried to rid his mind of the repeating refrain of the childhood song, but it would not go away. It was better than the vision of the boy he was sure he had killed in Klin, but it was terrible nonetheless.
“In the field is standing a birch tree,” it repeated over and over and over again. He knew that Tchaikovsky had used the song in some symphony or other. Boris didn’t know or care much for music, but this he remembered.
He should not be thinking of songs. Boris wanted to think about escaping, wanted to think about the murder he had committed. No, no, he did not want to think about that. And, besides, it wasn’t a murder. He didn’t want to be there, in that barn, in this house. He wanted to be home in his bed, wanted to check his trip ticket for the morning, wanted to get up and have a strong cup of coffee and put on his uniform and drive his bus. Boris wanted his routine. He cared nothing for freedom. He wanted the comfort of his routine, not this song of birch trees, not this box of madness.
Beyond the wall and his song Boris could hear Vasily and the Oriental girl Lia grunting, rolling, laughing, bouncing. They murder and then they have sex. They have no routine, Boris thought. He hated them, envied them, wanted them to be quiet, wanted the song in his brain to cease so he could sleep. If the song would go away, if
