From the smell of gun oil Arkady knew what the present was before he opened the box, but it was better than he imagined, a revolver his own size.
“You two are a pair,” said his mother.
His father said, “A lady’s gun to start with. Don’t worry; you’ll grow into bigger ones. Try it.”
Arkady aimed at a small, brown bird that trilled on a wooden post.
“A finch is God’s choir,” said his mother.
It exploded into feathers.
“Is it dead?” Arkady was shocked.
“We’ll know more in twelve hours,” his father said.
“I’m going for a walk.” His mother got to her feet. “I’ll hunt for butterflies.”
His father said, “I have to play the host, I can’t go with you.”
“Arkasha will take care of me. Without the gun.”
Arkady and his mother walked along hydrangeas bearing globes of pink blossoms. With a butterfly net for a gun, he shot American agents as they sprang from the bushes. She moved in an absentminded way, eyes down, smiling at something only she heard.
When they reached the river she said, “Let’s gather stones.”
1822. ICP: 18 mm Hg. BP: 160/80. HR: 75.
“What does that mean?”
“May I have the patient’s chart back? BP is blood pressure, HR is heart rate, and ICP is pressure inside the skull. Normal ICP is up to fifteen millimeters of mercury. Damage starts at twenty and fatal starts at twenty-five. Are you a family member?”
“A colleague. I was there when he was shot. I thought he was dead.”
“The bullet penetrated the skull but not the covering of the brain. I don’t know why.”
“Ballistics says the gun was old enough to be from the war and so were the bullets in it. Gunpowder degrades. A round that old might barely clear the barrel. When I heard this I thought Renko would be walking out in a day or two. Then I get here and-”
“You can’t smoke here.”
“Sorry. I get here and he’s on a ventilator, a drip in his arm and tubes running out every side of his head.”
“His brain is bleeding and swelling.”
“Is he going to live?”
“We’ll know more in twelve hours.”
“You’re not going to look at him for twelve hours?”
“He is constantly monitored and observed. He’s lucky to be alive. We’re at half staff because of the weather. When he came in I had to organize a group of interns.”
“Interns?”
“Getting a tube down such a contused windpipe was no simple feat. You can’t drink here either. Put the bottle away. Detective, first let us deliver him to you alive, then you can blow smoke in his face or put him on a vodka drip, whatever you want. Am I clear? Do we understand each other?”
“Okay.”
“Has the family been notified?”
“There’s a woman who’s not his wife and a boy who’s not his son. The boy was at the scene. Is my friend hearing all this?”
“Yes and no. He’s in an induced coma to preserve brain function. Words are mere sounds.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Keep it positive.”
“Arkady, about Zhenya. The little prick took off after you were shot. Nobody’s seen him since. Here’s the kicker: the shooter’s last name was Lysenko. Same as Zhenya.”
“Can you think of something more positive? I assume this assailant Lysenko has been detained.”
“He took three in the chest and two in the head. That sounds positive to me.”
Arkady moved upstream as he hunted so that when he nudged stones with his toes the sediment he raised flowed away. Although the surface of the water was slick with light his shadow unveiled a multitude of guppies dashing back and forth over a bed of rounded stones striped red or blue, green or black.
“Do you prefer hunting butterflies or stones?” his mother asked.
“Rabbits.”
“You used to hate hunting rabbits.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Well, today it’s stones. See, I already have a net full.”
She waded barefoot like Arkady, gathering her frilly dress in one hand and carrying the butterfly net with the other. From time to time she stopped to receive messages. Not from Arkady, but from people only she heard. The tumbling of water covered her conversation.
“What do they say?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The people you talk to.”
She gave him a confidential smile. “They say that the human brain floats in a sea of cerebral fluids.”
“What else do they say?”
“Not to be afraid.”
2322. ICP: 19 mm Hg. BP: 176/81. HR: 70.
“I see, I see. He’s going to die and if he does live he’ll be a vegetable.”
“Not necessarily.”
“But surely, not up to the rigors of criminal investigation.”
“He might get medical permission to return to work. That would also be up to you. You’re the prosecutor.”
“Exactly. My office is not a rehabilitation center.”
“Don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves? The crisis will come tonight. If he gets through that, then we can assess the damage. Frankly, I’m surprised we didn’t see you here before. Your investigator is shot, perhaps fatally, rescuing a boy from an armed lunatic and no one from your office comes to see how he’s doing?”
“All we know for sure is that he was shot outside a casino. The circumstances of the incident are murky. Can he hear?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point in coming? Call me in the morning if he’s still alive.”
Arkady and his mother watched from a distance as officers decorated the porch.
She sighed. “Paper lanterns. I hope it doesn’t rain. We don’t want anything to ruin your father’s party.”
“What do we do with the stones?” Arkady asked. His pockets were so full it was hard to walk.
“We’ll think of something.”
“There is no visiting. How did you get in?”
“I am a physician, but not his.”
“Then what is your relationship?”
“Personal. You’ve drilled?”
“And drained.”
“ICP?”
