Part 12 (1/2)
When he made a grab for her, she ducked under his arms, spun behind him, shoved the small of his back. He stumbled, fell to one knee. She ran for the fence, heard him cursing and scrambling to gain his footing. The gap was narrow, a ragged slit made with bolt cutters, mended with wire, cut again. Just wide enough for school kids, or for a small woman. Halfway through, her buckle caught on a wire thorn and she got hung up as the man slammed into the chain-link making it rattle in both directions. He reached through the gap to grab her coat and pull her face against the fence. She could smell garlic and sweat. She spat in his eye. He tried to hit her and cut his knuckles on the jagged edges of the gap. She yanked the belt free of the buckle and slipped it through the loops, left it hanging on the wire. He lost his grip on her wet sleeve and she stepped back from the fence. She watched him for a long delicious moment, watched him struggle like a rhinoceros in a cargo net, his sleeve caught, his hand bleeding. He pounded the chain-link in frustration.
”You should put a bandage on that,” she said. ”But the suit is ruined, you think?”
She was laughing as she picked her way down the slope through the dark trees. Deep delicious breaths. Survival. Nothing like death deferred to amplify the life force, recharge the energy reserves. There was a walkway at the bottom that ran alongside the locks, and further along there was a footbridge she knew, and on the other side of that, a street led to her street. She could still hear the rattle of chain-link fencing above her. The sound elated her. She was triumphant. That is the second time you failed to hold me, she thought. I do not think you are very good a.s.sa.s.sins at all. I do not think you work for Chernenko, or whoever inherited what was under his mattress. I think you are working only for yourselves. Common thieves, that is all. Is that what you have become, Sergei? You and your thug? Just thieves? How pathetic.
She emerged from the dark trees and checked the footpath. Deserted. Sergei must be close by. Waiting for me. Expecting a delivery. He will not be pleased with you, whoever you are. The thought made her quite happy. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
There were open doors along the fourth floor corridor, curious neighbours, a uniformed policeman taking a statement from the slovenly woman down the hall, evidence of a minor earthquake inside her apartment. That goon had started out energetically, she thought, but he quit in a hurry. The bedroom was almost neat. Drawers pulled open, the mattress flipped. Silly.
”Can you tell if anything's missing, ma'am?”
A handsome young uniformed boy was standing inside her doorway. Still a child, his cheeks were pink. ”Nothing missing. I do not have anything to steal.”
”Ms. Daniel?”
The uniform stood aside to let someone in. It was the big man, the police chief himself, filling her doorway. Behind him was the woman from the afternoon, the detective with the stylish boots and the dark eyes. ”You are too late,” she said. ”They have made off with my three-ply toilet paper.”
”Ms. Daniel. My name is Orwell Brennan. I'm . . .”
”I know who you are.” She faced him. ”It is Zubrovskaya.”
”I'm sorry, I don't speak any Russian.”
”Zubrovskaya. That is my name. Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya.”
”Very well, Ms. Zubrov . . .”
”Practice it. Zu-brov-ska-ya. Go ahead.”
”Zubrovskaya.”
”Bravo. You may call me Anya.”
He smiled at her. She almost believed his smile. It was wicked, like a little boy who just found matches in his pocket.
”Anya. Do you know who did this?”
”What, this?” A slow pirouette amid the wreckage. ”This is nothing.”
”It looks like a break-in to me. Your neighbour called the police.”
”How neighbourly of her.”
”Otherwise they might have still been here when you got home.”
”I usually arrive earlier than this, but tonight I decided to drink instead.”
”Are you all right to talk?”
”I am Russian. Vodka is fuel for talk.”
”Fine. Do you have any idea who did this?”
”Certainly. Chernenko did it. Konstantin Chernenko.”
”He's dead, isn't he?”
”Not everyone has been informed of his demise.” She turned on the little clock radio atop her refrigerator and located the all-night cla.s.sical station.
”And these people are after you?”
”Not me. They do not really care about me.”
”Then what?”
”Bah!” she said. ”Schumann. I do not like Schumann.” She lowered the volume, leaned against the refrigerator and looked at him. ”You want to hear a story? Do you have time for a story?”
”Yes, I have time.”
”Good. I am drunk enough to tell you a story. Let me see if they left my vodka alone.” There was a small bottle in the freezer compartment. She found two gla.s.ses in the cupboard above the stove. ”Okay,” she said, ”turn the couch back over and we will have a drink and I will tell you some things.”
”Actually, I'm working now,” Orwell said. ”I don't drink when . . .”
”Do not be silly. If you do not drink with me, we cannot have a conversation. It is not sociable.”
”All right then.”
”Good. Now you are being sociable. Tell the other ones to leave us alone.”
He stepped into the hall. The young cop came to attention. Roy Rawluck's influence. ”Everything sorted out with the neighbours, Constable?”
”Yes, sir. No eyewitnesses. Some noise. Woman at the far end saw a man going out the fire exit, didn't get a look. Said he was big.”
”Okay, see if you can get everyone back in their apartments.”
”Yes, sir.”
”I can go back to the doctor's office,” Stacy said quietly. ”Have another look around.”
”And keep checking with the hospital,” Orwell said. ”I want to know the minute she wakes up.”
”Yes, sir. I'll stay in touch.”
”You do that,” he said. ”You'll have to drive me home. She intends to ply me with alcohol.”
”Watch yourself, Chief. She looks frisky.”
Orwell sighed and closed the door on Stacy's smirk.
”Turn out that overhead light,” Anya said. ”I found a lamp that works. I hate overhead lights. Do you?”