policeman trembled, as if the ground beneath his feet were shaking. Then suddenly his arm swung out.
Anton found himself staring down the blue eye of a gun barrel. His holster was strapped to his waist, but he would never be able to reach it in time. He stood motionless, hands by his sides.
“Go on,” the policeman challenged. “Give me an excuse.”
Now Kirov grabbed for the flap of his holster, drew the gun, but lost his grip on the handle. The pistol slipped through his fingers. Kirov’s empty hands clawed at nothing as the Tokarev cartwheeled into the mud. A look of terrified amazement spread across his face.
The policeman did not even notice. He kept his gun aimed at Anton. “Go on,” he said, “I’m going to shoot you either way, so—”
A stunning crash filled the air.
Kirov cried out in shock.
Anton watched in confusion as the drunken policeman dropped to his knees. A white gash showed across his neck, followed instantly by a torrent of blood which poured from the hole in his throat. Slowly and deliberately, the policeman raised a hand to cover the wound. The blood pulsed out between his fingers. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if he was trying to clear his vision. Then he tipped forward into a puddle on the road.
Anton looked across at his brother.
Pekkala lowered the Webley. Smoke still slithered from the cylinder. He slid the gun back into its holster under his coat.
Kirov retrieved his own gun from the mud. He wiped some of the dirt away, then tried to put the pistol back in its holster, but his hands were shaking so much that he gave up. He looked from Anton to Pekkala. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he walked to the side of the road and threw up in the bushes.
The engine of the Emka was still running. Exhaust smoke puffed from the tailpipe.
“Let’s go.” Anton motioned for them to get back in the car.
“We should file a report,” said Pekkala.
“It never happened,” Anton said. Without looking Pekkala in the eye, he walked past him and got into the car.
“What should we do with the body?” Kirov wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Leave it!” shouted Anton.
Kirov climbed behind the wheel.
Pekkala stared at the corpse in the road. The puddle had turned red, like wine spilled out of a bottle. Then he got back in the car.
They drove on.
For a long time, nobody talked.
None of the roads were paved, and they encountered few cars along the way. Often they sped past horses harnessed to carts, leaving them in clouds of yellow dust, or slowed to navigate around places where puddles had merged to form miniature ponds.
In this wide, deserted countryside, they eventually became lost. The rolling hills and valleys all began to look the same. All road markers had been forcibly removed, leaving only the splintered stumps of posts on which the signs had once been nailed. Kirov had a map, but it did not appear to be accurate.
“I don’t even know what direction we are heading in,” sighed Kirov.
“Pull over,” said Pekkala.
Kirov glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
“If you stop the car, I can tell you where we are going.”
“Do you have a compass?”
“Not yet,” replied Pekkala.
Grudgingly, Kirov eased up on the gas. The car rolled to a stop in the middle of the road. He cut the engine.
Silence settled on them like the dust.
Pekkala opened the door and got out.
All around them, wind blew through the tall grass.
Pekkala opened the trunk.
“What is he doing?” demanded Kirov.
“Just leave him alone,” replied Anton.
Pekkala fished out a crowbar from the tangle of fuel containers, towing ropes, and assorted cans of army rations rolling loose around the trunk of the car.
He walked out into the field and jammed the bar into the earth. Its shadow stretched long on the ground. Then, sweeping his fingers through the grass, he pulled a couple of dusty pebbles from the earth. One of these he laid at the end of the shadow. The other one he put inside his pocket.
Anton found himself staring down the blue eye of a gun barrel. His holster was strapped to his waist, but he would never be able to reach it in time. He stood motionless, hands by his sides.
“Go on,” the policeman challenged. “Give me an excuse.”
Now Kirov grabbed for the flap of his holster, drew the gun, but lost his grip on the handle. The pistol slipped through his fingers. Kirov’s empty hands clawed at nothing as the Tokarev cartwheeled into the mud. A look of terrified amazement spread across his face.
The policeman did not even notice. He kept his gun aimed at Anton. “Go on,” he said, “I’m going to shoot you either way, so—”
A stunning crash filled the air.
Kirov cried out in shock.
Anton watched in confusion as the drunken policeman dropped to his knees. A white gash showed across his neck, followed instantly by a torrent of blood which poured from the hole in his throat. Slowly and deliberately, the policeman raised a hand to cover the wound. The blood pulsed out between his fingers. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if he was trying to clear his vision. Then he tipped forward into a puddle on the road.
Anton looked across at his brother.
Pekkala lowered the Webley. Smoke still slithered from the cylinder. He slid the gun back into its holster under his coat.
Kirov retrieved his own gun from the mud. He wiped some of the dirt away, then tried to put the pistol back in its holster, but his hands were shaking so much that he gave up. He looked from Anton to Pekkala. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he walked to the side of the road and threw up in the bushes.
The engine of the Emka was still running. Exhaust smoke puffed from the tailpipe.
“Let’s go.” Anton motioned for them to get back in the car.
“We should file a report,” said Pekkala.
“It never happened,” Anton said. Without looking Pekkala in the eye, he walked past him and got into the car.
“What should we do with the body?” Kirov wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Leave it!” shouted Anton.
Kirov climbed behind the wheel.
Pekkala stared at the corpse in the road. The puddle had turned red, like wine spilled out of a bottle. Then he got back in the car.
They drove on.
For a long time, nobody talked.
None of the roads were paved, and they encountered few cars along the way. Often they sped past horses harnessed to carts, leaving them in clouds of yellow dust, or slowed to navigate around places where puddles had merged to form miniature ponds.
In this wide, deserted countryside, they eventually became lost. The rolling hills and valleys all began to look the same. All road markers had been forcibly removed, leaving only the splintered stumps of posts on which the signs had once been nailed. Kirov had a map, but it did not appear to be accurate.
“I don’t even know what direction we are heading in,” sighed Kirov.
“Pull over,” said Pekkala.
Kirov glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
“If you stop the car, I can tell you where we are going.”
“Do you have a compass?”
“Not yet,” replied Pekkala.
Grudgingly, Kirov eased up on the gas. The car rolled to a stop in the middle of the road. He cut the engine.
Silence settled on them like the dust.
Pekkala opened the door and got out.
All around them, wind blew through the tall grass.
Pekkala opened the trunk.
“What is he doing?” demanded Kirov.
“Just leave him alone,” replied Anton.
Pekkala fished out a crowbar from the tangle of fuel containers, towing ropes, and assorted cans of army rations rolling loose around the trunk of the car.
He walked out into the field and jammed the bar into the earth. Its shadow stretched long on the ground. Then, sweeping his fingers through the grass, he pulled a couple of dusty pebbles from the earth. One of these he laid at the end of the shadow. The other one he put inside his pocket.
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