Read Online Red Chameleon by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online Page B

the thoughts of the daughter she had long ago given up as mad. There was no recourse, no treatment, for the mad in Moscow other than to lock them up. Vera could still work, though she had begun to look pale and had talked less and less each day. Adriana Shepovik was well aware of her daughter’s obsession with the old rifle, but she didn’t question it. The thing certainly didn’t work. The girl had probably been trying from time to time to sell the gun, though Adriana doubted if anyone would buy the piece of junk.
    â€œI’m going out,” Vera said, suddenly getting up.
    â€œEat something.”
    â€œI’ll eat when I get back,” Vera said, reaching down to pet Gorki, who had rubbed against her leg.
    Vera went to the closet near the door and reached behind the heavy curtain for the trombone case. She kept her back to the old woman, though she doubted if the woman could see that far.
    â€œI may be home late,” Vera said.
    Her mother grunted and plunged the needle into the orange material on her lap.
    â€œVery late,” Vera repeated, opening the front door and stepping out.
    It was possible, Vera thought, that she might not return all night. She was determined this time not to be impatient. The pain in her stomach was growing each day, and the medicine she had been given had helped less and less. The day might come soon when Vera would not be able to go out, climb to the roofs of Moscow, and find justice.
    No, tonight she would wait patiently even if it took till dawn. She would wait until she could get a good shot at a policeman.
    The electrichka had been fast and not particularly crowded. It had been an off hour for travel, around ten when Rostnikov and Zelach left. The ride to Yekteraslav took about an hour, during which Zelach tried to carry on a conversation while Rostnikov grunted and attempted to read his Ed McBain book.
    There was no stop at Yekteraslav. They had to get off at Sdminkov. When they left the train, Rostnikov’s left leg was almost totally numb. A taxi stood near the station, and Rostnikov limped toward it, with Zelach in front.
    â€œBusy,” growled the stubble-faced driver whose curly gray hair billowed around his face. He did not bother to turn toward the two men.
    â€œPolice,” said Zelach, getting in and sliding over.
    â€œI’m still—” the driver said wearily, without turning.
    Rostnikov reached over after he got in and put his hand on the driver’s shoulder.
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    The man winced in pain and turned to face his two passengers. Fear appeared in his eyes.
    â€œI—I thought you were lying,” the man said, the smell of fish on his breath. “Smart city people say they are everything to get a cab. I’m supposed to wait here each day for Comrade—”
    â€œYekteraslav,” Rostnikov said, releasing the man so he could massage his shoulder.
    â€œBut I—” the man protested.
    Rostnikov was already leaning back in the uncomfortable seat with his eyes closed. He would massage his leg as soon as the man started.
    â€œYekteraslav,” Zelach repeated, looking out the window.
    The driver looked at his two passengers in the mirror and decided against argument.
    Fifteen minutes later, after rumbling over a stone road in need of repair, the driver grumbled, “Yekteraslav.”
    Rostnikov opened his eyes and looked out the window at a looming three-story factory belching smoke on the town’s thirty or forty houses and sprinkling of isbas, the old wooden houses without toilets.
    â€œWhere?” the driver said.
    â€œPolice headquarters,” Zelach said.
    The driver hurried on.
    The bureaucracy of the local police delayed them for half an hour and did little to ease their way to the home of Yuri Pashkov. To say the home was modest would be kind. It was little better than a shack with a small porch on which an ancient man was seated on a wooden chair, watching, as