Hunt For The Beast E-Book

Sergiy Zhuravlov

• Herausgeber: SUNRAY
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Multiple
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 562

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The verdict has been passed. Danila Nimak is sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Danila has to adjust to the harsh life and attitudes in prison. He is treated as air at best - that is, completely ignored. Understanding his desperate situation, he gets addicted to drugs. Receiving another parcel of contraband, he smells journalist Avdeeva's favorite perfume. He realizes that she is alive. The beast simply leads his game and further, forcing Danila to sink to the bottom. And only the sacred goal to save Nadezhda gives him the confidence and desire to continue the fight. He shares his thoughts with his former commander Popovich. Danila remembers that Nadezhda recommended a lawyer from Iron Law to him. He decides to approach the lawyer with his case. At some point, a thug from a gang of rapists is put in jail. He tries to put Nimac down. Danila temporarily manages to fight off the cellmate's attack. However, he realizes that he won't survive the next night. The beast continues the game and leaves Nimak alive, eliminating the urkagan. And then, the beast, through his man, testifies that Kutsepalova killed Avdeev with Danila's gun. Danila is released from custody. The beast again commits murders in the mountains. Danila prowls around looking for the killer. Eventually he catches up with the beast. A dialogue ensues, from which Danila learns that Nadezhda is "in the basement" held hostage by the beast. And if Danila kills him, the Hostages, and there were two of them at the time, a journalist and a five-year-old boy, would simply starve to death. Danila had no choice at all. Saving his life, he kills the beast. At the same time, he himself falls into a trap. He slowly freezes to death on a rocky ledge. He is found when Nimak's body temperature has dropped below plus twenty degrees. For several days doctors fought for his life. When he regained consciousness, he continued his search for hostages

Leseprobe

Table of contents

Prologue

You can't run away from yourself

Don't let it go to waste

I'm sorry I didn't get up

Something had gone wrong

Where did this letter come from?

The mountains are the perfect place for…

The Syrian trail

Take care

Phone in Nimak's hands

Someone speaks English

Hour by hour doesn't get any easier

Why do you fidget so much

She rules here

I'd have you fired

You'll do fine on your own

You have completely lost your mind

Cats always fall on their feet

A very good silence

It's not an investigation, it's a hunt

I hear, but I don't listen

A heavy burden lay on his shoulders

Your wife will scold you today

This should stay between us

Don't leave anything out

At five-thirty at the train station

A variation on Putin's “Novichok”

I'm counting on it

No doubt about it

The main thing is to act uninterruptedly

Will you come with me

The problem was

These woeful patriots

I'm glad to see you, too

He thinks he's the messiah

Come, they are waiting for you

The prosecutor went dumbfounded

I can count on you

The beast was standing over him

You need to find

A shot was required again

Where is the master?

Don't start any fires

Epilogue

Shortly about the author

© 2021 SERGIY / copyright holder.

All rights reserved.

Author: Sergiy Zhuravlov

ISBN: 9783985105731

[email protected]

BOOK SERIES

MULTIPLE

BOOK 3

HUNT FOR THE BEAST

Prologue

You can deprive a decent, well-mannered, intelligent man of everything by trying to turn him into an obedient puppet. At the same time, you will not make a beast out of him.

But no matter how you educate and train a beast, it will remain a beast.

This also applies to all beasts, the rashists.

You can't run away from yourself

Danila Nimak never took his eyes off the syringe. He put the tip of the needle to the vein. Lifting his head back, he clamped the rope a little harder. Then he slowly began to squeeze the plunger and watched as the murky liquid escaped from the clear cylinder.

Barely had the investigator released the bandage from his teeth, the brew entered his bloodstream, causing a feeling of bliss, peace, and relaxation. Nimak closed his eyes, feeling that after a hard, long day he had finally taken a hot bath. He lay back on the prison bunk and sank into an idyllic intoxication.

This effect was one of the greatest benefits of heroin, but more important to Nimak was that the drug suppressed the pain absolutely and mercilessly. The migraine that had accompanied Danila for as long as he could remember was gone in the blink of an eye. No other drug had such a lightning effect on him. Besides, it made Nimak stop thinking about everything that had put him in prison.

The beginning was psychologically difficult, because Danila had never even tried marijuana before, let alone injected it into his vein. He got the drug in Old Spice deodorant. It's amazing how much stuff could fit in there. The first batch included some liquid mix of heroin and some kind of additive, a two cc syringe, and five disposable needles. Everything was neatly wrapped in foil and placed right under the cosmetic part.

Nimak made this decision, after only a few weeks. And yet he was to serve twenty-five years from call to call. He had exhausted the appellate route and could not count on parole or probation. But he could hope that heroin would make him forget all his problems forever. Above all, the migraines and psychological pain that he did not even know existed.

Pouring dope into himself, Danila stopped thinking about Nadezda Avdeeva for a while. He stopped seeing her grave and the man he had killed in Belokorovich. The prosecutor who had put him in jail.

Now, several months after getting hooked on Hera, he became totally dependent on her. Each time, Nimak looked forward to the package. This time, as soon as he unwrapped the thin film, he instantly forgot that he was in prison. A painfully familiar smell hit his nostrils, or rather too familiar. His consciousness lost reality. Post shock surrealism, he was a subject of a completely different world.

Coming to his senses a little, he began, convinced that it wasn't true, that he was wrong. But the reality was different, the premise was clearly inspired by Kenzo Amour perfume. The same as the one Nadezda was using. The mind refused to accept this discovery, but when the initial shock passed, Nimak realized that the beast from Belokorovich wasn't done with him yet.

He was looking worse and worse. Until a month ago, Yuri Popovich had been convinced that his former underling could no longer torture himself, but now he was forced to change his mind. Nimak's cheeks were sunken, his arms and legs were as thin as sticks, and his ribs were clearly visible.

He sat down opposite Yuri and looked at him blankly. They were silent for a minute. Then Danila coughed and looked around the visiting room.

“Glad you came, investigator.”

Popovich pursed his lips.

“Don't be cheeky, Nimak. I come here every week, and as far as I remember, this is the first time you've ever decided to leave your cell.”

Danila shrugged.

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“What else do you need?”

“I could use a few words of explanation.”

“In that case, please. I didn't come because I didn't see the point in it.”

“The point is…”

“I'm not getting out of here early, I can't change my punishment, and I can't count on being transferred to a better place. Our talking wouldn't change anything.

Danila was right. The only indulgence from the system was that he was transferred to a prison for first-time offenders, Trostyanets. There was no one here who would kill him without blinking an eye.

Popovich looked closely at Nimak. The former investigator's jaw was a little skewed after the passes in the detention center at the Ivano-Frankivsk pre-trial detention center. The right corner of his mouth was slightly raised, giving the impression that Danila was constantly smiling to himself under his nose. However, the investigator did not notice any fresh wounds or bruises. Nimak seemed to be doing quite well in Trostyanets. Not counting the drugs. Yuri didn't need blood test results to know that Danila was taking something. He was lethargic, his pupils narrowed, his vision cloudy, and his skin pale. Somewhere, Popovich could see the yellowish patches that covered the faces of most addicts. The extreme haggardness and the constant scratching at the bend of his elbow left no doubt.

Popovich leaned back in his chair, almost regretting having come here. There was nothing he could do for Nimak. Talking wouldn't help anything, and if it was about favors in the prison service, he'd already taken advantage of them. Danila knew that, too, and yet this time he decided to face him.

Popovich raised his eyebrows, gazing into the convict's eyes:

“What has changed?” He asked.

“Everything changes, Mr. Investigator, and only outside, because here …” Nimak cut his speech short and spread his hands.

“Then why did you change your mind about speaking?”

“Because I need help.”

“With what?” Popovich asked and lowered his voice. “Do you want money? Cigarettes?”

“That is of no importance here.”

Popovich fidgeted, looking for a more comfortable position, as if he were sitting in a very uncomfortable chair.

“So what is it?”

“I need help outside the prison.”

That didn't sound very reassuring. Knowing Nimak, it could only be one thing – acting against the law. Popovich really wouldn't have minded if it weren't for the fact that he was like a magnifying glass himself. After his subordinate had been sentenced to almost capital punishment, his superior looked at him incredulously. In fact, it should have been considered a miracle that Popovich had not quit his job.

“And specifically?” Popovich asked. “What are you waiting for?”

“I recently received a parcel.”

“What parcel?”

“With a few essentials.”

“With heroin, right?”

Nimak raised his eyebrows.”

“Nothing to be surprised about. You know that yourself.”

“I don't do heroin.”

“Son, you itch where you shoot yourself in the vein,” Popovich explained, pointing to his forearm. “It's always like that with the newbies. Here's a tip: go to your ankles where the skin is thinnest, and it won't itch so much.”

Popovich looked up, stood motionless for a while, then snapped his fingers.

“Are you buying a good powder?”

“No, of course not. At least not the pure stuff,” Danila admitted. “It's too expensive.”

“Do you buy “buckwheat”, our Ukrainian potion invented by a group of chemistry students?”

“Probably. I know this academic history. It's a compote they made back in the seventies, and it still works.”

“You want to tell me what was in the package?”

“The sponge was sprinkled with Nadezda's perfume.”

“What, I don't get it?”

“Someone sent me a clear message.

Popovich opened his mouth, but didn't speak. He sucked in a deep breath, then shook his head as if he'd just heard the biggest stupidity of all.”

“You imagined it, Nimak.”

“No.”

“In this stench-soaked place, anything that smells a little better than a latrine must remind you of the nicest things you know…”

“It's her perfume!”

Danila's hand trembled as he felt the urge to scratch the prick again. But he caught it in time and began to untwist the rolled up sleeve. Popovich gazed into his eyes and waited for more information. He quickly realized, however, that he had to get it out of the investigator.

“Okay, let's try to think about it,” Yuri began. “Suppose you're right.”

“We shouldn't assume. Really.”

“Okay. Then explain to me why someone would send you this?”

“There are two possibilities.”

Popovich was well aware of that himself, but he wasn't going to mention it. Maybe this message would be therapeutic for Danila. Maybe it would help him at least for a moment to set a goal for himself. Although, it was an idyllic dream for Popovich, there was no point in fooling himself. Danila had long ago fallen into an apathy from which he would probably never emerge.

“Either the Beast from Belokorovich wants to make fun of me, or Nadezhda is alive.”

“What?”

“You don't think that the murderer actually hanged himself in the mountains, as the media says?”

“No, Nimak, no. I don't doubt that. But that Nadezhda…” Popovich, and let the air out with a whistle. “I understand that drugs overwhelm you with optimism and good weather for the day. But what you say is special nonsense, even for you.”

It got quiet again. Yuri had a thought that there was one fundamental difference between Nimak and typical drug addicts. For the latter, conversations were always accompanied by trotting stares, nervousness, and hyperactivity. Danila, meanwhile, looked him straight in the eye and had a stony expression on his face.

“Do you know what I mean?”

“Not really, why do you think so?” Belokorovich

“You mean that the Beast from Belokorovich is amusing himself with you further.”

“Not really. Ordinary games do not impress this man. They don't give him the emotion he deserves. I suppose he wouldn't play with me like that. He wouldn't send me spirits just to annoy me with memories.”

Popovich swallowed his saliva loudly. It was a logical assumption, but clearly not enough to draw such far-reaching conclusions.

“I've had plenty of time to think about it.”

“I'm sure you have.”

“And that's the only reasonable conclusion.”

Popovich scratched the back of his head. He felt uncomfortable without his officer's cap and uniform, but proceeded on the assumption that it would be better if he showed up at Trostyanets in plain clothes. His late wife had said that he looked strange without his uniform. And there was a grain of truth in this. Popovich felt much better in his own, uniform.

He looked at Nimak. The advantage of serving his sentence in a semi-open facility was that he could wear his typical black and red plaid shirts. If he got to where he essentially belonged, he would have to wear the dark gray suit of a dangerous criminal.

“You have too much time to think, Nimak.”

“That's true. But thanks to that, I know she's alive.”

Popovich didn't hear hope in his voice. Nor did he see it in the convict's eyes. He decided that perhaps he shouldn't be surprised; rationality had probably left Danila long before he was in Trostyanets.

“Suppose you're right,” Popovich repeated. “What purpose would the Beast from Belokorovich have to send you this message?”

“To mock me.”

“You said he does not play such games.”

“This is not a game. It is a punishment, Mr. Investigator.”

“All right,” Popovich said and rubbed his temples. “But that does not answer my question. Why does he do it?”

“I've been on his radar ever since I took the coin out of the victim's mouth on the Dovbush Trail. And since then, I haven't been able to figure out why it's me.”

Popovich had asked himself that question many times, too. It was one of those questions to which there was no definite answer.

“His motives, however, do not interest me,” Danila added. “I only want you to find Nadezhda.”

“God forbid! Do you even hear what you are saying? You buried her. I was with you at her grave, Nimak!”

“We said goodbye to the body in a closed coffin.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Besides, the case file says I didn't check her pulse at the hospital.”

“The case file says, you don't remember that?”

“No,” Danila admitted, and dropped his gaze for the first time. “These are the moments I see in my memory, like through a fog. I think I checked the pulse on the joint of my hand, but…”

Popovicha waited for Nimak to continue, but he fell silent.

“'It doesn't matter.” Assessed the investigator. “The death is obvious, she was placed in the morgue and then the body was consigned to the ground.”

“Obviously not.”

“Are you saying that someone magically transported her to another place?”

“There's no magic involved, Mr. Investigator. On the contrary.”

Popovich already knew exactly what his former lieutenant was going to ask of him. He didn't even need to voice his request to make it clear. They were both aware of it.

Nimak looked up: “You find out what you can.”

“But, but…”

“I have never asked you for anything like that, Mr. Investigator.”

Popovich assumed that this was probably true. Whenever Danila got into trouble, he usually either didn't care about it or got satisfaction out of it. He never found himself in such dire straits to ask for help.

“All right, Danila, I'll do what I can.”

“I'll ask you to keep an open mind.

“Of course you will.”

“We'll have to go over everything from the ward to the grave again.”

“I will, Nimak,” Popovich assured him. “And if you need anything…”

Before Popovich could answer, the prisoner rose. Several of the guards took an immediate interest in him, and one moved toward him. He gripped his baton strapped to his belt and gave the impression that he was ready to shout for the condemned man to return to his seat. But he soon realized that Danila Nimak had already finished his date and decided to return to his cell.

On the way, the former investigator once again turned over his shoulder and sent Yuri a quick glance. The unspoken message Popovich saw in his eyes was, “I'm counting on you.”

Don't let it go to waste

Per diem duty was the bane of all district attorneys and investigators. It didn't matter whether it was a weekday or a day off, middle of the night or noon, a birthday or Christmas. The killers didn't really stick to the calendar, and investigators had to show up whenever it came to a fatal accident.

Timeya Lendel thought these kinds of demands were long behind her. Ever since she was promoted and transferred to the regional prosecutor's office, she had run out of such activities. But alas…

It took her two hours to get to the town of Verhovina. Normally it would have been absolutely impossible, but at night the road from Ivano-Frankivsk was almost empty. The domestic small-car Vida, not bad for the demands of Timeya. Almost all of their department employees overtook her on the road. Yes, they were all exceeding the speed limit, but not her – Attorney Timeya Lendel. She was an idealist in almost every aspect of life, one of those idealists and accusers who were doomed to extinction. She was one whom all the other members of the panel looked upon with some suspicion.

Perhaps it was even without her love of observing the law. Just her appearance alone sent a signal to everyone around her that she should be approached with caution. She always wore perfectly tailored and pressed suits, even when she had to attend interrogations or temporary-arrest sessions. Her impeccable hair and muted perfume only added to the mysterious image.

If things had been different, perhaps she wouldn't have had to travel more than a hundred kilometers that night just to do a body inspection at the scene. It was no big deal, a violent death somewhere in Verhovina. Not much was yet known, but Timeya expected it to be the result of one of two scenarios. Either the hapless hiker had had too much to drink and had been hit by a car, or someone had been in the mountains too long and died of hypothermia. In winter, this second version seemed more likely.

Lendel turned left and parked next to the CSI car. Then she put on leather gloves and got out of the car. The SUV was already waiting for her, and she got into it. After half an hour, they arrived at the bus stop. The next step was to walk. She got out of the car and looked under her feet. She might have been a little obsessed with clothes, but she was not suicidal. Instead of heels, she wore lightweight hiking boots to work for the first time in her life. Timeya took a leisurely step up the trail. Lighting the path with a flashlight, she hoped that the corpse had been found somewhere nearby.

She was not mistaken. The victim was in a clearing, about a thousand, three hundred feet up. Lendel said hello to the crime scene investigators, who had already set up all the equipment and were just waiting for the prosecutor to formally proceed to the scene.

“What do we have?”

Timeya asked as she walked past one of the turned off UV lamps, running on batteries for no more than two and a half hours. We should have saved the lights until the prosecutor and forensic investigators got down to business.

“Male. Approximately thirty years old. No identification.”

Lendel looked at the policeman who had made his voice heard. She remembered him from the Nimak case, though she couldn't recall his name. She glanced at the nameplate. Podoprigora. The two asterisks on his epaulettes indicated that he had the rank of police lieutenant.

“Who found him?”

The officer pointed to a man standing in the distance. A woman in uniform was standing beside him, taking notes.

A photographer who supposedly intended to immortalize the sunrise against a mountain backdrop. He was going to camp out before sunrise on those mountains.

Lendel stared at the man for a while. She did so only to delay the moment of examining the corpse. Already from a distance it was obvious that a tragedy had occurred here. The blood splatter on the snow looked as if someone had spat out a bucket of red. It was hard to believe that all of this could come from one person. On the other hand, five to six liters of blood flowed in a human body. It was enough to cut two, three arteries for the surrounding snow to change color instantly.

“Didn't he have any belongings with him?” Timeya asked.

Podoprigora rubbed his hands together, then shoved them into his pockets.

“The backpack.” He pointed to it.

Lendel saw a piece of police tape and feet, the rest obscured by her group of men. Flashes erupted, quiet conversations continued. Technicians meticulously recorded every detail, even the least significant. One of them was recording everything on a small video camera.

“Inside we found a wallet, but no money or documents.”

“And the maps?”

“What?”

“Discount cards to stores, hair salon, health club, library… nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Timeya straightened her shoulders and looked around. The moon was hiding behind the clouds on this night, an impenetrable blackness that seemed to fill the entire clearing. A little farther up the cliff was a mountain range, but it was impossible to see even the nearest hill.

The world seemed to begin and end where the forensic lamps illuminated the area.

Lendel turned around. There was a view of Spitz on the other side of the Rib during the day. She shuddered, remembering what had happened there last year. As soon as she got the call, she thought the beast had returned. However, she quickly quieted down and convinced herself that this was impossible.

Yes, the man who had hanged himself on the church gate was not, in her opinion, the real killer. However, she didn't think he would ever return. In all likelihood, he hid somewhere for good, satisfied that the media and law enforcement were convinced he was dead.

“The prosecutor?”

“ Timeya realized that Podoprigora was saying something to her.”

“Yes, I'm listening to you. Say that again.”

“I said he wasn't identified.”

“Yes, I heard. He didn't have any…”

“He lost a lot more than the I.D. himself.” The lieutenant caught her in the act.

Lendel didn't like the intrusion into her conversation. No, it wasn't a misunderstanding. But she hated it when someone didn't have the patience to wait until the end of someone else's speech to include her three cents.

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” Podoprigora spoke and pointed to the corpse.

Timeya lowered her eyes. Most of the blood was in the neck and arm area. No wonder the arteries were easiest to reach there. The blood oozing out of her was bright red and contrasted sharply with the whiteness of the snow.

“The victim had had his fingertips cut off, the lieutenant added.”

“Really?!”

“I ask you to take a closer look.

Lendel decided it was about time she did. She sighed, then aimed the beam of light from the flashlight at the corpse. She leaned over, peering closely into the face. His eyes were wide open, staring into the starless sky. The corneas were cloudy, as if covered by a layer of mist. There was something symbolic about it, as if a curtain had come down covering the man's life.

Timeya could not estimate how much blood the victim had lost. Besides, the low temperature would do its job; when they turned the body over and examined it on the morgue table, they would not see the traditional dark color. The frost caused the hemoglobin to change and make livores mortis pinkish.

She shivered from the cold, trying to return her thoughts to the here and now. There would still be time for a more thorough analysis; at this point she needed to focus on who this man was and, moreover, how and when he died.

Postmortem concentration had not yet occurred, which in sub-zero temperatures was nothing strange. The corpse was in the same position as when the killer left the scene. The muscles did not clench, the knees did not buckle, the arms did not move and the elbows did not bend, the face did not change. Lendel looked at the expression with which the man died.

He seemed calm, but Timeya knew it was only an illusion. She lit up the frozen face.

“There's going to be trouble with the dental card, too,” Podoprigora remarked.

“What does that mean?”

“He had all his teeth knocked out.”

The victim's mouth was closed, it was impossible to see what was inside. The prosecutor turned her head and sent the policeman a short question: “Did you move the body?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then how did you know he was missing teeth?”

The deputy pointed to the side. Lendel pointed the flashlight there and saw small yellowish elements that marked the snow-white surface. Pieces of incisors or fangs.

“He only left splinters,” Podoprigora retorted. “The forensics don't think we'll get anything out of it. We won't even put half a tooth together.”

Timeya thought for a moment. But before she had a chance to think definitively about why someone would act this way instead of just crushing her jaw, an experienced doctor approached her.

He introduced himself as Peter Sokirsky, after which he placed a bag with a forensic kit next to one of the lamps. He took a small spatula out of it and unzipped the foil.

“Can we open our mouths?” He asked.

“Sure.”

Sokirsky carefully placed the instrument between the dead man's lips, then slowly tilted back the lower jaw.

“I need to see if all the teeth have been removed or just…” he cut himself off abruptly and froze.

Timeya retreated half a step, and Podoprigora let out a low groan, as if the sight hurt him physically.

“Damn it!” Came out of the doctor's mouth.

“This! That's impossible!” Turning to Lendel the lieutenant made a sound. “The beast killed himself near the church, and the second, the second you put away for life!”

In truth, Danila was convicted of a very different crime, but Timeya was not going to mention it. She glared at the coin stuck in the victim's mouth. Someone had shoved it in there with considerable force, it seemed to take the place of her teeth.

For a moment, there was a general silence. The glade suddenly seemed to turn into a cyclone's eye of sorts. Not even the familiar sounds of the night could be heard. The air seemed to thicken for a moment, and the wind was completely silent.

The prosecutor leaned over the dead man's open mouth. The doctor adjusted the position of the lamp so that it shone directly into the mouth. He put the spatula in deeper, stuck his tongue out, then looked closely at the coin.

“Arabic inscriptions and an eagle symbol. I don't see anything else. Timeya

“I'll ask for high-resolution photographs,” Timeya turned to one of the technicians.

He quickly took a picture of what was in the victim's mouth, then pulled out the find and put it in an evidence bag.

Podoprigora leaned sideways toward Lendel.

“Is that possible?” He whispered.

“Anything is possible, investigator.”

“But it…”

“It could be imitation,” Timeya parried.

She had spontaneously coined the phrase before she had time to think about it, but it was actually, a perfectly logical assumption. She hadn't allowed for the Beast from Belokorovich to return so quickly. Maybe in five years, yes, but not now. She thought the killer had just begun what Anglo-Saxon jurisprudence on serial killers called a cooling-off period. The killer would calm down, return to his normal, ordinary life. After a while, his lust for murder would begin to grow again, and that's exactly what Timeya thought. There was no telling how much time would pass.

An academic example came to mind; one of the nastiest serial killers, Dennis Rader, had killed ten people in thirty years.

“Yes, you might be right,” Podoprigora said quietly.

Lendel didn't even look at him. She concentrated on the victim.

“Even if the Beast from Belokorovich were alive, he wouldn't kill like that.” The lieutenant continued. “That guy was hunting on the peaks, not here. He wasn't that silly.”

With that, Timeya could have polemicized.

“He was, how shall I put it, a subtle connoisseur.”

“Subtle?”

“You know it yourself.”

“No, I do not know. There was nothing subtle in his actions, as far as I am concerned.”

“And yet, he did them with a high degree of skill.”

Lendel had not the slightest desire to continue this conversation. She reminded herself, however, that Podoprigora did not have a very good opinion among her work colleagues. His superiors, on the other hand, had a soft spot for him, probably because he willingly followed any order.

Timeya would have loved to see Popovich here. He was probably the only person who shared the opinion that the Beast from Belokorovich was still at large. Unfortunately, except for Nimak. But he had to be taken out of any equation.

“That's not that guy's style,” Podoprigora also added. “He must have a copycat. Which doesn't surprise me at all. There are a lot of degenerates in the world, aren't there?” One looked at the other, and he immediately wanted something like that. There may even be those who worship the beast.

“Absolutely.”

“Besides, some of them could have matured during the process, couldn't they?” The lieutenant went on, taking out a pack of cheap cigarettes. “It turned out to be some kind of sect.”

“Old Christian,” Timeya prompted.

“'Sons of Light.”

“Oh, yes. They say the beast led that group. Is that true?”

“It could be.”

“Then it might have been one of the members of that sect,” Podoprigora announced in a businesslike tone and lit a cigarette.”

Timeya was at first ready to accept the possibility, but when she saw the coin, she changed her mind. It looked new. Like a coin that was still in circulation. Yes, it had Arabic inscriptions, but it was not reminiscent of the ancient coins used by the sons of the world.

Peter Sokirsky finally removed the spatula, wrapped it in foil, and hid it in a waste bag. He looked up at the prosecutor.

“Now what?”

“Now it's time for a description,” Timeya answered and sighed.

She pulled out her notebook, trying not to listen to another hypothetical scenario put forth by the lieutenant. She began to write down everything the law required. She meticulously discussed the appearance and location of the corpse, the setting and objects in the vicinity and then asked the doctor to determine the time of death, the cause and type of death.

It was business as usual. Calm, formal, unemotional. Even though the imagination might have jumped to high gear, everyone assembled was professional, behaving as they were supposed to.

After a while, they took a break. Podoprigora was smoking his third cigarette.

“Shall we undress?” Peter Sokirsky asked.

“There is no need to.” Said Timeya.

“I see.”

“We'll look at it more closely in the morgue. Or do you see any particular marks? Defeats?”

“No.”

She filled in the appropriate paragraphs on the examination form. As she finished, she realized that this was really just the beginning of the paperwork. She still had an inspection report waiting for her, in which she had to describe everything that had happened and everyone who had taken part in the action.

Timeya turned to the technicians.

“Collect samples for examination.” She said. “Every piece of tooth, don't leave anything out.”

She looked at them intently as the staff began to carefully execute the commands. Forensic technicians applied a centimeter measure to each item they found, photographed it, and then secured the evidence.

Lendel was pleased; she had professionals working with her. She even had to take credit for the fact that the men only smoked when they had already done the most important thing. The main sin of the police officers at the scene was covering ash and smoke with evidence at the scene.

Timeya watched as the forensic men secured the coin. They approached it more cautiously than they did the container with the most radioactive uranium isotope.

Lendel closed her eyes for a moment and took in the fresh night air deeply. She tried to imagine the man who stood here before her. He had killed his victim, stripped her of her identifying characteristics, and placed a coin in her mouth.

She wondered: “Why did he do it? Why so much effort? Had the Beast from Belokorovich really returned? And if so, what does this murder mean?”

Timeya assumed that finding the answer would prove to be an exceptionally difficult task. Of course, it would be easier if she had an expert in tracking the beast. But she put this man behind bars – for life.

I'm sorry I didn't get up

In the morning, he felt worse and worse. Danila Nimak struggled to get up. He sat down on his bunk and rubbed his temples. His father had once said that a migraine was like a freight train rolling somewhere in the back of his head. Now, however, he was inclined to agree with Pendolino's metaphor. The pain came out of nowhere and pierced his vertebrae like lightning.

The sentence he had received basically precluded the possibility of serving his sentence in such a place, it could only happen after some time if the prisoner had acted well and the penitentiary court had decided to appreciate it. Once in life, however, fate smiled on him. Or maybe it was not the merit of fate, but a simple human sense of justice; punishment was meant to serve a certain function, not represent a death sentence.

Danila spent every spare minute as follows. He would take books, then sit on his bunk and read. He didn't look up, even when there was some sort of quarrel between the sitters. He deployed an aura of mystery around him that undoubtedly worked in his favor, though he did not do so consciously. Reading was his escape into another world.

He was technically supposed to be in his cell from twenty-two until six in the morning. This was a definite advantage of such a prison, a factory. In another institution, prisoners were locked up for twenty-two hours a day. They went out once a week for a bath and, in addition, spent an hour walking and studying in the common room.

Things were different here, but Nimak did not take advantage of this benefit. While the other prisoners participated in cultural and educational activities after work or on weekends, sometimes even outside the prison walls, Danila would sit in his cell and read.

This day was to be no different from the others. After the morning headache shot through, bliss set in, and after a few hours Danila was alone in his cell. He sat down at the table under the window and began to read. He tried to stay away from detectives or other such writing. He had had enough of what had happened to him throughout his professional career. But it wasn't easy to do, because most of his library of many thousands was this kind of literature. At one point, the writer Raymond Chandler reached out to him and caught Nimakk's attention, then completely captivated him with his novels.

This time, Marlowe was following the trail of some coin, and the subject did not quite settle in Danila's mind. Nevertheless, it was a delightful novel in the cool detective genre that would have been hard to put aside for anyone fascinated by the cynicism and mysterious atmosphere. Nevertheless, at some point Nimak was forced to close the book. First he heard footsteps, then heavy breathing, and finally, he saw that one of the caretakers had stopped near the table.

There were seven of them in Trostyanets. There were about thirty prisoners per one, which was actually a mockery, but on a national scale, it was still a commendable result. Thanks to them, convicts were easily released if they were treated favourably. It was enough to show the administration that the prisoner was on the direct path to re-socialization and that the best thing they could do was to apply for early release. The former investigator, who quietly spent entire days reading books, certainly filled them with optimism.

“What are you reading, Danila?” The educator inquired.

“Chandler.”

“It's interesting. Do you find in him a prototype of yourself? Keys to your position?”

Once upon a time one of the women who'd had an unfortunate night with him had claimed that he looked deceptively like some actor playing Marlowe. But Nimak supposed that after recent transitions, one look was enough to make her change her mind.

“No, I don't.”

“Why not?”

Danila sighed. It was beginning, now the conversation would follow a beaten path that resembled conversations at school desks.

“In the previous volumes, Marlowe had been a cynic, and in this one, besides being wrong about a lot of things, he was also guided by some twisted sense of justice, saving the damsel in distress.”

“Okay, so that means…”

“So, I am a cynic, just like him!” Reported Danila.

The tutor smiled and stood by the window. Nimak got up, walked to his bunk, then took out a plastic box from under it. On top of his personal belongings, he placed a book, then slipped the box back in. He stood next to the visitor and felt himself getting hot.

Danila pondered what to say as quickly and as authentically as possible.

“It's a depressing figure.” The caretaker responded. “But it is also reminiscent of romantic heroes.”

“Perhaps.”

The man turned to him, thought for a moment, then waved his hand and reached into his pocket.

“Don't mind Chandler. I never liked him.” Said the tutor, holding out a letter to Nimak. “The envelope was unopened this time, which will probably make you happy.”

“It makes no difference to me.”

“You don't regard the secrecy of correspondence as an indispensable right?”

“I lost all rights when I pulled the trigger.”

The educator seemed surprised at this answer. He squinted his eyes as if trying to assess whether the prisoner really thought so. Nimak quickly shook his head and took the envelope.

“Thank you,” Danila said. “For the delivery. And for your trust.”

The censorship was not total, in this case not all the envelopes were opened. They only did that to the most suspicious types. And Nimak was still considered one of them.

There was something pleasant in the thought that he was one of the most dangerous prisoners in the penitentiary, or maybe in the whole of Trostyanets. He smiled to himself in the shower. He bowed courteously to the warder and sat down at the table with the closed envelope. He waited for the man to leave the cell and then tore off the edge of the envelope.

Inside was an A4 sheet of paper folded in half. The outside of the envelope had no information other than the addressee's details. However, the prison authorities must have known who the sender was.

Danila guessed that Popovich had sent the letter. True, everyone was entitled to three visits a month, but it would have been reckless to use them every time Popovich came up with something. And perhaps now, in fact, it was. Popovich was not one of the sharpest cops; indeed, had it not been for his lightning career in the police force in the early nineties, he probably never would have made it this far, but he could be counted on. The thought flashed through Nimak's mind that this was the only man he could call a friend. He was pleasantly aware of the thought, and it was peaceful.

Danila sighed and unfolded the sheet. It had brief but distinctly clear information on it, written in the distinctive thin typeface of the so popular Helvetica. The investigator gazed into the lines, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“Sorry, I didn't get up.” The lapidary message read.

It was by no means Popovich who sent the letter. Nimak scolded himself in his heart for being overly optimistic. A letter had come into his hands that he had in no way expected. The Beast from Belokorovich would come into such direct contact with him. It was one thing to freshen a sponge with perfume, another to send him a message. He had no doubt it was the killer. The message left no room for the slightest hesitation, even if it was unsigned.

The sender referred to the epitaph on the grave of Nadezhda Avdeeva. In her will, the journalist told her to engrave on her tombstone, “Hello! And forgive me for not standing next to you.” During the funeral it gave him chills, and on the other hand, some comfort because of the condition Nadezhda had experienced before her death. Now, however, it sounded like a mockery.

He shuddered at the thought of what must have been happening to her all this time. Until now, he had done his best not to think about it, but he knew that eventually the mind would begin to create scenarios of its own.

He perked up and became extremely attentive. Danila had to concentrate on the list as much as possible. It was no less, no more, than confirmation that Avdeeva was still alive. The beast taunted him, and he could tell the rest. “I'm sorry I didn't get up, though I didn't die at all.” Yes, that was the true meaning of those words. Nimak had tracked this man long enough, he knew him well enough that he had no doubts.

Or maybe it was the drugs that did this to him? Maybe Popovich was right in saying that it was just pious thinking?

Danila shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the piece of paper once more, as if surprised that it hadn't disappeared, but was something real. He folded it and then placed it in Chandler's tome. He placed it on the bunk, looked around, then reached for the syringe.

After a while, he felt better. He wondered if the caretaker had noticed any signs that he had stabbed himself in the vein. He lay back on his bunk and gazed up at the carefully painted white ceiling. Conditions here were different from those in Black Dolphin. There, everything was rotten, moldy, smelly, and repulsive. The foothills were a pleasant variety compared to that place.

Danila could not collect his thoughts. A few words written on a piece of paper seemed to take physical form and hit him over and over again, like a shoe. Each word echoed in his mind like a deafening gong that sounded nearby.

Nimak cursed to himself and sat up. He turned, leaned against the wall, and dangled his feet on the bunk. One of the questions that he had so far managed to lose somewhere in the recesses of his own mind thanks to the heroin was coming back. How was it possible? How had the killer been able to tamper with Nadezda and heal her? There were many scenarios, but none of them seemed feasible.

Nimak pondered this for some time. He didn't know how much time had passed, maybe an hour, an hour and a half or two. It was a relative concept here, especially during the daytime when prisoners could leave their cells. Nothing gave a rhythm to everyday existence, everything drowned in an apathetic monotony. Everything, including the answer to the question that plagued Danila.

That question, however, was not the only one that plagued him. He was also pondering how to leave the walls of the foothills. If he had received a lesser sentence, he might have done so before the halfway point. However, in the case of twenty-five years, the ceiling was raised to fifteen years. In addition, the court would have to affirm a conviction that the convict would not commit another crime. Nimak did not think anyone could be so optimistic.

Unlikely, one would have to count on Popovich. Or maybe not? Maybe there was some way out of prison early?” There were two other formal roads he thought about from time to time. Neither of them was too likely a scenario. Nimak jumped up from his bunk. He decided that if he didn't try, he would never know if there was actually any chance. At least he wouldn't sit idly by and torment himself with thoughts of Avdeeva, he'd concentrate on something else.

He stepped out into the corridor and immediately caught the guard's attention. The man measured him with a glance and automatically reached for his baton fastened on his belt.

The guards treated him like a leper dog at first, but their approach changed as much as it did to the prisoners. The longer he was quiet, the more time he sat with his nose in a book, and the fog of mystery he cast around him, the more supportive they became.

“What is it, Nimak?”

“I need to make a phone call.”

“You and a phone call?”

Danila shrugged his shoulders.

“I haven't seen you make a phone call yet.”

“Sooner or later, there comes a time like that.”

“The guard gave the impression that he didn't understand.”

“Who do you want to talk to?” He asked. “As far as I know, you have no family.

“I have no family.”

“No friends either?”

Nimak nodded. The last person he could call that was murdered in the sanatorium building.

“So where do you want to call?”

“A law firm.”

“Where?”

Danila remembered that Nadezhda had once recommended a lawyer from that firm to him. True, if his memory did not fail him, the lawyer worked in Kiev, but he knew that the office also had an Ivano-Frankivsk subsidiary. Maybe we could get a lawyer here.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you dream of getting out sooner?”

“Maybe. I still have…”

“You, Nimak, have absolutely no hope at all. But if you want to fight the bull of justice, be my guest.” The officer replied and nodded at him. He led him to the phone, then stood beside him.”

Danila shot him a glance.

“Is something wrong?” The probation officer asked.

The former interrogator didn't respond. He reached for the phone, then glanced at the list of numbers on the sheet lying next to the camera. Before, no one had ever had to resort to this kind of help to get through to the information desk. Now, it was a miracle that such a place still existed at all.

Nimak quickly got what he needed, and then called the Iron Law office. The conversation was started by a woman who introduced herself as Alina, a name that escaped him. He pondered everything and assumed he would have to bare his nakedness, wanting to find out which lawyer Nadezhda was talking about. His companion, however, quickly understood.

“Lyudmila Vilha?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Are you saying that you are looking, as you put it, for real art?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, of course, we are talking about Master Ludmila Vilha.”

“It's possible.”

“I'll put you through.”

Nimak took a breath and looked at the guard. He looked at him lazily, picking his teeth. He was doing it so demonstratively that it was hard to assume there was anything really stuck between his teeth.

Ludmila Vilha.” Came the voice on the receiver. Determined, tough, but overflowing with sexiness. Danila immediately imagined one of those successful women who started the day with an espresso and ended with a winning business.

“I got your info…”

“Yes, yes. Anna from the receptionist told me.” She cut in, “from Nadezhda Avdeeva.”

“You were acquainted, as I understand it.”

“Well, you know…”

“Not bad for a policeman.”

“I don't work for the police anymore.”

“A pity, a real pity.” She answered in a low voice. “A pity, because a couple of you and the demand for cemetery services, coffins, and monuments would have gone up sharply. Though, on the other hand, they never complain about the lack of work, do they?”

“That's true.”

Lyudmila sighed into the tube.

“Are you looking for a new protector?” Did Tikhon Tikhiy fail?”

“I need an unorthodox approach.”

“I understand.”

“So you're interested?”

“No. I don't take lost cases, even if the potential client looks like a rocket man.”

“What?”

“I've seen you on TV. Nice shirts.”

“Look, uh…”

“Let's not waste my time.” She said. “I won't take your case anyway, but I'll give you some free advice. I recommend that you take an interest in a pardon. We have a favorable political climate right now.”

“What's the big deal?”

“You sent Stalin's criminal to hell, didn't you?” That's pretty patriotic.

Nimak rubbed his temple and decided he'd made a mistake. The lawyer may have acted a little outside the system, if the media is to be believed, but apparently she had no suicidal impulse to take a case lost by another lawyer.

“You still have the opportunity to write a complaint to the European Court of Human Rights.”

“Do you think so?”

“Although, even a favorable decision won't change the sentence. So, I'd prefer a pardon if the president looks at you favorably.”

“What?”

“I wish you luck and keep my fingers crossed!” She added and hung up.

Danila looked at the phone, at the guard, then shifted his gaze to the wall in front of him. If this conversation had helped him in any way, it was in coming to terms with the fact that he had exhausted the entire appeal.

In fact, this had already been made clear to him by Tikhon the Silent, who had defended him in both instances, but it did not prevent him from seeking a different opinion.

“Are you finished, Nimak?”

The question hung in the air like a stench. Yes, he's finished. And it's for good.

Something had gone wrong

The ringtone sounded like a prelude to a boxing match. Popovich opened his eyes and threw back the blanket, realizing the phone was ringing. He should have finally changed the ringtone, but he kept forgetting to do so.

“Hello?” He muttered into the receiver.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Investigator.”

He had no difficulty in recognizing the voice of Timeya Lendel. They had been in regular contact since the final verdict in the Nimak case. At first Popovich was incredulous, but eventually realized that the prosecutor was really sure she had made a mistake.

She admitted that charging Nimak with the murder of the hikers was a mistake. She knew that the Beast from Belokorovich was still at large; in fact, it was she who had convinced Yuri of this version. In addition, she still claimed that her husband was on the trail of some conspiracy and that was why he had suddenly disappeared.

Popovich was of a different opinion. Victor Lendel had returned home because he was tired of the constant marital quarrels, the domestic circle, and probably a number of other things he had not signed up for.

“Excuse me for calling too soon?”

“Of course you are,” Popovich muttered. “It's only five in the morning.”

I'm in Verkhovina, and I thought that…”

“What are you doing here?”

He realized he had made a mistake. There were few things more annoying to Lendel than to be interrupted halfway through a word.

There was silence on the phone. He feared he would have to sprinkle his head with ashes, and it was hard to tell for how many times in their brief acquaintance. He coughed, preparing to avert a crisis, but not in time.

“A murder had been committed on the trail.”

“What?”

“You don't know anything?”

“No, you just woke me up, and here.”

He got up and headed for the bathroom. His knees trembled as if they were about to buckle under him. Apparently, that was the way it was supposed to be, what's old is creaking.

Popovich put the phone on the shelf under the mirror and turned on the loudspeaker. While Timeya briefly explained to him what had happened, the investigator brushed his teeth.

“Are you listening?”

“He spit the paste into the sink.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a chance to meet?”

“Of course I do.”

He reached for the foam and quickly smeared it on his cheeks and beard.

“Where can we meet?” Lendel asked.

“In my office.”

“No, that's out of the question. I don't want to…”

“Have we been seen together? It's almost romantic,” Popovich ran his razor across his cheeks.

There was silence on the line for a while.

“Interrupt me again, investigator, and we'll have nothing to talk about.”

“Come on, you and your principles, though, excuse me generously.” He protruded his jaw, which distorted his voice a little. “And in that case, we can visit McDonald's.”

“McDonald's?”

“What else is open at this time?”

“I was thinking more of meeting at your place.”

“My place?!” Popovich, exclaimed and jerked his razor so that if it had been a dangerous razor, he would have blown off part of his face. “I'm not sure that's a good idea…”

“I can be there in a quarter of an hour.”

“Wait…”

“In that case, I'll see you later.”

She hung up before he could tell her to brace herself for aesthetic shock. The house had not been renovated in a long time, and the garden was so overgrown that from the street it resembled an abandoned manor house. The façade cried out to the heavens, and the roof no longer served its purpose, perhaps. He finished shaving, rinsed his face, and shook the last drops of aftershave milk out of the bottle. He patted his cheeks and finally came to his senses. He put on his uniform and put the water to boil. A quick call to his team allowed him to sort out most of it, but he wanted to hear the details from Timeya.

The coffee was ready just in time for Lendel to arrive. The prosecutor shook his hand and entered the kitchen, looking around carefully.

“Are you afraid of something?”

“Everything.”

“Won't my house collapse?”

She looked at him doubtfully, then took a seat at the table. She glanced around the tabletop, but didn't utter a word. Popovich thought he could at least clean up the bread crumbs.

He served his guest coffee and sat down opposite. For some time, they looked at each other in silence.

At last, Popovich drank and coughed.

“So, has the beast returned?” He asked.

“It doesn't seem so, really.”

“No?”

Modus operandi is very different. The only thing in common is the coin.

“The only one, but quite eloquent.”

“Perhaps,” Timeya replied, and tasted her coffee. She quickly pushed the cup away. “But I'm not ready to admit it. Especially since everyone else is sure the man is dead.”

“And whoever cooperated with him is in prison.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe it's time to set the record straight.”

We have no proof, detective. And even if we could convince someone, it wouldn't help your friend.

“I'm sorry.”

“What?”

“Don't ever call that son of a bitch, my friend. He shot Kutsepalov, don't you remember?”

“ Timeya smiled to herself under her nose and shook her head as if she were dealing with an extremely naughty child.”

“I strive only to make us deluded.” She undertook. “Now everyone will see this murder as a copycat. Fair enough, though, not to overdo it.”

Popovich nodded. Indeed, if they started telling anyone and everyone that the real murderer was still at large, they would be considered crazy. Especially if Timeya started dwelling on what she thought had caused Victor Lendel's sudden disappearance.

“Okay …” muttered Popovich. “What is this coin?”

“We haven't figured it out yet.”

“Who came from us?”

“Investigator Podoprigora.”

“Oh, heavens! Is it that bad?”

“Couldn't you make some changes?”

“No, absolutely not. Now everyone is looking at me, I can't even open up to my subordinates. It's an absurd situation.”

“I sympathize.”

“I deserved it myself, testifying for that bastard in court.” He replied and took a sip of coffee. It didn't taste bad. He didn't understand why the prosecutor was cursing. Perhaps it was in her professional nature. “Still, what was on the coin?” Hercules? Demetrius? Christ?”

“An eagle.”

“Like a Russian two-headed mutant rooster?”

“No way! It's not that obvious. It looks more like a Roman coin, but around it were stamped inscriptions in Arabic, which, unfortunately, no one present at the scene could decipher.”

“That's not a problem.”

“Yes,” Timeya admitted. “There's something else we should know.”

“What's on the back side?”

“More Arabic script. And some ruins, too.”

“Ruins?”

“Ruined columns of what I believe to be a Corinthian order.”

Popovich had no idea how they differed from the others, but he nodded understandingly. He involuntarily imagined the coin in the dead man's mouth, and then saw with his imagination's eyes the body itself. He shuddered.

“The chunks of teeth don't add up?” He asked.

“No. We found too few of them in situ.

“No sign of the fingertips, either?”

Timeya shook her head. She stared blankly at the steaming mug of coffee for a moment, then finally reached for it.

“Did you find any feces?”

“No.

“And the blood spatter indicates the use of only a knife?”

“Yes,” Lendel confirmed and sighed. “There's no evidence of a fight, or the use of other techniques. It looks like the victim was unconscious, and then…” she was drained of all her blood.

“Of course, we'll know more after toxicology and mechanoscopy. And can we stop asking questions?”

“Sure.”

Popovich poked his eyes around the kitchen for a while. He had to clean the cabinets, some of which had yellowish stains on them. The dust collecting on them could probably be swept away with a broom already.

“AND THE DNA?”

“The results will be standard in two weeks. But what do we need from them?” We don't have comparative material.

“Not yet.”

“You're an optimist.” She said quietly. “I suppose that if someone was determined to deprive the victim of his identity, he must have made sure that we wouldn't identify him easily.”

“I have been reproached for many things in my life, Madam Prosecutor, but not for my optimism. You're the first.”

He hoped to bring at least a faint smile to Timeya's face, but the corners of her lips didn't even flinch. Popovich chalked it up to lack of sleep and the hard work of examining the crime scene.

“Does the place matter?” He asked.

It is hard to say. It is a path to many peaks, nothing special compared to those where the beast roamed before.

“And the clearing itself?”

“A dozen hectares, pasture land, nothing specific.”

“But you can see Hoverla from it.”

“Yes,” Timeya admitted and raised her eyebrows. “I can see Hoverla from it.”

They stared at each other in silence for some time. In fact, it was an insignificant fact, insufficient to draw any conclusions from it. On the other hand, it took little to connect one with the other.

“Okay,” Popovich began, and ran his palm across his freshly shaved cheek. “Suppose the most logical option.”

“What are the sons of light?” Lendel interrogated. “Perhaps. We don't know how large this group was, or how numerous it was at all.”

“Yes.” She admitted through almost clenched lips. “Nor do we know what they were aiming for. But I'm sticking with the theory that if the beast hasn't returned, then one of them is a cult criminal. Or rather, not the occasional copycat.”

“Consequently.”

“And with that assumption, it all comes back to Victor.”

“Excuse me?”

“My husband stumbled onto their trail.”

“At least, that's what you think…”

“I know that, Mr. Investigator.” She stressed. “Victor disappeared as soon as he started digging into the case. And immediately after that there was a shift in the regional office."

“It's a small piece of evidence. Too small to believe it mattered at all.”

It was the first time Popovich had told her this directly, and he had to meet a hard, full of disapproval stare. Not a prosecutor's, rather one of those that represented the gaze of an abandoned woman.

“Victor would not leave the children!”

“I suppose that's what any other wife says when her husband decides to take a side.”

“Believe me, investigator. That wasn't the man. You'd expect something like that from me.”

“She stood up, then went to the window, looked out at the overgrown garden, and sighed deeply.”

“He was the one who took care of everything in the house, playing with the kids and so on. Meanwhile, I was taking care of their future.”

Neglecting the present.

“I know what you mean.”

She turned and sent him a disapproving look.

“Since he left, he hasn't even called me or the kids.”

She operated only on dry legal formulas, but Popovich could still hear some excitement in her voice. By all accounts, she was one of those strong women who simply stepped over the obstacle life threw at them. Popovich, however, had time to get to know her enough to know that Timeya was not doing well in her role as a mother. Even with her husband's support, she was making an appearance of being a mother, and now she was having an even harder time.

“Victor was talking to Vice-Governor Zozulia.” She continued. “Soon after that, Zozulia and several other civil servants were reassigned.”

“Yes, yes. And then the vice-governor disappeared altogether.”

“That's right.”

“I've heard that before, but it doesn't convince me this time either.”

Lendel didn't look pleased.