Doctor Witch by Frank J. Edwards

Author:Frank J. Edwards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Koehler Books
Published: 2025-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Time passed slowly for the real Marianna Kovalenko in the dacha south of Kyiv. The two goons watched television and ignored her, except to bang on the bathroom door if she spent more than a few minutes inside. They were stupid. The little man with the strange mustache had come by once and brought Chinese food. From overhearing the goons, she learned that his name was Bodashka Liski, and she filed that in her memory.

When they’d confiscated her tablet computer and cell phone on the first day, they’d also asked if she had a radio or any other electronics. “Just this MP3 player,” she’d told them. She’d been gifted it for Christmas a couple years ago by a man she’d been dating, her last serious relationship. He’d gotten it with wireless earbuds.

“We don’t care about that,” the taller one had said, apparently thinking she’d meant it was just a music player and nothing else. “Listen to songs if you want.”

What she didn’t mention, however, was that the device was also an FM radio. It would be nice to follow the news. They also let her keep a notepad, pencils, and the books in her satchel. Thanks to that, she had completed an article and made good progress on translating a book of stories by the American writer Christine Sneed for a publisher in Kyiv. And she had revised some poems. But concentrating was difficult. They let her jog, so long as she stayed within range of the cameras that covered the dacha and several hundred yards up and down the road. She would run short loops for an hour each morning.

Which was what she was doing this Monday, the dawn air dark and misty. She was listening to music through her earbuds and imagined she was in Mariinskyi Park, her favorite place in Kyiv. It was time for the seven o’clock local news, so she switched the player to radio mode. The program’s theme music began. Then came a commercial for Kompaniya Z’s free retirement consultations, and after a fanfare of trumpets, the anchor spoke. Marianna knew her. Inna Limonov was a nice person, a new mother.

“Good evening, Kyiv and environs. Again, this morning we bring you the news and the truth behind the stories.” But something was amiss. Inna’s tone was dark. After a pause, she continued. “Some stories contain personal grief. I am sad to report that a Ukrainian citizen was killed over the weekend in New York State in America. The police are investigating her death as a homicide. The victim’s body had suffered significant damage, we are told, making identification difficult. But a DNA match using a hairbrush has confirmed that the deceased was the award-winning Ukrainian Week writer, Marianna Kovalenko.”

Marianna’s heart began thudding violently. She stopped running and promptly vomited into the dirt. Inna Limonov’s words became unhinged from any meaning. Swallowing back another wave of nausea, she fumbled to turn off the device and glanced at the dacha. There were lights in the windows.

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