Blood Russian by R. D. Zimmerman

Author:R. D. Zimmerman [Zimmerman, R. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, murder, Edgar Award nominee, Russia, Thriller, murder mystery, St Petersburg, Leningrad, USSR
ISBN: 9781614460190
Publisher: ScribblePub
Published: 2011-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

For fear of being stopped by the militsiya for driving a damaged car, Boris left Sergei’s Zhiguli in an alley and walked from Lara’s. He was certain he’d be able to catch a taxi either on Sredny Prospekt or on Makarova Embankment. He was wrong, and after a few blocks he was reconciled to arriving as fast as possible on foot. Cutting behind the Peter and Paul Fortress—where there was no road—might even, he thought, be faster than a taxi.

As he walked, the wind whipped up the Malaya Neva in cold damp swirls, chilling the Finnish granite embankment and everything else it could embrace. Even in the dark Boris could see the river water bent back in tiny waves against its flow. With a touch more rain and wind, the entire river could back up to flood stage. The dark waters would spill over all, pavement and stone houses alike. The city of forcefully tamed rivers and islands would be defeated by nature.

The air blasted through the woolen threads of his sweater, seeming to push right through his pores and chill his bones. His head bent, the plastic bag with the gun clutched to his stomach, he crossed the Malaya Neva. He bent over further as he neared the university’s Dormitory No. 6, the residence of the foreign students; he had to avoid them and any black marketeers that lingered nearby. He had caused enough trouble tonight and he didn’t want his new jeanzi attracting attention. Then he passed the moored sailboat, the Kronverk, that had been converted into a bar, and trotted his way across a wooden bridge and onto Zayachi Island, which was occupied entirely by the Peter and Paul Fortress. Just before the towering defense walls, he cut left and followed a dirt path along the canal. The air was still here, and he saw no one along his way until he reached the wooden bridge at the other end of the island, crossed it, and emerged at the tip of Lenin Park. Revolution Square, dense with tall trees, lay to his right, directly across Kirovsky Prospekt. He slapped his forehead.

“Musya…”he muttered in frustration.

There, too, was his Moskvich, parked right out on Kirovsky. He’d told her to go to the north side, wait for him there in a less trafficked place. Here she was, though, on the west edge, the car as obvious as the sun in the sky and, parked directly beneath a street lamp, shining almost as brightly.

He leaned against a tree. Oi, Musya, he thought, rubbing the tense ridges of his brow. It’s a miracle we lasted this long. You’ve never listened to anything I’ve said.

As he pushed on, the plastic bag crinkled in his hands. The gun. Oi yoi yoi. He’d forgotten about it. Slava bogu—thank god—he wasn’t going to need the thing. Its metal burned cold right through the plastic, seared its meaning into his soul: death. That was the gun’s aroma. Blood and violence. He’d endured enough of that in the past day to last a lifetime.

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