Chapter 4
"Breathe out, man," Brennon straightened his tie and smoothed his hair, "Well done. Take them to my office."
"Thank you, sir! Yes, sir!"
"It's thirtieth of October," Longsdale said. He easily kept up with the Commissar and did not even breathless. The dog was cowardly nearby, sometimes looking back at the carriage that Miss Sheridan had taken away, "Date of disappearance of the first victim. And you found his on the second of November."
"I guessed," Brennon muttered.
"This is Samhain."
The commissar turned sharply on his heels. The last time he heard this word was from the village gossips thirty years ago. The consultant looked at him with the clear blue eyes of a juvenile moron.
"Are you laughing?"
"I need to catch up all the death and disappearance cases for October," said this idiot, "Especially three days before Samhain."
"You need," Brennon muttered, "to take care of the victim's clothes. Your report will appear on my desk in two hours. The time has gone."
"But!.."
The commissar turned and rushed into his office. The policemen hid a grin in their mustaches. Brennon felt the consultant's resentful gaze on his back, but the Commissar considered the strict methods of upbringing to be the most effective. Slamming the door to his office, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Longsdale was hiding in the morgue.
Murphy's widow was a plumpy, st.u.r.dy lady with a strong-willed chin, and Brennon immediately realized that the interrogation would not be easy. Her big red-faced son hesitated uncertainly in the corner, not daring to climb into the h.e.l.l across the mother.
"Where is my husband?!" the widow rushed into battle.
"He was defuncted," the Commissar replied, "Two weeks ago."
"And you kept him here all this time?!"
Brennon walked around Mrs. Murphy and sat in a chair.
"How dare you! Instead of returning him to us, his grieving family, you left him to reproach your vile butchers! All sorts of dirty thieves, murderers and G.o.d knows who else lies next to him, and you..."
"Unfortunately, ma'am, because your dear spouse lost his face, we did not immediately recognize him."
The widow choked, her offspring squirmed in place.
"You... you had the audacity..."
"And since he was discovered in an extremely inappropriate form, this raises many questions regarding your family life."
The widow made a thin piercing sound, similar to the whistle of a teapot.
"In... what sense is it?"
"Your husband froze to death," Brennon answered calmly. "You kicked him out of the house, and he died of cold on the lake. This death penalty is punishable..."
"I did not expel!" Squealed Mrs. Murphy, "He left on his own!"
"On his own? At night? In such a cold? Of course, he liked to drink, as we found out..."
"He drank like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d! And every time he got drunk, he was drawn to walk! Where we just did find him! And how many times our neighbors brought him when he climbed into the garden, into the barn or broke into the house!"
"And that night he was again pulled into the air?"
Mrs. Murphy sniffed.
"He drunk again," the widow said finally reluctantly, "Already came dancing, rascal! I put him to bed, then woke him up for dinner, but what's the use! Не got up boozy. At dinner, he was loaded so that we reeled from one smell. He wandered around the house, wandered, we already locked all the doors, but only while we - Brian and I - turned the bars, this crud fled through the window! We heard only the slamming of the shutters. And since then we don't see hair nor hide for two weeks about him."
"Did he say anything? Maybe he behaved strangely?"
"What are you hinting at?" - the widow belligerently put out her chin.
"I hint to the fact that your son inherits dad, and since he is such a heavy drunkard, it is a sin not to speed things up on a frosty night."
Brian Murphy wheezed. His mother leaned back in her chair, pretty much losing her blush.
"You saw that your husband quite inebriated and not himself, took him out of the house, closed the door, and because he liked to walk, so your neighbors..."
"No!!"
"The neighbors did not pay attention to him. Well, he drunk didn't find his way home. Where do you live, by the way?"
"By the lake," Murphy Jr. boomed, "Where is the quarter east of the fis.h.i.+ng village."
"Poke your finger, man," the commissar moved the map toward him, and he poked. Brennon thrust a pin into the map.
"He never raged," Mrs. Murphy sighed, "He only wanted to walk. He breathed air, for good spirits, as he used to say. And then he wandered around the house, wandered, and mumbled."
"What did he mumble?"
"The ringing seemed to him," the son of the late brewer again entered into conversation. "Like, something rings around, and he needs to go and see what it is. Because music was pretty pleasant."
Brennon clasped his fingers under his chin and directed on this sneaky family a long, heavy look from underneath.
"I hope you now remember all the details of that evening. While I don't let the suspicions go about your role in these events."
"Try to prove first..."
"However, you understand how easy it is to challenge the will of an alcoholic. Relatives will strip you to the skin if they want."
Mrs. Murphy swallowed. This thought seemed to torment her too.
"Well then," she said reluctantly, "He returned tipsy, but not very. He lay down to take a nap, while Hedi, our maid, and I warmed dinner. By eight o'clock we began to wake him, and he tossed and turned and muttered about some ringing and bells. Finally Brian pushed him. We sat and eat, he drank from the carafe. And the mug is as he is listening to something."
"Have you heard anything?"
"We won't drink so much," Mrs. Murphy said venomously, "After dinner, he stumbled around the house, looked for something, stared at the windows of neighboring houses. And he drank again. He was looking for where it was ringing. Although it rang only in his brandy-drenched head!" burst from the woman, "Finally, by eleven o'clock, he was already pumping, well, he was carried. He climbed to look for his bells, only he was seen."
"Why did you in truth lock the doors and windows?"
The widow stared at him with such trepidation that the Commissar rejoiced at his own ingenuity.
"You didn't want him to come back? Hoping for a frosty night, huh?"
The woman looked down.
"If you only knew what a drunk was in a family...
"Are you confess?"
Mrs. Murphy jumped up.
"It was scary," Brian said suddenly, "Cold was drawn from the lake and some kind of horror... I locked house. Ah, to h.e.l.l with him. I lay down in the living room, I would have heard if he broke home."
Constable Kelly came in and whispered a few words in the commissar's ear. Brennon waited for him to go out and turned to Murphy's son:
"So, you did not wait for the return of your father?"
"No."
"And how do you explain the shots' traces of a shotgun at your door, and at that from the inside?"
Murphy Jr. turned red as if about to burst, threw his hands in red s.h.a.g and flopped into a chair, like a culp with rags.
***
"The door," the Commissar explained to Longsdale; scowling he inspected the traces of grains, while the dog sniffed at the walls and garden path.
"The lake was seen right from the door, sir," Kelly said. "And from half of the windows."
"Very close," the consultant muttered.
"Interrogate all the neighbors and, if possible, all the residents of the block," Brennon ordered. "Especially about what they heard at night, and whether they had a sense of anxiety."
"Yes, sir."
The Commissar leaned toward Longsdale.
"You said that it still can not get out of the lake. Meanwhile, the son Murphy heard how it approached the house and knocked, so impressed that he fired from a shotgun."
"You were right, but I was not," Longsdale answered. "I should have studied the clothes of the victim."
Brennon was silently surprised. He felt like a tamer of a lion, who bravely burst into the cage and saw a kitten in it.
"Okay," he muttered. "I got excited too. But going forward don't tell me what to do in front of my subordinates."
The consultant nodded absently and went out onto the porch.
"See?" He pointed to the dark spots on the tree. "Here it touched the door. The board froze through."
The commissar whistled longly.
"On the clothes of the deceased, I found traces. What Mister Kennedy took as a bruise from the fall is the same imprint as here. The clothes left a touch, just opposite the heart and lungs. I made a very, very big mistake. Especially about the nature of this creature."
The dog growled softly. They went down the porch; Longsdale crouched and ran his fingers along the path.
"Here it went."
"Can we follow in his footsteps?"
The consultant glanced up at the sky - twilight was already thickening, and a thin pinkish haze appeared in the east.
"We can not catch it before dark."
"I do not propose to fumble on his den in the night," Brennon said, "Let's see where the tracks lead. Do you think the ice on the lake is intact?"
Longsdale rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"I do not know. Previously, it seemed to me that this creature is acc.u.mulating strength in order to get out of captivity under the ice, for this it takes away the life force from people. However, this theory is incorrect, and the choice of victims does not fit into it. If this theory was right, the creature would have devastated fis.h.i.+ng villages or this block."
"Have you seen this?" after a pause, Nathan asked. The dog, dropping its face to the ground, followed the trail. "Devastated villages?"
"Yes," the consultant replied.
"So what?"
"In what sense?"
"What did you do?"
Longsdale sullenly looked back at the house.
"This beast can only be killed."
"And how the h.e.l.l do you do that?" thought Brennon. The trail led to the lake. People watched the cops cautiously from behind the walls of the houses and whispered inaudibly. The street went down to the sh.o.r.e of Weer.
"Do you often have such cold winters?" Asked the consultant. The Commissar shrugged.
"All sorts of winters happened. In the year when I was drafted into the army, people used to freeze to death right on the streets or in the field."
"And to set the frequency of cold winters..."
"But who will install it for you? You can ask the old people, but they will tell you anything."
The consultant frowned biting his lip. The hound briskly ran forward.
"Do you have any ideas?"
"Not yet," Longsdale answered reluctantly, "Today it is necessary to unfreeze three victims and perform an autopsy. But if the creature walks around the city completely freely - then what does it achieve? Night, everyone is home. It calls for victims, so why exactly those and not others?"
"What did it care," Nathan snorted. "Like people freeze, and nothing more."
"No. Those on the other side do nothing for witnout reason. Even if it seems strange or dumb to you."
"How do you even know all this?" Brennon asked. Longsdale was silent for a moment, looking past him at the dog's tail, and then quietly, insistently said:
"Promise me not to go to the lake alone."
The commissar nearly stumbled in surprise. How is it?! Longsdale stopped and took his hand.
"Give me your word."
""What's that!" Brennon barked and tried to escape, but icy fingers suddenly squeezed his palm tightly.
"Then I give you my word that I will protect you," the consultant said m.u.f.fledly. The commissar felt a cold squeeze, and then this loony jumped from the sh.o.r.e onto the ice after the dog.
"Where?!"
"Stand there!"
Brennon froze, obeying an imperious cry instinctively, but quickly woke up.
"What the heck?!"
Longsdale had already run a few yards from the sh.o.r.e. He turned to the commissar's voice, and Nathan noticed that the consultant's eyes were glowing in a semicircle of blue lights. A dry sharp crack rang out, and the ice broke right under Longsdale's feet.
"F**k your mother!!" howled Brennon, "All of you come here!"
Without waiting for the policemen, the commissar jumped onto the ice, slipped and drove to the rupture on his knees. The dog, crouching on its front paws, bent over the black splas.h.i.+ng below and grinned its teeth.
"Longsdale!" shouted Nathan, took off his coat and put his hand into the icy water. The hound burst out in exasperation, grabbed the commissar with his teeth by the collar and jerked out of the breach. Before Brennon realized such impudence, something struck forcefully into the ice below. The commissioner's heart skipped a beat - the thickness of the ice sh.e.l.l was such that Longsdale would not break it, despite his prodigious strength. A memory flashed through Nathan's remembrance of how easily the consultant broke ice with a hook - and then the policemen surrounded him.
"Hook!" Shouted Brennon, "Hook, stick, cane - anything, quickly! Stretchers here, blankets and towels!"
The blow under the ice repeated, and then a rattle rang out, as if a giant claw had been pa.s.sed across the ice from the inside. The hair on the dog stood on end and fluttered like flames in the wind. The hound lowered its muzzle into the breach and growled low. The sound reflected from the water and went on the ice so that it vibrated finely. The policemen s.h.i.+ed away, and Brennon's heart beat with such force on his ribs, as if trying to break out and run away.
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"Longsdale!" the commissar clung to the edge of the fault and bent down to the water again, "Longsdale! I'm here!"
The dog stared at him with burning, bright golden eyes, and then pale hands with crimson scars appeared from the black water. Brennon grabbed one and pulled. The consultant emerged and clung to the edge of the breach. Clutching at Brennon and the dog, he somehow crawled to the surface and stretched out exhausted on the ice. Growling at his subordinates no worse than a dog, Nathan began to pull off coat from Longsdale to wrap it in his own, dry.
"You unfortunate idiot nerd!"
Longsdale grabbed the dog with both hands and burrowed in its thick fur as much as he could. Nathan wrapped him on top of his coat. The consultant was cold and wet through, but for some reason he did not tremble and did not clap his teeth.
"What the h.e.l.l did you get in there?"
"I didn't climb, it is itself," Longsdale muttered indistinctly. Policemen appeared with an improvised stretcher. The consultant was loaded onto them and carried to a police carriage. There Brennon wrapped him in several blankets, which were donated by compa.s.sionate wives. The dog jumped into the carriage, decisively shoved the commissar with all its weight, and almost lay on Longsdale. He again wrapped his arms around the hound like a pillow, and unborrowed in fur.
Brennon sat down. He read that in the mountains shepherds train dogs to warm frostbite with its heat. Moreover, the fur on the dog would be enough for a small tent.
"It attacked me," said the consultant. "It is smart enough to determine who and how dangerous it is for him."
"And you are dangerous," Brennon snorted skeptically.
"Enough," Longsdale closed his eyes, and the Commissar wondered if he had seen the lights glowing in them or not. In semidarkness, the consultant always looked down at the valley, like a bashful damsel. Shy or hiding something?
"Well, what did you achieve with this?"
"I touched him."
"And did it touch you?"
A faint pink blush appeared on the consultant's white cheekbones.
"In what... what sense?.."
"Did you find something?"
"It's hard to say... I did not manage to tear anything."
The commissar choked.
"And you wanted to?!"
"Why do you think I should provoke this beast? I wanted to get a particle of flesh. In addition, in cases of intervention, direct provocation is one of the best ways to learn about the enemy as much as possible."
Brennon was breathing heavily with rage.
"You counseling fool! What the h.e.l.l are you doing field work?! Do you want to be devoured for great cleverness?! Carve yourself in the head - you consult, we catch! We, not you, with our gentmuns' manners!"
An escaped colloquial word made Brennon bite his tongue. Longsdale opened his eyes and looked at the Commissar with endless surprise.
- To catch? How are you going to catch this creature?
Then he caught the commissar. Nathan was already thinking about how to twist the otherworldly creature, and so far he has not found an answer.
"You can't catch it. You will only ruin people in vain."
"And you can do this."
"I'm not going to catch her," Longsdale leaned back and covered his eyelids, dimming the bright blue gleam of his eyes, "I'm not a consultant. I am a hunter."