"Stay here." Itsy handed the baby over to Emma.

Itsy ran back the way she had come, with every step rehearsing the things she was going to say to Leo and Peter when she found them.

The railway shed was a shadow set in a field of rails. She paused on the tracks to listen for a footfall or voice. Although she had a flashlight, she kept it dark. Her senses had been educated by living on the run and she saw the deeper, darker trench for undercarriage repairs, caught the scents of ashes and urine and heard the drip of rainwater from the open sleeve of a drainpipe. There was no sign of magical Tajik warriors astride either thunderclouds or floor sweepers. All the same, she was uneasy about being near Tajik goods.

The trailer stove still held embers and a diminishing nub of warmth. As Itsy maneuvered between bunk beds she remembered the grandiose plans she had had for a portable crib. It could still happen once she established a new base. It was just a matter of getting through the night.

Itsy smelled blood. She stepped down from the trailer and looked under the wheels. Then she returned to the lip of the trench and this time turned on the flashlight. Leo and Peter were facedown on the bottom of the trench, each with a hole of not much account in the back of the cranium. Their caps had been tossed in afterward. Itsy had promised Leo a new pair of used basketball shoes. A cigarette was still stylishly cocked behind Peter's ear, the cigarette he never smoked. A buzz in Itsy's head was faint at first but growing to monumental dimensions. Her mother said, "Isabel is a beautiful name," and the flashlight died.

The second shot dropped Itsy into the trench and a pair of silhouettes took her place.

"And one more for good luck."

His gun made a dull pop.

There was a moment of quiet satisfaction, terminated by the sound of padded feet approaching fast.

"What's that?"

"A fucking dog."

Tito hit the nearer shooter chest-high. Both landed in the trench, the dog on top.

"Get him off me."

"Stay still." A second figure looked down from the edge of the trench.

"Off me."

"Don't move."

"God!"

"I don't have an angle."

"Mother of…"

"You have to stop moving."

"Neck."

The man on the edge aimed as best he could and fired. The tussling continued in a one-sided way.

"Ilya, you all right? Ilya?"

The second shooter found Itsy's flashlight and shined it into the trench.

His brother said nothing because his carotid artery was torn and the dog was pulling him without resistance one way and then the other. Blood everywhere.

"Ilya!"

As Tito looked up, his eyes lit. He dropped the man from his jaws and started for the steps, gathering speed as he came. The second shooter emptied the rest of his clip on the dog and was still squeezing the trigger when the animal rolled back down the steps, dead ten times over.

Decisions had to be made. In ordinary circumstances, the shooter would never leave his brother behind. Ilya had been a master at tying up loose ends. Dead, Ilya was the biggest loose end of all. Just the logistics. Getting Ilya to the Volvo or the Volvo to Ilya. Finding a cartridge for every round he had fired. Digging two more graves. For the sweat alone he deserved a bonus.

Something flitted across the shooter's face. An orange laser that moved as erratically as a butterfly came to rest on the nameplate of his coveralls. He felt the coolness of the air.

"Fucking Tajiks."

That much he figured out before the bullet hit.

30

Morning at a sobriety station meant the time had come for all the zombies to dress and shuffle out the door, for station attendants to hose the floor and remake the beds with rubber sheets, and for Swan, the medic, coming to the end of a twenty-four-hour shift, it was time to drop into a chair and light a cigarette as if his life depended on it. Swan was not quite a doctor and not quite a pirate. He talked with his eyes closed. "God is dog. Dog is God. God is shit."

"It's catchy," Arkady said. "I heard it a few days ago when I came for Sergeant Orlov."

"As long as they're not hurting themselves or anyone else, they can say what they want. We take care of our guests. If they're bleeding, we put on a plaster. If they throw up, we make sure they don't choke to death. We even saw the legs off their beds so they won't be injured if they fall out. They fall out of bed a lot. We also afford them privacy."

Surely such a bed had a future in the furniture department, Arkady thought. The "Moscow Model," for shorter falls.

"The station log?" he asked.

Swan lifted a ledger-size book from his desk.

The log was simple: name, time of admission, time of release, condition and, in some instances, in whose custody or to what hospital. The fine of 150 rubles for disorderly conduct was picayune, but demotion at the workplace and grief at home could be serious. A hundred dollars could make all that disappear and Arkady would have expected Sergei Borodin to take that route, yet there was his signature boldly written in ink. Admitted three nights before at 20:45, released 23:00. Arkady noticed that according to the log, Roman Spiridon was admitted at the same time.

"Borodin said he wanted privacy, and then he gets the ward in an uproar with his 'God is shit' routine. That's all I need, trouble with the church."

"Did Borodin get drunk often?"

"Who said he was drunk?"

"He admitted himself?"

"It's like any club. There are special arrangements for regulars."

When Victor was brought in, a courtesy call went to Arkady to come fish him from the tank. It was an arrangement some might call collusion. More and more Arkady found he was deviating from the straight and narrow.

"So Sergei Borodin came to be alone."

"Who said he came alone?"

Arkady was befuddled. "Why would a sober man bring anyone to a drunk tank?"

The medic inhaled hard enough to make his cigarette spark. "Sometimes I think the sexual revolution completely passed you by. If you think about it, it's an intimate situation, isn't it? The nudity. The dark. The beds."

It took forever for the coin to drop.

"Here?" Arkady had never considered the drunk tank right for an erotic rendezvous.

"It's ideal for rough trade, for a customer who likes a touch of squalor and a little risk."

"Who with?"

Swan went back through the log. Every other week or so, the names of Sergei Borodin and Roman Spiridon arrived and left together. The one time Borodin came alone was the night Spiridon stayed home, slipped into the bath and opened a vein.

Swan said, "I noticed old scars on Borodin's wrist. He'd tried to harm himself before. It's really a call for help, you know."

"You mean Spiridon's wrist."

"No, look in the log. Spiridon came here alone, got half the drunks here shouting they were God and went his merry way."

That was at the same time Roman Spiridon was slipping into his bathtub, Arkady thought. Two Spiridons, two separate places. It worked for electrons but not for any larger entity.

Arkady showed the medic the photograph he had taken from Madame Spiridona. "Who is this?"

"Borodin. Sergei Borodin."

Arkady took it back. Maybe there were two Borodins.

"How well do you know him?"

"Just from here. To be honest, I sometimes have trouble telling them apart."

"You never talked to him?"

"The usual. He was kind of sad and shy. A suicide is a suicide."

No, Arkady thought. In the proper hands, suicide was murder.