2322. ICP: 19 mm Hg. BP: 176/81. HR: 70.

“I see, I see. He’s going to die and if he does live he’ll be a vegetable.”

“Not necessarily.”

“But surely, not up to the rigors of criminal investigation.”

“He might get medical permission to return to work. That would also be up to you. You’re the prosecutor.”

“Exactly. My office is not a rehabilitation center.”

“Don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves? The crisis will come tonight. If he gets through that, then we can assess the damage. Frankly, I’m surprised we didn’t see you here before. Your investigator is shot, perhaps fatally, rescuing a boy from an armed lunatic and no one from your office comes to see how he’s doing?”

“All we know for sure is that he was shot outside a casino. The circumstances of the incident are murky. Can he hear?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point in coming? Call me in the morning if he’s still alive.”

Arkady and his mother watched from a distance as officers decorated the porch.

She sighed. “Paper lanterns. I hope it doesn’t rain. We don’t want anything to ruin your father’s party.”

“What do we do with the stones?” Arkady asked. His pockets were so full it was hard to walk.

“We’ll think of something.”

“There is no visiting. How did you get in?”

“I am a physician, but not his.”

“Then what is your relationship?”

“Personal. You’ve drilled?”

“And drained.”

“ICP?”

“Five millimeters above normal and we’re nowhere near floodtide. Another five and we’re looking at a fatal outcome or, at the least, permanent damage. Read the chart. Everything that can be done has been done.”

“The other vitals aren’t that bad.”

“Or that good. You said ‘personal,’ but you don’t seem upset. Please do not tell me that you have recently broken off this relationship. Depression would be a very bad element at this point.” Silence. “I see. Are you willing to lie for at least a while?”

“Lying is my specialty.”

“I thought you were a physician.”

“Exactly. I lie all day to dying children. I tell them they have a chance to run and play when I know they won’t live out a week. And I tape-record their voices as a game when really the tape is for their families as a memory. A souvenir. So I have small regard for the truth if a lie serves better. The problem is that an investigator has an excellent ear for lies.”

“You’re Ukrainian?”

“Yes.”

“How did you and the investigator meet?”

“At Chernobyl.”

“Romantic.”

His father’s pride was a pond, sixty by forty meters and deep enough for swimming. Sluices from the river brought water fresh enough for communities of sunfish and perch, frogs and dragonflies, cattails and reeds. A rowboat was tied to a dock. A yellow raft and a white buoy floated in the center of the pond. Every morning the General walked in a bathrobe through a stand of firs down to his pond and swam for half an hour. In the afternoon everyone was welcome. It was a golden time as Arkady’s father waited for his long overdue elevation to marshal of the army, which people said was finally coming. They were days of badminton on the lawn and long tables full of guests and endless toasts.

When they were alone his parents rowed picnics out to the raft. One evening they rowed out with a gramophone and danced on the raft.

0120. ICP: 20 mm Hg. BP: 190/91. HR: 65.

“One hour to go.”

“Maria, all I’ve been doing is staring at that idiotic monitor, trying to will the pressure down and not doing a very good job. Anyway, you children did well; I’m proud of you. Where is Valentina? Weren’t you going home together?”

“She’s out front.”

“Alone?”

“She couldn’t be safer. She’s talking to a detective.”

His mother smiled as she rowed as if she and Arkady were launched into a secret adventure. Wet stones and butterfly netting lay between her feet. The stones in Arkady’s pockets made them bulge uncomfortably and he tossed one in the water.

“Oh, no, Arkasha,” his mother said. “We’ll need every one.”

0403. ICP: 23 mm Hg. BP: 144/220. HR: 100.

“You’re back and you’re drunk.”

“I don’t need a doctor to tell me that. The point is, Elena Ilyichnina, if I may use your patronymic, I’m not drinking on the premises. Not even smoking. Just visiting.”

“Why are you here?”

“Ask my friend Arkady. I’m his shadow. I may be his drunken shadow, but I am still his shadow. So I am not leaving.”

“I could call security.”

“There is no security here. I’ve looked.”

“It’s disgraceful. You’re too drunk to stand.”

“Then prop me up. Give me some pillows.”

“Dear God, what is that for?”

“It’s for shooting people. And the bullets are fresh.”

Arkady went up the ladder clumsily, trying not to lose any stones. He emptied his pockets onto the raft and helped with the stones his mother handed up from the boat. They were larger and more purposeful than his.

She sat beside him while the raft slowly rotated, taking in the zigzag of dragonflies, nodding cattails, wormwood and willows that straggled along the riverbank under the peach-colored sky of late afternoon. The dacha was out of view, behind ranks of firs.

“It won’t last,” she said. “It’s not a natural pond. It will just become a mud hole, a stagnant swamp.”

“What do we do with the stones?”

“Keep them here.”

“Why?”

“We’ll see.”

“When?”

“You have to be patient.”

“It’s a surprise?”

“No, I don’t think it’s a surprise at all. I’m going to row you back to the dock now. When you get back to the house don’t bother your father. Wash the dirt off and change into clean clothes by yourself and then you can join the party. Can you do that?”

Although his mother’s sleeves and the hem of her dress were just as wet he said nothing. But when he was on the dock and before she started to row back to the raft, he asked, “How do you feel?”

She said, “I feel wonderful.”

0750. ICP: 24 mm Hg. BP: 210/100. HR: 55.

“Detective, wake up. Detective Orlov, wake up. Somebody is-wake up. The lights just went out. You’re in the hospital. What an incredibly useless man. Wake up!”

Arkady wiped off the dirt with a washcloth, found a clean outfit, and joined the crowd on the porch, where the fruit punch was spiked with vodka and a Gypsy trio had been chased by the younger staff officers to make room for the mambo, a popular import from Cuba. Arkady was drawn into a conga line that circled in and out of the house. He didn’t see his mother, but it was exactly the sort of affair that she hated.

Sergeant Belov led him aside to ask, “Arkasha, where is your mother? The General is looking for her.”

“She’s coming.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

Arkady returned to the festivities. Now that night had fallen, fireworks were in the offing. He looked forward to Saint Catherine wheels and rockets spraying the night with color.

Half an hour later, his father pulled him out of the dance line. “Where is your mother? I’ve looked everywhere. I thought you said she was coming.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Arkasha, where did she tell you this?”

“At the pond.”

“Show me.”

His father organized a party of eight, including Arkady. They moved through the firs with flashlights that swept shadows left and right. Arkady half expected her to dart out from behind a tree, but they reached the dock without a sign of her.