— Shut up.
Helicopter was approaching. Visible already. Civil, not military. No markings. Landed on clearing, raising cloud of dust and leaves. Engine didn’t shut down. Door opened. Man stepped out. Short, in jacket, with backpack. Behind him second. Taller, in suit, with folder in hands.
First looked around. Saw us. Walked towards.
— Gromov? Nikolai Petrovich Gromov?
I nodded. No strength to speak.
— My name is Andrei Voronov. Journalist. “Novaya Gazeta”. An old man called me, Mikhey Lukich. Told an interesting story. About hunting. About colony warden. About fugitive women and a ranger who protects them. — He paused. — And this is Sergei Viktorovich Pavlov. Investigator from Central Office of Investigative Committee. He has been working on Kurganov for a long time. Just lacked evidence.
Man in suit, Pavlov, approached lying Kurganov. Looked at him from top down, without emotion, professionally.
— Igor Semenovich. Long wanted to meet. — He took out handcuffs. — You are arrested on suspicion of organizing murders, kidnapping people and creating criminal community. You have right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you.
Kurganov was silent. Only looked with hateful, powerless gaze.
Investigator turned to me.
— He must have a phone. Need recordings, correspondence, anything found. This is evidence.
I nodded at all-terrain vehicle.
— There, in car.
Pavlov went to search. Journalist Voronov stayed. Looked at me, at women, at dead dog at my feet.
— Mikhey said you are a good man, — he said quietly. — That you are the only one who dared to help.
— Mikhey says a lot of things.
— He also said you are former investigator. And that left organs because couldn’t reconcile with injustice. — I stayed silent. — Is it true?
— True.
He nodded.
— Then this story will be told. All of it. From beginning to end. Promise.
And I sat on ground, holding head of my dead dog on knees and thought that justice is a strange thing. Comes when already not expected. And always at too high a price.
Month passed. I stood on porch of my new hut. Or rather, Mikhey’s old hut, which he gave me. “I don’t have long left,” he said. “And you need to live. Take it, don’t be coy.” Didn’t be coy. Took. Hut was smaller than my previous one, and stove smoked, and roof leaked in rain. But it was home. My home. Only thing I had left.
No, not only thing. At my feet sat puppy. Small, grey, with black ears. Laika. Two-month-old male, from litter of ranger from neighboring sector. I named him Verny. In memory of Uglyum. In memory that loyalty is only thing truly valuable in this world.
Kurganov case thundered across whole country. Journalist Voronov kept word, wrote article, then series of articles. Television picked up, internet exploded. “Hunting people,” “VIP-safari,” “Bloody warden.” Headlines flashed on all sites. On Kurganov’s phone found everything. Videos of hunting — several pieces from different years. Correspondence with clients, names, sums, dates. Lists of victims. Photos.
Investigator Pavlov worked like machine. Interrogations, searches, arrests. One after another fell Kurganov’s accomplices: deputy warden, head doctor, several guards. District prosecutor who covered everything. Even someone from regional FSIN administration, same one who closed eyes.
Kurganov was transported to capital. Articles heavy. Organizing murders, creation of criminal community, human trafficking. In aggregate — life sentence. If lives to sentence. His clients, those hunters, scattered like cockroaches. Someone went abroad, someone lay low. But Pavlov promised to get everyone. “It’s matter of honor,” he told me at last meeting. “Such things cannot be left unpunished.” I believed him. He was one of those investigators I wanted to be myself once. One of those for whom law is not instrument of power, but way to protect weak. Few such, but they exist. And while they exist, hope remains.
Vera and Alina survived. After that night in Devil’s Hollow taken to city, to pre-trial detention center. But not as fugitive criminals, but as witnesses. Main witnesses in Kurganov case. Their testimony formed basis of accusation. Every word, every detail. About safari, about VIP clients, about girls taken away who didn’t return. Vera spoke calmly, clearly, without emotions. As if reporting militarily. Investigators listened, wrote down, exchanged glances. They hadn’t heard anything like this yet.
Alina cried. Often, a lot. But spoke. Through tears, through pain spoke. Because knew: if silent, all this will be in vain.
Alina’s case reviewed. That Kovalchuk who framed her turned out to be in lists of Kurganov’s clients. Didn’t go hunting, other entertainments. When this surfaced, he was locked up. And all his machinations also surfaced. Including how he framed young accountant to hide own theft. Alina released after two weeks. Fully rehabilitated. Cleared record, paid compensation. She returned to mother in city. Got job at that “Novaya Gazeta,” with Voronov. Secretary for now. But she is young, capable. Will make it.
She called me, once, week after release.
— Nikolai Petrovich, I just wanted to say thank you for everything.
— Live, Alina. Live and be happy. That’s best gratitude.
She sobbed into receiver. Then laughed through tears.
— Will try.
Vera stayed in isolation. She was still convict with real term. But Pavlov promised to petition for parole. Considering cooperation with investigation, considering circumstances of case, chances were good. She also called me. From detention center, with investigator’s permission.
— Gromov, hear me?
— Hear, Vera Sergeyevna.
— Wanted to say… — She paused. — Met many people in life. All kinds. Good, bad, different. But one like you — first time.
— Like what?..
